Shift (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  There it was. The Camry was coming. His heart leapt into his throat as he slowly pulled out into the lane in front of the vehicle bearing his children. He purposefully restrained his eyes from looking too closely at the other car. He did not want to see them yet. Not until he knew they were safe. Once they were safe, he would give them the biggest hug a father has ever given his children.

  He accelerated to the speed of normal traffic, and then, as the car drew close, he stepped heavily on the brakes, shortening the gap between them. The blue Camry switched lanes to avoid him, but Mark had anticipated this and changed too. Another few seconds, and he would be affecting the Camry’s speed.

  The Camry moved to switch back to the right hand lane without slowing down, and Mark tried to counter but his foot slipped off the gas at the crucial moment, costing him his lead and his chance to stay ahead of the other car. It passed by smoothly and continued on its way.

  He slammed his fist into the steering wheel, cursing as he watched the Camry turn right into oblivion.

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009 3:08 P.M.

  This time, Mark waited much earlier on the route he’d taken that fateful day, closer to the elementary school. He’d modified his plan. This time, he would pull out behind the Camry and, at the best possible moment, say at a red light or a stop sign, he would gently rear-end himself.

  Once he’d caused an accident, Mark would shift forward to the future, abandoning his current vehicle. His old self would be forced to stop and get out. That would ensure a significant delay, and even a few seconds difference would save them. He laughed, imagining the look he’d probably have on his face when he saw it was a driverless car that had rear-ended him.

  There the Camry was again. Mark deftly whipped his rental in behind it. It was just a matter of timing now. He stayed close on their tail, studying the situation, ready for any opportunity. If they just came to a stop somewhere, it would be so easy.

  Suddenly, flashing blue lights filled his rear window.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  It couldn’t be. Not here, not now. He was being pulled over. Could he ignore the officer and still put the plan into effect? He wasn’t sure.

  He could risk it, but instinct told Mark to try again in a different way. He decided to cut his losses.

  He pulled off onto the shoulder and waited obediently for the officer to approach. The ticket was for following too close.

  It's a long trip alone

  over sand and stone

  That lie along the road

  that we all must travel down

  “Long Trip Alone”

  ~ Dierks Bentley

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009 2:30 PM

  The pizzeria was one of those buffet places where $3.99 would buy you all the pizza you could want in one sitting. It was decorated nicely enough for a budget restaurant, but definitely left no doubt as to its level in the gourmet chain.

  The place was not very full, being well after the lunch hour, but there were several families with young kids enjoying a late afternoon meal together.

  From the depositions taken during his trial, Mark knew that Stephen Chadwick, the 17 year old who would kill his children in a little less than an hour, had spent this afternoon at this pizzeria before the accident.

  Mark’s plan was, once again, simple. He would do whatever it took to stop or delay the Chadwick boy. He would wait until it was time for Chadwick to leave, and then he would pick a fight with him. One way or the other, he would make sure the boy was delayed from leaving the premises.

  Bile rose in his throat as he watched from several tables away. When Chadwick entered the restaurant, he was already drunk. Mark endured the torment, seething as the brat stuffed his face full of greasy pizza. He was laughing it up with several of his friends, ignorant of the pain and travesty he was about to wreak. They’d snuck a couple of beers into the joint. Apparently, the boys hadn’t had enough yet. It would be a pleasure ripping Chadwick’s face off. That was something he’d longed to do for quite a while. A preemptive strike for justice.

  His blood pressure rose. His hands trembled slightly under the rush of adrenaline. This would work. He was finally going to save his kids, something he’d never even been able to do in his dreams.

  Mind humming, he narrowed his eyes, focused on his prey. It was time. The young Chadwick stood up to go, guffawing at something that had been said. To Mark, it looked like a disgusting, mocking sneer. Mark rose from his chair and made a beeline for his target.

  While Mark was still twenty feet away, another patron, who by all appearances was the very definition of the word redneck if there ever was one, stood to refill his Coke — right in Mark’s path. The collision was brief and not too jarring, but the man took offense and spouted off an insult. Mark's eyes remained locked on Chadwick. Nothing would distract him from his purpose. The redneck was still in the path, so Mark pushed him aside, but the guy unexpectedly went down in a heap.

  Mark bypassed his fallen form and pushed his way further toward Chadwick. Other patrons were noticing the commotion he’d caused with the redneck. Chadwick sensed something was going on and turned to face him. Mark leapt forward, snarling, striking for the boy’s face, ready to tear into him like an animal. In a drunken panic, Chadwick turned and tried to dodge. He was aided by one of his sober friends who anticipated the swing and pushed at Mark’s arm, deflecting the blow.

  Mark would have to fight all of them. So be it. As long as he could stop or delay Stephen Chadwick, nothing else mattered.

  He had just dropped into a fighting stance, ready for the enlarged battle, when something solid hit him hard in the base of the skull. Mark collapsed helplessly to the floor. It wasn’t a crippling blow — he’d be fine in a minute — but he was stunned, taken completely off guard. A second later, the redneck had rolled him over and began punching him repeatedly in the face. A mad melee ensued with some customers yelling and others trying to pull the two of them apart.

