And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  Mary went to the bathroom as instructed. “What about you guys?”

  “Just hide,” Ethan said. “They’re only after us.” Ethan withdrew his firearm and clicked off the safety as Mary slipped into the shadows of the darkened bathroom, taking cover behind the door.

  Reaching into his own pocket, Blake pulled out a greenish-grey object. It was similar in size to a dime and almost as thin.

  Now screams were coming from the hall as the alarm level escalated with the sound of approaching gunfire.

  “Quick, put your thumb against the face of the watch. After the scan is done, press the top left prong, then the bottom left.”

  Ethan seemed confused, but did as he was ordered. His left thumb covered the face of the watch and from around the edges of his skin, a bright blue light scanned downwards. When the beep sounded, he removed his thumb. His face lit up with comprehension, and Blake could guess why. Ethan had spent a lot of time these past couple days trying to figure out the mystery of the timepiece. He would never have thought to try something like this.

  He followed the rest of the instructions he’d been given, and the bottom of the watch opened up, revealing strange circuitry.

  “Put this inside and then close it.” Blake handed Ethan the item he’d pulled from his pocket.

  Ethan re-holstered his weapon and took the small object from Blake, then slid it inside the opening. “How do I close it?”

  “Manually. Hand it over when you’re done.”

  Ethan snapped the back panel shut and gave the watch to Blake.

  More screams were heard, and the gunfire sounded closer now. Footsteps echoed as people ran for the nearest exit. Cindy rushed by, pushing a wheelchair bearing a sickly old man. She looked terrified; the patient looked too stunned to register panic.

  “Shut and lock the door,” Blake said. “It’ll buy us time.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.” Blake placed the watch on the forearm of his missing limb. The curly barbs bit into his skin, making a snapping sound that was barely audible over the storming in the corridor.

  Ethan winced at the puncture wounds inflicted by the device, but Blake barely reacted. He checked the watch to make sure it was working properly. As he’d anticipated, the words ‘ANALYZING DNA SEQUENCE’ appeared on the watch face. “Okay, stay behind me.”

  “I’m the one with the gun,” Ethan said, pulling his firearm out again.

  “We don’t have time for a pissing contest,” Blake growled. “They’re clearing every level.”

  He could hear the gunfire closing in on them. Screams from the other floors reverberated down the hall as the stairway doors opened and closed. After more bursts of gunfire, they were silenced. The Russians were killing everyone in their path.

  What have I done? He should have never tried to change anything. Dying in the past in a never-ending cycle now seemed like the better option, but that choice was no longer on the table.

  “They’re in the hall,” Ethan said in a low voice. He trained his gun on the door in anticipation of the breach that was sure to come.

  “Back away, give me some room.” Blake said.

  “Room for what?”

  “We’re going down.”

  “Down?” Ethan yelled. “We’re stuck in this room in case you haven’t noticed and that’s the only way out!” He pointed to the door but heeded Blake’s order and moved several feet away.

  Blake raised the watch to get a clear look at the screen. He pressed a knob and saw the series of numbers displayed on the face – numbers he’d already committed to memory as a failsafe. He touched another prong, and the letters LOC1 flashed in vivid blue.

  Here goes. He drew in a breath. Then he pressed the next button and waited for the experiment in Amhurst’s lab to play out again, with him in the role of Snow and White this time.

  Well, hopefully not Snow …

  Ethan stared at Blake, mouth open, eyes wide, as the air crackled with static, a loud WHOOSH swept the room, and the floor began to tremble. Before his brain could even begin to process what was happening, Blake disappeared, taking a chunk of the tiled floor with him and leaving a gaping hole behind. Ethan saw an empty patient room below, the bed littered with falling debris, but only for a fraction of a second.

  In an instant, Blake was back again, bringing another explosive sound and the missing chunk of floor with him. The returning mass of concrete, steel, and tile had been torn to shreds and was raining through the large hole in the room, along with Blake. He hunched down, steadying himself on the slab as it plunged to the level below.

