Shift (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  He did an internet search at the local library to try and scrounge up info about what had happened to the Johnsons. John Johnson and Michael Johnson were such generic names it proved impossible to find anything pertinent. However, when he tried Leah Johnson combined with Daisy, he stumbled on the genealogy website of a man from Santa Rosa, California. Little Johnny Johnson had been his grandfather, which made Red his great-grandfather.

  What few biographical sketches the man had on the site told Mark that Leah had become destitute a few years after Red’s death and moved up north to Chicago to try and find work. All three children had been placed in an orphanage after she died in 1896.

  He couldn’t remember exactly what time he had shifted out of Red’s bunkhouse.

  It was a crucial matter. The idea of popping back to 1890 inside the bunkhouse and running into his former self gave Mark the willies. Something about the idea of meeting himself as a separate person made him queasy.

  If he shifted back while outside the bunkhouse and got the time wrong, he might appear out of nowhere in front of Red. That would blow everything. Coming into too late, which would mean disappearing for a period of time, would probably deem him unreliable and unfit for work in Red’s eyes. No, somehow he had to shift back at just the right moment to intercept Red before he discovered Mark was missing.

  He strolled back to the Burgess / Johnson home and made a beeline for the back yard. Red had come knocking somewhere around 5:00 AM. So, to be safe, he gave himself an extra hour and set the device’s target time to 4:00 AM of that same morning. He stood behind the rotting bunkhouse and pushed the button.

  Darkness.

  It was night again. Early morning actually. The bunkhouse once more looked fresh and crisp, no weeds choking its frame into oblivion.

  He couldn’t help but be awed by the time-travel process, the whole concept of it really. He resisted the temptation to peek in the bunkhouse window. It was an easy thing to resist. He had no desire to even see another version of himself. Who knew what kind of havoc or paradoxes it might wreak.

  He ducked into the shadows and let time tick by. An hour passed and the sudden, overwhelming urge to pee came upon him. Did he have time? Dang it, what time had Red come anyway? He didn’t want to have to start over.

  He wasn’t going to make it. He’d best just hurry. He ran off the path a short ways and emptied his bladder as fast as he could. He’d made it back to the bunkhouse lawn when he heard Red knocking on the door.

  “Up an at’em, Carpen! We got work to do.”

  “Over here, Red. I’m up already.”

  “Dagnabit, boy! You scairt the dickens out of me!”

  “Sorry, had to relieve myself.”

  “Well, let’s get to it, Carpen. Lots of work to do, yessir, lots to do!”

  Mark worked harder over the next few days than he had in years. His trim and toughened body grew firmer under the hot Georgia sun and thicker with Leah’s generous cooking.

  Red spared him no task. Milking cows, collecting eggs, harvesting corn, removing stumps, he did it all.

  Finally, Sept. 12th arrived, the day of reckoning.

  Red thought there might be some rich soil in a field he owned to the northwest of the farm, but they’d have to clear it of trees before it could be plowed the following spring. Red decided that would be the work for the day. Frankly, it would be enough work for several months.

  The field was a twenty minute walk from the house. Upon arrival, the hair on Mark's arm stood on end, an odd foreboding running through him in shivers. He attributed it to his foreknowledge of the tragedy about to unfold.

  “Hey, Carpen! Head on o’er to those sprouts yonder and start takin’ ‘em out ifn’ yer don’t mind.”

  “Why don’t I stay up here and help you with these bigger ones?”

  “Cause it’ll take us twice as long that’s why!”

  Mark hesitated. He couldn’t just leave Red by himself. That would be a fatal mistake....to Red. He could quit and just sit there, watching Red work until whatever was going to happen, happened. All kinds of problems with that plan though.

  “What’s the matter with ya Carpen? What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve got a funny feeling is all. I can’t leave you alone up here. I don’t know why, but when my gut says something, I follow my gut, no two ways about it.”

  Red grunted. “I ain’t nobody to argue with nobody’s gut, so if’n you insist, I guess that’s how we’ll do it.”

  They’d burnt through half the day when it happened.

  Red was chopping away at a good-sized pine tree. He’d cut a little more than halfway through, not enough for it to fall under normal circumstances, but there must have been some weakened strands in the back side of the trunk. Red was walking away from the tree to get a feel for where it was going to fall when the trunk cracked like a gunshot.

  The tree creaked and began a slow, heavy descent that accelerated quickly. Red whipped his head back and saw what was happening. He tried to jump out of the way, but his foot slipped on some wet leaves, and he went down on one knee. The falling tree wouldn’t give him time to recover before it struck.

  As ready as Mark had been for something to happen, he still wasn't sure he’d have enough time to intervene. Thankfully, instinct propelled his body into action while his mind was still processing. He launched himself into Red’s body, striking him full force in the side and shoulder, and knocked him clear of the danger. The effort was not sufficient to save Mark’s own ankle though, which lay trapped beneath the fallen trunk.

  Red’s expression displayed a mixture of disbelief, awe, and fear. He’d just come very close to dying and he knew it. Quietly, he rose and set to work digging to free Mark’s leg. Amazingly, it was not broken. While an ankle might survive such with only some bruising to show for it, a skull would have been a different story.