  Mark, however, was oblivious to the blows. He was watching his prey slip out the door, unimpeded.

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009, 2:47 PM

  He had a knife and he was through playing around. All Mark needed was one unobserved moment to slash a few of Chadwick’s tires. That would do the trick.

  Unfortunately, the vehicle parked right to the side of Chadwick’s pulled out right when Mark had been set to move, forcing him to wait. Another car then pulled into the space in front of Chadwick’s, and its driver sat for what seemed an eternity talking on a cell phone.

  At last, when a casual observer might have thought frustrated smoke was about to begin billowing from Mark’s ears, the man ended what had to be a needless conversation and finally left his vehicle.

  With no hesitation, Mark strode to the sports coupe. A very satisfying hiss accompanied Mark’s knife as it sank deep into the front tire. Twisting the blade, he gouged a wider hole to let the air out even faster. It was flat in no time.

  A commotion arose behind him from the pizzeria. Chadwick was coming out. Quickly, Mark stabbed a second tire and then ran to the other side of the parking lot where he could watch to see if he’d finally succeeded.

  Chadwick was so drunk he never noticed the flat tires. He got in the car and peeled out of his space. In no time, his tires would be ripped to shreds and he’d be riding on the rims. Unfortunately, the end of the parking lot would come long before then.

  Chadwick screamed onto the street Mark was working so hard to keep him off. Then came the assaulting screeching of tires, breaking glass, and a twisted Camry in the drainage ditch.

  The bitter vomit rushing up his esophagus weakly symbolized the gut-wrenching grief ripping through his soul at the sight. He hadn’t wanted to see it again. He had not wanted to see it again.

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009, 2:43 PM

  Mark called the police to report a drunk teenager who’d parked in a certain shopping center and was now eating at the pizzeria there.

  They responded, but not until
it was too late. Not until there was already an accident on the scene.

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009, 2:03 PM

  Mark reported the drunk driver again, but way ahead of schedule to compensate for their slow response time. This time they showed up too quickly. Chadwick hadn’t even arrived yet.

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009, 1:27 AM

  Mark stood outside Chadwick’s darkened home. Moonlight glinted off the teen’s silvery Toyota Celica in the driveway.

  Tonight, Mark brought his knife once more, but this time he'd also brought a Slim Jim to jimmy the door and a gallon of bleach. He approached the car.

  He would make sure the car was completely inoperable this time. He would slash all four tires. He’d pop the hood, remove the distributor cables, and take them with him. He’d cut the battery cables, and drain the radiator. To make doubly sure the car would stay immobile for quite a while, Mark would pour bleach into the oil to lock the motor.

  Many people thought adding sugar to a gas tank was the way to destroy an engine, but Mark knew that was an urban legend. Bleach in the oil was the way to go.

  While he was jimmying the driver side door to get the hood open, security lights suddenly blazed from the house. A shout went up, and there was no time to wait. Mark dropped his tools and took off down the street. He would have to find another opportunity.

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009, 1:47 PM

  It was an hour and a half before the accident. Mark strolled through his old neighborhood. His alter ego (former self) would soon leave to pick up Daniel and Brittany from school. For a short amount of time before then, the Camry would be parked in Mark’s driveway, unattended. If he couldn’t get to Chadwick’s car, maybe he could paralyze his own.

  As soon as he reached the front of his house, however, Mark muttered a curse under his breath. He’d miscalculated the timing. The front door was opening, which meant his old self was emerging to begin running errands. Mark whipped his face away to keep from being recognized, and walked on.

  Friday, May 23rd, 2009, 3:16 PM

  Mark was determined to end it. This time, he was perched on the roof of the shopping center with a high-powered sniper rifle.

  From the corner of his eye, he sensed movement around Chadwick’s vehicle below. He knew it had to be one of his former selves slashing the tires, but it still gave him the heebie-jeebies to even think about seeing himself outside a mirror, so he ignored the form.

  A minute later, Chadwick exited the pizzeria. Mark centered the drunken teen’s head in the crosshairs of his scope. This rifle was new to him, so he’d practiced for over a week at a local shooting range, fine-tuning his aim with it and the scope. A good sniper made sure he knew his weapon. It was now accurate to several miles, and Chadwick was only a hundred feet away.

  The rifle rested on a tripod to hold it stable as he took the shot. The wind was virtually non-existent. He would not miss.

  The revolting face bobbed in his sights, as if it were only a few feet away. He stayed his finger until the right moment. Slowly, then, he depressed the trigger, squeezing it gently without the slightest pull or jerk.

  Click.

  He pulled it again.

  Click.

  Jammed.

  By all rights, the peaceful summer afternoon should have been shattered by an explosive rifle round tearing toward its target. Instead, the birds nearby kept chirping their tunes happily, undisturbed. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder should be rewarding his nostrils, yet nothing but fresh air was to be had.

  He tried several more times, but something inside the rifle was seriously jammed, and his hurried, frustrated fingers could not release the mechanism in time. He watched with angst as the jock jumped into his car for the millionth time.