  The door to the bathroom opened, and Mary peered out, frightened by what she’d just heard. Ethan waved her back inside and she moved out of sight again.

  A shotgun blast exploded down the hall, then more screaming, followed by another concussive shot and the scream came to an abrupt end. After several seconds, there was the sound of a gun begin cocked and then another round was fired. The door to the room burst open. The area where the knob had been was completely gone.

  Ethan plugged off a few wild shots without looking and ran to the newly formed hole. He dropped into a slide and went downwards as he crossed the lip of the opening, landing ungracefully on the slab below.

  Blake was already on his way to the door of the lower room. “Come on!” he yelled back to Ethan, who scrambled to his feet, hoping he hadn’t broken or sprained anything. He hadn’t. He sprinted after Blake and they both rocketed into the hallway.

  The level of panic on this floor was the same as the one above. There were shouts and sobs as patrons, nurses, and doctors alike huddled in corners and behind desks for safety.

  A door at the end of the corridor opened. What had to be a Russian soldier or militant strode in, wearing a thick grey armored suit from top to toe, a gas mask, and a hood pulled over his head. Insignias decorated the man’s uniform, none of which Ethan recognized.

  The only thing Ethan did comprehend about the shape lumbering toward them was that they were seriously outgunned.

  Blake shoulder charged head-on, running straight for the Russian.

  Ethan screamed, “What the fuck are you doing?” He raised his gun, but Blake was in the way and he couldn’t take the shot.

  The Russian brought his shotgun barrel up just as Blake collided into him. Together, they stumbled back a few steps and then the ear-splitting thunder crack erupted again, bringing with it a rush of wind, and an electric sting to the air.

  Ethan stood and watched in fascination as the disappearing act played out again – this time, accompanied by a blood curdling half-scream, and then the scream itself seemed to spiral into the void with Blake as he vanished.

  “Blake!” Ethan yelled.

  The name had barely left Ethan’s lips when Blake returned, the Russian’s scream coming back with him. It was similar to the first time Ethan had witnessed the event, except this time, instead of just the floor being torn apart, so was a portion of the wall – and the Russian.

  Bloody body parts cascaded to the ground. The Russian warrior was missing three-quarters of his face, and his chest cavity had been ripped apart like a crude open heart surgery. Intestines and other glistening, wet organs fell with a squishy plop. Both of the man’s arms had been torn from the body and one leg had been seared off into three sections. The thigh was still connected to the torso, but the kneecap and calf had been ejected to the right, and the booted foot spun across the tile in another direction. All broken parts were gushing blood.

  Blake came to his feet, pushing the other half of the now dead Russian’s chest away. He slipped in the puddles of blood as he stood, grabbing the handrail to secure his footing. He picked up the dead Russian’s shotgun, but then flung it back down in anger. The firearm clanked against the floor as if underscoring his frustration. The weapon had been cut in half.

  “To the elevator,” Blake said.

  “Why not the stairs?”

  Blake pointed down the hall. “Because the stairs
are that way and they’re coming from that way.”

  Ethan looked back and saw the stairwell door ajar. Several men were already flooding in. They wore uniforms like the dead Russian. He looked back at the room they’d just come from and saw more troops dropping from the hole Blake had made in the ceiling.

  They dashed for the elevators, the noise of their footfalls outscored by the sound of automatic rifles and shotgun blasts. Bullets pinged against the walls and medical equipment that lined the hall. A defibrillator exploded into a shower of sparks as they rounded the corner. The drumbeat of running feet could be heard racing after them.

  Then they came to the elevator doors and Blake pressed the call button. “Buy us some time.”

  Ethan glanced around for something to use. He spotted an abandoned stretcher and pulled it to him, flipping it over to provide cover.

  Two Russians came around the corner. Ethan got off four rounds, hitting one of them in the face through his mask. The other jerked back behind the wall.

  “Come on, come on – hurry your ass up!” Blake urged the lift. “They’re going to flank us.”

  “I know they’re going to flank us!” Ethan snapped.

