A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  He put the box knife back in his pocket.

  Doc worked the Clement County territory. He had come to Clement County as a teenager and liked it there. Tamarack, Pine Creek, and the other towns of Clement County were Doc’s. They were under his control. He liked not having to compete with anyone for business. His bosses had never said so, but rule #4 supported the idea that each protector had their own territory. Doc had never run across another protector, but he assumed there must be others like him if his bosses were serious about protecting the time lines.

  Doc didn’t mind following rule #4 because he liked Clement County, and he had enjoyed his last few jobs, but his bosses had gotten after him for breaking the other rules. Each time they got after him, his resentment doubled. He would retreat to his stool in the bar, drink, and ruminate on killing them. This rumination bordered on ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. He’d spend angry hour after hour fantasizing about stabbing, or drowning, or burning them. Each of these sessions would end with him sobering up and realizing the futility of his thoughts. The cycle would repeat. A translucent limb would come out of nowhere, hand him his next job, and he’d be off to kill another temcor.

  At least his bosses left most of how to kill temcors up to him as long as he followed the rules. He gazed at the top of the job paper.

  TEMCOR REMOVAL RULES:

  #1 NEVER BE RECOGNIZED.

  #2 MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT.

  #3 REMOVE THE TEMCOR AND NO ONE ELSE.

  #4 STAY IN YOUR ASSIGNED TERRITORY.

  #5 CARRY OUT WHAT YOU CARRY IN, LEAVE WHAT YOU FIND.

  Doc grimaced, folded the paper, and shoved it into his pants. Oh, how he hated the rules.

  Today tested Doc’s patience. He had back-to-back jobs that kept him from sitting in the Pearl with Jackson. He had smudged the picture on the second job which would make it take longer. On a brighter side, he might get to bust out his box knife on this one. That would be fun. This temcor could act out in all kinds of ways, so Doc thought he might get away with breaking rule #2 by using his knife the way he liked to use it—slashing.

  He pictured Warren all growed up and grinned. Warren had the potential to become all kinds of temcor, and that filled Doc with a sense of pride.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Build-A-Bong

  On the other side of Ponder’s Lake, Warren and Tanner veered away from the Tenoco onto a thin, winding trail into Homestead Forest. Warren knew the trails on this side of town, but they weren't his trails. The trails in Homestead Forest were few, and most ended in open spaces. This trail—formed by the wagon wheels of pioneers—widened until it split in two. In one direction, it faded into a thick grove of aspen’s. In the other direction, it ended at the stone foundation of an abandoned house. Everyone called the house Foundation because that’s all that was left. Glops of melted glass and rusty bits of metal littered the weeds inside short, stone walls. The house had lit itself on fire out of loneliness and burned to the ground a long time ago.

  “Which way should we go?” Tanner said.

  Warren said, “Let’s go to the aspens. Foundation is too out in the open, and I don’t want to get caught.”

  “You’re right, man. That’s smart. I guess that’s why you get all A’s.” A glint of crazy bounced over Tanner’s eyes. “You've got a good head on your shoulders, and it’s about to get better.” He smiled and stepped in front of Warren, taking the trail on the left.

  “I’m not that smart,” Warren said. “I’m not as smart as you most of the time. The difference is I do my homework, and you don’t. Aren’t you afraid of failing?”

  Tanner shrugged. “No, it’s only ninth grade. If I fail, then I fail, but I can pass with D’s. My parents don’t care. They’re happy if I’m happy…and I’m happy when I’m not doing homework.”

  “My parents don’t care either, but not like that. They don’t care if I’m happy. They don’t even know I exist.”

  “Then why do you study so much?”

  “If I don’t get good grades, then I won’t be able to get a job. If I can’t get a job, then I can’t live on my own. If I can’t live on my own, then I can’t run away and never come back.” Warren had said this to himself hundreds of times, but it sounded heavier out loud—more permanent. A stick blocked his path, and he kicked it. “Now that I can’t go back to school, I guess that plan won’t work. I’m going to die homeless, living on the streets.”

