by MK Alexander
I never hit, not the ground. Instead, I was enveloped by oblivion. Surely this was death. A pain swept over me so intense I can barely describe. I was turned inside out, every raw nerve exposed to the world. I was dipped into a vat of lava, and in the instant following, every part of me froze as if thrown into the vacuum of space. I could absolutely deny this was happening, right? I had been swallowed whole by an all-devouring void.
Doom, fear, shock… I had to resist or I would die— this much I understood. I had just entered nothingness. I could not call it an abyss since there was no edge to peer from or cling to. Then a funny thought came to mind: Wait, oblivion has a flavor? It seemed salty just at the back of my tongue.
I was suspended in midair for at least half a second then dropped like a stone. In this case, a hot sizzling stone, the pain only extinguished by cool black water, like lava to the sea. I was submerged and sought to swim to the surface. I got there, sputtering, sucking in air. Only survival mattered and instinct took hold. I was breathing, floating, and I started to paddle, but still clutching the frisbee. I almost laughed, then let go of the disk and watched it sink below me.
This was the ocean; but it was the dark of night as well. A full moon peeked over the horizon. The water sparkled green and phosphoresced under my hands. A wave swept over me. I came up again for air. I listened now and could hear crashing surf. The shore was close, or at least close enough to reach. I let the water carry me. The current, the tides were my friends. I vaguely wondered what lurked in the depths, certainly not friends, but predators perhaps, hungry for a late night snack. I swam faster.
The impossible had just occurred. Impossible, yet so. No chance to panic, well, not yet anyway… Did this really just happen? The crashing surf grew louder, its rhythm a soothing prayer. Part of me knew where I was: it had to be the Atlantic, though warmer than it should be. The rising moon also spoke: I could see a long stretch of beach and the white froth of surf pounding on it. I saw dunes, and beyond them, nothing. There wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere. I drifted in with the tide. I knew this place… intimately. My cleats touched bottom. Even the sand seemed familiar when I hoisted myself from the ocean and staggered to the beach. I more-or-less collapsed into a heap, but I can’t say why; I actually felt okay.
Soon enough panic did set upon me. What had happened did just happen. My holy crap moment. I had traveled in time. There was no other way to explain it. “Freaking libra lapsus— a goddamn accident just waiting to happen,” I muttered to myself. The searing pain was a big clue. Once I admitted this, a new feeling emerged: anger. “Damn you, Fynn…” I shouted aloud, still panting on the sand. I should’ve known. I lay back on the beach, and my thoughts returned to all the things the inspector had carefully explained.
Okay, what do the Laws of Fynn tell me? A hard jump for sure… so this must be the future. Maybe just a couple of hours? A couple of days? A week at the most. I wondered what Joey was thinking right about now— me, just disappearing into thin air. Maybe they didn’t notice. Fat chance… I’ll have to think of some kind of gag explanation… I should head back up to the field. Hang on, what good would that do? And what about my car... still parked at the middle school. How the hell do I explain this? I was kidding myself to think I could. This was not the same night, not even the same week, and part of me could tell it was too hot for September. It was steamy and muggy now. I had the uneasy sense that it was mid-summer.
Wait, did I go backwards? Did I travel a month or so to the past? Impossible. According to Fynn, that would be a soft jump, traveling back to a previous self. I don’t remember being here like this… ever… Maybe I went really far back. Years… Crap. Nineteen thirty-three, Saint Albans… I remembered the old records Joey and I had found at the asylum. Damn. How did I jump to a time before I was born? That’s not possible. Great, I’m going to walk up to Saint Albans and say, hey, I’m Patrick and I just traveled from the 21st century. No wonder they locked me away. Or, maybe there’s another me walking around right now... My mind was racing, my thoughts were less than productive. I was gripped by anxiety but I also realized none of it served me. I had to find Inspector Fynn; he’d know, he’d explain everything.