  “They’re coming around.”

  On the unprotected side, more armed men were rounding the corner.

  “I fuckin’ see that!”

  Something ricocheted off the wall, but it wasn’t a bullet. It made a KACHUNK sound, and a cylindrical object bounced into view.

  Ethan and Blake locked eyes on the object. It must have been weighted on one side because it wobbled and then balanced upright. There was a silver cap on the top with five tube-like prongs half an inch in length sticking out. Grayish-white smoke jetted from each tube in a fizzle of compressed air.

  “Gas – cover your mouth!” Blake ordered.

  That explains the masks. Ethan threw an arm over his nose and mouth. “No shit! Do you have to give a play-by-play of everything?” he said, his sarcasm muffled through the material of his coat sleeve.

  Blake covered his own mouth and nose, for what good it would do. If it was tear gas, their eyes were about to be rendered useless.

  A ding sounded. A godsend. The doors squealed open.

  “Get in!” Blake hollered and Ethan dove inside.

  A blast of fresh gunfire erupted, and Blake rolled sideways to avoid the bullets. He felt a round fly past his ear. Another pierced his thigh. “Shit!” he bellowed, clutching at his injured leg.

  A hand snatched the neck of his jacket and pulled him into the elevator. As soon as his body cleared the doors, Blake pounded on the ‘CLOSE DOOR’ button, his mind screaming, Close door! Close door! Close door!

  It finally closed and then everything went dark. “They must have cut the power,” Ethan said. Then the emergency lights came on. They were safe for now, but they weren’t going anywhere in this death trap; the respite would be short lived.

  Both men were breathing in ragged gasps. They wiped their eyes with the insides of their shirts. Blake had a brief fit of coughing. When it passed, he said, “Okay, now we go up.”

  “Up?” Ethan’s red-rimmed eyes widened. “We need to get down and out of here!”

  “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

  “Well, that’s a big fucking relief. ‘Cause for a second there I thought you didn’t have a plan.”

  “Quit your bitching.” Blake gripped his injured leg and grimaced. “How many more rounds do you have?”

  “I don’t know. Four, maybe five.”

  “Is it four or five?”

  “I don’t know! I kinda lost count when I saw a body explode right before my eyes.” The caustic tone of Ethan’s voice belied the look on his face. He was clearly rattled.

  “Stop whining and open the hatch. They’re going to pry the door any minute.” Blake used the support rails to pull himself to his feet and tested his weight on the injured leg. The pain was manageable; he’d been through worse. He supported himself against the wall and beckoned Ethan to climb up.

  Ethan hoisted himself onto Blake’s back and popped the ceiling hatch off. Then he grabbed the edges of the opening and hauled himself in. When he got into position he reached down for Blake.

  This was trickier. The absence of an extra arm made Blake’s ascent cumbersome and for a brief, panicked moment, he thought this might not work. But he managed to find purchase on the wall rails with his feet and Ethan was able to haul him the rest of the way.

  While Ethan closed the hatch door, Blake glanced around, and saw what he was looking for. “There,” he said, pointing to a wall ladder on their left. “We’ll go up two floors; they shouldn’t expect us to head that way.”

  They began to climb, Ethan in the lead. He made the journey faster than Blake, who had to crook his elbow onto each rung before hauling himself to the next. His wounded leg burned from the exertion.

  Shouts in Russian filtered up from the elevator car. “They’re almost in,” Blake said, urging Ethan to move faster.

  When they got to the sixth floor, Ethan climbed around carefully to the doorway side. He was sure-footed and made it there safely. Once in position, he began prying the doors apart. After a few moments, it seemed he was making no progress; each passing second felt like an eternity.

  “Hurry up!” Blake said.

  “It’s not as easy as it looks, pal,” Ethan grunted between breaths.

  Finally, the doors began to give way enough for Ethan to put the whole force of his shoulders and legs behind the push. When he had enough room to squeeze through, he turned around. “Come on, get over here.”

