The 9/11 Machine

by Greg Enslen

  But the thing that struck Ellis most about the Warhol book was a quote from the man, “They always say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.”

  That quote could have been the story of Ellis’ life. He had felt chills when he’d read that, and a second quote from Warhol, “Sometimes the little times you don’t think are anything while they’re happening turn out to be what marks a whole period of your life.” After reading that, he’d gotten Sarah’s note out again and stared at it for a long time. Ellis was determined to hold onto the memory of that morning until his last breath.

  Ellis closed the Warhol book and stood, going to the large window that looked out onto the river.

  His new boat was almost ready to go.

  His leg was throbbing from moving too many boxes and carrying too much stuff out to the truck. He knew to rest it between trips, but he just wanted to get this part done and be on to the next.

  Dr. Donald Ellis shook his head and went back to work, carrying boxes. He worked steadily, focused and driven. He was covered with sweat as he loaded the truck with gear, a bulky helmet, and his black duffel bag, the one that had already seen two other universes. Tonight, it was packed with everything he could carry, in preparation for this clandestine river trip.

  Dr. Ellis had escaped death by not being at the new warehouse in Buchanan, but the other Dr. Ellis and Terry and all the other technicians had perished. The machine was nearly complete—if he was going to escape this timeline, he needed to get to the machine and set things right.

  After loading the truck, he sat down to rest his leg and watched a little of the late news. It wasn’t good—more news from the Exclusion Zones and riots in the tent cities in New Jersey. He scanned the crowds shown on the TV, looking for Sarah and Tina, but didn’t see anyone he knew. Almost everyone he knew in this timeline was dead.

  He hadn’t spoken to President Gore since the July 4th attacks. There wasn’t really much to say. Obviously, al Qaeda had three more teams in the country and had used them to target nuclear power plants. Reduced security at the airports had made it possible—but if he were to speak to Gore about it, the conversation would quickly have devolved into a shouting match about which one of them was more to blame.

  Ellis didn’t need that kind of aggravation, and besides, the president was busy.

  He flipped off the TV and had a quick meal—it was nearly 2:00 a.m., and he was just killing time, waiting to leave. He had more coffee and read through the Warhol and other art books again while he ate—the woman that owned this cabin clearly was interested in art. The walls were crammed with dozens of paintings and framed art of varying levels of quality.

  Finishing up, Don left the cabin and locked it behind him—he wouldn’t be coming back—and drove his new red truck down to the harbor.

  The town of Piermont, near the Border Zone, was almost completely abandoned, but Ellis had kept everything above board, paying rent, buying the new truck, and renting the boat from one of the remaining townspeople. Tonight, he parked at the harbor and worked alone, steadily loading the last of the boxes and machine parts onto the small boat.

  It was late August, approaching his birthday, but he wasn’t thinking about cake or presents.

  In the seven weeks since the attack, the military had shut down all traffic into and out of the Exclusion Zone. Armed guards blocked all the roads and checkpoints into the Border Zones as well. Cleanup efforts were underway for the towns in the Border Zone that could be salvaged, but the decontamination work was time consuming and labor intensive. Helicopters and aircraft were constantly overhead, dropping loads of sodium chloride on “hotspots,” radioactive patches of fallout, attempting to soak up as much as possible and sequester the dangerous, ash-like material before it could wash into rivers or seep into the groundwater.

  After the Indian River attack, Ellis had exited the highway and immediately driven back to the warehouse in Brooklyn, stopping only to visit several pharmacies to purchase bulk amounts of potassium iodide—he knew, once the fallout rumors began, there would be a run on the tablets, which blocked radiation poisoning. He’d unlocked the warehouse doors and pulled the van inside, then sat in the parked van for a half hour, his hands shaking. If only he had left the machine here, everything would be fine. Instead, the only hope for fixing the timeline was now at the center of a military-sponsored quarantine zone. And it had been dosed with lethal levels of radiation.

  Ellis had spent weeks trying to figure out the best way to get the missing machine parts up to the new warehouse, where the time machine had been nearly completely reassembled. If they had completed the machine, he could have remotely triggered the machine and been teleported to the warehouse.

  After that, he would’ve needed only a moment or two to reset the machine and exit this timeline, one that had started out with such promise but had, somehow, spiraled into hell.

  Ellis knew that the entire Indian Point and Buchanan area had been heavily irradiated—even a few minutes’ exposure to the central detonation area would be deadly. He’d been pondering the levels of contamination and decided that if he could keep his exposure to a minimum, it might still be possible.

  Doing a little research, he’d learned that boat traffic was being blocked near the Tappan Zee Bridge, but it might be possible to skirt the line and make his way upriver. Since he’d learned that, he’d spent the last two weeks recovering the machine parts and transporting them and himself to Piermont, New Jersey, a city on the Hudson, south of the Tappan Zee and about forty miles south of Indian Point. He’d rented a house and a boat—neither the home or boat owners were around, and he worked through a local agent—and began preparing for his upriver cruise.

  He would only have one shot at this, so he needed to make it count.