Off went my cleats and wet socks, my tee shirt too. I rung out all the extra water and did more or less the same with my shorts. The ocean breeze was beginning to pick up as I trudged along the beach. Fynn’s house shouldn’t be too far from this very spot. I’d find him and give him a piece of my mind. Or better still, he’d help me get back to where I belong. I made for the dunes but soon got disorientated. The landscape seemed a bit off. “So, where the hell am I?” I asked aloud. I knew but I didn’t. This was the eastern shoreline, somewhere just up from Oldham and the breach. I squinted to the north. Pretty far off, I could make out the high sandy bluffs outlined in the moonlight. It should be Middle Cove— but where are the jetties? I scanned the shoreline… nothing but waves. I looked north for the Sentinel, the lighthouse… again nothing. This was odd. The thought of when am I? dimly entered my mind again. Dangling shoes in hand, I headed west, guessing that I’d cross Shore Road sooner or later. From there I could walk to Fynn’s house or into the Village if need be.
I never did find it though— Shore Road— there was no blacktop anywhere. Over the first rise, I knew something was amiss. There wasn’t a single light, not in a house, on a street, or anywhere. This was very wrong. And I was further west than I ought to be. I walked on anyway. There was just enough moonlight to see the sandy patches on the ground and step safely; oddly though, there were no good paths leading north. It seemed as if I was being forced west. Fireflies blinked now, hundreds of them, and they too were luring me deeper into the woods.
A mile or so later, as I walked up East Hill, my sense of reality completely fell apart. I looked south to where Baxter Estates should be. Not a single house though. In the dim moonlight I saw a pond, worse, a lake. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the Atlantic had finally broken through the breach and made us into an island, Sand City Island. I could make out the remnants of the water tower on its side, finally defeated and partially submerged: its pale gray form sprawled out like a skeleton against the dark landscape.
I started running up the hill and caught a glimpse of Serenity Bay. I saw the two hotels, the Californian and the Commodore, but they looked more like shipwrecks. Their essential shapes remained, yet they were completely surrounded by water, like dark cruise-liners docked at a pier. Longneck Road was awash and there was no sign of either the Marina or the Yacht Club.
At the crest of the hill I looked down at the Village, squinting and scrutinizing. It was dark, silent, and it was all wrong. It lay too close to Serenity Bay. A second or so later I realized the roads were no longer paved. They were canals. The moon reflected off Commercial Street. Buildings still stood, and most of them were recognizable, but they seemed shortened by almost a full floor. I was looking at a flood.
That’s when the thought, “When am I?” really took hold. I was alone and very far from my own present, this much was becoming clear. I plopped down on the sandy ground and crossed my arms over my knees, just staring down at the Village. Flood City.
I began to wonder if I had been flung off to some far future, or, if I had arrived in a bizarro alternate dimension. Fynn’s words came to mind: There is only one timeline. That seemed improbable to me still. My eyes followed the dark curve of the bay to the south. Far distant, the sky was alight with a suffused glow: Fairhaven. I couldn’t make out individual lights, but there was a city there, shining. That meant people, alive and walking around, maybe even people I knew…
Though exhausted, no quiet calm came to me. Nor were my angry feelings ebbing, my sense of being betrayed… Fynn had been enigmatic as usual, answering my question with one of his own. Mortimer had said it though, that fateful night at the quarry: “You… a traveler?” Now, it didn’t seem so impossible… no, it seemed inevitable. I know where I am, just not when. The future, yes… I started to calculate irr
ationally: at least ten years in the future, I figured; then twenty, then god knows… A deep abiding panic filled me. I was home but I was not, and no matter what, it was going to be a long way back. My normal life seemed very far away. My heart sank. I felt sick with despair. Funny, I imagined my old Saab still parked at the middle school… probably now just an abandoned hulk.
