The Time Travel Chronicles

by Peralta, Samuel

  The man tugged at the hem of his blood-soaked shirt. “The…the future. You’re from the future?”

  Juniper nodded. Maybe if she could explain what was happening, how real the end of the world was, maybe it wouldn’t matter that the wormhole didn’t work. Maybe the knowledge itself would be enough to change the world.

  The man studied her for a long moment, his face framed by the bluish emerald of the wormhole. “Don’t go anywhere.” Then he turned. Just before he disappeared from view, something glinted in his hand.

  A knife.

  Juniper staggered back a step. Why was he carrying a weapon? Did he think the poor dying people coming through the wormholes were dangerous? Who else was with him on the beach?

  A darker, quieter voice slid through her mind like an oil spill. What if he’d lied?

  When the man returned, he wasn’t alone. Another man, bulky in a flannel shirt, his face shadowed by a baseball cap, stood beside him.

  Something in the stranger’s face had changed; his fear, the horror she’d seen so clearly, had been replaced by narrow-eyed calculation.

  “You say the Earth is dying, and there’s a way to stop it before it’s too late,” the first man said.

  She nodded. In every history book in the world, the downfall of the Earth had been spelled out. Every schoolchild knew what their ancestors had done. And what would have fixed it, if only they’d begun in time.

  “Then come on through, and prove it,” the man’s burly companion said.

  Juniper took another step back. “You said the wormhole was killing everyone who went through. I can’t—”

  “Not the nothing gate,” the man said, his voice gruff. “I’m killing everyone who comes through.”

  Bile rose in her throat. “Why would you do that?”

  Her stranger ran a hand through his hair. He was still holding the knife in his other hand. Surely he wasn’t innocent either. But his face didn’t hold the same conviction as his companion’s. “This morning, people started falling through the air from nothing. From nothing. What would you do?”

  “I wouldn’t kill them!” she shouted.

  “We thought you were aliens. An invading army. You dropped from nowhere, screaming, and then started demanding things… The first to come wanted to speak to our leaders. Ordered us about. Threatened us.” The burly man tipped his head up to meet her eyes. His surety didn’t waver.

  This is why the Earth is dying.

  Juniper felt tears build behind her eyes. So many secrets. No one willing to tell the truth. No one willing to listen. She couldn’t keep the groan of disgust from her lips.

  “This is your chance to educate us,” her stranger said. “Your one chance. You tell us – you show us – what’s really going on, and we’ll spare your people.”

  “I have to get my father—” she started.

  “You come now, or never,” the hulking one said. He had blood on him too, blending in with the red squares of plaid flannel. “We can’t have you warning anyone. Think what you want, but we have no desire for a war. We’ll protect our own, no matter what.”

  Juniper looked down the beach, knowing her father was at work, praying he’d walk toward her anyway. She had to warn him. If these men were lying and the wormhole killed people, she had to stop the exodus. And if they were lying about letting her live…about listening to her…

  “I could walk away, leave you here on this beach. Ten days could pass, a month, and you’d still be standing there dealing with the people falling through the sky,” she said, trying to harden her voice. “You’re wearing the same clothes you were when I saw you yesterday. This wormhole goes to the same day in the past, no matter what day it is here in the future.”

  The man in the black t-shirt with the skull and crossbones cocked his head. “I don’t remember talking to you. If I can’t remember you, I can’t make you this offer again. I’m as likely to kill you next time around.”

  You’re as likely to kill me now.

  Juniper heard grunts and screams in the distance. There were others on the beach. And they weren’t talking to the people coming through the nothing gates. It was all happening so fast. How could she choose to leave her father, her home, forever?

  How could she choose to let all those people die?

  Why did you threaten them? Why didn’t you just tell them the truth?

  Would these men listen to her? There was no guarantee.

  And no promise that her father would survive. That she would survive.

  That the world would survive.

  Juniper brought her hands to her face, swiping at the tears that dampened her cheeks. The faint, soft memory of lavender surrounded her.

  Maybe her father would follow her.

  Maybe she could change the world, so he wouldn’t have to.

  She anchored her gaze to the man with the dark, scruffy hair. He’d tried to warn her; he hadn’t wanted her to die.

  Lifting her chin, Juniper stepped forward and left her future behind.

  A Word from Tracy Banghart

  “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” – Flannery O’Connor

  This story was born out of two things: the image of a girl on an empty beach that smells of rotting bodies, and the knowledge that it was for a time travel anthology. Beyond that, well, honestly I had no idea where it was going.

  To my surprise, that unknowing proved to be a lot of fun. I recently finished a three-book series, where I’ve known for nearly five years exactly where the story would end. Opening a blank document to begin “The Nothing Gate” gave me the freedom to start with nothing for the first time in years…to create a character and a world that I’d never explored before.

  Interestingly, I found my current worries coming to bear on the story. Fears about climate change, humans killing the planet…the fact that some scientists believe we’ve already gone too far to save the Earth from its inevitable destruction—these fears dictated the world that emerged with each sentence. The idea that our planet’s only hope is to go back in time and do it better felt like a real solution in the way science fiction offers solutions…by creating a scenario that—while fantastic—feels more possible than the reality of our governments and corporations actually fixing the problems they’ve created.

