Time Shards

by Dana Fredsti

  “Muscle cramps?”

  Amber nodded, unable to get the words out. If she opened her mouth, she knew all that would come out would be a pained squeak.

  “Grab your toes and pull them towards your knees,” he said. “And breathe.”

  She did as he’d advised, finding almost instant relief from the relentless bunching of the calf muscles. She also gave silent thanks that he hadn’t tried to rub the cramps out himself. She felt like an ungrateful shit for the thought, but something about Blake…

  Well, he didn’t exactly give her the creeps, but there was something off about him. Then again, who knew what he’d been through before he’d stumbled upon her and rescued her from being devoured by giant wolves, or whatever the hell those things had been. As the cramps abated, Amber resolved to try and back off the mistrust, since he’d given her absolutely zero reasons to doubt his intentions.

  “Better?”

  “I think so.”

  She cautiously released her toes and flexed both feet a couple of times. The muscles were still tight, but the agonizing cramps had eased.

  As she managed to get to her feet, Amber was suddenly aware of the need to pee. The chill in the morning air cut through her flimsy dress and the jacket she’d taken from the punt, so she grabbed one of the blankets from her pile of bedding and wrapped it around her shoulders. She thought about putting on the high-tops, but couldn’t quite bear the thought of any pressure on her feet quite yet.

  The icy cold concrete against her bare soles nearly made her change her mind.

  “Is there any toilet paper or Kleenex?” she asked.

  “There’s some tissues here somewhere.” He rummaged in the pile and pulled out a square box of Kleenex, the cardboard a cheerful pink. “I used the half landing below,” he said. “I suggest you do the same. We don’t want to take a chance of being caught in the open with our pants down.”

  Amber waited for him to add “so to speak,” and then realized he was being quite literal. Nodding her thanks, she took the box of tissues and carefully made her way down the stairs, making sure to be well out of sight of the landing above before relieving herself.

  She couldn’t do it fast enough to suit her, both because of the feeling of vulnerability and the ever-increasing chill penetrating the bottoms of her feet. It felt like they were on fire. As soon as she was finished, she ran up the stairs as quickly as her aching muscles would allow her. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and she hurried over to the sleeping bag and blankets, pulling them over her feet.

  Blake sorted through the items against the wall. He held up an old canvas duffle bag, sturdily built with a thick shoulder strap.

  “Found this in one of the motor cars I didn’t have time to search last night. It should come in handy.”

  Amber nodded, noticing more cans of soda and some Cadbury Dairy Milk bars added to the stash, along with a faux fur-lined leather car coat. Under normal circumstances the dichotomy would have made her laugh. She sincerely hoped he’d grabbed it for her.

  “We should change the dressings on your feet,” he said. “Then we should pack up and leave this place.”

  A… are th…” She waited for her teeth to stop chattering before continuing. “Are those things gone?”

  Blake shrugged. “No sign of them when I was outside. They may have eaten everything there was to eat in the hotel, and headed elsewhere.”

  “Everything” being people. Amber suppressed a shudder.

  “What if they didn’t?” she said. “What if they’re still around?”

  Blake shrugged again. “Either way, we can’t stay here. We’ll either die of starvation or exposure. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer to be eaten. At least it would be quick.”

  This time she couldn’t hold the shudder back. None of the options appealed.

  “Where will we go?”

  “Whitehall,” he said decisively. “Whatever’s happened, they’ll know what to do.”

  “Who?”

  “The Ministry of Defence and Her Majesty’s government. It’s their job to know what to do in situations like—” He paused briefly as if considering his words. “In emergencies.”

  Whether this was true or not, the idea of someone in charge, someone to make decisions and figure out how to restore the rightful order of things, appealed to Amber. It was, after all, what governments were supposed to do, right?

  Besides, she didn’t have any better ideas. This wasn’t even her country. She needed to trust someone else to know the right thing to do. In this case the “someone else” was Blake, and at least he had a weapon to protect them.

  Reluctantly she pulled her feet out from under the blankets. He changed the Band-Aids and gauze bandages, using the antiseptic wipes and antibiotic ointment again. It hurt when he removed the old bandages, but not nearly as badly as it had when the sandals had come off. Without so much pain, however, she found herself more conscious of her short skirt. She needn’t have bothered, though—he didn’t even seem to notice.

  When he was finished, he handed her a pair of white socks.

  “These should help keep you comfortable.”

  Carefully Amber pulled on the socks, making sure not to dislodge any of the bandages or Band-Aids. Plasters, he’d called them last night. Yet another weird Britishism to add to the list. Then the shoes, which were about a half-size too big. Probably better than if they’d been too tight. Still, her feet weren’t happy.

  She didn’t have a choice, though. It was either wear shoes more suited to a Japanese schoolgirl, or go barefoot. Not really an option in this weather.

  She took four more of the paracetamol, wishing for something stronger. Maybe a couple of Valium, as well. She’d never actually taken Valium, but right now she’d welcome anything to reduce the anxiety that was bubbling in her stomach and knotting up her chest at the thought of leaving the safety of the stairwell.