  Ellis had brought guns from the old warehouse, and food, just in case. He couldn’t imagine getting stuck at the new warehouse for long—his exposure levels would be lethal within hours, at most, even with the medical precautions he was taking.

  He was dosing himself with potassium iodide—the iodide blocked radiation poisoning by filling the thyroid with iodide, keeping it from absorbing radioactive iodide from the environment. He was taking the recommended dosage, which was 130 mg every 24 hours, and had been for a week or so—he knew that potassium iodide didn’t build up in the system or offer any additional protection, but it just seemed like a good idea. He also had enough supplies to dose him for two months.

  And there was other protection. An underground economy had sprung up near the Border Zones that dealt in radiation medications and protective outerwear. He’d bought two specially-made outfits that looked, to the untrained eye, like oddly-constructed suits of armor.

  Lead was particularly good at shielding the body against radiation—in fact, a sheet only .4 inches thick cut radiation exposure in half. Local craftspeople had begun venturing into the Border Zones wearing outfits made of durable, stretchy fabric lined by plates of lead across the chest, legs, arms, and back. The leaded suits, or “metal suits,” as they were being called, were topped by a metallic helmet, made of thicker lead, and included heavy-duty gloves and boots.

  Beneath the suit, he’d worn thick jeans and three shirts. It worked, and he could move in it, but he wondered how much he could realistically do in so many uncomfortable layers. And the outfit made him feel like Iron Man—he’d walked around with that characteristic “clunkiness” from the movie which, for everyone else, wouldn’t be out for another six years.

  Finally, early on the morning of August 26, he was ready. The boat was loaded, and he had as much protection as he could gather.

  3.37

  Tappan Zee Bridge

  There were few lights on in Piermont’s T&R Marina. It was nearly 3:00 a.m., when Ellis started the boat engines and eased quietly from the pier. He hoped to be to the warehouse by sunrise, in three hours, but there was no telling what he might run into.

  Piermont was a nice little town—eve
n as an outsider, he’d been welcomed. His money hadn’t hurt and getting a boat had been no trouble—it wasn’t huge, but it would do. It had come with a nice slip near the pier in the marina.

  Over the past few days and nights, he’d taken the boat out for little excursions, finding out where the military patrolled. The river patrols and Naval and Coast Guard cutters that blocked upriver access were based out of a marina just upriver from the Tappan Zee Bridge in Tarrytown, New York. In fact, Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow served as the primary military checkpoints for all points north on the Hudson, and anyone heading into the Border or Exclusion Zones had to pass through there.

  Ellis moved up the river, hugging the western shore. He had a radar sounder and was moving as slow as the boat would go and as close to the shore as possible. Last night, he’d disconnected all the external lights, so now the only light on the entire boat was the eerie red glow of the map light.

  There were dozens of short docks and boat slips that jutted out into the water, so whenever a patrol boat would pass, he’d pull over and stop next to one of them. To the unpracticed eye, his boat appeared to belong—it wasn’t moving, it showed no lights, and it was next to a dock. It was, for all rights, invisible.

  He was also checking the detailed Google map on his trusty iPad, scrolling the map as he traveled very slowly upriver. It was his last iPad from the original timeline, and he’d taken special care of it. He hoped the radiation wouldn’t affect it—most electronics were susceptible to elevated radiation levels.

  Almost an hour later, he had reached the Tappan Zee Bridge. This was taking a lot longer than he’d planned. Near the New York side, the bridge was a traditional suspension bridge, hundreds of feet above the water, but on his side, near the Jersey shore, the “bridge” was more of a causeway, suspended twenty feet above the river by small caissons with wooden piles. His boat couldn’t negotiate under the low causeway, so he was forced to turn east out into deeper and deeper water, following the bridge until he could turn and ease under the roadway.

  There was a close call as a Coast Guard cutter, motoring quickly up the river toward the bridge, looked like it was heading directly at him, but it turned and passed under the tallest part of the Tappan Zee. After about ten minutes, the pilings under the causeway opened up, and Ellis scooted through, turning immediately west and skirting the bridge again until he reached the shoreline.

  The next two hours of the trip were uneventful—he drove the boat so slowly that, at times, it appeared to be sitting still in the dark water. He passed a collection of four large buildings as he left the Tappan Zee Bridge behind, and an ornate house topped with Spanish tile. He continued north, watching across the Hudson at Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow—they were lit up with skylights. He could see larger boats in the harbor and Humvees and light tanks and school buses surrounded by troops and tents. High above the harbor stood a newly erected guard tower.

  North, along the Jersey side, he passed Nyack, taking care to skirt the marina, and North Nyack and Hook Mountain, where the river turned sharply to the west. The faint smudge of sunrise brightened the sky to his east, and he knew he had to hurry—his boat would be much more obvious on the water in daylight. After another five miles upriver, he passed Haverstraw, then Stony Point and the deep quarry at Tomkins Cove.

  His Geiger counter had started ticking at Haverstraw.

  Ellis tried to ignore it, but he tied up the boat long enough to change into his Iron Man getup. After stripping down, he slapped a radiation badge on his bare chest and pulled on jeans, two shirts, and a thick sweater.

