Then silence.
The vibrations stopped too. The aftermath left him numb, similar to how he felt after shutting off a car engine following a long stint behind the wheel. He opened his eyes. He didn’t know what to expect—a hellish landscape of obliterated ruins, a megalopolis of towers and lights with flying cars screaming by, or the pearly gates and St. Peter shaking his head and sounding like Foghorn Leghorn stammering, “I say—I say—I say you’re early, boy.” What he saw instead surprised him, though it shouldn’t have.
He saw the milk crates.
They were still there. He likely would have died if they hadn’t been, although they looked odd now—warped the way his garage had looked just before things went white. He wondered if time was still bending and it took a moment to realize the plastic had just melted some. All the crates were fused, squeezed down, and listing to one side. They were also smoking. It smelled as if he were back in his high school shop class making polymer paperweights. Beyond the crates he could tell everything had changed. He wasn’t in his garage anymore. He was outside. A breeze brushed past, carrying away much of the smoke with it. He could hear the rustle of leaves, a soft soothing sound.
The trip was over. He’d done it, though exactly what it was, he had yet to determine. He popped the seatbelt and pushed on the milk crates, which all moved as one now that they’d been fused. He was forced to kick several times. When he crawled out, Ellis, who was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and a sweater, realized he was overdressed for the climate.
All of the woods Ellis had ever been in were young-growth patches, usually of birches or maples. In school he’d been taught that all the trees in Michigan had been clear-cut back in the nineteenth century—most forests had. Trees were a commodity farmed like corn and cows, and outside of some national parks, few Americans had ever seen old-growth forests. Once, his father had taken him camping up north near Grayling—that had been a forest—massive groves of eastern white pine, creating an endless series of trunks standing solemnly in a bed of ferns. Ellis had imagined that the trees went on forever and had been frightened he might get lost in that real-life version of Where the Wild Things Are. Still, the trees hadn’t been very big, and there had been a systematic spacing of their placement.
Stepping out of the milk crates, Ellis realized the piney woods of northern Michigan had been an overgrown vacant lot compared to where he now stood. He felt insect-small as all around trees of unfathomable height soared into the darkness of a leafy canopy, the same way skyscrapers faded into low clouds. Brooding on hunches of gnarled roots the size of Volkswagens, the goliath trees were spread out, the undergrowth sparse and stunted—mostly moss and ferns. He popped into the right spot. Twenty feet to his left and he would have literally been one with nature. The reentry algorithm was supposed to shift the final location to avoid preexisting objects, but then again the GPS in Ellis’s car once took him to a lake that it said was a gas station. Whether the calculation worked or he just got lucky, the result was appreciated.
The air was filled with a damp mist that a pale moonlight couldn’t penetrate but instead illuminated, providing a soft-hazed light. Velvet moss blanketed the ground, making pillows out of shattered logs and boulders. Vines drooped in lazy loops, leaves gathered in crevasses, and ivy climbed. In the distance, he heard squawks and peeps he didn’t recognize, cutting through the familiar chirps of crickets.
I’m Luke Skywalker crashed on Dagobah.
For a long moment, Ellis just stood still, staring out into the haze, breathing in the thick moisture. What happened? Did I screw up? Am I back in time? Are there dinosaurs? Everywhere he looked resembled one of those dioramas in a natural history museum that often showed a triceratops fending off a Tyrannosaurus rex. Hot and humid, too, like a rain forest, but that could also describe July in Detroit.
Have I moved? The synchronization calculations might have been off. Theoretically he could have been anywhere, even another planet, but doubted that on sheer odds. Since he wasn’t in the vast vacuum of space, he considered that part of the experiment a success. Any landing you can walk away from, as they say, is a good one.
If he was still where his garage had been, only one question remained: When was it? Hoffmann said it wasn’t possible to go back in time, so this had to be the future—but when? Can this really be Detroit in only two hundred years?
