Guardians of Time
Page 17
It happened in a flicker, like the snap of fingers or the crack of a gunshot. One moment, Dr. Remington was standing in a military bunker, and the next, he was in another place entirely.
Two
HE BENT AND PUKED, kneeling in the soft earth, spewing stomach slime from trembling lips. Eyes, once squeezed shut, now opened slowly. A searing pain shot through his nervous system—an electric shock. He grunted and fell on his back, sucking air with arms spread in snow-angel fashion. His brain waggled between searing headache and fog—jetlag on steroids.
He regrouped while staring at a forest canopy where life teemed with squawks, chirps, and calls from wildlife hidden within the surrounding underbrush of thick, wooded terrain. The air, luxuriant and warm, was an ideal temperature. Its misty quality moisturized his skin. A breeze caressed his face. Where was he? Or, more importantly, when was he?
Pale sunlight seeped through the upper boughs of the jungle awning, painting the scene in vivid colors of green, red, blue, and orange. The environment was so rich and vibrant, it was as if his eyesight had had its saturation levels turned to eleven.
The professor sat up and brushed off his bony arms, extracted his backpack, and opened the zipper. Inside he found basic food rations, water purifiers, and sleeping essentials. He slung the rifle off his shoulder and weighed it in his hands. Its body was heftier than he’d remembered. The League had bypassed the opportunity to opt for an Austrian hulk and had instead chosen him as their terminator ... more like the shrimpinator. He hadn’t lifted a dumbbell since his younger days of military service.
“You’ve gotten skinny,” the ex-wife had said years before. “What happened to the man I married, eh?”
“Ah, Martha, my gal, he became an academic,” Dr. Remington had said, delivering her a kiss on the cheek. “Traded guns for books. A sword for a pen.”
“How manly.”
And ironic.
Dr. Remington selected a canteen and biscuit from his rations, eating while debating his next move. Slipping through the fingers of dimensional space was to disobey all that the Universe and Mother Nature had intended for mankind. Humans weren’t supposed to know the future nor change the past, not even Dr. Wade Remington. Even so, the League of Guardians had elected him to reverse the fate of mankind because, at one point in his earlier life, he’d stated his belief in such an ideology.
Next time, if he could rewrite his past, he’d instead pen a dissertation about how professors shouldn’t be asked to shove feet into their mouths ... or eat crow.
The League’s terms were clear. He had been given a specific purpose—find the earliest bipeds and see to their extinction. What a delightful assignment for a scholastic man.
Dr. Remington laughed. It was all so insane. If he succeeded in his quest, the civilization and reality he’d known would no longer exist. Nothing would stain the ink of world history except animals, untamed vegetation, and a spinning sphere of land and water—the fertile dust particle in the sea of empty space known as planet Earth.
It boggled the mind. Dr. Remington rubbed his eyes and studied his surroundings. If, in fact, he’d been whisked back to the age when bipeds started walking with erect cadence like primordial grotto men, then he had little to worry about until ... Cer-pop!
Dr. Remington stiffened. Something in the rainforest, a tree branch perhaps, snapped to his right. Loud thuds followed another break as resounding footsteps approached at a slow saunter. Cracking twigs and undergrowth gave way to the emergence of a massive, two-legged creature, covered in scales and wagging a loathsome tail. Its mouth opened, revealing pointed teeth. Tiny eyes ignored the professor as its snout bent toward a pool of water. A thick tongue lapped.
Breath sucked into the professor’s lungs. Chin drooped. Eyes bugged. A T. rex? Oh, fantastic. The League had not only overshot his era of destination but had also doomed him to be eaten. Peachy. He’d been misplaced in the shuffle. Government bureaucracy at its finest. Who had organized this time trek, the post office?
After what seemed like an hour, Dr. Remington worked up the courage to steady the rifle. It was loaded, fortunately. The looming dinosaur paid him no attention, focusing instead on a nearby pond and the surrounding vegetation.
