by A.R. Rivera
Scream To Breathe
Elijah Thacker was just an old buddy from High School. I’d almost forgotten he existed until my dad sent me to him. Since then, he’s become a great help. My only help, really.
He’s been using some of the lab equipment at Cal-Tech University, where he works, to run air quality tests, checking for unusual levels of radiation or “diverse frequencies in atomic energy”—whatever the hell that means. He says there aren’t any new reports of sudden electrical storms—which is what the local media called the first accident that sent me to 1996.
The news reports declared the diesel fuel truck had been struck by lightning during a freak electrical storm. This supposed storm knocked out the power for three square miles. So when the traffic lights went out, the diesel truck hit the city bus that me, and about fifty other people were riding in. The impact set us all ablaze, they said.
The truth, though, is that the energy flowing through that intersection was miraculously absorbed—and according to Eli—amplified or changed into something he called dark energy that opened a wormhole to another dimension (or took us back in time).
If the stones need energy to start with, maybe that means they don’t produce it on their own.
The Fresno news station that reported on our accidental experiment in Ivanhoe called it “a freak tornado.” Freak is right, but I’ve never heard of a tornado roaming the hills. And this particular funnel cloud didn’t come from the sky. It was composed of blue smoke and fire. It grew from the ground up, not the other way around. Tornado it was not though I see why everyone would think that. The symbolic cone shape means tornado.
Educated Eli called that thing was a phenomenon. A vortex. A gateway that moved yet remained stationary. It pushed away everything that wasn’t nailed down and set fire to everything that was.
It’s still a little tough to believe that I rode that thing round-trip. The aftermath of the first ride, though, it changed my life; left me devastated.
Eli found aerial photos of the first bus accident on the internet. The burning gateway left a trail of fire the way a slug leaves a trail of slime. That tornado-like bridge absorbed all that energy and left its’ mark in the form of a crater in the concrete intersection; a genuine crater that sunk the entire juncture. Eli said it took the city weeks to fix it. The diesel that nearly ran me down, it didn’t explode. Well, it went “boom” but, it imploded. The long diesel tank on the back was crumpled to nearly half its size as if the metal were tin foil stomped by a giant shoe.
The two remaining pieces of the bus were separate but mostly intact and most of the passengers were alright. Physically, at least. Eli said there was no mention of radiation poisoning in any of the information he came across but he’s sure that everyone was exposed.
He read that the police found my wallet at the scene just like Abi said, but eyewitnesses reported they saw me and a bearded man burned to a crisp—vaporized to a powder that blew away with the breeze.
Outright lies. I don’t understand how a nation of free and, for the most part, intelligent people can be spoon-fed lies by the media and not a single witness raises the alarm?
And if I’m supposed to be dead, then how come they’ve got Homeland Security looking for me?
Any member of the public that’s half-way paying attention should realize it makes no sense.
At least the event hasn’t happened again. Not since I got back, anyway. We hope that means that no other gateways have been triggered, because if they haven’t, then Daemon is still here and if he is, then he’s not hunting my family in 1996.
I hope that he’s close by, that he knows where I am and he’s waiting to take another crack at me. I can’t wait to get my hands around his neck and watch the light drift from his eyes. I’m already in hell I may as well make one, final societal contribution by getting rid of him. It may not change anything but it’ll make me feel better knowing he’s dead. My sister, father, and countless others aren’t breathing because of Daemon. Why should he be allowed the luxury of another breath?
Eli thinks I should begin with gathering the duplicate stones because Daemon is trying to collect them. Wherever the stones are, he’s most likely to turn up. Possessing the thing he wants most also increases the odds of him finding me, so, of course, I’m all for it.
Not that revenge is my only incentive. Part of me wants to ensure the stability of the timeline, or known and unknown dimensions, too, but I’d be lying if I said retribution wasn’t the primary motivating factor. I may not know exactly what I’m doing, but my father believed I could do it. His faith in me is going to have to be enough.
“What would you do if you weren’t scared?” My dad often asked the question. Whether I was playing monopoly or football—that was the one question that determined my next move.
That line alone was what made me quit school to pursue music. Maybe that didn’t turn out so well, but Dad was right. I would have regretted never trying.
Eli has been searching for the origins of the stones, for any history related to the relics but he hasn’t found anything outside of the papers my father left. I don’t think he expects to, either. As he said, secrets of this magnitude are kept by dead men.
Another source of frustration—I’m stuck here, doing nothing while potentially everything is on the line. If Eli’s right, every single dimension, or timeline or whatever, could be on the verge of collapse because of these rocks. Daemon’s unmarked use is wreaking havoc on the “fragile balance of the universe,” and I can’t help search for possible solutions because I can’t leave this house.
Half of the free world has seen my face on the news. According to The Department of Homeland Security, in cooperation with Interpol, the FBI, and Los Angeles County Sheriffs and LAPD, I am, not one of, but the most wanted man on the planet.
They’ve made finding me priority one. Called me a hostile, domestic terrorist. They say I’m a member of a sleeper cell embedded within the United States that’s found its way into the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles. Border Patrol’s on high alert. House to house searches are being conducted in my old neighborhood. Anyone unlucky enough to resemble me is getting pulled over and searched.