Ellis leaned back on the plastic crates that were still warm and thought of the old Zager and Evans song: In the year 9595, I’m kinda wonderin’ if man’s gonna be alive. Maybe something awful had happened; maybe he was alone, completely alone, the last human in existence.
The absurdity caused him to let out a stress-induced laugh.
Then he coughed.
He didn’t want to make noise in this alien place; he didn’t want to alert anything, but he couldn’t help himself and launched into a series of hacks.
Something moved. He heard it. A great crack and snap of branches—a thud and slap of the earth, then more cracks. Ellis sucked in a breath and held it. The sounds were moving away, growing fainter. One more distant snap, and then he waited for the length of several minutes but heard nothing more. An animal perhaps?
His throat ached from the coughing, and, tasting blood, he spat.
What am I going to do?
If it had been possible, Ellis would have gone back. This wasn’t what he had expected. The future was supposed to be more advanced. He was looking for flying cars and moving sidewalks, jet packs, and nonstops to Saturn’s moons. That had been his hope, but he also considered that he might touch down in some chaotic post-apocalyptic world complete with bloodthirsty Mohawked gangs of roving bikers. Not that such a thing would be better, just understandable.
“Relax,” he whispered. Saying it, hearing it spoken aloud, helped.
I don’t know anything yet. I can’t judge a whole planet based off one spot.
Ellis waited a few minutes, listening—just crickets and a few distant squawks. He’d have to travel. He wasn’t surprised. That’s why he’d brought the gear. He just imagined things differently. Ellis had expected to be walking along some superhighway and ducking flying cars—not hacking his way Indiana Jones-style through a primordial forest.
He moved to the back of the time machine and unhooked the cooler and his other gear. He’d brought two backpacks and opted for the smaller JanSport one, the kind kids took to school. He left his sleeping bag and tent as this was good enough for a base camp, for now. He planned to take only what was needed and travel light.
He put a small notepad in his breast pocket, along with a pen, and put the compass in his pants pocket. To the pack he added a handful of energy bars, two cans of Dinty Moore stew, matches, and the rain gear—still in the compressed plastic bag that he’d bought it in. He also included a few bags of peanut M&M’S, his water purifier, jacket, and first-aid kit. He considered flipping on the Geiger counter he’d purchased from Geigercounters.com to take a reading, but he didn’t think it was necessary given the abundant life around him. He left it, but added the sunscreen and aspirin. He slung a canteen over his head and slipped the hunting knife onto his belt, then he took out the gun.
This one was a pistol, which, he had discovered while shopping, was not another name for a revolver for reasons so obvious he felt stupid. This pistol was an M1911 that the balding guy behind the gun case had explained was a classic single-action, semiautomatic model that was originally designed by John Browning. He went on and on about the gun’s pedigree, its weight, ruggedness, and caliber. What sold Ellis was that it looked exactly like the ones he’d seen spies or military officers using in movies, the nickel-plated .45 that they would slap a clip into and fire more rounds than any handgun could possibly hold. He’d only shot it a few times at a practice range where they outfitted him with goggles and giant noise-canceling headphones. Turned out not to be nearly as scary as he thought—fun, really. He’d bought a belt holster that he slipped on and tucked the gun into, double-checking to make sur
e the safety was set right. He didn’t want to plug himself in the leg—not much chance of finding a cell for a 911 call.
He felt better the moment he had the gun on. He wasn’t a gnat anymore.
Pulling his sweater off and the backpack on, Ellis felt the weight center on his shoulders and didn’t think it was too bad, although that assessment might change after a few hours of walking. He had no idea where to go. He had his choice of up- or downhill. Going uphill might afford a better view, but given that he was in a forest at night, what could he really expect to see? Given his physical condition, which was definitely short of Olympic athlete, he guessed downhill was better. Flipping on his flashlight, he panned around, but it didn’t help much. With the mist, he could almost see better without it, and he also didn’t like the creepy slasher-movie vibe the solitary beam conjured. Before switching off the lamp to save the batteries, he took a compass reading, made a notation in his notepad regarding his direction, and then set off. Every ten or fifteen feet he stripped away a patch of bark, marking the way he had come.
