A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  “Goldurnit,” an old, raspy voice said.

  Warren held his breath. A liver-spotted hand covered in blood picked up the packet. Warren’s heart raced. Hiding in the back of the van wasn’t such a bad idea anymore.

  The voice said, “I need all the ketchup I can get for my last supper. They ain’t got ketchup in Dryland.”

  Warren shuddered. The man walked to the truck, pulled his bloody feet inside, and shut the door. The engine started, and the truck pulled out of the lot. Warren rolled onto his back and gasped for air. He stared at the dirty oil pan and waited for the truck to return. Sleep threatened to take him. He wanted to crawl into bed, wrap himself in his comforter, and start the day over. He let his eyelids close and—

  The urn. I’ve got to put the urn back.

  Warren scrambled out from under the van. To the north and west, the sun fought through a haze of smoke and ash. His backpack slipped off his shoulder and pulled him to the side. He shrugged it back on and stepped onto the street. The truck had gone south on Chestnut Row, so Warren walked west on Robin.

  His feet hurt. The scabs on his heels had come off, and blood had seeped into his sandals. He wondered if the wrinkly legged owner of the other bloody sandals had been forced to run two miles in gym class. His brain ached as much as his heels. He told himself to ignore the pain and keep moving. He had to keep moving. He had to put the urn back.

  Warren pushed himself to walk faster and hated Coach Chaney for letting him skip gym class all year. At Acorn Row, he turned left, and walked down the hill to Blue Jay. Gravity pulled on his eyelids, and he popped them open. He looped his thumbs into the straps of his backpack and weaved back and forth down the road. Two blocks away, the flamed front end of a truck burst out of his parent’s driveway and raced toward him at a hundred miles an hour.

  He blinked, shook his head, and the truck disappeared. In its place, he found something every bit as terrifying. In his parent’s driveway, his mom’s tubby four-door sat next to his dad’s disfigured wagon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bullfighting on TV

  The white darkness of Paros vanished.

  Lying in the front seat of Hawt Rawd’s pickup truck, Doc’s body contracted into the fetal position and spasmed. He hated this part. When the spasms ended, his limbs shot out in all directions. His hand hit the window and pain coursed up his arm. He cursed his ghosty bosses.

  Doc grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself up. He peered over the hood. He’d hoped to see a pair of sandals, a torn hoodie, that stupid backpack, or, most of all, a dead body. The hood had nothing on it but an annoying paint job and bits of ash. He turned around and looked out the back window. The forest fire blazed in the distance.

  I hope them ijits in the TFD put that out. This is my territory.

  He revved the engine and put the truck in reverse. He hoped Warren’s body was under the truck. If so, then Doc would whoop and holler, shove the truck into gear, and run him over again. He backed the truck away, and—

  Nothing.

  His bosses would definitely send him to Dryland now. He shuddered, and his stomach made an odd growl.

  If they’re sending me back to hell, I’m eating something good before I go, like a corn dog.

  He stomped on the gas, sent a spray of gravel over the edge of the road, and barreled down Acorn to Robin Street. He couldn't go back to the Tenoco because his bosses hadn’t given him permission to kill Hawt Rawd. One look at that boy standing anywhere near those jerky sticks, and Doc would lose his nut. His stomach growled again.

  Doc pulled into Watley’s Pump-N-Save and parked next to a white panel van. He got out and admired it. Other than the windshield, the van had no windows. It didn't have a stupid paint job either. Yes sir, with a van like that, Doc could remove tons of temcors. If he had the keys to it, then he could drive up to Pine Creek and take a sabbatical—maybe go boating. No one would notice him. Afterward, he could come back, use it to remove Warren from this time line, and get in good graces with his bosses.

