A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  Doc didn’t have a shovel. He didn’t have a bunch of sharp sticks, and he didn’t have a twenty-dollar bill. He had no use for money because he always drank for free at the Broken Pearl. All he had was a convincing boo. Never mind building a trap, he’d have to grab Warren and scare the other one away. If worse came to worse, he’d slit Warren’s throat right in front of the scar-headed boy, as long as his disguise held up.

  To hell with rule #2. As long as I follow rule #1, I should be okay. This boy is a potential skipper for Christ’s sake.

  Rather than setting up some cartoony contraption, this plan would get him back on his barstool quicker. He straightened out his left leg, rubbed his calf muscle, and did the same for his right. He leaned forward and stretched his legs.

  I may be old, but my important parts still work.

  He peered between the trees. A boy with calf muscles no bigger than Doc’s stepped onto the deck. A glop of goop stuck in Doc’s lower eyelids making it hard to see. The boy wore a black T-shirt without sleeves. Some ijit had ruined a perfectly good shirt by cutting the sleeves off. Doc blinked. It was Warren. Warren had taken his hoodie off inside the store.

  Doc scrambled to his feet, leaned between the trees, and blinked the goop out of his eyes. Nope, not him, but what a resemblance.

  The boy leaned over a newspaper machine, put both hands on the window sill, and stared into the store.

  The pile of newspapers next to the machine drew Doc's attention. Thirty years ago, he had put an ad in the newspaper to sell an old rototiller. A guy showed up and offered Doc ten bucks less than the asking price. Doc was about to take it when his neighbor came over and offered to sell a new Tony-Bilt Tiller to the guy for ten bucks more. The guy took the deal. Crazy as it was, Doc wondered if this boy in the messed-up shirt was encroaching on his territory. Doc was the protector in these parts, and he didn’t want any competition. Rule #4 was supposed to keep this sort of thing from happening. Doc had an inkling, a black inkling.

  The boy pushed off the window sill and darted to the door. He grabbed the handle and held onto it. The door jerked back and forth in his hands a couple of times before he pushed it open. Doc smiled when Warren stepped out of the store. He smiled bigger when Warren tripped over the other boy’s feet.

  He’s clumsy. This will be easy.

  The scar-headed boy ran around the side of the store. “Go Warren. Run.”

  Warren ran toward the trail. Doc’s fingers curled around his box knife. He rubbed it the way a baby rubs a blanket.

  Hawt Rawd came running behind the scar-headed boy. Warren ran onto the trail and, distracted by that stupid Hawt Rawd, Doc missed snaring him. The scar-headed boy turned and yelled something back at Hawt Rawd. Doc made his move. He chased Warren down the trail, but after ten steps, his knees buckled and locked. He hobbled off to the side and collapsed into the bushes. With the palms of his hands, he mashed the marbles under his kneecaps and moaned. The scar-headed boy ran right by him.

  Hawt Rawd stopped at the edge of the parking lot and put his hands on his hips. The door to the convenience store went bing-bong and closed behind the sleeveless boy. Doc smiled.

  That’s right Hawt Rawd. Somebody’s in your store. You better run along now.

  Doc walked on the trail, and his leg muscles loosened. He forced himself into a light jog and came upon the boys earlier than he’d expected. He darted into the trees and hid.

  Warren was just standing there, shaking his head and saying the word “no” over and over.

  Doc got ready. He stretched his arms out wide and pulled them behind his back. He massaged his peapod biceps with his bony fingers and checked to see if he still had his knife. Warren needed his throat slit, but cleaning up that kind of mess would take too much time. Doc could, however, use his knife to scare the scar-headed boy away, and, if the scar-headed boy didn’t run, Doc could give him a little stab just for fun.

  While the boys talked, Doc schemed. He would grab the Warren from behind and pull him off the trail. The stupid scar-headed boy would keep running, oblivious. Doc would wrap his arms around Warren, flex his biceps, and snap the boy’s neck. He’d make it look like an accident by breaking Warren’s ankle and leaving him in the forest. Later, the police would say, I’m sorry Mrs. Renner, but your boy twisted his ankle, fell, and broke his neck. These things happen.

  Doc rubbed his butt and pictured his fancy stool back at the Broken Pearl.