  Mark kicked the rifle with all his might and sent it skidding across the roof. He would not wait for the inevitable. Not again. He shifted forward to 2012 to escape the nightmare he was forcing himself to relive endlessly.

  May 23rd, 1959, Milledgeville, GA

  There was more than one way to skin a cat, and Mark wasn't about to give up. It was time to get serious. Very serious.

  It had taken a little research to find the right town, but he had done it. He now stood on a onion farm just outside of Milledgeville, GA in 1959, awaiting the right opportunity.

  And he soon had it. From his observation post, Mark watched his subject packing empty wooden crates in the back of his truck and realized he would soon be going into town for something. Mark drove his car up the highway several miles and parked on the shoulder with the engine idling. When the truck drew near, Mark whipped his vehicle sideways into the middle of the road, completely blocking both lanes of the highway.

  The truck’s brakes whined to a stop. Throwing his vehicle into park, Mark leapt out, decisively aiming his rifle at the driver. He also had a couple of .45's hidden in holsters under his shirt, and a Bowie knife — just in case. No jammed gun would stop him this time.

  The driver nervously stumbled from his pick-up, hands over his head, baffled by the unexpected threat. Mark ordered him to his knees in the dry road.

  This was young 17 year-old Robert Chadwick, running some innocent errand for his father. He would grow up to become the father of Stephen Chadwick, the boy who would kill Mark's children.

  Robert’s wide eyes were full of fear, darting back and forth in search of some explanation or escape. He was completely unsure of himself. Some maniac had just stopped him with a gun and he had no idea why. His lower lip quivered, his hands visibly trembling.

  Mark steeled himself. He would feel no remorse.

  As an adult, Robert Chadwick would arrange to have his son’s DUI records lost in order to protect him. In spite of knowing Stephen had been drunk, this man would file a lawsuit against Mark, further destroying Mark’s family. This was the man who would someday choose family and greed over justice and righteousness. If he died, if he no longer existed, he could never father his son, and Mark’s children would not die. It was that simple.

  Mark took aim, steadying his arm until it felt like an iron beam, his bead centered right on the young man’s forehead. Just a little pressure on the trigger and half the boy’s head would disappear. The seconds ticked by. He tightened his finger.

  He couldn’t do it.

  The hate and bitterness weren’t strong enough to erase the sense of basic decency which resided somewhere deep within. He squeezed his eyes shut hard in forced concentration and tried to overcome it. He needed to kill this boy. It was the only way.

  With all his might he tried to rip that decency out, roots and all. Vengeance was calling, and he wanted to give himself over to it.

  Mark cursed and dropped his weapon into the dust. The boy, seeing his respite, leapt back into his truck and tore off toward his farm like a panicked madman.

  Mark didn’t wait around. He’d failed again.

  May 22nd, 1959, Milledgeville, GA

  The diner was a regular grease spoon, but was an obvious hit with the locals. Most of the tables were filled with the weekday lunch crowd.

  Mark stared blankly at the order of scrambled eggs he was idly pushing around his plate. He’d just shifted back one day earlier to take a second try at Robert Chadwick, but now he was questioning that plan. He’d probably just freeze up again.

  He was very disquieted by the fact that he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. Surely, any loving father would be able to kill in order to protect his children. Wouldn’t he? It wasn’t exactly killing though, was it? More like murder. Was his morality streak really so strong that it wouldn’t let him kill a man, even if that man being alive meant his kids would die.

  The more he deliberated, the more he realized just how dangerous these time travel watches were. If Mark wanted to, he could jump from time to time killing just about anybody he chose, or stealing anything he wanted, and simply shift to another time to avoid getting caught. If these devices ever fell into the wrong hands....

  Mark reached down and grabbed for hi
s backpack protectively. He unzipped it far enough to see that both the extra watches were still safely in his possession. He’d have to be more careful with them.

  The truth was his frustration level was soaring. He’d tried just about every way he could imagine to save Daniel and Brittany. He did still have a few options. He could try to kill Robert again, or he could try to prevent Robert Chadwick from meeting his future wife, which would eliminate Stephen’s conception. He could try to get Chadwick Jr. flunked out of school before he became a football star, or sabotage the Governor’s campaign before he was elected. Why not just call a bomb threat into his children’s school earlier that fateful day?

  Did it matter? Everything he’d tried so far had failed. He could understand a glitch or two, but the obstacles he’d encountered were inexplicable. There was no reasonable way he could mess up so completely every time, unless he really was dumber than he thought, and he didn’t think that was the case.

  Maybe it was just impossible to change past events. Maybe there was some mysterious, cosmic force out there making sure nothing changed.

  No, that couldn’t be. He had definitely changed some things so far. Every time he went back in time to make an investment and returned to find his modern day bank balance higher, it proved he could change things. Plus, he'd saved Red Johnson from dying under that tree. He could clearly alter the past. So, what was going on?

  “Give up yet?”

  “Uh....what?” The voice shook Mark from his reverie.

  “I asked if you’d given up yet.” The speaker was a sandy-haired young man in his 30's, dressed in blue jeans and a short-sleeved button-down shirt typical of the 1950's. He looked very muscular and clean cut. Under any other circumstances, Mark would have sworn he was military.