  From below, the elevator car’s hatch popped open, and Blake saw at least five Russians inside the box. “Shoot the cable – we can take them all out at once.”

  Ethan aimed at the cable and fired until his clip was empty. The blasts bounced off the walls, and Blake’s ears began to ring. Only two shots hit the mark; one glanced harmlessly off the thick cord, the other made direct contact but yielded no result.

  “Well, that didn’t work. What about that plan you had?” Ethan said.

  “That was the plan!” Admittedly not the best he’d come up with, but he wasn’t about to say that to Ethan.

  “What? Are you kidding me?”

  Blake glanced down. One of the Russians was climbing through the hatch. Shit!

  “Okay – I’m going to jump,” Blake said. “You need to catch me.”

  Ethan looked like he wanted to argue, but he stowed his gun and held out his arms, bracing his legs for the catch.

  Blake hooked his stump around the ladder so he could tap commands on the watch and mentally calculated how to make the jump.

  He looked down again. The first Russian was standing on the top of the elevator car, raising his gun. A second was now emerging through the hatch.

  Blake sprang forward. As his body passed the support cable of the elevator, he tapped the teleporting prong of his watch. Again he disappeared in a rush of air and a thunderous crack. Then he was back again, still soaring through the air, arms outstretched. Ethan almost missed catching him, having lost visual on his target in midair for that split second. Somehow he managed to grab Blake’s wrist with one hand and grip his jacket with the other, pulling him to safety.

  A screeching noise blared from below. Blake looked down and saw that his plan had worked. The elevator careened down the shaft, carrying the Russian soldiers with it.

  59 A Lifeless Orderly

  April 23, 1986, 11:15 AM

  Petrov Zolner sauntered down the hallway, his gas mask hanging from his hip and bouncing off his thigh with each step. He stopped to chisel another slanted gash into the barrel of his rifle.

  Twenty-eight.

  Killing had always been easy for Petrov. He’d been personally groomed by Der Attentäter, but he had a feeling that he enjoyed taking life more than his teacher. There was something almost romantic about being up close to his victim, watching the life drain from their eyes. It was always his preference to torture befor
e the kill. When they lingered, fighting the clutches of death, the experience was even sweeter.

  This time, orders were different. Playing with his prey wouldn’t be tolerated, but he hadn’t been told he couldn’t have a little fun along the way. He’d been instructed to lead the men in and out of the hospital, but that wasn’t his way. He cared little about giving orders; Petrov worked alone.

  The metal taps on the heels of his boots clicked on the tile floor, a dead giveaway to his position, but a noise he savored. Like a clock ticking down. A white-coated doctor heard him coming and dashed out from his hiding spot, running down the corridor. He’d give the man three seconds. The time would be measured by three CLICKS.

  One. Zolner’s slow, rhythmic step rang down the dark hallway. He’d always thought the clinking of his boots made such an ominous sound as he walked, and he reveled in the knowledge that it petrified his victims.

  Two. Even now, as the doctor sprinted for safety, Zolner knew the sound of his approach sent fear running through the man’s body.

  Three. He brought up his rifle in a fluid motion and released a single shot. The man gave a strangled cry and crumpled, skidding against the surface of the floor. The screech of flesh dragging against tile echoed in the hall as his body slid to a halt.

  Zolner didn’t get his knife to add another notch into the barrel. Not yet. This man wasn’t dead. He hadn’t planned on a kill shot. His aim had been purposefully low, striking the man in the back. The thought that he might have paralyzed the doctor made his smile widen.

  The clicking of his boots rebounded off the pale walls as he approached the fallen man. He was pulling himself along the ground, a red trail of blood standing out against the white floor behind him like a streaking comet in a dark sky.

  Zolner tapped his foot against the wound in the man’s back, and the doctor let out a scream. In answer, Zolner kicked him onto his back and squatted down to get a closer look at the next tally mark on his gun.

  “Do you have wife?” Zolner asked, eyeing the man as he spoke. His thick, harsh accent butchered each word he spoke