  To hell with rule number two. I’m using my knife and killing both of them.

  Doc decided to get back to the Pearl in time for supper. He thought it’d be fun to insult Jackson by asking for a corn dog. He swung his arms in big circles. One at a time, he shook out his legs. He jumped up and down—a prize fighter getting ready for the title match. He hadn’t caught Warren because his knees had stove-up, and his knees had stove-up because he hadn’t warmed up.

  The scar-headed boy took off running, and Warren followed.

  Doc broke through the bushes. “Goldurnit. Get back here.”

  He chased after them, mashing his teeth, and cursing his hippie sandals. It didn’t take long for the boys to outrun him. Ahead, they made a sharp right, and disappeared into the heart of Homestead Forest. Doc wheezed, coughed, spat up something with a life of its own, and sat on a log. He reached into his cargo shorts and pulled out a pack of Townsboro Reds.

  Maybe these shorts ain’t so bad. A fellow can carry a lot of stuff in these pockets.

  He lit up a cigarette, took a long draw, and exhaled. The cigarette smoke rose into the air, and the rain pushed it back down.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tiny, Red Fingers

  Thunder crashed. The trees along the trail fractured the lightning into scattered pieces of broken luminance. Warren ran behind Tanner along the twisting trail. His heels bled, and he didn’t care. His lungs inflated, deflated, and burned. He didn’t care. The raindrops grew larger, the thunder grew louder, and scattered pieces of light connected to create blasts of blindness. With each strike of lightning, the ground shook, and the forest disappeared, awash in electricity. Warren didn’t care. He had to find the urn.

  Ahead, Tanner’s feet splashed through puddles and banked against turns. Behind, a set of footsteps splashed.

  “Goldurnit. Get back here.”

  Oh, no. Nathan’s still chasing us.

  Warren picked up his pace and, to his surprise, he ran past Tanner.

  “Yeah man. Go, go, go…” Tanner pumped his fist. “You only live once…nirvana, here we come.”

  Warren flew through the trees, and into the clearing. Everything had changed. The air held an electric charge, which didn’t surprise him, but the dryness did. He slowed and walked toward the grove of aspens. Dry sticks snapped beneath his feet. He stopped twenty steps from the edge of the clearing and put his hands to his face. Despite the rainstorm, he was dry. He searched for the storm thinking it had passed over, but it hadn’t. A wall of water surrounded him, and his worries disappeared. He took a breath, held it, and let it go. He had seen a wall of water like this before, but where? An old memory pushed its way into Warren’s mind and he closed his eyes.

  The room had rough carpet, and Warren thought the pattern was pretty. He scratched his nose with his little hand and stepped inside the room. Opposite him, a wall of water fell into the basin of a crafted fountain. The fountain was backed by stone with swirls of gray and blue sparkles. The water from the fountain fell in a wide, shiny sheet, pushing cold air toward him. He licked his lips like he’d been splashed, but they were dry.

  How old was I? Four? Five?

  He put his finger in the fountain, and water splashed his face. He licked it off his lips.

  A woman behind a huge desk said, “Hey, don’t touch that.”

  Warren pulled his hand away. The water fascinated him, and he reached for it again. His dad’s arms wrapped around him, and he flew into the air, losing his breath on the upswing, and catching it on the down. The room spun. In a blur, the water f
ountain became a woman sitting behind a desk. She wore funny pajamas with cartoonish balloons. A doorway spun into view, followed by a picture of white flowers hanging on the wall. He wanted to pick one of the white flowers and give it to his mom. The picture spun away, and the wall fountain returned. The room stopped spinning, and the ceiling moved away from him. He wrapped his arms around his dad’s neck and held on tight. Slim and sharp, his dad’s face was a wall of water—solid yet forgiving. He squeezed his dad, but lost his grip. His dad’s eyes were smiles on a cloud, and just before his feet touched the pretty carpet, his dad said, “Okay little guy. Let’s go see how your brother’s doing.”