  Doc went inside the store. A Goliath of a man with tattoos and a nose piercing sat behind the counter tapping on a cell phone. The ring in the man’s nose reminded Doc of the week he’d spent in a bar watching nothing but bullfighting on TV. The man tapped and tapped on his phone, but never put it to his ear. Doc shook his head, and his stomach growled. A green and white case of donuts sat next to a little metal box between the clerk and the freezer. Doc liked donuts less than cell phones. Donuts made a person fat and flabby. After eating one donut, Doc always wanted to eat another one…and another one. That worked with Old Hawk, because getting drunk was doing something, but eating donuts was going to the movies and sitting there with your eyes closed. Donuts were nothing but gut bombs of sugar and fat. Meat, on the other hand, makes a man. Steaks and chops—even burgers if cooked right—are what keeps a fellow healthy. The bloodier the better. And when it came to meat, Doc wasn’t a snob. He needed nothing as fancy as a steak. He walked past the donuts and took a box of corn dogs out of the freezer.

  “Hey there,” Doc said.

  The clerk’s badge read WATLEY’S: WE’LL GO ALL THE WAY TO MAKE YOUR DAY. MY NAME IS GORDON. HOW CAN I HELP YOU? He tapped the center of his cell phone and put it on the counter.

  Doc reeled back a step when the clerk stood up. “Whoa, you're a big one, ain’t you?”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Well, Gordo, I want to cook these here dogs. You got an oven I can use?”

  Gordon pointed to the back. “The microwave is by the donuts.” He sat down, picked up his phone, and tap, tap, tapped on the screen.

  Doc gazed at the little metal box next the donut case. He curled his lips in a sneer. “Nah, I mean a real oven. I might be cooking my last meal here, and I want to make it a good one.”

  Gordon slammed his phone on the counter and leaned forward. “Look. That’s the oven we got. Take it or leave it.” He grabbed the box of Movie Time Corn Dogs out of Doc’s hands and scanned it with a laser gun. “That’s six dollars and four cents with tax.”

  Doc flared his eyes, leaned over the counter, and spoke in an unwavering voice. “Give me them dogs back.” Gordon’s breath smelled like mashed potatoes and gravy. A snarl of hair wrapped around his nose ring, and Doc wanted to yank on it.

  Gordon said, “No.” He sat down, scooped up his phone, and tapped on it. A giant key ring with a shiny, green shamrock hung from his belt and rattled when he sat.

  Doc smiled. “Okay, Gordo.” Doc backed away from the counter. “I’ll just go get me another box of dogs.” He watched Gordon in a security mirror as walked to the freezer. “I got no problem cooking them in your little outer space oven over here. You just sit and play with your phone. Don’t mind me.”

  Gordon slammed his phone down, and little bits of glass bounced across the counter. His muscles tensed, and he glared at Doc. He picked up a small, black club from beneath the counter and walked toward the freezer. His reflection filled the mirror.

  “Let’s see now, do I want to stay with them movie dogs, or should I go for one of these others here. Hmm.” Doc pinched his chin as Gordon approached. “Green Gate. That one looks good. Wait a minute now, it says VEGGIE DOG. Why on earth would anybody want—”

  Doc grabbed the freezer door and pulled it into Gordon’s body as hard as he could.

  Gordon stumbled back, lost control of the Billy club, and dropped it on the floor. He charged forward and missed when Doc stepped to the side. He turned around and hunched his shoulders. Air blew out of his nostrils in rhythmic bursts. He ran at Doc again. Doc grabbed another door and sent it swinging into the massive clerk. Glass shattered, and Gordon fell backward into the case. Boxes of frozen waffles, sausages, and hash browns landed on his head.

  “Ain’t so big and tough now, is you Gordo?”

  Doc kicked him in the face and regretted it. Any other day, Doc’s boot would've blown any remaining consciousness out of the man’s head. Today, however, wasn’t norma
l. Doc had on a sports-loving hippie disguise complete with a pair of sandals. Throngs of pain ran up his leg and into his groin. He jerked his foot back, hooking Gordon’s nose ring on his big toe. Doc twisted to catch himself on the floor and ripped Gordon’s nose in half. Gordon screamed and put his hands over his face. The ring slid off Doc’s toe, flew over his head, and hit a container of beef jerky. Meat, some from the container and some from Gordon’s nose, landed on Doc. Blood shot out of Gordon’s face and sprayed Doc’s sandals. Doc glowered at the jerky and brushed it away with his hand. He pushed rule #3—and all the other rules for that matter—out of his mind and picked up the Billy club. He hit Gordon over the head. Gordon grabbed Doc’s ankle, and Doc hit him again. Blood flew. He swung the club again and again until the Goliath of a man slumped over and stopped moving.