  What I didn’t account for was how much story I would find at the end of this wormhole (ha! Get it?). So I must apologize, dear readers, for leaving you where I do. Rest assured, this isn’t the end of Juniper’s story. I’m as anxious as you are to find out what happens next.

  In the meantime, you can find me at www.tracybanghart.com, and if you’d like updates on new releases, giveaways, and such, sign up for my newsletter: http://eepurl.com/ETAwz. Thank you for reading!

  Meddler

  by Ernie Luis

  1

  YOU NEVER GROW UP thinking you’ll become a drug dealer.

  I remember having aspirations. Dreams, even. The capacity for passion. Love. But time has a way of slowly sapping such things away.

  Time.

  Time is the ultimate drug. We get high on the prospects of the future. And then the past comes and sobers us back up. Such is the cycle of our addiction.

  “Miller?” Jeff asks, breaking my daze.

  “Sorry,” I say. “How many ounces do you need?”

  Jeff stands in front of my desk in a heap of sweat, a dirty tank top covering his gaunt frame. His eyes are a glowing bloodshot red and his fingers slowly scratch the bottom of his eyelids, his nails cut short to prevent himself from scratching too deeply.

  “Eight,” he finally answers.

  “Eight?” I ask. “Let me see the money.”

  Jeff fidgets. He looks around the room. “Let me see the Drops first.”

  I give Jeff a frown. “C’mon, man. You know how this works. I got to see the money first.”

  Jeff twitches. Closes his eyes. Holds back tears.

  “Okay,” he says. “I don’t have the money on me r
ight now, but if you front me, I can pay double−”

  I raise my hand. “Sorry, Jeff. Can’t front you. Come back when you’ve got the money.”

  His face burns red. He scrambles around the desk. Drops to his knees. “No, no, please, Miller,” he begs, his hands clasped together as if he’s praying to me. “Please, please, just an ounce or two. I swear I’ll come back when I’ve got the money, I’m good for it!”

  I shake my head and wave him off. “Go home, Jeff. The Drops will be here when you have the money.”

  He squeezes his head in his hands. Pulls at his hair. “Miller,” he sobs. He gets up to his feet. His hands shake as he reaches behind his back.

  “Jeff, whoa,” I say, reaching out and backing up.

  Jeff whips a switchblade out to his side, a desperate panic on his face. He slowly inches it forward, pointing the blade at me.

  “I don’t want to do this, Miller,” he says, a blood-red tear streaking down his cheek. “Just give me the damn Drops.”

  “Terry!” I call, my arms out at my sides.

  Terry bursts through the door. He draws his handgun.

  “Jeff,” Terry says, inching closer to us. “Put the knife down. Don’t do something you’re going to regret.”

  I consider giving Jeff some from my own stash. I reach inside my back pocket and pull out my bottle. There’s only about half an ounce left. Jeff spots the bottle and goes completely calm.

  The look in his eye makes me stop. I start to wonder. Half an ounce won’t do a damn thing for him. He’ll pinch off these few drops and go right back to begging in a few hours. This could last me until my refill tomorrow. Sorry, Jeff. Bring your money next time.

  I put the bottle back in my pocket. Jeff cries hysterically. Drool slides down his mouth, snot coming from his nose. His shoulders sag in defeat. And then he drops the knife.

  Terry walks over and pistol whips him across the face. Jeff falls to the floor, out cold.

  Terry holsters his handgun. “Damn junkies,” he says.

  I breathe easier and sigh with relief. “Get him out of here, Terry. I’ll start locking up.”

  Terry grabs Jeff by the arms and drags him out of the room. I sit back down at my desk, the adrenaline slowly wearing off.

  I boot up my laptop and search for an old report I got on Jeff when he first started coming in. A report from the future. We call it an insight document. And it tells us everything we need to know about the future of our clients.

  I find the document and confirm my suspicions. Jeff’s death is near. In three days, he will mug another one of our clients, steal their stash, and overdose in an alley not far from here. The other client will have an extended stay at the hospital from multiple stab wounds.

  And the worst part?

  I can’t do a damn thing about it.

  Don’t meddle in the affairs of your clients, my employers say. Don’t get involved. Don’t mess with the timeline. Keep the course towards the future. This reason. That reason. Excuses and excuses. Bullshit upon bullshit. I know how all my clients will die. They’re all just walking ghosts from the future. My eyes always burn just thinking about it.

  I shake my head, shake away these thoughts, shake away my care. I just need to focus on me. Focus on the money.

  Terry walks back in. “You ready to head out?”

  “Yeah,” I say, closing the laptop and locking the drawers of the desk. I grab my jacket and walk to the door. “When’s our first deal tomorrow?”

  “Noon.”

  I nod my head. We walk out the door and I turn and lock the padlock. “Send me a text to remind me, would ya? I might pinch off a few Drops in the morning.”

  Terry pats me on the back. “You got it.”

  The drive home is all a blur. My next moment of awareness is in my boxers, my hair damp from a shower, lying down in bed. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Try to fall asleep quickly. Before those thoughts creep up in my head. The voice that keeps me up.

