by Zack Mason
“Given up on what?”
“You know what I mean. Given up on changing the past.”
“I’m in the past....I ...er....I mean...what are you talking about?”
The man sat at a table across from Mark’s. He was calm, sure of himself, and would not break his unnerving stare. He leaned back into his chair, the very image of a man relaxed, which was the complete opposite of Mark, who was bordering on a nervous breakdown.
“I’m talking about your children, Mark.”
Taken aback, Mark suddenly leaned forward and hissed, “Who are you?”
None of the other diner patrons noticed the conversation.
“Hardy Phillips, pleased to meet you”. He extended his hand.
Mark declined.
“Okay....Hardy, who are you and what do you want?”
The man merely grinned, tapping his wrist lightly, drawing Mark’s attention to it.
Mark gasped. This man wore an identical time travel watch to his own. At least, it looked just like his.
Mark sat back with his arms crossed and waited for an explanation.
The man’s grin only grew wider, which was irritating. He placed a scrap of paper on the table and slid it toward Mark. It was a sequence of numbers:
120000P06052012
Which was, of course, 12:00 noon, June 5, 2012.
“Meet me at that address, in your office. We’ll talk then.” Phillips stood and exited the diner. By the time Mark got outside, the stranger had disappeared. He’d probably shifted out.
He had a million questions to ask, and no one to answer them. Unless he kept this appointment that is. Not much choice in his book.
If you get there before I do, don't give up on me.
I'll meet you when my chores are through.
“Love, Me”
~ Collin Raye
12:00 PM, June 5th, 2012, Atlanta, GA
“Welcome. Have a seat.” Mark motioned for Phillips to take the chair in front of his desk.
“I wasn’t quite sure if I would be welcome,” his guest replied.
“Figure of speech. I’m not sure you are yet.”
There was that irritating grin again.
“Mr. Phillips, you approached me, from out of the blue, frankly, and you mentioned my children. I want to know exactly what you know about them, and I want to know now.”
“We’ll get to that. First things first.”
Mark glared.
“Mr. Carpen, we know a great deal about you....”
“Who’s we?” Mark demanded.
“At the moment, that’s not important. What I can tell you is that we know you have become aware of certain, shall we say, possibilities within the realm of physics of which most people are not.”
“You mean time travel.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“How do you feel about it?”
That was an odd question. He thought for a minute. “It’s pretty amazing. Hard to believe, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” Phillips stared at the desk. He picked up a pen and tapped it lightly on the walnut-stained wood. Silence.
“Mr. Carpen, I asked you a question before.”
“You mean when you asked if I had given up yet?”
“Yes. Have you?”
“Speak clearly.”
“Have you given up trying to save your children?”
“Of course not! I’ll never give up on that.” Mark felt a fury building within.
Phillips was nonplused. “Haven’t you noticed some....how should I put it....a bit of frustration in your efforts?”
The angry flames in Mark's heart momentarily soothed.
“Sure.”
“Yet you experienced no similar frustration while building your wealth.” He said it as if stating a well-known fact.
“How do you know all this?” Mark whispered harshly. “I had my frustrations building wealth too. Lots of little obstacles kept getting in my way. Just because the obstacles surrounding my kids have been bigger doesn't mean I can’t save them. I just have to try harder. How dare you tell me to give up?”
“I admire your perseverance and optimism. I’d feel the same if they were mine. Still.... haven’t you wondered if there might be something else at play here?”
Mark stared blankly.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you have to say and stop playing games?”
“I’m honestly not trying to play games, Mark, I simply want to know your opinion — if you’ve noticed anything strange or not.”
“Well, yes,” He breathed, “No matter what I seem to try, nothing works. It’s always the most innocuous little mishap too. It was just frustrating at first, but when my rifle jammed.....well, that just seemed too coincidental.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know! You tell me what it means.”
“As to meaning, I've no idea, Mr. Carpen, but in my experience, there are some events in time which cannot be altered. The space-time continuum, or whatever you want to call it, simply does not allow it.”
“That’s a bunch of crap.”
“Accepting or denying reality only affects the health of the one facing it, but reality cannot be changed by our belief about it.”
Mark responded by staring at Phillips even harder, as if he could pierce the man's thoughts with his glare.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe it’s possible to save your children. I know that hurts, I'm sorry, but I believe it’s the truth.”
“Get out!”
Phillips shrugged his shoulders and sighed.
“As you wish.”
Then, he disappeared. A static electric hum and the faint smell of something metallic burning hung in the air after he’d gone. So, that’s what it’s like to witness a time-shift.
Mark couldn’t believe the gall of the guy, presuming to tell him his business with respect to Daniel and Brittany. They were his. His precious, beautiful children. He took up the photo he had of them on his desk and caressed their cheeks with a finger.
It was a picture of them playing in the park. Kelly had taken it one day when they'd gone on a family picnic. Danny had been four then, Brittany two. Their skin glowed healthily in the sun’s rays. They looked so happy.