  “In Tamarack?” Tanner laughed. “We only have something like three homeless guys here, and they’ve been living on the streets for-ev-er. They’re not dead yet, so you’ll be fine. You stress too much, man.” Tanner pinched his thumb and forefinger together and raised them to his lips. “Besides, in a couple of hours, you’ll see the world in a whole different way.” He pursed his lips and sucked air through his fingers.

  “I hope so,” Warren said.

  If not, then maybe it’ll kill me. If it doesn’t kill me, then I'll live in the woods until I die. Those homeless guys are creepy.

  The double-track trail narrowed into one and ended in a clearing. Across the clearing, aspen leaves fluttered in the wind. One aspen—the granddaddy aspen—towered above the others. They walked to the granddaddy aspen and sat on the ground beneath it. Warren leaned back and put his hand on his hip. Ouch.

  “Okay, let’s have it.” Tanner’s eyes glinted.

  Warren took the urn out of his backpack and put it in Tanner's greedy hands.

  Tanner took the lid off and examined it. “Hey, where are the ashes?”

  “I think they’re under my parent’s bed.”

  “Why?”

  “They got in a fight, and my dad threatened to throw the ashes away, so she hid them.”

  “That’s messed up, man.”

  Tanner put the urn on the ground and held the top of the lid to his lips. He blew and air passed through the lid. A faint puff of white dust wisped from the bottom, and he grinned.

  “This is going to work, man.” He held it up to Warren and pointed. “Look right here, there’s a little hole.”

  Warren looked at the lid, but he didn’t see the hole. Instead, he saw part of an imaginary friend he’d stopped talking to a long time ago.

  Tanner shoved his hand into his pocket, pulled out a plastic bag, and opened it by separating the blue stripe from the yellow. He dumped the contents onto the ground—two stirrer straws, a pack of Mayport cigarettes, and a tube. He opened the tube and spread a stream of white goo around the rim of the urn.

  Warren said, “What’s that?”

  “Denture cream. Don’t ask me how I got it.”

  Tanner put a straw in the urn and stuck it to the rim. Then, he turned the lid upside down and put it on the urn, making sure the straw was sticking out. With the tip of his finger, he checked for gaps in the cream.

  He held his creation up and pointed at the inverted lid. “See, it’s like a little bowl.” He put his mouth around the straw and inhaled. Air flowed into the urn through the lid, out through the straw, and into his lungs.

  “Voilà. Here, you try,” he said.

  Unbelievable. In less than five minutes, Tanner had turned an urn into a bong. He was the smartest kid in the world, with the worst grades. Warren hadn’t had time to worry aloud, or explain why it wouldn’t work, or…anything. Tanner had made it look so easy. Someday, Tanner was going to drop out of school and become a millionaire selling his crazy ideas on TV.

  That’s right, with Tanner Pollack’s patented system, you too can make a bong out of ordinary household items. Send $19.95 now, and he’ll send you “Build-A-Bong” along with his personal guarantee. With “Build-A-Bong”…you will get high and fly.

  “So, what do you think, man? Cool, huh?” Tanner opened the pack of cigarettes.

  “Yeah, cool.” Despite his best efforts not to, Warren cracked a smile. “Wait. Isn’t a bong supposed to have water in it?”

  Tanner gazed at the urn, then shrugged. “You’re right, man, but you know what? It d
oesn’t matter.” He opened the pack of cigarettes and took one out. “It’s still going to work.” He broke a cigarette in half and emptied it onto the lid.

  The wind picked up a piece of tobacco and carried it away.

  Tanner said, “Hold the bong—or pipe—still while I light it.” He took a lighter and a book of matches out of his pocket.

  “Why did you bring matches if you had a lighter?” Warren said.

  “In case the lighter didn’t work, man. I found it in the parking lot at school, so it might not.” He flicked the lighter, and it flamed. “I guess I got lucky. Here, tip the pipe closer to the flame.” Tanner dropped the book of matches and shielded the flame from the wind.

  Warren tipped the tobacco toward the flame, but it didn’t light.

  Tanner pulled two more cigarettes out of the pack, broke them in half, and emptied them onto the lid. He flicked the lighter again, and this time, the tobacco ignited giving off a puff of white smoke followed by a thin, gray ribbon. The ribbon stretched up the trunk of the giant aspen and disappeared into the sky. Tanner dropped the lighter and grabbed the urn with both hands. He shoved the straw into his mouth, stood up, and inhaled. He held his breath, and his eyelids turned red. A cloud of gray smoke burst from every hole in his face, and he almost dropped the urn.