  They packed everything, dividing up the food. “If we’re separated,” he explained, “you’ll still have the basics you’ll need to survive.” Once the supplies were stowed, Amber carefully wrapped the bloody laces around her sandals, and then stuffed them into her backpack.

  “Why on earth are you taking those?”

  Amber looked up. Blake was frowning at her.

  “We’ll want the room for things we can use,” he added in his take-no-prisoners way.

  “I just—” Abruptly Amber stopped, again struggling for words that would explain her feelings. She had a feeling Blake would think any kind of sentiment to be a waste of time.

  “They don’t take that much space,” she finally replied, trying to keep the defensiveness she felt out of her voice. “Besides, the leather might come in handy later.”

  Blake just looked at her, and didn’t say anything else about it, but Amber was conscious of his disapproval. She told herself she didn’t care. That it was none of his business. She wasn’t asking him to carry them. Besides, she was used to having people—including most of her family and friends—dismiss her ideas.

  She compensated for her vague feelings of guilt and inadequacy by stuffing her backpack almost to bursting. Blake used the old duffle bag, into which he stuffed the blankets, the sleeping bag, and the heavier items such as sodas. He handed Amber a crowbar.

  “You’ll want something to protect yourself with, if anything happens to me,” he said simply. She took the tool without argument, threading it through an elastic loop on one side of the backpack. That left her hands free for her staff, which would double as a walking stick.

  Between the two of them they managed to gather up all of the items. They each breakfasted on an apple and remnants of cheese from the picnic. Amber would have happily killed for a cup of coffee. She had some packets of instant from Starbucks, but no hot water.

  “We’ll want to forage for more food and drink where we can,” Blake said unnecessarily—at least from Amber’s point of view. She felt like an audience to a one-man show. At least it seemed to be a one-man surviv
al show.

  “What about what’s left of the hotel?” she suggested. “They must have vending machines, if nothing else.”

  Blake paused, thinking about it briefly before finally shaking his head.

  “If those creatures are going to be anywhere, it’s bound to be in there with all of those dead bodies. Not worth the risk. If they are still there, we sure as hell don’t want to attract their attention.”

  Secretly she was relieved. As much as she wanted to find more food, she didn’t want to go back inside the abattoir that used to be the Romford Arms. Besides, there were sure to be food and other supplies when they reached Whitehall. At least she hoped so.

  They walked slowly and cautiously back down the flights of stairs, past the smell of urine on the second landing. Blake ignored it, so she tried to do the same.

  She wore the car coat for warmth. It was made for a woman a few sizes larger and several inches taller than she was, the hemline ending just above her knees instead of right below her hips. She felt a bit like one of the Pevensie kids entering Narnia, wearing coats borrowed from the magic wardrobe.

  When they reached the bottom landing, Blake held a finger up to his mouth. He opened the door an inch at a time, pausing to listen and then look out through the widening gap. Other than the eerie whistling howl of wind, it appeared quiet.

  Finally, he pushed the door open all the way, taking a cautious step outside and scanning in all directions. After a moment he gestured for Amber to follow him. She clutched her staff tightly in both hands.

  No giant wolves, no people. Just the same seemingly endless grasslands circling bizarrely truncated chunks of buildings, the neatly kept hotel grounds and—

  “What about in there?”

  Amber pointed to Lottie’s, a small tearoom catty-corner to what was left of the hotel. The door was shut, windows still intact. It looked as though the little one-story shop had survived whatever had chopped through the other buildings. Blake followed the direction of her finger, and nodded.

  “It’s far enough away from the hotel to make it worth a go. Well spotted.”

  She tried not to feel pleased at the praise, but couldn’t quite help herself.

  “We’ll do a quick check,” he continued quietly, “and then head southwest towards London proper and Whitehall.”

  “How far is it from here?”

  “Twenty-six kilometers, give or take,” Blake said, giving her an amused side glance. “That’s sixteen miles in the Colonies.”

  Ha ha, Amber thought. “Do you think it’s going to take us very long to get there?” she said aloud.

  “Under normal circumstances I would’ve said no. Even walking at an easy clip, probably six hours, tops. But—” He shook his head, his expression baffled and angry, as if he faced a problem he couldn’t solve. “Most of the signage and the roads are gone. The terrain itself has changed, and while I have a compass, we don’t know what we might run into along the way.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  There. She’d finally voiced the question out loud.

  “I don’t know.” There was no hesitation in his reply. “I’ve seen places that have been scorched by bombs and missiles, but at least there was rubble left behind. You knew there’d been buildings there before they’d been destroyed. This—” He gestured to the vast open spaces around them. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We might be in a different part of the country altogether.”

  “Or on a different planet,” Amber said softly. He ignored that.

  “All I know is that in order to survive, we need to stay on our toes, and make our way somewhere secure.”

  She nodded, having nothing to add.

  They walked quickly over to Lottie’s Tea Shoppe, Blake keeping a close watch on their surroundings. He moved like someone used to being shot at. When they reached the corner of the building, he once again motioned for Amber to stay where she was. She did her best not to let it bug her. Obviously the guy had experience in life-threatening scenarios, whereas the most hostile situation she’d faced was Cammie Baxter and her pack of bullies in seventh-grade gym class. She had to ignore the fact that Blake came across like a real old-fashioned sexist. Her ego had to take a backseat to her survival.

