by Mark Tufo
I looked outside; the time displacement had stopped for now. I wasn’t sure how we would fare if we got caught up in it. I’m thinking not too good if Trip spent the time, money, and resources to build this save game station. I wondered if we could restart back here if the upcoming boss battle proved too difficult.
“Grab all the food you can!” Trip had pretty much yelled that as he did his best Looney Tunes sneak-walk.
Lacey popped her head up over the couch. My heart stopped for a beat or two. She was my wife’s sister. I’ve heard about separated at birth, but separated by time? That’s a new one.
“I heard you talking.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Wasn’t much my wife would miss either.”
“What happens to my babies?”
“In a perfect world, Jack, Trip, and myself stop whatever is going on, and you and Fourth meet again and start over.”
“How many perfect worlds do you know, Mr. Talbot?”
“Not many, I’m afraid,” I answered her truthfully.
“I can’t imagine any other life than the one I have now. I have a gun hidden under the couch cushion right in front of me. What would happen if I shot you both?”
“My guess is we’d die and so would you.”
“You wouldn’t try to stop me?”
“Shoot a mother trying to protect her babies? Not a chance. I’d shoot myself if I thought what I was doing wasn’t for the ultimate betterment of everyone here.”
“You believe that?”
“I have to.”
“I’d very much like to meet your wife some day. I always wanted to have a sister.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen. Even if we somehow figure out a way to win, this timeline will be looped off, and in the one you continue on with, we will have never met.”
“Oh, I think I will remember. We dated once.”
“I think I would have remembered that.”
“Not specifically you, but the version of you who resides here.”
Sure I was curious. “What happened?”
“I thought if I dated a man a few years older than myself, he’d be more mature. That wasn’t the case.”
“Ouch.”
“He was funny though, shared a lot of laughs with him. I see a lot of the same qualities in you, though there’s a depth to you. A sadness that might never be overcome, and some guarded secrets that even you find too scary to reveal to yourself. Your wife is a lucky woman; I hope that you get back to her.” She walked around the couch, gently touched the side of my face much like Tracy. I closed my eyes and leaned into the caress; I’d not been expecting the soft kiss against my lips. I pulled away and my eyes opened quickly.
“Now leave my perfect life, before I have a change of heart.”
She slowly pulled her hand away. I wasn’t on the market, I’m merely stating that her look either conveyed she would drop everything and run away with me or she would run back to the front of that couch, grab her pistol, and put two in my chest and one in my head. I don’t think there will ever be a version of me that can decode the mystery that is woman.
Trip came out of the kitchen with an armful of foil Pop-Tart packets.
“I’ll bring them back!” he said when he realized he’d been caught.
“We should go.”
I did one quick glance out the window. The coast was clear, as near as I could tell. I kept one eye on Lacy; just because I understood where she was coming from didn’t mean I wanted to die for it. Just as I was closing the door behind us, Fourth woke up.
“Everything is going to be all right,” he told Lacy. “I know how to get back.”
“What did you tell him?” I asked as Trip and I descended the stairs.
“About what?” He spewed out a mouthful of strawberry orts.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You going to tell Tracy about that kiss?” He was smiling, strawberry pastry coating his teeth.
“No, and if you do, I’ll make sure to narc you out to every cop we come across.”
“That’s not even funny, man.” His tone turned serious.
“Yeah, neither is being suspended upside down over a vat of boiling oil with nothing holding me up except for my balls.”
The city streets resembled everything you’ve come to expect from an apocalyptic setting. Bullet casings, blood stains, body parts, and the hulls of burned-out cars. I didn’t dare look up—odds were I’d see a four-hundred-pound air conditioner or baby grand piano coming down to help me meet the pavement. I started walking to the left; Trip kept dropping foil packs, so much so that we were barely moving, as he stopped to pick them up. Weird, but once I started going to the right, the “accidents” stopped.
“You do know the place we’re trying to go is the other way, right?”
He didn’t say anything for a mile. “We’ll get there” was his cryptic response.
