by David Garnet
But Wayne Norton did.
CHAPTER ONE
Then he woke up.
His head throbbed painfully, and he lay without moving. He kept his eyes shut, hoping he’d fall asleep again and the pain would go away.
Wayne Norton felt totally exhausted, and he wondered what day it was. What shift was he on? He’d find out when either the alarm clock or his mother woke him. He hoped it would be Mom because she’d have a huge breakfast ready for him.
He felt hungry, as well as thirsty.
And cold. Very cold.
He pulled at the bedclothes, trying to snuggle down into the warmth. There was no sheet, no blanket, just one thin cover over him. No wonder he was cold. As he moved, his head throbbed even more. He realised he was naked. Another reason for being cold. Where were his pajamas?
The room was bright, which meant it had to be daytime. With the curtains open. Or no curtains. He felt the mattress beneath him, which didn’t feel like a mattress. This wasn’t his bed, he realised, wasn’t his room.
Where was he?
He opened his eyes so he could find out. Or tried to. His eyes wouldn’t open. They seemed to be stuck together.
He reached toward his face so he could prise his gummed lids apart. His arms ached when he moved them, and his fingers were very stiff. He must have been lying in an awkward position for most of the night.
There was a sudden pain above both eyes, as if he’d been stabbed, and he cried out.
In silence.
He’d lost his voice.
Or maybe he’d become deaf.
Perhaps both.
As well as blind.
What was going on?
He lay on the bed, which wasn’t his bed, and which didn’t really feel like any bed, and tried to remember what had happened yesterday.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary. As far as he could recall, it had just been another day.
Maybe he’d got drunk last night, that was the only explanation. It had only happened a few times before, but too much alcohol always wrecked his brain and body. No wonder he felt so terrible that his head was pounding, that there was an awful taste in his mouth, that he had such a thirst.
Was this the result of Susie’s birthday? It had to be, although he could remember nothing about the party. Not even being there.
The pain over his eyes had gone, but his head was still aching, and slowly he lifted his right hand up to his forehead. His arm felt so heavy, and it was such an effort, but eventually his palm touched his brow.
It was covered in hair. Hair which must have fallen down from his scalp. He moved his fingers higher, feeling it, pulling it.
His hair had grown. Long. Very long.
Not believing the evidence of one hand, Norton raised the other. His left hand felt even heavier, and it fell onto his chin and cheek as he reached for his head.
He had a beard.
Long hair. Beard.
He’d turned into a hippie!
He shouted in surprise. This time, he found his voice. It wasn’t very loud, but he heard himself. He also opened his eyes. They hurt. Everything was hurting, but this was as though the lids had been glued together. Because of the light, he closed them again quickly, bringing his hands up to cover his face.
His breath came in short bursts, as if he’d been running. He was trembling all over. Or shivering. Or both.
He opened his eyes again, slowly, fractionally. The first thing he saw was his fingers. His fingernails. They were over an inch long. Like a woman’s. No wonder he’d stabbed himself.
Himself…?
Maybe he wasn’t a hippie. He’d become a woman.
No, not with a beard.
He examined himself—and he was still a he.
Then he checked his arms, his legs, his torso. He was so thin, just skin and bones. His skin was very pale, as if he hadn’t seen the sun for years.
Years…
The hair, the beard, the fingernails.
Years must have passed.
A good cop had to figure out a situation fast.
He’d been in a coma.
That was why his hair and fingernails had grown; that was why he was so thin, so pale. This was a hospital.
He must have been ill. Really ill.
Had he been in an accident? Had he been shot and wounded?
It must have been very serious, although his body seemed intact. Despite all his aches and pains, he could find no sign of injury.
Whatever had happened, he had no memory of it. The last thing he could remember was, was…
He almost had it, but then the moment was lost, forgotten again.
Norton heard a sound and realised someone was coming into the room. He closed his eyes and kept still, pretending he was still asleep. Or comatose.