I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t, I was too confused and upset. Just yesterday morning I was with Fynn, his wife Lorraine and of course, Anika. We were eating breakfast at the Depot Cafe… Lorraine was laughing as usual and Anika had announced a going-away party for me… Wait, no, maybe I was a waiter… Fynn had whispered that the cane had gone missing, Mortimer’s cane. That was yesterday? It’s impossible… What does that make today? It was useless to think about. I lay back on the sand and just stared up at the sky. Innumerable stars smeared across the pitch— they meant something to Fynn, not to me. It seemed far later than it should be, probably past midnight, but I had no way of knowing. By now, the moon had risen high enough to compete with the Fairhaven glow. It was the artificial light that was calling me though, tempting me, beckoning like I was the moth. There were people there…
***
I may have dozed for a while but dawn was much closer than I first reckoned. As the sun rose, Sand City came into sharp focus like a Hopper painting. I started down the hill barefoot. As I walked, I composed an op ed piece in my head— an old habit— couldn’t help it really:
Imagine the feeling of deja vu. We’ve all experienced it and it’s not at all unpleasant, though sometimes eerie and unsettling… Now imagine that it’s not just a fleeting thing, but a persistent hunger or thirst, an urge you need to satisfy, but never can. This feeling now lasts a minute, an hour, a day… You might rightly ask, will it last a week, a month, even years? It is now part of you and always will be. This best describes time travel. And the worst of it? Your own free will has faltered, you are now on some irrevocable course laid out by some unknowable fate. And I loathed to follow this predetermined path. But the feeling would fade eventually… or so I fervently hope.
I continued my descent into Sand City. By the look of things, the watery catastrophe had hit sometime ago, though it was hard to say exactly when— maybe a year, or maybe a decade. Whole buildings were gone, swept asunder or submerged by Serenity Bay, which now ended in right angles and corners. It swirled against walls, parking lots and alleys. There were no bodies floating, no bloated corpses, but a fair amount of debris still bobbed in the water, flotsam and jetsam of a time long passed. I could see the stain of tides against the buildings as well, blistered paint, and rusted metal everywhere.
Sand City’s new shoreline began at the old post office building on Commercial Street. There were some skiffs drifting haphazardly in the corner of an alley, trapped by the tide, but most had already half sunk. I waded into the shallows hoping to use the most serviceable of them and started to bail. I also had to find oars. I was thirsty now, hungry too, but thirst seemed the more pressing need. Then I spotted an over-turned kayak along the new shore. This was far better than any of the broken down skiffs.
I paddled down Chambers Street into deeper water, passing the numbered avenues until I came to the once familiar shopping plaza. Nearly the whole of it was submerged except for a bit of roof. I could see signs peeking above the sloshing water. Brand names for sure, the top half of many a familiar logo, broken and cracked. I recognized the Asian East sign as well, appearing just along the slurp of the bay. Underneath me, the kayak scraped against the tops of cars, now submerged and parked in disorderly angles along what had been Captain’s Way. I looked down to watch rusty steel frames and empty windshields slip beneath the plastic boat.
I drifted for a while, just letting the tide take me. Low tide, I guessed by the watermarks I could see everywhere. It was dragging me out towards the bay but very slowly. Main Street slid by and I glimpsed the Governor’s Inn hotel and the movie theater, both more or less intact, though deserted, and flooded to their second stories. The top floors appeared normal more or less, though many of the windows were boarded up or broken. I drifted lazily, watching for any sign of life, though I knew there could be no one here. My paddle struck the water again to straighten my course. I rowed with some effort against a side current that was pushing to starboard.
In the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow flicker in one of the upstairs windows. It seemed to be the silhouette of a person flittering across the room at great speed. I chalked it up to paranoia, though I had seen something like this before… a ghost who was just out of sight. It had to be my imagination. I easily dismissed it as impossible. There was no one here, no one alive in Sand City at this particular place in time.
Further ahead I could see Central Park, now a dome of dry land at the center of the Village. The Elaine Luis egg sculpture was still prominent, though it had rolled down the hill and rested along the new coastline. Beyond that, some of the upland regions of town seemed more or less intact. I tried to discern how far the waters had actually risen before receding. The neighborhoods at higher elevation appeared unscathed, yet there was certainly no one living there either. On closer scrutiny, I could also see jagged roofs and debris. Nothing had been spared.