“Oh, I get it! Zuzu’s petals, I mean. It’s a Wonderful Life, right? It’s when he comes back from the alternate reality where he wasn’t ever born, that’s what you were referring to.”
Off in the distance, I saw a solitary figure sitting at the edge of an overlook. Even from this far, I could tell by his posture that he was military.
“I’m not even going to ask how you knew Jack was here. You’ll give me some asinine explanation that will make me scratch my head more than tell me what I’m looking for.”
“Want a hit?” Trip had lit a fat bone, he’d asked but he’d never offered.
Jack mentioned something about being able to smell Trip from a mile away. I asked what the hell took him so long.
Chapter 3 - Jack Walker
Sitting at the viewpoint within the trees, Mike and I exchange stories. Mine isn’t nearly as interesting as the excursion he’s been on. If it weren’t for what I’ve seen here, I’d think he’d found a batch of mushrooms. Time loops and a family holed up in a Faraday cage that can withstand dimensional warps seems a bit much. For some odd reason, the fact that Trip foresaw everything and created circumstances for the future doesn’t seem all that odd. Although, the degree of his lucidity is a little difficult to believe. Sure, he’s sat there with joint in hand and casually mentioned that enemies would be coming from a different angle than anticipated, but if Mike is to be believed, what he’s done is on an entirely separate level. He just seems to operate on extremes.
Of course, having knowledge and being able to act on it are two different things. Believing in magic and being able to alter reality just aren’t the same. This timeline is fucked up, but I haven’t the faintest idea how to fix it. Whatever contraption they may have, luck will be a huge factor even in getting it started, and beyond that it will require a miracle of epic proportions. The chance of fucking it up worse is greater than getting it right. And then there’s getting into the place to begin with. Judging from the sheer number of motorcycles parked around the facility, going through the front door isn’t an option.
“So, in order to get back to our worlds, we’re supposed to reverse or counter the event that sent this world into an alternate path?” I rhetorically query.
“Supposedly,” Mike answers.
“Any idea how we’re supposed to do that?”
”I read some of the papers, Jack. It was doctorate or higher level stuff. I’m lucky I understood some of the punctuation marks. Trip is the key here, and I have to believe that he has the answer. Yeah, I know that sounds terrifying.”
I hang my head and shake it. Trip may have periods where he knows what’s going on, but he’s just as likely to send us to one of his supposed memories. I’m staking my return to my loved ones on a perpetually stoned man who never left the sixties. I just hope he’s in one of those “clear” moments when we start tinkering with time and spatial displacement.
“I’m guessing we have to head into that facility,” I state, pointing across the plain to the facility against the rise of mountains.
“If that’s the collider, then yes. You know that’s in the shape of a figure eight,” Mike responds.
“So, that circle delineated by those spaced buildings is only half of it? That thing’s fucking monstrous, then. Well, I can tell you now that we’re not going to be waltzing in through the front. There are just too many of them.”
An odor penetrates, vast and wrong. Zombies smell like rose gardens in comparison. My eyes feel like they’re melting, and a part of my brain is dying with each inhalation. In an instant, I’m waging a war to preserve the lining of my nose and throat against the desire to breathe. I can tell from Mike’s expression that he’s fighting a similar battle. Both of our heads immediately swing toward Trip.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I exclaim, rising from my perch.
Trip is squatting a few feet away, his pants off. The most god-awful stuff is streaming from his ass, and he’s duck-walking forward in a pattern like he’s trying to write his name with his own shit. It takes everything I have not to heave my food on the ground. I shuffle to move upwind, averting my eyes from the absolutely disgusting sight. However, nothing short of stabbing my ears will stop me from hearing the squirting sound.
“Again, man?” Mike is on the move.
“Lucid, huh?” I question as Mike and I make our way around Trip to another vantage point. “You know, if we could bottle that and throw it into the complex, we could quickly clear the place out,” Mike says.
“I don’t know, man. Those fuckers eat zombies. They may just think it’s cologne and spread it all over them. But, I like your thinking.”