The next thing he knew, his right eye was being held open and he found himself staring up into the face of…
A gook!
He yelled out in surprise and fear. The man standing over him laughed and said something in a foreign language.
Norton had thought he was in a hospital, and he’d expected the first person he saw would be a nurse or a doctor, someone dressed in a white uniform.
The Asian was dressed in green and brown. Military uniform.
How long had Norton been in a coma? Long enough for his hair and beard and nails to grow.
And long enough for the Vietnamese to have invaded the States!
He wasn’t in a hospital. He was in prison, a prisoner of war.
They had tortured him, which was why he was in such pain. They had starved him, which was why he was so thin.
The enemy soldier spoke again, spitting out another rapid string of unintelligible gibberish. Then he smiled, but Norton wasn’t fooled. He knew it was a trick.
They’d get nothing out of him except his name, rank and badge number.
He was given water, but that was all. He no longer felt as cold or as stiff, and was able to sit up. The light didn’t hurt his eyes anymore. The small room had no windows, no light bulbs or fluorescent strips, but it was bright all the time.
A hospital or a prison? The sliding door was almost invisible, seamlessly blending with the opposite wall, and there was no handle on the inside. When he’d tried to inspect it, his legs had given way beneath him as soon as he stood up.
He was very weak, his head continued to throb, and he couldn’t understand a thing his jailer said.
“Food?” Norton had asked, rubbing his stomach then pointing at his mouth. His throat was sore, and his jaw hurt when he spoke.
The man shook his head and said something incomprehensible.
It was always him who came in. He was very tall, which seemed odd because Norton had assumed all Asians were small. Although he was barefoot, every finger had a gold ring and he wore a number of silver bangles on each wrist. Perhaps his strange outfit wasn’t a uniform. He seemed too old to be a soldier, unless he was a senior officer.
Norton drank more water, began to feel stronger, and his headache slowly subsided.
Because it was always light, and because he kept falling asleep again, it was hard to know how much time had passed; but perhaps twenty-four hours went by before his inscrutable visitor finally brought some food.
“Thanks,” he said, grabbing the bowl.
But he couldn’t eat that. Pale chunks of something very suspicious floated in a greasy pink liquid. It looked and smelled totally inedible.
“Haven’t you got anything else?” he said. “Ham, hash browns, eggs over-easy?”
The reply was as fast and meaningless as ever, and Norton was left alone with the dish of foreign slops. He knew he had to get something inside him, and he began to eat. It was warm and slimy, and it tasted as bad as it looked. He closed his eyes and ate it all.
As soon as he’d forced down the last spoonful, it all came up again. He’d been right. It was totally inedible.
His bed was covered with the awful stuff, and bits of it were stuck i
n his beard. He wiped at his face, making his hands all sticky. As he reached for the cup by his side, he knocked it over and the water spilled onto the floor.
He half fell, half climbed out of bed, but managed to keep his balance. There had to be a bathroom somewhere. He needed a wash, a steaming shower to rinse off the food, a long hot bath to soak away his aches, a razor for his beard, scissors for his hair and nails. If he could get the door open, then this wasn’t a cell, he wasn’t a prisoner.
Food dripping down his naked body, he staggered toward the door.
That was when it slid open and a girl walked in.
Although she seemed to be American, in her midtwenties, she looked even odder than the gook. Her hair was a wild mass of corkscrew curls, each ringlet a different colour. Norton was six feet two, but she was even taller, wearing a skintight blue outfit which was moulded to the impressive contours of her body.
The girl looked him up and down, mostly down. Norton covered his groin with his right hand, using his left to wipe his mouth and beard and chest.
The Asian also arrived, stared at Norton, glanced at the girl, then tapped the side of his head.
“I’m not insane!” said Norton.
Then he wondered if he was…
The girl said something to him. But it was just the same kind of gobbledygook.
“I don’t understand,” he told her. He sat back down on the bed, pulling the cover over his waist.