How could Phillips know if he would succeed or not? He couldn’t. He was just a nay-sayer, a negative thinker. The world was full of them.
Who was he anyway? It didn’t really matter. One way or the other, Mark was going to save his kids.
Friday, May 23rd, 2009 3:12 PM
This plan would work. It was the simplest of all his plans, so there would be no screw up.
Mark stationed himself on the shopping center’s sidewalk, right outside the door to the pizzeria. The moment Stephen Chadwick emerged from the restaurant, Mark would tackle him and slam him to the ground, and he wouldn’t stop beating Chadwick until he was sufficiently delayed or dead. He didn't care which. There'd be plenty of witnesses, but he didn't care. All he needed was a couple of seconds.
Nothing could interfere this time. There were no guns, nothing mechanical which could malfunction. It would go down too fast for a third party to get between them. He'd eliminated any chance for failure.
At long last, the door swung out. In his mind’s eye, everything began moving in slow motion. Chadwick stepped onto the sidewalk. Now was the moment.
Move, move!
Something was wrong with the message his brain was sending to his feet, because they wouldn’t budge. He felt paralyzed, as if he were fighting some incredible, invisible force which sapped all his strength. His arms were stuck too. Despite all effort, they hung limply at his sides.
He tried to scream in outrage and anguish, but when his mouth opened, nothing came out. His lips moved in desperate silence like a fish gasping for air. He continued to struggle with all his might, determined to overcome it, and he finally managed to shuffle his right foot a few inches forward, but that was all he could do. He was utter
ly helpless.
Chadwick was walking toward his car now. Frustrated tears rolled down Mark's cheeks, yet still he could not free himself from his invisible prison. The drunken teen got in his car, a horrifying moment he’d already relived far too many times.
Mark collapsed onto the concrete and curled into a fetal position.
“No! No! No!.” Anguish, rage, grief — it all boiled inside in a terrible emotional stew. “Nooooooo!”
He wept freely when he heard the screeching tires. That sound would rip through the farthest reaches of his mind forever. Then, the sharp clap of metal striking metal followed by a dull thud as his Camry hit the ditch.
Never again, he vowed. Never again will I come back here and hear those sounds.
He needed to sit up before he vomited. When he did, a piece of paper fluttered off of his shoulder.
You know a dream is like a river, ever changin' as it flows
And a dreamer's just a vessel that must follow where it goes
“River”
~ Garth Brooks
The slip of paper contained a simple two-line message. It could only have been left by the mysterious Hardy Phillips. He had shifted in and out while Mark had been incoherent with grief.
I am truly sorry for your loss.
013000A06072012 W. Monument
Hardy Phillips, whoever he might turn out to be, was somehow right. Mark had to admit it, despite the pain such a decision caused him. Something was wrong, something he did not understand. Some unseen force was preventing him from intervening in his own children’s death. Could it simply be what people called “fate”? It didn’t make sense.
Regardless, he had no intention of meeting Phillips anywhere, especially on his terms. For all he knew, Phillips was somehow controlling all of this. He could be the very one standing between Mark and his kids. He wanted nothing to do with the man, or anyone else for that matter. He felt the grief building again like a swell of water pressing against a weakened dam.
Mark returned to where he’d left off in 2012 and threw himself into what was now his life’s lonely work: building and amassing wealth.
His accounts now stood at a sum total of over $20 million. It was distributed into numerous bank accounts around the world. He created a couple of foundations to hide much of it, not so much from the IRS, but from the public. He made sure the accountants paid all his taxes every year, but he didn’t want it widely known how rich he actually was. That kind of attention was not needed.
He established a couple of dummy private corporations in the 1960's and through them purchased substantial numbers of shares in many businesses which he knew would skyrocket in value at some point in the next 40 years.
He bought more shares of Starbucks, Apple Computer and a few other well-known companies while they were still fledglings, but for the most part he stuck with high-performing but lesser known entities. Again, the reason was to maintain a low profile.
Another month of work and he had grown his assets to over $100 billion. Surely that was enough. What could a person possibly do with that much money? He calculated that if he spent $3 million dollars a day, it would take him 90 years to spend it all. Actually, he was earning $33 million dollars a day in interest, so if he wanted to deplete his money before he died, he’d have to spend over $50 million per day. Amazing. How far he’d come, and in such a short time.
Yet, there was no joy in it. The first $4 billion had been kind of fun, but now the work was just another routine. Use the time machine, make more money. For what? Who cared? He could buy anything there was to buy in this world. He could buy a hundred Caribbean islands if he wanted, but why would he?
There was only one thing he wanted. His kids. No amount of money would bring them back.
Life had become a drudgery. Not only had he lost any reason for joy, but nothing was a challenge any more. When life got too easy, it became boring. How ironic. You long for a life of ease your entire working life, but now he knew it was better for that fantasy to remain unrealized. Maybe it would be better if he had a family to share it with, but he didn’t. He was lonely. Without purpose.