  Warren laughed. “How is it? Is it everything you thought it would be?” He stood up and patted Tanner on the back.

  “The important thing is—cough, cough—that it works—cough. And, man does it work.”

  In typical Tanner fashion, he cleared his throat, spread his arms wide, and raised his head to the sky. He was about to make some grand statement when a drop of water landed on his face and ran down his cheek. He turned to Warren. “We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go get the pot right now.”

  “Why? It’s not raining yet. That was only one drop.”

  Tanner headed toward the trail head. “See those black clouds? The forecast was right. If we don’t go get the pot now, it might storm before we get to smoke it.”

  “Wait.” Warren ran after him.

  “Sorry you didn’t get a chance to smoke out of the urn, man, but it was only cigarettes. They don’t do anything for you anyway. The pot's going to be so much better.”

  “Wait,” Warren said. “What about Nathan?”

  “Remember the plan, man. You distract him while I slip in the back and take his pot.”

  “I’m not sure I can—”

  “Don’t worry, man. It’s going to be fine. What could go wrong?”

  Everything, that’s what.

  They ran to the edge of Homestead Forest and stopped. Warren peered across the gas pumps at the Tenoco, and a shiny camper trailer pulled out of the lot onto Highway 23. The Tenoco was the last gas station for people heading north to Pine Creek. Rich people owned summer homes in Tamarack, and campers went to Pine Creek to litter and party. Warren pictured Nathan sitting behind the counter inside. Nathan had great tourist stories, and Warren wished the Tenoco wasn’t on the other side of town. Most upperclassmen wouldn’t talk to freshmen, but Nathan was different. He always talked to Warren.

  Tanner said, “Okay, man. This is it. Act natural.”

  Warren nodded.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sandal-Wearing, Sports-Loving Hippie

  Doc stepped off the edge of the Broken Pearl parking lot, and his boots filled with water. He glowered at the flashes of sunlight coming off Ponder’s Lake. His weight shifted when he lifted his foot out of the water, and his other foot sunk in the sand.

  Why? Why you got to land me in the water?

  He trudged to the shore and sat on a log. Behind him, a dense row of pines bordered the beach. He took off one boot, tipped it upside down, and poured out the water. He gave it a shake and did the same with the other boot. Both boots had cracks on the sides and holes in the heels. Like Doc, the boots had seen better days, but they kept on keeping on. He pulled on the tip of a sock until it stretched to three times its normal length, snapped off of his foot, and flung water in his face. He spat.

  Cursing with every step, he made his way through a row of pines to a small, A-frame cabin. He walked to the side of the cabin and plunked his stuff onto the ground. A cable ran from the roof to a tree in the yard. An assortment of clothes hung from the cable. Fate had smiled on Doc, and he was glad it’d be easy to follow the number one rule—never be recognized.

  Doc pulled a pair of black sunglasses out of his pocket and put them next to his boots. He grinned at the assortment of clothes. No one would recognize him in a pair of shorts and a football jersey. He didn't like professional sports. To Doc, sports were nothing more than a way of tricking frat boys into buying beer.

  Oh lookie, he scored himself a touchdown. Have a beer. Oh no, your team lost. Have a beer. The home-team got a shut out tonight. Have a lot of beer.

  Doc combed through the clothes, and most of them turned his stomach. He gagged when he came across three pair of yellow boxers. Each had a cartoon of a fellow with giant eyeballs, a corn dog nose, and split teeth. Why a grown man, or woman, would ever wear such a thing astounded him.

  He stripped off his dirty denim jeans and put on a pair of beige, camouflage cargo shorts. He replaced his blue flannel shirt with the red and white football jersey. The logos on the shoulders of the jersey made Doc itch, and he scratched. The birds on the logos irked him. Things such as these begged the entire world to tell him what to do, and how to do it. Next to his pile of clothes, he spotted a red bandanna sticking out from under the eve. Perfect. No one in Tamarack would mistake him for a sandal-wearing, sports-loving hippie. Together with his sunglasses, the bandanna gave him a strung out, tourist look. He took the box knife out of his denim jeans, held it for a moment, and put it in his cargo shorts.