The other two spoke to each other for a while, looking at Norton as they did so. Then the girl stepped forward. She held a small white disc in her left palm, and seemed to be offering it to him. He wasn’t going to take anything, and he put his hands behind his back.
She smiled at him. It was a friendly smile, and it looked almost sincere. She was very attractive, had a great figure. She could have been a Las Vegas showgirl. She probably was.
Her smile was so friendly, so sincere, that when she spoke he felt he should have understood. But her words were just a senseless garble.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she said.
Her words weren’t synchronised with her lips. There seemed to be two voices, two separate sounds. He glanced at the disc in her hand.
“Wh-at-la-n-gu-age-do-yo-u-sp-e-ak?”
Those weren’t her words because she’d stopped speaking while the words continued, but they were the words that Norton heard.
“I-sp-e-ak-Am-er-i-can,” he said, slowly, trying to imitate the dull monotone. “I-me-an-Eng-li-sh.”
The girl glanced at the man, clenched her fist over the disc, spat out a brief word. He shrugged. She looked at Norton again, opened her hand.
“Wh-at-is-yo-ur-na-me?” he heard.
“Way-ne,” he told her. Name, rank, badge number. “John-Way-ne.” But it didn’t have to be the right name.
“Pl-eas-ed-to-me-et-you-Jo-hn-Way-ne-I-am-Man-dy-th-is-is-Br-en-da n.”
“Wh-o-are-yo-u? Wh-at-do-yo-u-wa-nt?”
“D-o-yo-u-kn-ow-wh-at-h-as-hap-p-en-ed-to-yo-u-d-o-yo-u-kn-ow-wh-e -re-yo-u-ar-e?”
“No.” Norton shook his head. “N-o.”
The girl and the man looked at each other.
Her lips moved, briefly, and the voice asked, “Wh-at-ye-ar-ar-e-yo-u-fr-om?”
Was year of birth one of the questions allowed by the Geneva Convention?
“Ni-ne-t-een-fo-rt-y-se-v-en,” he said.
“Th-at-i-s-im-po-ss-ib-le.”
Which was exactly what his father had said, apparently, when Norton’s mother told him she was pregnant.
The Asian moved closer and whispered to the girl.
“I-f-th-at-i-s-tr-ue-yo-u-ar-e-th-e-ol-d-es-t-pe-r-so-n-e-v-er-to-b-e-re-vi -v-ed.”
“Revived?” he said quickly. “You mean like I was… dead?”
“M-an-y-ye-ar-s-h-av-e-g-on-e-b-y-si-n-ce-yo-ur-ti-me-J-oh-n-W-ay-ne -ev-er-y-th-i-ng-i-s-v-er-y-di-ff-er-en-t-n-o-w.”
Years…
Many years…
He’d guessed. But how many was “many?” Five? Ten? Long enough for a translation machine to exist. That must have been American know-how. Asians couldn’t have invented that—all they ever did was copy.
“C-an-I-g-et-so-me-re-al-f-oo-d? A-bur-g-er-a-n-d-fr-i-es?”
“A-wh-at-a-n-d-fl-i-es?”
“Am-er-i-can-f-oo-d.”
“Th-ere-i-s-no-Am-er-i-ca-i-t-do-es-n-ot-ex-i-st-an-y-m-or-e.”
“What? This isn’t America? Where am I? Wh-er-e-am-I? Wh-at-d-o-yo-u-w-an-t-me-f-or?”
“I-am-a-a-a-re-por-t-er-y-es-a-nd-I-am-he-re-to-to-in-ter-vi-ew-y-ou-J o-hn-Wa-yn-e.”
“Who-i-s-he?” Norton gestured to the man.
“Br-en-dan-i-s-yo-ur-ow-n-er.”
His owner …
America no longer existed, Mandy had said.
The greatest country in the world was gone.
The gooks had taken over.
And they’d reintroduced slavery.
Norton just couldn’t believe it.