At the bottom of the little valley, everything was pretty much as it had been higher up, only with fewer leaves and more moss. Then he noticed the sound of water. Water was good, he figured. Explorers always followed rivers. He checked and noted his new direction, then walked toward the sound, continuing to mark the trees as he went. Once he found the river, he walked downstream along its bank.
The stream entered into a clearing that provided a break in the vast canopy, granting him access to the sky and stars. Even with the mist, he could see a dazzling array of bright lights and the dust of the Milky Way. He’d never seen anything like it outside of a planetarium, and he stared in awe. As he watched, he caught sight of a falling star. Just a brief glimpse, but it made him smile.
I’m dying all alone on a dead world, but a shooting star amuses me.
The thought was liberating in an unexpected way. He had lived like George Bailey trapped in Bedford Falls, longing for adventure. And there he was, having gone where no man had gone before. It didn’t matter that it would all likely end too soon, probably from starvation, some parasite, or, failing all else, his illness. But none of that mattered. Despite everything, he felt good, better than he had in his entire life. He had accomplished something amazing—something wondrous.
He was still alive and completely and utterly free.
The light caught Ellis by surprise. It shouldn’t have. He had never known a day that didn’t have a dawn, and yet it still startled him. He almost had it in his head that he was on another world, a distant one with different rules, and he’d simply forgotten about the sun. When at last it crested the horizon, he stood staring, grinning. The trees were strange, the mossy land alien, but the sun was an old friend, and she looked no different from the last time they had met.
Ellis had reached a broad clearing, a downward-sloping hill where the river met another tributary and widened. He was finally out of the pages of the Brothers Grimm and, with the first golden rays of dawn, into a Winnie-the-Pooh watercolor. The mist that had plagued him retreated to pockets and with the sun conveyed a serenity to the pastoral landscape. Dew glittered on green grass speckled by golden flowers, while overhead a blue sky emerged and through it darted flights of birds, who sang until they drowned out the crickets.
Finding a log, Ellis sat to watch the show and, realizing he was famished, tore open a bag of peanut M&M’S. The hard-coated candy had always been an indulgence for him—his one extravagance during the lean days at M.I.T. while putting himself through college and stretching every dollar.
Down the slope he spotted three deer emerging from the fog that followed the river’s course. Not much later he saw a red fox trotting, and something else he hadn’t caught a good enough look at, which scurried among the heather along the forest eaves. Despite the birds, deer, and bumblebees, Ellis was impressed with the stillness. Inside the security of his own home, even late at night, there were always noises: trucks, horns, sirens. The quietest he had ever experienced the outdoors was in that forest near Grayling, a haunting lack of sound in the gray-shadowed world that pines, with their carpet of brown needles, could create. Still, he had always known he was never too far from a road. Some two-lane blacktop would always be there, offering the promise of a car to come. Yet as Ellis ate his M&M’S, he looked out over the gradual slope and realized he could see for miles, perhaps tens of miles. In all that open expanse, he saw no evidence of mankind. He appeared to have the planet to himself.
In a moment of arrogance that took place between the time he filled his mouth with water from his canteen and the time he swallowed, he considered how he’d won by default, how the entirety of the world was his. What Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, and a slew of Caesars had spent lifetimes trying to accomplish was his just by showing up.
“I’m king of the world, Ma,” he said. No one heard. A hollow victory.
The moment passed with the realization that he was instead just one more organism in competition to survive. He wished he were younger, wished he wasn’t dying and alone. Ellis had never faced a challenge like this. Few had, he imagined. Still he thought he might enjoy it—some of it.
