Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Larson threw the bag of cash into the trunk of the Lexus, closed it, then leaned his butt against the car. He turned off the audio recorder and put the unit into his pocket, making a mental note to save the recording to a secondary backup device.

  “How the hell am I going to pull this off?” he asked himself as his mind began to swirl with panic. He ran his fingers through his thinning blond locks, finding the dollops of sweat thick and plentiful.

  He didn’t know the buyer’s name or who the man worked for and that was fine with him.

  Just do as they ask and pocket the rest of the cash. Then you’re done. With everything.

  It sounded simple in his head, but it wasn’t. He had no idea how to get the project’s charter revoked, much less do so in a few short hours. Kleezebee had too much clout with the Advisory Committee and wouldn’t allow it. He hated that arrogant man.

  Then the answer hit him.

  He didn’t have to stop the project. Just remove one of the pieces from the game board—Lucas Ramsay. If he did, the experiment would fail, or at least be delayed long enough for him to collect the money and disappear with his family.

  6

  Lucas slid his body off the table and gently set the foot of his injured leg on the ground. It was sore, but manageable. Certainly better than an hour ago. Masago’s needle ball remedy must have started to penetrate and work its magic. He might be able to resume his mission to restore the timeline soon. He leaned to the right, putting more of his body weight on the knee. Almost instantly, the pain became too intense. He backed off the leg, realizing he wasn’t going to walk normally for a while.

  He considered his options. Masago had been gone awhile after leaving the bunker to investigate the perimeter breach. The tense knot in his stomach told him something must have happened to her. If that were true, he was on his own, stuck in an underground mountain bunker in the middle of the Tucson desert. He looked around the room to see what items he might be able to use to help with his exodus. Then he remembered the pair of hunting bows.

  Masago had taken one of the two bows with her, leaving the other behind. If it were long enough and could support his hundred-sixty-pound frame, he might be able to use it. He hopped on one leg to the wall where the bow was leaning and grabbed it, tucking it under his arm like a crutch. He kept a firm grip while pressing down hard to test its support properties. It seemed to hold, though there was a fair amount of flexing along the bow’s shaft each time weight was applied. It needed reinforcement, but how?

  He found a roll of duct tape and a hacksaw under some loose clothes near the water canisters. They gave him an idea. He took a few of the arrows from her U-Haul box stash and unscrewed the razor-sharp tips, then cut off the flights from the ends. The next couple of minutes were spent cutting the carbon shafts into equal-length sections with the saw. He applied the pieces to both sides of the bow near its midpoint, forming a ninety-degree-angled crosspiece, and wrapped duct tape around the ends to hold them securely to the shaft. He tested it. It worked—the new cross section kept the bow from flexing too much and provided him with a hand hold to use.

  Now, somewhat mobile, it was time to outfit himself with a few more items. First, he took the robe off and slipped on the Smart Skin Suit. Then he found a two-quart water canteen with a shoulder strap and a child-size backpack. It was smaller than the canteen and wouldn’t hold much.

  Prioritize. Only the essentials.

  A handful of dusty energy bars with faded wrappers were sitting on a shelf, just begging to be eaten. Their expiration date hadn’t passed, but the aging treats were stiff and hard as a rock. A smarter man would’ve left them behind, but his fingers couldn’t resist. He was starving, and a gurgling stomach would always trump logic. He tossed the bars into the knapsack. If nothing else, they’d make an excellent hammer or paperweight.

  He couldn’t see a way to carry any of the #10 food cans, not without a much larger rucksack and a stronger back, so they remained untouched. Masago’s stack of two-ply toilet paper caught his eye, but he didn’t want to use up the remaining space for a single roll of creature comfort. His butt would have appreciated it, but not at the expense of more important items.

  A man must choose wisely, especially when it came to . . . before he could finish the thought, inspiration found him. He unclipped the canteen’s shoulder strap and squeezed its end through the center of a roll of toilet paper. A smile grew as he repeated the same process with two more rolls. He reattached its clip to the side of the canteen and slid his arm inside.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Three rolls ought to last a while.”

  He hobbled his way into the next compartment, where he found a few things he wasn’t expecting. A four-by-four-foot section of plywood had been attached to a wall with cement anchors. Deep gouges and slices covered the wood surface, forming an ellipse around an object at its center—a traditional dartboard. However, Masago wasn’t throwing steel-tipped darts at it. Instead, she was practicing with knives and throwing stars—several of which were stuck deep into the center of the dartboard.

  Lucas pried one of the knives and one star loose from the board. It took several wraps of toilet paper to protect their sharp points before they joined the other items inside the backpack.

  Next to the dartboard was a boxer’s heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. Beyond that, a long stack of dumbbells ranging from five pounds to fifty pounds. Nothing he could use. He continued his recon, discovering a pack of waterproof matches, two small candles, six bandages, a travel-size version of antiseptic spray, sunblock, and a metal compass—all of which he made room for in the pack. It was now full. Time to leave.

  He made his way through the rest of the bunker, section by section. First, it was the simply appointed kitchen and laundry area, then the sleeping quarters that featured stacks of bunk beds attached to three of the four walls. He found an equipment room surrounded by walls of glass. Inside were stacks of old computers with reel-to-reel tape drives and metal desks from the sixties.