One day, late in July, he found himself buying a ticket for Washington, DC.
What the heck. Why not?
The paper Phillips had left was instructions to meet at the Washington Monument on June 7th. Mark had been adamant just a few months ago about not meeting with Phillips, so what had changed?
Mark had changed, that’s what. He wanted answers now.
He planned to get them.
***
June 7th, 2012, 1:30 AM, Washington, DC
Blue moonlight washed the marble obelisk in a cold glow as it stood stoic guard over the sleeping city at its feet.
Phillips was there, of course.
This night, Mark would have his answers, one way or the other.
“Nice to see you, Mark.”
Phillips straightened and leaned forward, offering his hand. This time, Mark took it.
Mark silently appraised the man anew, taking time to study his face before speaking. He seemed trustworthy, but appearances were so often deceiving.
“Who are you?”
“You can call me Hardy.”
“No, I mean, who are you? Military, CIA, who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say much at this point. Just that I was sent to contact you.”
“Who sent you?”
Hardy shrugged.
“What do you want?”
“I have a job for you.”
“A job?” He was incredulous.
“Well, more like a mission.”
This was sounding more suspicious by the minute.
“Why me, of all people?”
Hardy pointed at the device on Mark’s wrist. “You’ve got a shifter.”
“You’ve got one too.”
He shrugged again.
“I didn’t come here to play games,” Mark said.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I know you’ve been through a lot. I also understand you don’t know me from Adam and are rightly somewhat suspicious.
“In the last two years, you’ve lost your kids and your wife. You lost all financial stability only to regain it miraculously through some weird device that could have jumped off the pages of a sci-fi novel, allowing you to skip from time to time at will. Yet, the same device that allows you to build fantastic amounts of wealth, cruelly cannot provide for the return of your children.
“I know all this and I sympathize. Still, all I can reveal to you at this point is that I represent a company named ChronoShift. The company wishes to hire you as an employee — as a “time jumper”, if you will.”
Mark interrupted, “Who owns this company?”
He held Mark’s gaze without wavering. “I am not authorized to reveal any further details regarding the company yet. For now, you will have to accept my proposal, or reject it, based solely on the description of the mission.”
“I won’t sign any kind of contract unless I know better who I’m dealing with.”
“We’re not asking you to.”
“What’s this mission you keep talking about?”
Phillips reached into his windbreaker and pulled out a newspaper article. Even in the dark, Mark could tell it was severely yellowed.
Boy, 12, Killed by Gang
Chicago, IL
Herbert Walker Jr., 12, of Chicago, was killed yesterday on the waterfront, the apparent victim of thieves. Witnesses on the scene informed the Tribune that pay had just been distributed earlier that evening at the factory where Walker worked. Walker and another boy had been on their way home when he was attacked by some thugs. His body had been searched and any monies had been removed by the time police arrived. As of this morning, police have no suspects and ask any citizen with information to contact the Chicago Police Department immediately. No surviving relatives are known.
The article was dated April 16, 1934.
“Who was this boy?”
“An unf
ortunate soul whose flame was snuffed out prematurely.”
“You want me to go back and try to save him?”
Hardy smiled. It was a friendly smile, and a hard one to resist.
“How do we know he wouldn’t be just like my kids? I mean, why would we be able to save him if I couldn’t save my own?”
“We have strong reason to believe it wouldn’t turn out that way.”
“I’ll think about it. How about that?”
Hardy smiled again and handed him the newspaper article. “When you get back, I’ll be in touch.”
Dang this Hardy Phillips and his smug assuredness.
April 12th, 1934, Chicago, IL
“Herbie, wait up!”
A skinny red-headed kid ran to catch up to the slightly older boy. Freckles dotted his face and neck heavily.
“Hey, Chuck. What gives? I thought you had to work the night shift.”
“Nah, skipped out.”
“Man, the old man’ll have your job and your neck for that.”
“Aww, he can shove it. I’m tired of that ol’ dirt bag anyhow. All he does is work ya to death for pennies.”
“Ya gotta eat.”
“Yeah, but I got enough fer today. That’ll do. I can get me a job somewhere’s else any time.”
“Don’ know 'bout that, jobs are scarcer than hen’s teeth right now.”
“Lay off, will ya, Herbie. Ya gonna hack my case all night or we gonna go eat.”
Herbie laughed. “Let’s go.”
Mark eavesdropped on their conversation from across the walkway. Herbie was Herbert Walker Jr., the boy who would be murdered in a few days. Earlier today, Mark had asked for and gotten a job at the same factory where Herbie worked. While Herbie and others his age would work for a mere 30 cents an hour, grown men normally earned closer to 50 to 55 cents. Mark, however, had walked in off the street and offered to work for only 25 cents an hour. These were tough times and men were desperate.