Eventually, I came upon the Chronicle building. The office had collapsed in on itself with the attic morgue finally given way, spilling into the first floor, and most of that was underwater. I could only imagine that Jason’s basement domain was an aquarium. It all felt like a past life now. I thought about Suzy, and my friends at the paper: Eleanor and Joey, Pagor, Miriam, Melissa and Amy, none of them who could be here in this present.
Next door, Maggie McMoo’s ice cream shop was simply gone, washed away; and on the other side, the Candle Factory Outlet seemed somewhat worse for wear, as its walls were no longer arranged at right angles. The whole place sat askew. When I paddled by Peabody Street, I could see the library on my right; the water had reached in long ago, and up to the steeple roof. I fought back an image of Mrs Lovely sitting submerged with a waterlogged copy of Dickens in her hand.
A few minutes later, the Depot building came into sight with its high-peaked gables: Home, my old apartment, and now with a full water view. The marsh had transformed into a bay. I could see straight across to Saint Albans. Previously a short drive, now a long swim. It was like a castle set exactly at the water’s edge and surrounded on three sides. The ivy was gone as well, as most of the brick facade had tumbled into the bay in a great heap, leaving only a granite core. I’ll admit it looked less foreboding than usual— but still not on my map. I scanned the new shoreline that ended at the bluffs and let my kayak drift in the hot muggy day. There was hardly a sound, just the occasional cry of a gull and the water slapping gently against everything nearby.
I started to paddle again. Why I needed to come back to my old apartment is unknown. There was no logical reason for it, maybe just instinct. I could see the downstairs was all but underwater; the Depot Cafe, the bike shop, both obliterated, now part of the bay. I maneuvered around back. My spiral staircase came into view, covered in rust and descending right into the water. To my surprise there was a small rowboat tied up. Just a glance told me it had been there a long while and was half filled with water. Still, it seemed a hopeful sign in some way.
I came alongside and jumped onto the rusty stairs, then sprinted up half the usual steps onto my old patio. The sliding doors were mostly closed and intact. I thought about Zachary my cat in that moment, but a big part of me knew he was not going to scramble across the shingles. I pushed against the sliders with some effort and stepped inside. A foul smell assaulted, rancid and fishy, and it was stiflingly hot. The carpet underneath squished with every tentative step, clammy, like walking across a wet sponge. I immediately regretted leaving my cleats behind.
Inside, all my furniture had been lifted by some watery hand and set down again at random, harsh angles. Only the kitchen table was where it should be. I glanced around the dark attic. I
don’t even know why I came…
Then I saw it: something big and black hanging from the rafters. It startled me and I thought it might be a body, but it wasn’t of course. No, it was a large knapsack dangling on a chain, and there was a big yellow sign stuck to the front. I strode over with squishy steps, unhitched it and lugged the heavy thing over to the kitchen table. The attic was just too stifling though; I left at once, and sat outside on the patio. I tore the yellow envelope sealed behind clear plastic. My name was printed across in neat block letters. Another name came to mind and a huge grin passed across my face as I read. I heard his voice, his funny accent and odd inflection:
“Dear Patrick,
If you are reading this, I cannot begin to express how delighted I am. You have made it home. Such is everyone’s deep abiding instinct of which I’ve relied heavily upon. Welcome to the wonderful world of Libra Lapsus! As you already know where you are, the when is not at all clear to you, nor, I am sad to say, to me exactly. But you are safe and alive, and it is possible to guide you back to a better, more familiar environment. After long discussions with our mutual friend Joey Jegal— who, by the way, is quite angry that you stole his disk— I’ve been able to surmise your trajectory, roughly speaking. Thanks to his keen observations and after innumerable days of calculation, I can estimate that you have arrived between the years 2066 and 2075.
Doubtless you’ve noticed much has changed. I will not go further than to say, it is best for the present that you remain unnoticed by anyone, especially the local authorities. Consider yourself duly cautioned. But enough from me. More likely than not, you are thirsty and hungry. Please find these few provisions and essentials you might need. Hope to see you soon. To jump back to the past, is to jump to safety...