No more burgers and fries?
CHAPTER TWO
This was the worst dream of her short life.
She’d had the dream before, over and over.
She was falling, forever falling.
She always woke up in terror, sometimes screaming, sometimes too scared even to whisper.
She always woke before she hit the ground. If she didn’t, it would be too late. There would be no screaming, not even a whisper. Because she’d be dead. Killed by her dream.
She always knew this was how she would die one day. One night.
She would fall asleep, then fall while asleep, then die.
It was far worse than a nightmare because it had happened.
Or almost happened.
It was her earliest memory.
But over the years, she’d grown more and more uncertain where memory ended and unreality began.
She remembered that the devil had tried to kill her, to throw her from the top of a high building. She was saved by her father, and instead he became the victim. He was the one who was hurled down through the clouds, down to the ground far below.
Her father was killed, that much was true. She was brought up by her mother, and she was still young when her mother also died. Since then, she’d been alone in the world.
And the world had always been trying to kill her.
Perhaps the recurring dream was a premonition of her ultimate fate.
Because she was falling.
Falling an impossible distance.
This time she was wide awake.
This time would be the last time.
Because this time it would kill her.
CHAPTER THREE
Years had gone by.
Wayne Norton now knew how many: over three hundred of them.
He’d passed the centuries in a state of suspended animation, less than alive, more than dead. While he lay motionless, the world had moved on, changing almost beyond recognition.
Mandy had told him this. And he believed her. Because he could see it all on television.
The screen alone was almost enough to convince him. It was the size of one of the walls in his room. His room, not his cell. He was a guest here. Like a hotel guest because he couldn’t leave until he paid his bill. Which was why Brendan owned him.
What he saw on the huge screen was the clincher. There were so many channels, all in colour. An infinite number of programmes, every one of them from a world that definitely wasn’t 1968. He could even switch stations without having to get up. There was no way all this could be a hoax. Why would anyone bother faking it for him?
If it was on television, it had to be true.
Norton was in the future.
He’d been kept in a deep-freeze for years and years, then thawed out and revived. It was similar to the way a bear hibernated for the winter then woke up again in the spring. For Norton, it had been a very long winter.
Brendan had defrosted h
im, but who had originally frozen him?
The last thing Norton could recall was being in the basement of a casino, but why had he been there? What had happened earlier that day?
He had no idea. His last day in the twentieth century, and it was as if he’d forgotten everything because it was all so long ago.
Mr. Ash had been with a man Norton didn’t recognise. There were also three more men, who held the other two captive until Norton intervened. And until Mr. Ash shot them. Then, then…?
Then: nothing.
A few centuries had gone by.
It must have been Mr. Ash who’d put him on ice. He hadn’t liked Norton dating his daughter, but burying him alive just to break them up seemed like an overreaction.
Norton tried not to think about Susie. She was dead by now. Long dead. Everyone he knew was dead. His parents, but that was to be expected. They were old, in their forties, so they’d have been dead soon. Susie had been so young, so full of life. But not anymore.
What had happened to her? She would have married, had children. Even they were long gone. She must have wondered what ever happened to Norton. Her father had probably come up with some story or other to explain his disappearance, told her to forget him and find someone else.
Mr. Ash must have been one of the mob, and Norton had walked in on some kind of Mafia dispute. It was far too late to do anything about bringing him to justice. Whatever crimes he’d committed, by now the statute of limitations had expired. As had Mr. Ash.
Unless he wasn’t dead, Norton realised.
He could still be alive in another time tomb. Mr. Ash must have had the cryonic chamber built for himself, and he wouldn’t have wasted it on Norton if that meant sacrificing his own chance of being reborn.
If there was one freezer, there could be two. If there were two, there could be three.
Was Mrs. Ash around somewhere? Probably not, because a man like Mr. Ash wouldn’t have wanted to spend a permanent vacation into the future with his wife. He was always going off on “business trips,” and this was the longest trip of all.