  The odor of burning dust filled the air, but it smelled sweet, and it reminded Warren of banana bread. He opened his eyes and—

  POP—POP, BANG

  Lightning struck. The blast flung Warren away from the aspens. He landed on his bruised hip, rolled over, and slid to a stop. The sound of the granddaddy aspen splitting and crashing to the ground made Warren’s back seize. He scanned the area near the tree, but didn’t recognize anything. The earth, blacker than the demonic thunder clouds above, was barren except for a faint, reddish-gold glimmer. Warren squinted and leaned forward.

  The ground beneath the glimmer erupted and burst into flame. Warren jerked back, and his eyes slammed shut. Tears streamed down his cheeks and framed his face. He rubbed his eyes and pried them open only to have them shut on their own again. His skin was hot to the touch, but not burnt. He rolled away from the heat and—

  THUD

  Something hit the ground next to him. He patted around and found nothing but weeds and dirt. He rubbed his eyes again to no avail, and slumped over onto the ground, hitting his head on something hard. Rolling onto his back, he grabbed it, and squeezed. Burning chills ran up his arm. His hand blazed. The heat turned into a freezing pain and subsided into a pallid numbness. He forced his eyes open, and the fire blazed. Flames crackled up the trunks of the aspens. Tiny, red fingers reached for tender green leaves. A cloud of steam replaced the wall of water. He heard a woman’s voice say, “Hey, don’t touch that.” The steam swirled inches above the ground—ghosts trying to escape the terrestrial plane.

  The rain stopped, and the ground popped, sending a cloud of red hot embers into the air. The embers decorated the demonic clouds in a bewitching display of fireworks. Warren watched the embers float across the sky, flicker, and die. How long could he lie there before the fire reached him? His hip and his heels didn’t ache. Nothing ached, and he feared nothing. The steam stopped swirling. The forest appeared hazy, and distant. Embers hung in the air—red stars strewn across an alien sky. Warren couldn’t move. Nothing could move. A vague attempt at worry failed, and his mind came to a halt. Paralytic.

  With a violent urgency, the world moved. Warren blinked, and his body spasmed. The heat of the flames covered him, and he remembered the strange teenager from the Tenoco.

  Hey bro, wait. Where’s the fire?

  “Cool, man. You found it.” Flames danced in Tanner’s eyes.

  “Found what?”

  “The bong, man. You found the bong. Look.” Tanner pointed at Warren’s hand. “We can go now.”

  Warren sat up straight. He opened his hand expecting to see a disaster of burned denture cream and plastic. The inlaid pattern of gold ivy curved through the blue ceramic and shone as brilliant as the day the urn was forged. The lid sat in its place. Warren put his hand on the lid and burning chills ran up his arm.

  Tanner wiped the water off his face and glanced at the fire. “Warren, man. Let’s go.”

  The glint of fear in Tanner’s eyes surprised Warren as much as the burning chills in his arm. He let go of the urn’s lid, and the chills stopped. He smiled. “I think it’s going to be okay. I think everything is going to be okay.”

  “Okay?” Tanner tightened his lips. “How is being burned to death okay, man?”

  Warren stood up, drifted over to his backpack, and unzipped the outer pocket. Steam floated over the rim of the urn, and the gold inlay swirled within the blue ceramic. Warren blinked and wiped the urn’s surface with his thumb, but the inlay continued to swirl.

  Tanner said, “The fire’s coming, man. Let’s go.”

  Warren forced his eyes away from the urn and shoved it into his backpack. The lid had left no marks on his hand, but tiny pin pricks of pain shot throughout his palm. Tanner grabbed his hand and pulled. Together, they ran across the clearing to the trail. Warren turned toward the Tenoco, and Tanner stopped.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Tanner said.

  “I’m going back to town. There’s no reason to go to Foundation.”

  “We can’t do that, man. Nathan will see us. Let’s cut through the trees.”

  Warren followed Tanner off the path. They pushed bushes aside and stomped on weeds, making their way between the tall, shadowy trees. The wind blew an ashy cloud at their backs, and Tanner coughed like he'd inhaled tobacco smoke. The pain returned to Warren’s heels, his hips, and his mind. He glanced back and saw a red dot bouncing in the trees.

  Embers from the fire couldn’t have floated this far, could they?

  “Tanner, wait. Do you see that?”

  “What?”

  The red dot disappeared. “Did you hear that?”