  Red called it a day and they walked back to the house in silence.

  Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time,

  for that's the stuff life is made of.

  ~ Benjamin Franklin

  September 13th, 1890 – Cleveland, GA

  The next morning, breakfast was bigger than the morning feast Leah normally prepared. She’d really outdone herself. The kids scrambled in and hastily sat down before Red said Grace.

  Bowing their heads, Red led them in prayer as usual, but this morning, he seemed to take a little longer than normal in thanking his God.

  “Quite a spread, Leah.”

  “It was Red’s idea, said today we needed to celebrate. He’s takin’ a holiday from work too.” She giggled softly. An intimate moment passed between the couple.

  Mark looked at Red quizzically, “What are we celebrating, Red?”

  Grinning, he slapped Mark on the shoulder, laughing, “Why, boy! You done saved my bacon, don’t you realize that? If it weren’t fer the likes of you, I’d be a corpse, sure enough. Figure that’s a mighty fine cause fer celebration.”

  Mark grinned back. “I tend to agree”. He bit into a biscuit loaded with strawberry jam.

  “Carpen, I do truly thank ya fer what ya done out there yesterday.”

  Mark shrugged, “Wasn’t nothing. You would have done the same.”

  “Maybe, but that ain’t how it worked out.”

  “Really, it’s nothing.”

  “If’n ya don’t mind, I’d like to give you something.”

  Mark sat there, unsure of what was coming and not just a little embarrassed by the attention.

  Red’s smile widened. “I thought about it all night, and I’m going to give you that field we were clearing over there. That’s the least a man can pay for his life!”

  Mark couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Red....seriously, that’s not necessary. I did what anybody would have done. Plus, I work for you. It’s my job to look out for you, right?”

  “Ya don’t work fer me no more, boy, ye’ll be working yer own land!”

  Red was
dead serious too. There was nothing Mark could say to talk him out of it. The plot Red was giving him turned out to be about 40 acres. Red insisted they go over to the land office later that day and file the deed change. Mark considered bugging out to 2011, but hey....why not let the guy do what he wants, make him feel better.

  After walking the property, they went to the land office and transferred the deed. Mark felt bad, as if he’d cheated in order to profit from Red somehow. He supposed giving away a piece of land was better than your life, and Red wouldn’t be satisfied if Mark didn’t accept it. Plus, in saving Red’s life, Mark had risked his own as well.

  What really amazed him was that he, Mark Carpen, had just changed history. Red Johnson had actually died in an old version of history. Now, because of Mark’s intervention, Red would live out many more days with his family. His kids would never see an orphanage. The impact would probably affect Red’s family tree for generations.

  It occurred to him that this land Red had given him could be the start of a way out of the financial hole he was in.

  A plan began to form in his mind. He could beat all the lawyers and corrupt politicians at their own game.

  Mark began to get excited.

  He bid the Johnson's farewell and went on his way. If this plan worked, he was going to be very busy. There wouldn’t be much time to come back and visit.

  September 13th, 2011 – Cleveland, GA

  Shifting forward to 2011, Mark was anxious to find out what his property was now worth. He could only imagine the inflation in price on 40 acres over a period of 120 years. Surely he could sell it for at least $2,000 - $3,000 per acre now.

  He was headed to the Citgo to call information to find an appraisal company when he realized he didn't even have a quarter to use a public telephone. He would have to borrow a few dollars from someone to get started. No way around it.

  Mark cursed. He was officially going to become a beggar. He hated the idea.

  Then, it occurred to him that if he asked the appraisal company to come out, their fee would be at least several hundred dollars, and he didn't have the money to pay that either. He now owned a property that was potentially worth a decent amount of money, but the key word was potentially. He couldn’t buy a Coke right now, much less pay for an appraisal.

  Maybe he could just check with the county land registry and look up the land lot there. They would have it assessed at a certain value for tax purposes, and that would give him an idea of what it was really worth. The assessments were usually low....

  Taxes! Property taxes would not have been paid for 118 years. His property would have been seized by the government long before 2011. Probably around 1895 or thereabouts. When it came to collecting its money, the government had a way of being on top of things. The acreage would not have been in his name for a long time.

  This was going to be a lot more complicated than he’d anticipated.

  He needed cash. Somehow, he had to get some. He needed to get back to Lawrenceville. Once he got home, he could redeem himself.

  September 15th, 1890 – Cleveland, GA

  “Carpen! I didn’ ‘spect to see ya ag’in so soon. Ya seemed mighty sure ya’d be gone a good spell, but, it’s good to see ya, ‘gardless.”

  “Red, I hate to say it, but I need to sell the field you gave me. Do you know anybody in a position to buy it?”

  Leah stood behind Red, washing dishes. Her face fell. She looked rattled, but not for the reason Mark thought.

  “Sorry, but I ain’t got the cash to do it, friend, or I would,” Red answered.

  “No, no, I didn’t expect you to,” Mark said.

  “Ya cain’t sell it to that horsewhippin’ Lancaster!” Leah blurted, “You just cain’t!” Her outburst was completely out of character.