  Why youngins need so durned many pockets…oh yeah, stupid cell phones.

  He straightened his sunglasses on his crooked head, smoothed out the sleeves of the jersey, and exhaled. This getup would buy him the time he needed to make sure he could find the temcor. He didn’t dare break rule number three by removing the wrong youngin. He took out the job paper and ran his thumb over the temcor type.

  TEMCOR TYPE: POTENTIAL EXITER - POTENTIAL DEATHCHEATER - POTENTIAL TEMPORIZER - POTENTIAL SKIPPER - POTENTIAL PREEMPTER.

  The paper listed all five time line sins as “potential.” Doc doubled-checked it. Warren hadn’t done anything, but the bosses thought he might do everything. Doc grinned with pride.

  He liked going after deathcheaters. A giddy feeling thudded his rib cage when he thought about Dasha dodging all those cars only to get smashed by the ATV. Preempters had their place in Doc’s heart too. They messed up the time lines because they killed people before their time, but at least they killed people. Doc hated temporizers and exiters. Temporizers kept folks alive when they shouldn’t. These were your doctors and firemen. Exiters were just plain worthless. Exiters killed themselves.

  Where’s the fun in that?

  Doc walked barefoot to the front of the A-frame. Pine needles poked at his feet, but none penetrated his leathery skin. A rusty, single-speed bicycle leaned against the steps at the end of the dirt drive, and a pair of leather sandals sat on a welcome mat that read MI CASA ES SU CASA. It was more of that Spanish blabbing he didn’t understand. He also didn’t understand who would ride a bicycle wearing sandals, but he supposed he shouldn’t try to make sense of it. Sports-loving hippies who live in little hippie huts like this one would never make sense.

  Doc stared at the words POTENTIAL SKIPPER. He had only seen a few potential skippers, and never an actual skipper. Maybe the protectors had done their job well—he knew he had—or maybe something bad would happen if a skipper did skip to another time line. Doc didn’t usually waste much time on worrying, but he had pondered the possibility of the world caving in on itself if a skipper was allowed to skip. The bosses insisted that potential skippers get removed from the time line immediately. Doc wanted a drink, but killing the temcor had
to come first. Last time he contended with a potential skipper, he had at least gotten to go boating. Little Juanita shouldn’t have climbed over that graveyard wall, but Doc was glad that she had. He shoved the paper back into his shorts and slipped his feet into the sandals.

  Tenocoooh.

  He raised his nose, sniffed, and walked up the winding drive toward town. On his way, he passed a woman sitting on the deck of a double-wide trailer. She had a thin computer thingy propped up on her middle-aged belly. Doc recognized her as the widow Maude Gantry. She gripped both sides of the computer and talked to it. “Fold. Fold. You don’t know I’m bluffing. Fold.”

  She glanced at Doc and went back to her computer thingy.

  If Gantry’s gal don’t recognize me, no one will.

  He walked to Main Street and headed toward the Tenoco gas station. With his head held high, he took long strides. He recognized everyone he saw, and no one said a word to him. The sidewalk ended just past Raven Street, and he could see the Tenoco up ahead. He had an inkling he would find his temcor there.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hawt Rawd

  Bing-bong.

  The door to the Tenoco convenience store swung closed behind Doc. Three aisles ran the length of the store and ended at the checkout counter. A boy sat behind the counter reading a magazine with a hot rod automobile on the cover. Doc lowered his head and walked past the aisles on his right. To his left, dozens of frozen meals in red, green, and white boxes stared at him like puppies in the pound. He hadn’t eaten anything interesting in a long time. Food just didn’t rank as high as whiskey and cigarettes. Even the ice cream section held little appeal. For years, he’d said every house should have a tube that delivered food. Whenever a fellow wanted to eat, he’d put the tube in his mouth and suck on it. This would give folks more time to do the things they wanted, like drinking, smoking, and killing.

  Despite Doc’s timesaving tube idea, something in the last freezer caught his eye, and he hungered for it. A box of Movie Time Corn Dogs spoke to him.