Then, it sniffed. Perhaps, if the professor remained still, the creature wouldn’t see him. The Tyrannosaurus Rex raised its left foot and took a step forward. Boom. Dr. Remington peered through the scope. Another step. Boom. The professor aimed for the lizard’s eyeball. The monster snorted, seeming more curious than hungry. Dr. Remington’s index finger fondled the trigger. Years of military training and hunting experience returned to his muscle memory. Only a few ounces of pressure were required. Do it.
He aimed as the T. rex crept closer, investigating with a roar that blasted Dr. Remington’s Stetson off his head and sent him tumbling behind a log. He cursed. The dinosaur’s snout brushed against his shirt, nuzzling him like a dog might sniff a crotch. No, no, no, no! Dr. Remington fumbled with the Winchester.
Then colossal dinosaur sneezed, spraying Dr. Remington in sticky goo. The gun tumbled from the professor’s grasp. The dinosaur’s sandpaper tongue flicked outward like a serpent’s and brushed the professor’s face in a slimy stroke. It roared. Dr. Remington’s eardrums popped.
The brute spread its jaws. Then, darkness.
IN THE DAYS BEFORE his departure, the professor had considered his fate while standing before a row of bureaucratic men and women, clad in cloaks and formal attire and seated in semi-circled fashion at a long desk underneath a moonlit stained-glass ceiling. Dust danced upon a shaft of light, showering the dark room in a somber glow.
Dr. Remington scratched his stubbled chin and gagged. Sulfur. The air was thick with it.
What use the League of Guardians had for a history lecturer, he couldn’t comprehend. He’d been subpoenaed for an “assignment of correction.” Those summoned by the League were meant for discovery and exploration ... the stuff of fantasy. This should’ve been the greatest day of his professional life. Instead, it was the last ... and all he could think about was a cigarette. More than anything, Dr. Remington wanted to smoke.
A lone voice broke the silence as a hooded man at the group’s forefront raised a pale hand, motioning along with a repeat of the question that had been asked upon the professor’s arrival.
Was Dr. Remington willing to sacrifice his life for the sake of the planet? Gut twisted. Head spun. The professor’s index finger and thumb snatched his wrist and pinched with such force that his nail pierced the skin. A red bruise formed with a bitter sting. No, this wasn’t a dream. His mind reeled while a palsying hand adjusted a Stetson on his head.
Breathing slowed. Pulse slackened. Dr. Remington’s head bowed for a moment, and then he returned his gaze toward the semi-circle as a guilty party might receive a verdict.
“Your records have been wiped clean,” the leader said, “brushed into the dustbin of the ether, never to be uttered again. Any relation or co-worker ... all will awake tomorrow without proof of your existence.”
Dr. Remington’s arms flexed. Brow creased. Voice cracked. “I-I applied for a research permit ... not a death sentence.”
Lips parted underneath the hood, revealing crooked, pearl teeth. The leader flipped through a digital tablet, projecting the pages of a report onto the wall for all to see. “Ah, yes. Your doctoral dissertation. Let’s discuss that, shall we?”
The professor huffed. Must I defend it ... again?
The speaker continued. “You assert that we, as a species, should take note from the ancient creation myths. You say that humanity is the root cause of all evil ... and, to save the planet, mankind would have to be eradicated ... just as the old flood myths profess.”
The professor nodded with a shrug as if the theory was nothing but sludge underneath a bridge of grubby academia. “It’s an old research paper,” he said. “Ancient texts, none of which are factually true ... as I’m sure we all know ... as good servants of the Order—”
“Others have stood in your place,” said a cloaked woman, prissy and erudite. “We’ve sent assassins, researchers, and professors across the ages to study, kill, and correct our heritage. As a result, men such as Nero, Hitler, and Stalin no longer exist in our timeline. In fact, they never did. You don’t even recognize their names. They’ve been erased. Corrected. Assassinated in their infancy for the betterment of human history.”
“But ... evil still lingers,” a greasy man to the left interjected. “We kill one warmonger ... three others arise. We end crimes against race and gender, yet there is still division and cruelty. No matter how we may choose to wipe the slate clean, human nature is always devising a way of destroying utopia.”