  Masago did mention her dad was a scientist, but Lucas wasn’t sure if her old man built this place or acquired it from someone else—like the army. Either way, he was impressed by the size and scope of the underground facility.

  He limped down a connecting hallway that led to the library. Masago wasn’t exaggerating earlier when she said her father had stocked the book repository with hundreds of books covering everything from hunting and fishing to surgery and science. The nerd inside of him wanted to spend the next hour skimming through the impressive collection, but he needed to press on.

  The homemade crutch helped him through another doorway, this time, he found a smaller room. At first, he thought it was a chapel, complete with candles, an altar, and a kneeler positioned in front of it. But the person’s face featured on the wall above the altar wasn’t Jesus. It was Lucas’s face—hand-drawn, and a very good likeness of him.

  “What the hell?” he said, waddling a few steps to the shrine. There were dozens of sketches lying about its wooden surface. Some of the drawings showed his face with cheek scars while others didn’t, but all of them depicted him as a young man. He dug through a few more, moving them aside, until he found two color photographs hiding at the bottom of the pile.

  The first snapshot was that of a child sitting with two adults on a park bench. It was an oriental family, who Lucas assumed belonged to Masago. The young girl was around eight years old and looked just like her. He tossed the photo aside and studied the other one. Masago was a little older, sitting partially sideways in front of an easel with a thick, charcoal pencil in her hand. The drawing she was working on was a portrait of Lucas—detailed and complete.

  He held the photo up and compared the easel’s sketch to the artwork hanging on the wall. It was the same rendering.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, trying to make sense of the facts. She must’ve been sketching his face since she was a little girl, creating one after another—totally fixating on him. How
could this be? His mind whirled with possibilities.

  Was she clairvoyant, or just seeing things? Perhaps it was a family trait. Her old man was supposedly able to tap into the Akashic Field; maybe she could, too. They wouldn’t be the first people he’d met who touted the clairvoyant ability.

  He wasn’t sure what was going on and didn’t have time to dwell on it. He folded the photograph in half before cramming it into the backpack.

  Ten minutes later, he made it to the top of the escape ladder and climbed down into the first section of a mineshaft. The tunnel was pitch-black except for a limited amount of light behind him, leaking out from the bunker below. He took one of the candles from the pack and lit its wick with the matches he’d brought along. The flame flickered and grew in intensity, allowing him to see about fifteen feet, but little more.

  The walls of rock on either side of him were nondescript except for a pair of unlit exit signs hanging nearby. He couldn’t see much else, but at least he knew the way out. Eventually, he’d catch up to Masago. He figured she was basking in the sunshine, admiring her victory over the unsuspecting intruder.

  He forged ahead, leaning on the modified bow in one hand while carrying the candle in the other. The crutch carried him through the dirt and rock one painful yard at a time until he traversed the first corner. His hand was throbbing from bracing himself up, so he took a break to let it rest and catch his breath. It worked.

  “Where are you, girl?” he whispered, wondering if he should call out for her. If she was still tracking the intruder, shouting might compromise her position. He decided to keep quiet and continue the journey, watching the shades of darkness peel away with every step. The tunnel could run for miles, or end around the next corner. There was no way to be sure; not until after he fumbled his way through the rocky maze.

  After another seven steps, the darkness ahead revealed something near its leading edge—the bottom of a shoe. It was lying sideways in the dirt. He pressed the candle higher, sending more light down the passageway. The rest of the show came into view, plus an attacked ankle and leg.

  “Masago!” he yelled, realizing she was in trouble, probably hurt and unconscious. He raced ahead, pushing the crutch and his grip to their breaking points. Seconds later, he was standing over her.

  Her body was lying awkwardly on its side with her right arm tucked underneath. A blood-soaked piece of cloth was wrapped around her upper thigh like a tourniquet. But that wasn’t all; blood was dripping from her forehead and running down her cheek. He wasn’t sure if she’d been shot or beaten; possibly both. At least her chest was moving, so he knew she was still alive.

  He maneuvered around her body, expecting to find her hunting bow and quiver of bolts, but they weren’t with her. He sat down next to her with his injured leg outstretched to keep his swollen knee from bending.

  He removed the night vision goggles from her face, then rocked her shoulder gently. “Masago? It’s me, Lucas. Wake up.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Come on, girl. Talk to me,” he demanded in a swift, strong voice.

  Again, she didn’t answer.

  He put the candle down, then drizzled water from his canteen onto a handful of toilet paper sheets. He gently wiped her cheek and forehead with the makeshift swab, cleaning off the blood and dirt to reveal a horizontal, two-inch gash. It was oozing red from just above her eyebrow.

  “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”

  Above him was a jagged edge of rock protruding from the wall. It was red and glistening, with a shape matching the cut on her head.

  He turned her over, freeing her arm and exposing her injured leg. His hands tore at the cloth to release the pressure from her thigh. Blood began to ooze from the hole in her pants, increasing in volume as her heart pumped through the seconds. His fingers worked quickly, wedging the material open so he could see inside, but there was too much blood. He wiped the area with a fresh wad of wet toilet paper, revealing a quarter-inch hole in her leg. It was perfectly round, with no jagged edges—she’d been shot.