  Doc dropped the club and took a deep breath. He picked up the box of corn dogs and read the instructions. MICROWAVE: HEAT A SINGLE FROZEN CORN DOG ON HIGH FOR 60 SECONDS. He put two corn dogs in the microwave and set it for two minutes. He leaned against the counter, glanced at Gordon, and sighed. Blood ran down his legs and marbled the leather straps on his sandals. He glanced back at the microwave and the timer told him his dogs would take another minute and a half. He waited. Overhead, speakers played “Imagine” by John Lennon.

  That’s just great. Hippie music. What's next? A sporty game recap to go with my stupid shirt?

  Doc rolled Gordon over and liberated the giant, shamrock key ring with his box knife. He searched through the keys for one matching the logo on the van and found eight. The microwave buzzed, and Doc shoved the keys into his shorts. He’d have to steal the van another time.

  When he opened the microwave door, a cloud of wiener flavor billowed out. He grabbed a corn dog by the stick, held it to his nose, and breathed in the steam. Perhaps there is truth in advertising—the aroma reminded him of the movies. He pulled a few napkins out of the dispenser and wrapped them around the dogs. The top of his foot ached, but his toes still worked. He walked past the freezer, picked up his sandal, and smacked Gordon in the face with it.

  You better not be dead, Gordo. If I get sent to Dryland over your sorry rump, then I’m going to find you there and show you what hell’s all about.

  Five minutes later, Doc sat at the intersection of Meadowlark and Chestnut. He bit the tip off one of his corn dogs and spat it onto the seat—no ketchup. Five minutes after that, he pulled back into Watley’s and parked by a pump. He dropped his feet out of the truck with a p-thump, thump, and heard speakers playing “Let It Be” by the Beatles—more hippie music. As he walked back to the store, keys on the giant key ring rattled against Gordon’s shiny shamrock inside Doc’s pocket. He stopped and admired the white panel van. It was a shame he didn’t know which key would start the van, and it was a shame that he didn’t have time to figure it out.

  A scurrying, scraping noise came from beneath the van, and Doc thought, Hmm…it must be a rat.

  He sauntered into the store. “I come back for ketchup, but I got to know if you're alive or not, you pathetic saphead.” He put his fingers on Gordon’s neck and counted to ten.

  “Well, hell,” he said.

  Doc walked over to the condiment tray, grabbed a handful of ketchup packets, and left. Half way to the truck, he dropped a packet on the ground.

  “Goldurnit.” He bent over, and his back strained as he reached to pick it up. “I need all the ketchup I can get for my last supper. They ain’t got ketchup in Dryland.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Banana Bread

  Warren stood at the top of the hill. A gray veil of smoke from the forest fire separated the impending blackness of night from the setting sun as it dipped below the horizon and cast his parent’s cars in shadow. Warren pulled the front pocket of his hoodie up to his nose and inhaled. Burnt chars of black ants crawled up his nostrils.

  Remember man, hold your breath.

  Warren shook his head and let go of his hoodie. He walked around the side of his house and pushed on his bedroom window, but it didn’t budge. A bent nail blocked the window’s path, and Warren remembered the last time he had come home late.

  Around back, he could sneak in the sliding glass door. His mom would be in the kitchen making dinner. If he opened the door fast and bolted down the hall, she might not see him, but she would smell him. She would walk down the hall, sniff outside his door, and insist on coming into his room. If she had noticed the urn missing, then nothing would matter. She would stop him the second he set foot in the house. Check and mate. Game over.

  With his head low, Warren stayed near the house and crept to the front yard. As part of creating a battle plan, Napoleon often sent spies to gather intelligence. Warren wondered if Napoleon had ever spied on his parents when sneaking in late. With luck, Warren would see his dad sitting in the living room, drinking and watching “The Simpsons” for the hundredth, thousandth time. With more luck, he’d see his dad passed out on the couch, for the hundredth, thousandth time. Life with a drunk dad had its benefits. With patience, Warren could always count on his dad to pass out. If his mom wasn’t home, he could do whatever and come home whenever he wanted.