  He looked in through one of the side windows, frowning slightly.

  “It looks safe enough.”

  He tried the front door.

  “Locked.”

  “That means there could be somebody alive in there,” Amber offered.

  “We haven’t time for politely knocking on the door and waiting for an answer,” Blake snapped, as if she’d said something remarkably stupid instead of making a logical observation. Mortified, Amber felt her cheeks heat up, and ducked her head to hide the telltale flush. Not that he would have noticed. He was preoccupied with the doorknob, gripping it tightly with one hand and giving the door a solid shove with his shoulder.

  It popped right open.

  Blake nodded in grim satisfaction before going inside. He poked his head out and gestured for Amber to follow him.

  She’d been in Lottie’s Tea Shoppe once before, the day before the convention had started. “Lottie” was actually James Lott, a big man in his late forties with a fringe of still-flaming red hair that refused to give up the good fight against male pattern baldness. He ran the shop with his son Jimmy, a thinner version of his dad with a full head of equally red hair. Both men had teased Amber about being a member of the “Ginger Club.”

  “If you were to marry her,” Lott Senior had said, elbowing his son in the ribs, “I’d be sure to have a lovely little ginger grandson.”

  The shop itself had been as welcoming as its owners. Cozy décor with butter-yellow curtains, matching tablecloths on the half-dozen or so tables. A glass-front cabinet showcasing the baked goods for sale, either to go or for eating in house. Their currant scones and clotted cream were to die for. She’d eaten two of them, washed down with a pot of Red Rose tea.

  Was that really only two days ago?

  The glass-front cabinet looked much the same, still stocked with scones, eclairs, cookies and other tea cakes, but the curtains and tablecloths were now cream colored, with a thick edging of crocheted lace. Amber frowned, but supposed it was possible that Lott had changed décor. Somehow, it didn’t seem likely.

  These curtains looked as if they’d been hanging in the windows substantially longer than two days. A light layer of dust nestled in the creases of the fabric as though someone had forgotten them on laundry day. Dim light filtered through them, the diffused gray light of winter. It looked almost as if the tea shop was under water.

  There was a red splotch on the beige tablecloth of the closest table. Her stomach clenched until she realized it was preserves—not blood—staining the fabric. Still, underneath the faint pleasant fragrance of baked goods, something smelled off. Blake noticed it too, sniffing the air as suspiciously as a drug-sniffing K-9, head cocked to one side as he listened for any possible dangers.

  Finally, he shook his head and pointed to the counter.

  “Take as many of those as you can carry. The scones and crumpets and such. Nothing with cream, or anything that will spoil. I’ll check the kitchen for anything useful.” With that, he vanished into the back of the shop.

  Amber grabbed a plastic bag from behind the counter. She proceeded to fill it according to Blake’s instructions, stuffing a cream-filled mini éclair into her mouth while doing so. She nearly spat it out after the cream hit her taste buds. It had started to curdle. That probably accounted for the unpleasant odor underneath the hints of sugar, butter, and chocolate.

  As she rummaged through a drawer below the cash register, a stack of newspapers next to the register caught her attention—the Romford Bee. She picked the top one off the stack and scanned the headlines, hoping against hope for something that hinted at the cause of whatever had happened. A quick skim of the headlines drew a blank. She flipped open the paper, taking a closer look at the articles, notin
g an upcoming David Bowie concert this Saturday at—

  No, that had to be a mistake.

  Bowie had died a few months ago.

  Then the date caught her eye.

  October 15, 1993.

  Is this some kind of a joke?

  She started to call Blake’s name, but then her mouth snapped shut as she glanced over at a table in the far corner of the shop. A shelf stocked with teapots, mugs, and other merchandise stuck out into the room, creating a small alcove. It gave the occupants a semblance of cozy privacy.

  A pair of legs protruded from behind the shelving unit.

  Newspaper still in hand, Amber walked slowly over.

  The table was the only one in the shop with cutlery and plates. It looked as though an entire tea service had been in progress. There was a three-tiered pastry platter, with a few pastries still remaining. A teapot sat next to it, with a half-filled cup on a china plate. As she moved closer, Amber saw the remains of another cup shattered on the floor, a small puddle of tea spreading out from the shards.

  Then she got a better look at the body. A man, bright red hair just starting to thin near the crown. Lottie’s son, she thought. He held a toddler in his arms, a little boy with the same ginger hair. In death their faces were relatively peaceful. A pill bottle lay tipped over on the table, empty.

  Her stomach turned in a slow, lazy circle. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to throw up her breakfast for the second time in as many days. A hand fell on her shoulder and she gave a yelp, which pierced the silence, then felt like an idiot for doing so. It was Blake. The man moved like a ninja.

  He looked dispassionately at the corpses.

  “That explains the smell.” Then he noticed Amber’s expression. “If it’s any consolation, they don’t seem to have suffered at all.”