We settle into another hidden location that has a view over the plain.
“Even if we do get past the perimeter, it’s going to be awfully crowded inside. I have a couple of things I picked up that they use to call in zombies. But, they’d just deactivate it if we tried to use one close to the facility,” I ponder.
“We’re going to have to thin them out, then. There’s a lot of hardware around us,” Mike suggests.
“Yeah. And we could lead a lot of them away afterward. They have a pack mentality. As long as Trip doesn’t leave a trail of Phritos and…that,” I say, pointing at the sloppy pile of shit nearby, “then we should be able to stay one step ahead. Given the circumference of that collider, I’d say the quarry that won’t leave my mind might be part of it.”
“You’re thinking of entering via the collider tunnel? That’s a long fucking walk, Jack,” Mike comments.
“Those other buildings in sight are exactly that…in sight. I don’t sense any night runners around, so other than the whistlers, we’d only have zombies to worry about. Honestly, I don’t see any other way to get inside,” I reply. “Those time variations that occur when they bring other zombies and night runners in seem to be on a schedule of some sort. There was the time in Atlantis and then here, so we may have a day or so until it happens again.”
“We have those thumper things to draw the zombies off. If we placed them far enough away, that would take care of any unexpected visitors,” Mike says.
“I’m all for that. My only concern is the possibility of having to go back through whatever horde we create when we withdraw. But, if we do it right, then they’d also be a distraction and a buffer between us and any whistlers who give chase,” I respond.
“Then we’d have to deal with any whistlers that may be at the quarry, but I don’t see them having as many as here. Oddly, I haven’t seen them use any form of long-distance communications, or I would have been worm food a long time ago. For someone who can manipulate wormholes and travel across space and time, that kind of seems like a huge lapse to me,” I state. “So, I wouldn’t expect any whistlers we encounter there to descend in great numbers.”
“Unless they use that machine to teleport.”
“Well, then, that would suck.”
“Yeah, I’m not a huge fan of surprises, like…at all. Last surprise I got was my boss telling me they were downsizing my department. Considering I was the only employee in my department, well you get the idea.”
“That bridge is a ways off. You mentioned hardware and I’m nearly out of ammo. Shall we go see what we find at the encampment?”
“I picked up some already. It’s a different caliber.”
“Of course it is,” I say, rising.
We move through the woods, circling around the town. After my experience and hearing of Mike and Trip’s, I’m a little hesitant about heading through the city streets. Even though those were loops in time, we were a part of them and therefore real. Meaning, we could still bleed, and I’d really like to avoid that. Trip is moving along behind, the sound of crinkling bags and the smell of pot a constant. If we’re going to lead the whistlers on a chase, there will be times when we’ll have to move quietly, and Trip is currently the antithesis of that. I’ve been with him numerous times and it hasn’t been a problem so far, but it still makes me uncomfortable.
“Is there any way you can keep him quiet if we need to?” I ask, pulling up next to Mike.
Mike snorts. “I can tell him, but you’ve seen how well that works.”
“He may have insights and such, but that shit makes me nervous as hell,” I state.
“Welcome to my life,” Mike says, hanging his head and shaking it.
Streaks of sunlight stream through breaks in the overhead cover, wavering as breezes cross over the tops of the trees, some appearing and others vanishing. Insects flitter within the light as we head through the shadows. My frustration grows a little as I watch my every step, avoiding the brittle branches and pine needles while Trip seems to go out of his way to find each and every one of them. I suppose I should feel at ease with the fact that he doesn’t care one bit about making noise, given he has that sixth? Seventh? Eighth sense? But, it’s going against my every instinct. Silence and shadows are my security blanket, and Trip is on a mission to snap every twig. I know talking with him will only draw me into one of those insane conversations, so I take a few deep breaths to restore my calm.
By the time we make it to the tracks, I’ve more or less come to an acceptance. I chuckle internally that I sought the two of them out and then mentally bitched about it after I did.