  “Shit!” he said, putting the wrap back on her leg. He pulled the ends together until it cinched tightly around the wound, slowing the blood flow to a pulsating trickle.

  She moaned in pain and opened her eyes.

  “There you are,” he said, smiling.

  Her eyes brightened when she focused on him. “What happened?”

  “Looks like you’ve been shot, and I’m pretty sure you passed out and hit your head on the way down. Who did this to you?”

  “Intruders. Outside,” she said in a weak voice.

  “Then I need to get you someplace safe in case they follow you here.”

  She shook her head. “I led them away, then doubled back once I was sure I’d lost them.”

  “After you were shot?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Not as bad as it looks? Are you kidding me? There’s a frickin’ hole in your leg, and it’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  “It’s not the first time. Trust me, I’ll live.”

  “We’re gonna have to figure out how to get you back inside so we can take the bullet out.”

  “Won’t be necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bullet went clean through. Just need to disinfect and suture it. There’s a med kit in the kitchen. Second drawer on the right. It has what you’ll need.”

  “You want me to stitch you up? Here? In the dirt?”

  She nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

  Lucas held out his hands. They were shaking. “I don’t think you want Mr. Shake-O-Potamus working on you with a knife. I know I wouldn’t.”

  “You’ll work through it. I trust you. Now, go. Please.”

  Lucas grimaced, then nodded, grabbing his crutch. He used it and the wall to stand up.

  “Leave me the candle,” she said, giving him the night vision goggles.

  He put the goggles on his head and took a quick look around. Every detail in the tunnel was now clear and visible, including the parade of exit signs covering the walls of tunnel. They looked to be installed every ten feet or so. “Your old man must have gotten one hell of a discount on signage.”

  “The kit?” she asked, reaching out and smacking him.

  “Sorry,” Lucas replied. He made his way to the ladder, scurried down, and hopped through the bunker. He found the medical kit right where she said it would be—in the second drawer on the right in the kitchen. He returned to Masago, who was now sitting up with her back against the wall.

  He spent the next ten minutes closing her wound, carefully following her instructions. Blood flowed and she winced each time he penetrated the folds of her skin and pulled the thread tight, making his stomach turn flip flops in the process. His hand tremors never stopped, but he managed to complete the last suture and tie it off without vomiting.

  “There, that ought to do it.”

  “Nice work, Shake-O-Potamus,” she said, laughing. She flexed her leg. “Are you sure this was your first time?”

  “Yep. I’m not a virgin anymore. At least I didn’t hurl chunks. Blood usually makes me queasy. Just ask my friends back home.”

  She smiled. “Maybe we need to change your nickname to Mr. Hurl-O-Potamus.”

  Lucas laughed, then pointed at the wound on her forehead. “What about that?”

  “A butterfly bandage should do. There’s one in the kit.”

  He found a split-angle bandage and applied it to her head. The wound closed enough to stop the bleeding. “You’re good to go. We should get moving.” He wrapped his fingers around her arm.

  Her grin faded into a scowl as she pulled away. “Get your hands off of me!”

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked.

  She pulled her knife out and pressed it against his throat. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me the truth.”

  7

  “What truth? What the hell are you talking about?” he said, trying not t
o move. He could feel the razor-sharp edge of the blade starting to penetrate the first few layer of skin on his neck.

  “The violent, sadistic men outside weren’t just any men. They all looked like you!”

  His mind went blank.

  Her eyes flared and her face turned beet-red. “No more lies, Lucas. Are you with them? Part of their gang? Tell me right now or I’ll bleed you.”

  “Wait! Wait! Wait! Let me explain.”

  “You now have five seconds . . . Four . . . Three . . .”

  He pushed the words out as fast as they’d go. “They look like me, but I’m not with them. They’re the bad guys not me. I’m here to save the planet.”

  “I told you, no more lies,” she said, pressing the knife harder against his throat. “The truth, now!”

  “I am telling you the truth. But you have to let me explain. Please, just put the knife down and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  He felt the knife’s pressure ease a bit. “What I’m about to tell you will sound a little crazy, but it’s absolutely the truth. I swear to God.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Just keep an open mind. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He paused to formulate the words. He needed to soften the blow; otherwise, too harsh a reality might send this chick over the cliff. But after running through a few choices, nothing sounded better than the truth.

  “Do I need to restart the countdown?” she said in a hurried voice.

  He decided to just let it fly. “I’m from the future, sent back in time to stop something terrible from happening.”

  “Really? That’s the story you wanna go with?”

  “You said you wanted the truth. Do you want me to explain, or not?”

  “Sure, go for it,” she said with attitude, keeping the knife against his skin. “This ought to be good.”

  “The first time I saw those men was when I arrived on top of the mountain. Yes, I know they look just like me, but they’re not clones or twins or even brothers. They actually are me, versions of me, pulled here from two hundred and eleven different universes by mistake. None of this was supposed to happen.”