“We believe there must be another solution. A more drastic measure—”
“Hold on,” the professor said, upper lip curling. “I applied for time travel authorization years ago, back when I was writing my dissertation, but you rejected me five times. Why now? Why do you care?”
“You’re the world’s leading expert in ancient creation myths ... demonology. These areas are of great interest to the World Order.”
Dr. Remington’s arms crossed. “Archaic stories are just that ... fables. Unless you can plop me between the lines of a page,” the professor smirked, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
The League’s main speaker chuckled, and the other members followed suit. Their tone was cold and indifferent, like men and women dangling a mouse above a pit of cats, cooing and playing God.
“If you don’t think you can serve our cause,” a man at the edge of the semi-circle said, “there’s an answer for that too.”
An older member interrupted, his voice raspy and baritone. “You’re a military veteran. Skilled in combat. A scholar ... and a specialist in ancient mythologies. No relations or dependents.”
“Frankly,” said the woman, “you’ve developed into an ideal candidate.”
The main speaker, seated at the center of the semi-circle, seemed to frown from behind his cowl. “You’d be the only time trekker to witness the spark of humanity,” the leader said. “You’ve dreamed of this since you were a child, yes?”
Dr. Remington exhaled long and deep. Eyes narrowed.
“We know many things, Dr. Remington, no less the details of your life, rest confident. We’re prepared to send you on a monumental journey ... one which will test the veracity of your life’s work. You should be thrilled.”
The professor leaned in.
“You will be transported to the time of the first humanoids,” the woman said, “to discover if your dissertation is viable.”
The raspy baritone cleared his throat. “At first, we thought this knowledge could help avert the crisis we face ... environmental annihilation, genocide, wars ...”
“But now we have come to a greater understanding.” The leader paused, growing serious. “We can trace all evil, suffering, and planetary abuse back to the first bipeds ... the blot of sin on the DNA of Mother Earth.”
“If you succeed,” the woman said, “it will wipe the slate clean.”
Dr. Remington raised a hand, demanding a break in the flow of exposition. “Succeed?”
Black eyes leered from underneath the leader’s hood. His fish had nibbled. “We’re tasking you with a single objective ... to rid the Earth of its greatest parasite. To shatter the evolutionary tree. To kill the first human parents.
“It is a self-destructive solution, yes ... but by eliminating humanity as a species,” the leader continued in his monotone droll, as if the truth of his logic was something tired and gray without need for arbitration or debate, “we’d save our planet from ecological catastrophe and inevitable destruction. Think of all the suffering on the stained canvas of anthropological history. Then ... imagine it purged. Redeemed. The planet would be a paradise ... just as it was intended. Mother Nature ... the ravaged Earth we know today ... it would be untouched. Perfection.
“So, we ask again.” The League’s leader, grand and ominous, stood to full height. “What are you willing to sacrifice for the sake of the planet?”
WHEN DR. REMINGTON awoke, the jungle forest had faded into night, and the Winchester still sat across his chest. He’d fainted with his finger on the trigger, never having fired a bullet.
A pleasant wind rustled the tropical canopy. The T. rex had vanished. He patted his face and checked his bones. Nothing was broken or scratched. He was uneaten, untouched, and undigested—a bit of a letdown, in a way.
Why hadn’t he been devoured? Perhaps the predator had never savored human flesh and didn’t know the taste? Maybe the beast had had a full stomach at the time of their meeting, or ... could it be? No. That would be impossible.
Dr. Remington gathered himself and secured his position behind a thick tree trunk, checking his ammunition while planning his next move. Voices from his past life trickled through his subconscious.
“If the ancient creation myths are in any way truthful,” a colleague had once said, “it would revolutionize how we understand our past and our future.”
“If creation was factually probable,” another scholar had claimed, “it may serve our mission here, in the present.”
“With these new time travel capabilities, we could confirm the legitimacy of Scripture,” an opposing professor had asserted in a debate forum. “If we could prevent the fall of man ...”
Has death not yet entered this world? Is that why I’m yet uneaten?