  Tanner glanced up at the clouds and wrinkled his forehead. “No. What was it?”

  “I thought I heard something rattle. I guess it was nothing.” Warren stepped over a log and caught a whiff of his hoodie. “How are we going to get the smoke out our clothes? My dad is going to kill me when he smells this.”

  “We can go back to the school and take a shower…I wish we’d gotten high.” Tanner glanced at Warren and grinned. “But hey, you wanted to die, right? We almost did that.”

  Warren pictured school, and his throat tightened. The sound of water splatting, towels snapping, and prepubescent rats laughing rang in his head. “No way, I’m never going back there.” Darren Sredo—stupid Darren Sredo—with his meaty fists and bulbous biceps, torturing the souls of Tamarack High.

  Why would anyone ever treat another person—

  A door closed in Warren’s mind, and his neck became clammy. Darren just needed money. He was misunderstood and had a good reason to bully everyone at school. A chill ran down Warren’s neck to the center of his spine and disappeared into the outer pocket of his backpack.

  Tanner and Warren broke through the edge of the forest and hiked up a grassy hill to the highway. Tanner lifted his shirt to his nose and sniffed. “Yuck. You’re right, man. We stink.”

  Warren said, “What are we going to do?”

  “Go home and change your clothes before anyone gets a whiff of you. Also, man, hold your breath when you walk in. If you don't, you’ll blow smoke everywhere. Nathan comes home stinking like pot all the time and my parents never notice. You’ll be all right, man.”

  “Wait,” Warren said. “We don’t stink like pot. Why do we care?”

  Tanner put his hand on Warren’s shoulder. “We care, man, because they’re going to think we started the fire. Look.” He pointed at the forest. The fire continued to blaze, and it was getting bigger. It rose above the trees, creating a red horizon against the afternoon sun. “We should get home fast so it’s not like we were ever here.” Tanner ran onto Main Street.

  “Tanner, wait. I'm not going that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to go by the school.” Warren lowered his head.

  “Whatever, man. Remember to hold your breath when you get home. See you tomorrow.”

  Warren turned to run, took three steps, and stopped. His hip ached and his ankles screamed. To get home before his parents, he would have to run, but it hurt to move. He walked up Raven Street Hill, every other step landing off-kilter on the gravel shoulder. At the top, he put his hands on his knees and took a breath. Behind him, the sound of a whiny, four-cylinder engine competed with the screeching of four radial tires. A pickup truck with flames on the
hood came racing up the hill. It was Nathan coming to get his pot back. Pot that Warren didn’t have.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mirrors Is So Useless

  The rain stopped pummeling the top of Doc’s head, and he lit another cigarette. He sat on a log waiting for the boys to come back. They had gone on the old Gantry Road, of course it wasn’t much of a road anymore. He had run on it as a teenager before the mansion at the other end had burned. The boys had run the other way which dead ended in Gantry’s pasture by them old aspens. There was no sense in chasing after them ijits, they’d come back soon enough.

  A thunderous crash came from the pasture, and Doc jumped. A brilliant flash of light blanketed the forest, and he put his hand over his heart.

  Durned if that wasn’t close.

  His cigarette lay on the wet ground where he’d dropped it.

  “Goldurnit.”

  He picked the cigarette up, brushed a bit of moist debris off it, and put it between his lips. Black clouds turned gray as they moved across the sky. Doc turned his cigarette sideways and examined it. He licked his lips and stubbed the cigarette out on the ground. The odor of tobacco smoke hung in the air. He tipped his head to the side, shrugged his shoulders, and lit another one.

  Before he knew what had happened, them boys ran by him at high speed.

  He took chase, careful to not drop his cigarette. When he moved, he moved with the agility of a cat, but he couldn’t keep it up for long. After two minutes or so, he hacked up a ball of phlegm, and slowed to a walk. His knees were about to lock up anyway—marbles. He walked until he caught up with the boys. He grimaced. The ijits had gone off the trail and pushed their way into the bushes.

  “Tanner, wait. Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  Doc put his cigarette out on the side of his cargo shorts. He bumped the keys in his pocket, and they rattled.

  Warren said, “Did you hear that?”

  A blackness floated inside Doc’s head and pranced around the letter T.