Winter would be horrific trapped inside whatever shelter he might manage to build, shivering and eating nuts and bark like they had in Roanoke. Ellis felt better about bringing his flannel and sweater. But people back then knew how to survive. He wondered if he could build a cabin by himself, then realized it would take forever to chop down even one of those monster trees using the tiny steel-headed hatchet he’d brought. And he had no idea what day of the year it was. Summer, certainly—he was convinced of that—but was it June, July, or August? How long did he have? Best to try and find some natural shelter, like a cave or he’d have to resort to making a lean-to from branches to help protect his tent. He might be able to do that much. Then he’d have to set his mind toward food.
Plenty of animals were around, and he might be able to shoot some, but he only had so many bullets, and he’d need a longer-term solution. With a spear, he might be able to stab some fish. A net would be better, but somehow he had forgotten that. Could he make one? Ellis felt like a domesticated dog turned loose in the wild.
He continued to stare at the valley. Everything was so pretty—just lovely the way the hills sloped down, the river being joined by another stream that widened again and—
Ellis squinted. Something lost in the fog was standing out. Being square, it didn’t fit. Nature so rarely made sharp, regular angles. Looking closer, he saw other similar shapes peeking out of the mist—buildings. He was seeing the roofs of houses!
He was looking down on a small village. His heart sprinted; maybe he wasn’t alone. One more swig of water and he pulled his pack back on. His muscles were stiff. He felt a little light-headed and once more cursed his age and illness. He stood and took bearings. All he needed to do was follow the river and it would take him right near the buildings. He’d know he was close when he reached the confluence.
With a new purpose and his friend the sun smiling, he walked on, scaring a pair of rabbits that darted across the field. He was making good time that morning and was well down the slope when he realized he knew where he might be. If he really hadn’t moved, if he had merely shifted time, then he must be following the upper branch of the Rouge River. He was traveling south, and it had already joined with another river, which would have been the Middle Rouge. So that would put him in Dearborn somewhere. He bent down and looked at the river as the sun played through the ripples. He could see the sand-and-pebble bottom just as if he were looking through glass, and there were fish, lots of good-sized largemouth bass and walleye snapping their way along.
The sun was rising toward midday by the time Ellis got his second glimpse of the buildings. He guessed he was only a mile away and could see a brick wall over which the roofs of several houses rose. He had expected futuristic plastics, steel, and glass creating fantastic geodesic dwellings, and once more he
was disappointed. The buildings were old-fashioned two-story Colonial-styles. Not just old-fashioned, but genuinely old. They looked like the back lot of a period movie set in the nineteenth century. Climbing out of a gully, he spotted the clock tower rising above the trees that was a perfect replica of Philadelphia’s Independence Hall. Only Ellis wasn’t in Philadelphia, but he did know where he was—Dearborn, Michigan, and he was looking at the Henry Ford Museum.
He hadn’t been there since his sixth-grade class had visited on a field trip. They had toured the largest indoor-outdoor museum complex in the United States in a matter of hours. All he could remember was the Wright Brothers’ shop, a replica of Edison’s Menlo Park lab complex, and the fact that Anthony Dunlap had lost Ellis’s favorite Matchbox car and offered to replace it with one of the crappy new Hot Wheels. He also remembered a parking lot, and the roads to get there, none of which appeared to exist anymore. Ellis didn’t know the area well, but he was certain Michigan Avenue had come in there somewhere. A major six-lane divided freeway was gone without a scar, but the turn-of-the-nineteenth-century wooden buildings of Greenfield Village were still perfect. Something was out of whack, but Ellis was glad for it. If nothing else, he’d have a house to live his final days in.
The brick wall that circled the museum—that sealed off the attraction—was formidable, and Ellis walked around it, looking for a gate. He was hot but not sweating anymore. His feet were sore, his legs tired. His shoulders ached with the press of the pack, and he had a terrible headache. He wasn’t hungry, which surprised him. Most days he ate little, but most days he didn’t hike five miles. He also had a bad case of time-machine lag, and if no one was home, he hoped to find a nice house where he could put down his pack and perhaps take a nap. He was still circling the wall when, for the first time since he’d left Warren at the bar, he heard the sound of voices.
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