No. Evolutionary theory ... the experts ... his life’s work ... it was all accurate. Dinosaurs and man did not live together. It had to be a mistake. He’d been sent back too far into the past. Even so, man’s early ancestors would be ripe for an evolutionary leap. He could still complete his mission.
With the rifle in hand, Dr. Remington crept through the jungle undergrowth until he reached a clearing in the forest awning. Millions of stars decorated the night sky, clearer than any evening tapestry he’d witnessed in his life. A young moon, plump and silver, illuminated the rolling landscape, lush and abundant.
This was paradise. With the pull of a trigger, the planet would remain this way ... forever.
Three
HE FOUND TRACKS AT dusk—biped footprints, maybe ten inches in length. Five toes with a heel made an indentation in the tender soil. He followed them into the garden between the rivers.
Grandfather had trained him to track game and had been the person to instruct him in the ways of Winchester shooting. The elder Remington had taught Wade the love of books and study, showed him the brilliance of imagination, and had been his tutor throughout his early school years. The old man had also stirred within a young Wade Remington the fascination of archaeology and the mystery of ancient texts.
The professor smiled to himself, wondering what Jasper Remington, his grandfather, would think of his mission in the prehistoric past, hunting the root of man’s archetypal subconscious. The first parents, beings of which his grandfather speculated, debated, and spent his entire life studying.
Their tracks led below the cliff and through the lower basin, into the heart of the garden between the rivers. If only the elder were here with him now.
Perhaps time had no structure or rails. What if it was it was malleable like a fog, allowing new methods of perspective whenever it lifted? Would Dr. Remington’s memories dissipate when the deed was done? Would his grandfather’s teachings linger in his brain, or would they fade into the ether, never to be remembered by any living being beyond the cosmos?
Dr. Remington pushed these worries from his mind as he crept through the thick grass, slowly ascending a ridge above the orchard’s center. A pleasant wind rustled the undergrowth as he emerged from the field and wedged himself against a rock outcropping, surveying the valley below. Trees of all kinds, sizes, and species arrayed the teeming vista. Thick trunks led to fruitful boughs and flowered leaves. It
was perpetual spring in the early age of man, the root of Mother Earth’s demise.
Dr. Remington coughed, sore and raspy, cursing the League for sending him on such a mission without a few cigarettes. Nausea seeped up from his stomach and laced the edges of his throat. Palms turned moist, and sweat dripped. Arms ached while holding the gun, tiring under its sudden heaviness. A millennium of mankind’s memories, heartache, and triumph descended upon his shoulders, tightening his neck and bending his back. Dr. Remington rubbed the sides of his skull with eyes shut and lips pursed. I’d kill for a cigarette.
“Got a light?”
Dr. Remington whirled about-face, gun pointing, heart racing. Who? What? He was hearing things. That was all.
Then, he smelled it. Something burned. Its odor sliced through the perfumed air like a buzz saw. Foreign and unnatural, it was a scent that wouldn’t occur in this part of the world for hundreds of thousands of years. It was the musk of his grandfather’s workbench and the aroma of the bar where he’d had his first kiss. Dr. Remington inhaled. Eyes dilated and breathing quickened. If this was a hallucination, it was the truest and most surreal thing he’d ever experienced. Someone, or something, was smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, you got a light, or what?”
The voice returned, stronger this time, fuller and more vivid. Twenty feet to his right, thick grass quaked as a form moved toward him. Dr. Remington readied the rifle, aiming at whatever creature it was that approached. The Tyrannosaurus had been the lone dinosaur he’d spotted, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others capable of demolishing him like Velociraptor, Majungasaurus, and Allosaurus—or his ex-mother-in-law.
When the brush parted, no reptilian beast nor any savage stood before him. Dr. Remington lowered the gun. It had to be a delusion.
Grandpa Jasper Remington stood before him, a younger version of himself, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke from his nostrils and holding the coveted item between his forefingers. Robes of white adorned his body while a wrinkle-free face sucked in another drag. Blue eyes pierced his own with a youthful leer.