  Next, he dressed in the metal suit—he felt like a kid trapped inside a science fiction robot, but it would save his life, he hoped. Or at least prolong it long enough. He carefully went over each seal with his bare hands, checking to make sure all of the metal pieces overlapped correctly, and then he tugged on the thick gloves and stepped into the lead boots. He felt like an idiot, and in the metal helmet he couldn’t see much, but it was better than dying.

  Over everything, he put on an oversized military-grade radiation suit and the oversized mask, which further blocked his vision. The black Nuclear, Biological, Chemical (NBC) suit was designed to further protect the wearer from contamination. The particular suit he’d purchased was made of impermeable rubber and included an air filter. On the outside of the suit, he slapped another badge.

  He flicked off the Geiger counter to save the battery and started up the boat again, continuing north away from the quarry. The sun had risen while he’d been getting dressed, and now, in the light of morning, he felt exposed. Driving the boat was much more difficult now—he could hardly see out of the metal helmet, and the thick, double layer of gloves made it hard to grip the wheel and adjust the throttle.

  It seemed impossible, but he managed to go even slower, the boat winding, hugging the Jersey shoreline, staying as close to the trees as possible. Soon, the Indian Point Power Plant, or what was left of it, came into view as he worked his way around the curve in the river. He began to relax a little—he was less worried about being caught now, as there wasn’t another living soul around for at least five miles in any direction. The highest levels of contamination would be near the cores, where the plane had impacted the reactors and reactor containment structures. He just hoped that the levels were lower at the warehouse, or he wouldn’t survive the eleven hours of work he’d estimated would be required to get the machine running.

  Don put the thought out of his mind and searched the opposite shore for Lent’s Cove.

  A half hour later, he found it. He continued upriver as the morning sun approached and, when the river turned sharply to the west again, he tacked northeast.

  Here, the Hudson was about 1,500 feet across, so he was soon approaching another causeway bridge on the New York shore. The sun began to peak over the horizon as he turned the boat east, skirting the bridge and following it into Peekskill, then south along the abandoned buildings and boats to Charles Point Pier Park and, finally, Lent’s Cove.

  Ellis took it slowly—there were wrecked boats from the destroyed marina blocking the cove, with empty masts pointing from the water like angry fingers. Closer to the New York shoreline, large pieces of metal jutted up out of the water. It boggled the mind, but he assumed they were parts of the power plant, a half-mile to the southwest, blown free in the impact and explosion.

  Seeing the wreckage in the water, he was suddenly glad it was daylight. Navigating this mess at night would have been suicide.

  He guided the boat up the narrow waterway, seeing the warehouse off to his left. He was relieved to see that it still looked intact. Don turned the small craft into a shallow area that bordered the parking lot and circular drive in front of the warehouse, shutting off on the throttle as the boat bumped onto the sandy shore.

  Carrying the black satchel, Ellis climbed onto the railing and used the branches of a tree to pull himself up onto the bank, where he could see the circular driveway and parking lot in front of the warehouse. There were still several cars in the parking lot, and he noticed that they looked scorched, as did the trees that flanked either side of the main doors into the building. As he walked, he left tracks as he trudged through the thick layer of fine, ashy powder that covered the ground like dirty snow.

  Don turned on the Geiger counter and watched as the needle spun around to indicate what should be a lethal dose of radiation. He needed to get inside—the contamination levels inside the structure should be noticeably lower.

  The offices were in the southern part of the building, next to the circle, so he walked up to the front doors, fishing his keys out. It was unnecessary—the doors were open, propped open by a log.

  He stepped over it and tried the switch, but there was no power. The emergency lighting was also out. He pulled out a flashlight and flicked it on.

  The hallway was full of bodies.

  Ellis stepped back and almost tripped over the body that held the door open—the body he had stepped over, mistaking
it for a log. They were all technicians and employees of his, but their radiation burns rendered them unrecognizable. Carefully, he moved the body in the doorway and pulled the glass doors shut, locking them behind him.

  Don made his way through the office area—each body looked less burned than the one before, so he assumed that those inside had been irradiated and the ones farther outside burned. They were all equally dead. There had only been about ten people working here, along with Cassie and Terry and the younger Ellis, none of whom he’d found. He walked through the office portion of the building and then out into the main warehouse.

  The machine was intact.

  It was a moment that he was anticipating, but it still sent a cascade of relief washing through him. It wasn’t damaged, and the roof had held—lately, he’d been trying to think through every single contingency, and the one that scared him the most was the idea that the roof had caved in. Not only might the machine have been damaged, but the roof and walls blocked the ambient radioactivity outside. If the interior of the building had been exposed, it would have greatly shortened the amount of time he had.

  He walked over and ran his gloved hands over the machine—it looked just like it had in Red Hook. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, apart from the fact that the computer terminal and a few other key components were missing. The machine was only missing two sets of components—the sensitive computer equipment in the Faraday, which he would replace first, and the last few pieces that rested in the hold of his boat. He should be able to get it running, if he could survive the exposure.

  First, he needed to check his exposure.