  You have to stop Jeff, that voice tells me. You need to stop letting all these people die.

  I sit up and curse into my pillow. Why can’t I just fall asleep?

  I grab my bottle on the nightstand. I twist the cap and pinch the rubber end of the dropper, pulling in just a little bit of the liquid drug inside. I hover the dropper over my eye and pinch the rubber end again. The drugged eye drop falls and stings for just a few blissful seconds. I do it again over my other eye. And then everything calms. I sigh, exhaling all the stress away. I lie back down.

  The voice is gone. The crickets outside sing in my ear. My bed is a cool cloud. I smile a wide grin. And I finally drift off to sleep.

  2

  There’s a man standing at my doorway.

  “Hey, kiddo,” I hear his voice in my head.

  “Hi, Dad,” I whisper, as if he’s really there.

  “Go get your glove. We’ll play catch in a few.”

  His voice echoes through my room, like the fading memory that he is. I see his shadow walk through my door. I see his sharp, prickly beard, his crooked teeth, the shine of beer on his lips. I reach my hand out for him, reach out as if he’s really there. And then I bring it back once I realize he’s not.

  I always have to remind myself that they’re just hallucinations. Visions from my memory, tapped into by the Drops. It always seems so real. And so I remind myself that I am visiting the past only as a viewer, and not as a participant.

  “Let’s go, Dad!” A little boy runs through the wall of my apartment, vanishing into thin air. It’s me, thirteen years ago. My father chases after him and disappears as well.

  I close my eyes and sag back into the mattress. I brush my arms up against the sheets, can feel every stitch of the fabric, every little indent and crease of my bed. I’m peaking. And I know my high will wear off soon.

  I sit up and focus on the memory. I think back to the days when my father played catch with me, try to remember every detail as best as I can. I remember the wind and the leaves, the sun in my eye and the heat in the air. And then I start to feel these things. I feel the wind blowing in my curly hair, hear the leaves rustling in my ears. I shield my eyes against the sun and feel the heat on my skin. And then I look down, see the memory play out before me, right here in my bedroom.

  I hallucinate my father softly tossing a baseball to my younger self, teaching me to squeeze tight on the glove when the ball smacks up against it. I see him teaching me the repetitiveness of throwing, going through the motion, patiently correcting my mistakes. I see him being a great father to me. I let myself see there was a time when he was once so.

  This is the way I want to remember my father. This is the reason for my addiction to Drops. So I can forget the man who burdened me with an enormous debt. The man who died a drunk, an addict, a gambler. The man who died a criminal, working for a syndicate from the future. I don’t want to remember that man. I want to remember the happy, hard-working man who played catch with me. Who lectured me when I was wrong. Who respected me when I was right. I want to remember the man I once aspired to be. This is why I use.

  My phone vibrates on my nightstand.

  Message from Terry:

  One client today. Noon.

  I put the phone back down. I doze off, and the clock rolls around another hour before I realize how much time has passed. The drugs wear off. My high has long passed. The past fades and the present returns. I sit up and listen closely for any remaining whispers from the past, any lingering echoes from my trip. But there’s nothing. The past departs as it always does. Quietly. Swiftly. Until it’s nothing but memory.

  I reach for my drops on the nightstand. A pharmaceutical bottle sits next to my lamp, its amber glow shining in the light. The glass dropper lies beside it, a few remnants of the liquid drug still inside from my morning’s high. Drops, as they call it in the future. Hallucinogenic eye drops. Poison for the eyes. Ecstasy for the soul.

  I shake the amber bottle and hear no liquid inside. Empty. I’ll have to make
a Drops run today.

  I rub my eyes as they burn, rub them harder when they keep itching. I tell myself it’s not from tears, but from the drugs. But I know I may be wrong.

  I roll out of bed and scavenge through a clean load of unfolded clothes in my hamper. I pick out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and make sure to put my bottle and phone in the pockets. I walk over to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I look up in the mirror and lean in closer as I see redness covering my eyes where there should be white. I pull on the skin around them, see how far the redness goes, and then splash more water. I squirt some eye drops into them, the clean kind, then head out for the day.

  3

  “You all right, man?” Terry lets me through the door. We walk into a square room with metal shelves holding large boxes lining the walls and a single desk sitting in the middle.

  I switch the lights on and walk towards my desk. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” He waves his finger over his eyes. “You just look a little rough.”

  “Nah, I’m fine, man.” I set my bottle down and slide a heavy box from the wall over towards the desk.

  “You finished your Drops already?” he asks, looking at the bottle.

  “Yeah,” I say, pushing the box up against the back of the desk. “Gonna go refill when I warp later. Want me to fill you up too?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. You should probably slow down though, man. You’ve been burning through those like crazy lately.”

  I sit down in my chair. “Yeah, I know, just haven’t been sleeping much of late. I’ll take it easy.”

  He comes over and pats me on the back. “Don’t go losing an eye like some junkie.” He walks back to the door. “I’m gonna send in the client in a few.”

  “All right.” I boot up my laptop.

  “And hey,” he says, standing at the door. “Don’t take any from the stash!” He shuts the door behind him.