  Warren leaned against the house and ducked beneath the living room window. His parent’s voices reverberated through the glass in uneven bursts—low, muffled, and sad. He rose and peeked through the window. A knitted afghan lay alone at the end of the couch. Above the couch, nothing but dust rested on the mantle. His heart fluttered. He grabbed the straps of his backpack and pulled it tight. His tired eyes played tricks on him. The urn was the on the mantle. He had never taken it. He blinked, and the urn was gone again. He sighed and sank down onto the cool grass.

  Warren wanted to throw the urn through the window and run. He wanted to run to his trails in Lake Forest and vanish in the shadows of the trees. He could get his money from under the big rock, apologize to Nathan, and live off food from the Tenoco. It could work.

  He took the urn out of his backpack and held it in his hands. With his back flat against the wall, he closed his eyes. He took a slow breath and followed it with three quick ones. His hands burned. He opened his eyes, leaned forward, and fell back. He couldn't pull his hands off the urn. His knuckles turned white, and a burning chill ran up his arms. He twisted his shoulders back and forth, trying to release the urn, but the chill made his muscles relax. His eyelids drooped, and he stopped resisting. The lawn turned into a gigantic multitude of individual, green strands. The faded white fence became inexplicably vivid. Cracks in the paint created well-defined, jagged patterns. A mountain bluebird landed on a power line and silhouetted against the smoky backdrop of Statler Ridge. The bluebird made a high-pitched warble so shrill that a new wave of chills ran up Warren’s arms. When the warble ended, his parent’s voices began.

  “He’s in trouble with the school now, and you know who they’re going to blame.”

  Every nuance of his dad’s slurred words reverberated in Warren’s ears with a dazzling clarity.

  “They always blame the dad. This is horrible, he’s horrible, and it’s not fair. He’s as much your fault as he is mine.”

  His mom said, “Are you sure? Are you sure this isn’t just a little more your fault than mine? Don’t you think coming home stinking drunk every day, or not going to work at all, might have something to do with Warren’s behavior?”

  “Oh sure, blame me. Blame me for keeping a job. I always wanted a job where I could work from home sometimes, and now that I have it, you want me to quit. You want me to quit because he is too chicken to go to gym class. It doesn’t make any sense.” His dad crested a wave and headed for another hangover half-pipe.

  “Seth.” His mom slowed down and smoothed out her voice. “I don’t want you to quit your job. I want you to quit your drinking.”

  His dad began to sob. “I wish I was dead.”

  An emptiness welled inside Warren.

  “Oh stop,” his mom said. “I hate this. I had something important to tel
l you. I saw someone standing outside the Tenoco today, and—never mind. You’re too drunk.”

  “Who was it? Someone from your little, dead kid support group?”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Yeah, I’m sick,” his dad said. “But I wish I was dead. You wish I was dead.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. It would be easier for everyone if I just ended it.” Glass shattered, but not all at once. Warren could hear each break make a singular crack, and his chills intensified.

  His mom said, “Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “That’s the idea. I know how to do it. You cut your wrist down your arm, not across.”

  A lump formed in Warren’s throat. More glass shattered. Later, he would watch his mom pick shards of glass out of the kitchen sink, but right now, he had a lump to repress. He closed his eyes and squinted. The lump grew. He tipped his head back, but gravity couldn't keep his tears down. They flowed over his cheeks. He tipped his head forward, stuck his chin out, and swallowed. The lump didn’t budge.

  “That’s it, I’m taking Warren and we’re leaving. If you don’t kill yourself with broken glass, you’ll do it with vodka. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Sure, go to Dogwood. Hook up with Hank. He’ll give you a hell of a good time.”

  SLAM

  “Cass, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Go away.”

  “Please?”

  “Seth, I love you, but you’re killing yourself, and it’s a sad thing to watch.”

  Warren’s dad sobbed and sucked air in through his nose. “You’re right. It is a sad thing to watch. It’s sad like the day I was at work, and you watched Cameron die.”