I can’t go in the back yard. I’m not allowed to talk unless absolutely necessary. When I do, I have to whisper unless the television is on—which isn’t often because the residual noise makes it hard for Eli to concentrate.
I’m not allowed to speak at full volume or walk around in the daytime. I have to crawl through the house in the dark and duck under the window sills.
I can’t fart unless Eli’s home to take the blame.
Inside one of my dad’s notebooks, he wrote that I should sharpen my survival skills. I’m already somewhat knowledgeable in the art of roughing it, so I’m not sure why. Maybe he knew I’d need the distraction.
It’s nice, though, remembering how Dad and I used to go camping for a few weeks every summer. Once we camped for the whole summer. Dad said we weren’t technically homeless, only filling the gap between apartments. At the time, he was looking for work and put me in charge of cooking. I learned a lot about how to find edible plants and a half dozen uses for an empty can.
Since it helps to pass the time, I’ve read about thirty different ways to build a shelter and assemble a tent. The problem is I can’t actually build one or practice setting up the one Eli has because—again—I’m not allowed outside. Same goes for starting fires (even though I am taking matches). Today I spent a few hours with a length of rope working on various types of knots. I make a mean noose.
My feet kick at the wadded blanket.
I can’t keep losing sleep; I’m leaving in a few hours. I need to shelve these frustrations, to file them away with my other, less virtuous inclinations until I find a way to deal without drinking.
I lay my head against the unforgiving arm, stretching my stiff back and legs. Finally, the pain in my stomach is beginning to ebb. Now, if I could only
do something about my chest and head, maybe I could manage some rest.
How long has it been since I stood in the small bathroom talking with my father? I was gone for three weeks—even though I marked two months in 1996. When I got back, I spent almost two weeks recovering from that nifty gunshot and then everything with my dad happened, and me cutting from the hospital, ditching my car, and sacrificing Abi. Any calendar would argue that it’s only been forty-five days, but it feels like years.
“If I knew you were just going to brood, I would have stayed up with you.” Eli’s whisper carries across the hardwood, echoing though he’s speaking softly.
“Sure you would’ve,” I whisper back, sitting up again.
He sits on the far end of the sofa with arms folded over his chest, tucking in his hands. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Which means, not at all but what have I got to lose?
“Are you sure you want to go alone?”
“What good would it do if we both disappear? And let’s face it; Homeland Security would take the threat of interplanetary destruction a lot more serious if it came from a credible source.”
“Interdimensional,” he corrects.
“Right here, with all your resources is where you will make the difference.”
Eli nods, and though he has asked me about coming along several times, he doesn’t look disappointed when I refuse.
“We should go over the plan one more time.”
“If I haven’t learned by the fiftieth run-through, I never will.”
“Knowledge is your first line of defense, remember?” He asks, repeating my dad’s words. “Now, tomorrow, as soon as you get to World Two, what are you going to do?”
“Measure the time differential.”
“Good. Then, what?”
“Stash the stones somewhere isolated.” Can’t risk them being on me if something happens.
“Next?”
“I find my fam-” I stop and start again, “I find the family over there and see them to a secure location.”
“How?” He leans forward.
“Escort them to a place of their choosing and keeping an eye out for possible danger.”
“It is imperative that they choose the location. What do you do if you see Daemon?”
This is the part I strongly disagree with but give the answer he expects to save myself the trouble sitting through another lecture on the virtues of forgiveness and the seeing the bigger picture.
“I see everyone to safety, first. If he’s still around, I kick his ass, take what he’s got and leave him there. Alive.”
He nods. “Now, tell me what you’re actually going to do.”
“Kill him in the most painful way I can think of, maybe use my bare hands. Take the stones and leave his carcass to rot in the street.”
“More honest than I expected.” He muses. “But you know, you might consider—”
“Everyone is safe as long as Daemon is engaged with me. He started all of this. It stops when he does.”
“And you’re just the one to stop him? The judge and jury?”
“Damn right,” I assert.
“You are over simplifying—”
“And you’re complicating it,” My protest comes out at normal volume. Compared to the sound of our practiced whispers, it sounds like yelling. I take a deep breath and temper my tone.
“One thing at a time. I’m either making sure the family is safe or taking care of Daemon. In this case, they’re the same because when he’s dead, there’s no reason to gather any more rocks, either. They can stay buried. When he’s gone, so are my problems.”
“What about the safety word? We haven’t chosen one yet.”
“‘Frustrating’ is the perfect word.”
Eli’s dark beard and mustache cage his wry smile. “It has to be unusual, something you or I would never come up with on our own for the best odds.”
His faces lights and he lunges, disappearing into the black hall and leaving me alone to stare at the empty living room. A second later, he’s back with a pad of paper and pen.
“I opened the dictionary and jotted down the first word I saw. Macaroni is the safe word. Memorize it.”
He stretches out his hand, offering me the pad and pen. “If there’s anything you want to say to anyone, I’ll see that the letters get delivered. You know, in case….”
“In case I don’t come back.”
The possibility should scare me, but I don’t care about anything right now.
“Here’s a flashlight.” Eli holds a small led light fit for a key ring. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He drops everything on the cushion beside me and walks down the narrow hall to his office.
The safe word stares up at me from the first page.
Macaroni.