  “Leah, hush up, dagnabit!”

  “Who’s Lancaster?”

  “Dagnabit, woman! Sorry, Carpen. I didn’ want to tell yer about him, not that I mind yer sellin’ to somebody’s else or makin’ a profit, surely not. It’s jes’, well, there’s this gentleman....”

  “Ain’t no gentleman!”

  “....who’s been after me to buy them acres for some time. I ne’er did aim to sell to him. Didn’ take to him, if’n yer know what I mean. Seemed shifty, like som’tin else were behind it. Feel free to sell to ‘im if’n ya got a mind to though.”

  Mark seated himself at the table and thought. “Red, if you don’t like the man, then I probably wouldn’t either. Is there anybody else?”

  “Nope.” The farmer shook his head slowly.

  “Well, how about a trade then? Are you willing to trade me for my land?”

  “What yer got in mind?”

  “Would you give me a horse for it?”

  Red’s face lit up, his grin spreading from ear to ear.

  “How about some fresh made biscuits with strawberry jam to go with it,” Leah smiled.

  September 16th, 1890 – Lawrenceville, GA

  It was an experience Mark had never imagined would be a part of his life. Riding a horse down a dirt highway in the 1800's. It was surreal to see his hometown as it existed back then. Dirt roads ran this way and that, their pattern roughly mimicking the grid of his modern city, yet not quite the same. Men, women, and children — all wore dated clothing. Horses and buggies filled the streets rather than automobiles. Instead of car emissions, the town square smelled of dust and horse manure.

  The land Red had given him would have been very valuable, but there were a lot of complications to overcome in order to hold such a property for so long. To keep it, he’d have needed to find a reliable law firm or agency that could manage the property over the next century or so, pay the taxes, etc, and that would not have been easy. It would have to have been a law firm that would stick around for at least a century.

  Or would it? He could travel to any year he wanted. He could transfer the management of anything from one firm to another at any time during the coming hundred years.

  As with anything, the hard work was in the details. From the center of town, Mark steered his horse down what would one day be Georgia Highway 20 toward Loganville. After a few miles, he veered off the road into a field, guessing he was about where his subdivision would be in the future.

  What he was about to do was gutsy, to say the least, but it was the easiest solution.

  He shifted forward to June of 2010.

  He’d had an early morning job that entire month and Kelly had always gone to work after him. He didn’t want to try an earlier period, for many logistical reasons, and one emotional one. He didn’t want to see his kids alive. The thought of it nearly wrecked him inside.

  5:00 AM seemed like a good hour. He’d been off on the distance though. He showed up in somebody’s backyard and had to walk another 500 yards to get to his own house. He snuck around to the back of it and waited out of sight.

  At about 5:30, his old car pulled out of the driveway. Mark turned his head away. He still didn't want to see himself.

  Kelly would be getting into the shower about 6:00. As soon as he heard the water turn on, he went to the back door and rattled it. If you jiggled it just the right way, he knew the dead bolt would slip out of its slot. He should have fixed that back when Kelly had asked him to.

  Sneaking into your own house in the early hours of the morning seemed oddly criminal. He slipped into the family room, crossed it to the master bedroom, and then went to the closet. The water was still running in the shower. She’d be at least another ten minutes; she liked long showers.

  He would need a larger backpack in the near future, so he pulled one down from the closet shelf. He remembered he hadn’t been able to find this pack when he’d left this house for the last time a few months ago, but here it was now. It was much more spacious than the small thing he’d been dealing with for the past few months. He transferred all his stuff to it.

  Next, he stripped to his boxers and stuffed his antique clothing into the pack as well. He would need some modern jea
ns and a shirt.

  He returned to the bedroom. That water sounded really good. A steaming hot shower would do him wonders. His muscles almost ached at the thought. That bed looked awfully good too.

  Hurriedly, he pulled an outfit from his chest-of-drawers to throw it on, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  Steam poured from the bathroom as Kelly opened the door. He froze, stiff as a plank. She let out a startled yelp.

  “Mark! You scared me. I thought you’d already left for work.”

  “I....uh....I forgot something.”

  “Oh....what?”

  “Uh...I...uh, spilled some coffee in the car and got it all over my shirt. Had to come home to change.”

  “Oh...okay. Are you all right, honey?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He breathed easier. She believed it was him. Well, why shouldn’t she? It was him, just not the right him. This was weird.

  “Well, I’m going to finish getting ready.”

  “Okay, Sweetie.” How awkward to call your wife “sweetie” after she’d abandoned you. But this Kelly had not abandoned him yet. But she would. She closed the bathroom door behind her.

  He sniffed the new clothes deeply, enjoying the fresh scent of Tide on the recently laundered shirt. He put them on. Felt good, felt clean.

  He stole over to her dresser where she always left her wallet. This was why he’d had to come at this time of day. He’d never be able to get at his own wallet, because it would always be on his former self regardless of the time, except at night, and a night-time break in was not very appealing. He owned several guns. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate fulfillment of Murphy’s Law, getting shot by yourself for breaking into your own house.