It’s always greener on the other side of the fence, I think, holding up in the trees and looking over the rail cars in their sidings in the military encampment.
I come to realize that I’m just tired; it’s actually good to be back together. Even with Trip. If I make it out of here, this is going to be a story for all time. Of course, no one will believe it. Shit, I don’t really believe it myself, and I’m living it. I sniff at each breeze that blows through, trying to catch a whiff of zombies, but don’t smell a thing or see anything moving. Listening, there’s only the strum of wind against the ropes of the tents drawn tight.
“Well?” I ask Mike.
“I don’t see anything, for what that’s worth,” Mike replies.
A movement among the tents catches my attention. It isn’t much, just a hint that vanished as soon as I saw it. Mike must have seen the same thing because he brings his carbine, which looks just a little different, to his shoulder and sights in. There isn’t the moaning that usually accompanies zombies, and I haven’t heard any motorbikes in some time.
“What do you think? One of those smarter ones…what did you call them? Version two?” I ask.
“Two-point-oh, speeders, assholes, take your pick…and maybe to half answer your question.”
I sight in through the tent openings, waiting for another flash of movement. Sweat trickles down my cheek, both from the rising heat and my anxiety. This whole adventure has been a non-stop rolling barrage of fun, and eventually, our luck is going to run out. I’m so ready to get off this ride and go home.
There, another flash of movement. Something is definitely moving among the tents. Suddenly, a figure appears from the side of camouflaged canvas. My finger tickles the trigger, putting a little pressure on it. An exhaled waft of smoke rises. Trip
looks over at Mike and me, two weapons aimed at his face and fingers tight on triggers, and lifts his hand in a friendly wave.
What in the serious fuck?! I think, turning behind to where I thought Trip was only to find no one there.
I’m tempted to keep tightening my finger.
“You know, one of these times, I may just keep pulling the trigger,” I say, frustrated.
“You’d feel bad if you did. Though, I’ve had the same thought. Is it considered friendly fire if I do it on purpose?” Mike replies.
“Well, I’m guessing that’s his way of saying that it’s all clear,” I comment. “But, it would be nice if he’d mentioned that he was leaving in the first place.”
“It’d be nice if he’d say a lot of things he doesn’t, and didn’t say a lot of things he does.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I comment.
Moving among the tents is eerie to say the least. Body parts rise from the ground in all manners, making it look kind of like a graveyard after a massive upheaval of land. Several bodies extend from trees, one trunk showing a face staring out from behind the bark. All of the appendages have been cleaned down to the bone, with only a few stringy and dried tendons attached. High up, there’s another whose entire body looks like it was impaled by a tree. The upper torso and legs are on opposite sides, extending straight outward without any hint of sagging with the pull of gravity.
Trying to ignore the bodies, we search for and find a stockpile of equipment and crates near the rail cars. As Mike mentioned, the caliber stenciled into the side of some boxes indicate that the ammo within is 5.57mm. I don’t think that will be a problem, but I don’t want to find out that it jams at the exact wrong time. I have a match grade barrel and that means little tolerance for over or undersized ammo. As much as I hate not to use my weapon, if I’m to have ammunition, I’ll need a substitute. Luckily, there are a few look-alike carbines that, although there are some aesthetic differences, still shoot the same way—pull the trigger and things come out the other end.
Picking up one, I see the rails are similar and the barrel attachments are the same size. The odds of this are astronomical, but I’m not going to complain one bit. While keeping an eye and ear to the surroundings, I place my scope and suppressor on the new weapon. The mountings are tight and unlikely to loosen. Moving my current mags to my pack, I place new ones with the odd-sized ammo in my vest and tuck others in the pack as well, making sure to mark them with tape so I’ll be able to easily tell the difference. I’m not at all going to leave my M-4, and I’m tempted to strap it to Trip’s back, but who knows where that will end up or what he’ll do with it. Instead, I break it down and stuff it in my pack. Lastly, I tape down all of the swivels that could make sound to give away my position.