Destroyer (Rewinder #2)

by Brett Battles

  I start going through the screens again, slower this time and with an eye to what functions might be needed to create a makeshift chaser detector. The answer has to be here somewhere; it just has to—

  Jump.

  My arrival at our new destination isn’t greeted by the safety of night but by bright sunlight. Worse, there is noise everywhere. Engines and horns and voices.

  As soon as I fully materialize, a shriek fills the air only a few feet away from me, and is quickly joined by several others. Without even thinking, I close the chaser’s lid as I look around. I’m in the middle of a busy sidewalk. The first scream came from a woman who had been about to walk through the space I now inhabit. She has witnessed my arrival, but she’s not the only one, and I’m quickly surrounded by a circle of fearful stares and shouts.

  A man hollers a question at me. At least I think it’s a question. I don’t understand him. He’s not speaking English. It sounds like—

  Another yell, this from someone outside the circle trying to push through.

  —German, I realize.

  The crowd parts for a man in a uniform. Around his arm is a red band with a white circle containing the black symbol I recognize from research I’ve done on Iffy’s world. In light of the book Lidia showed me, I guess it should be no surprise that we’re in Nazi Germany, either in the period known as World War II or the years just before it. A glance at my chaser would tell me for sure, but I can’t open the box and reveal what’s inside with all these people focused on me.

  The uniformed man starts to ask me a question, but the woman who almost ran into me cuts him off and begins talking rapidly in what I’m sure is a detailed description of how I appeared out of nowhere.

  Even if the officer doesn’t believe her, I must assume he’ll still take me in, and likely separate me from my chaser. Being detained is not an option. I must stay free. So while his attention is momentarily on the woman, I lunge through a narrow gap in the crowd.

  A few of the bystanders try to grab me, but most jerk away as if I’m diseased. Those that do get a hand on me are easy enough to shake off, and soon I’m in the street running for my life.

  There are several shouts behind me, but I keep my focus on my path ahead, and cut through the traffic, then duck into the crowd moving along the opposite sidewalk.

  The shouts continue as I push through the crush of pedestrians, and soon the voices are joined by the shrill blast of a whistle.

  I turn down the first street I come to. It’s at least as crowded, if not more so, but instead of forcing my way through, I slow my pace a little so that I can blend in more and not draw as much attention. Unfortunately, it’s not working, as many of those I pass still look me up and down.

  My clothes. Most of the men here are wearing button-down shirts and slacks or uniforms. My bloodstained jeans and dark T-shirt must make me look like I’ve escaped from some kind of hospital.

  I hear the whistle again, but it’s farther behind me now, and sounds as if whoever is blowing it—the officer, I assume—is still on the street where I originally arrived. Whether he is or not, I can’t afford to ease up, so at the next street I turn right.

  Every few blocks after this, I randomly change directions again. I have long stopped hearing the whistle when I reach a park and finally allow myself to rest on an empty bench among several trees and bushes. In the grassy area at the other side of the park, several women are gathered together watching their children play. Except for an older couple walking down the stone path, there is no one near me.

  When the beat of my heart starts to slow, I look at the chaser. The date is July 23, 1939. I’m still not sure if that’s before any fighting has begun. I just know it’s a few years prior to when the United States will join the war.

  So what is Lidia doing here? Killing their leader?

  I think for a moment. Hitler. The guy with the small mustache.

  From all the accounts I’ve read, ridding the world of him would be a great thing. Though that would definitely change history, in Lidia’s current state, I can’t see her doing something that might improve the time line. So what then?

  My mind explodes with dozens of different possibilities, all of them equally horrendous, but there’s no way for me to really know the answer right now. I tell myself I need to focus on what is in my control and note as much about this reality as possible so that once I do figure out what she’s done, I’ll have a familiarity with this time that will help me when I come back and fix things.

  I check my chaser for location information, and discover we are in the city of Berlin—the capital of Germany in both this time line and mine.

  I close my eyes and try to remember what I’ve read about this era, but it’s really only been overviews, with little specific information about Berlin, other than this is where Hitler ruled from. The little I know continues coming back to me in dribs and drabs. If I’m remembering correctly, at this point Hitler has been in power for several years, and has basically turned the country into a military state.

  As my eyes open again, my gaze falls on my bloodstained pants. I’m in need of another change of clothes, and it would be best to do it soon for my own safety. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going to find any washing machines sitting outside like I did in Lone Pine.

  I look beyond the park, wondering where people of 1939 Berlin buy their clothes. Not that I have any money, but it will be easier to take from a business than to break into someone’s home.

  Stone buildings surround the park. Perhaps there’s a store in one of them I can sneak into. I scan the area to make sure there are no military or police around and then head off in search of a new outfit.

  I discover a handful of clothing stores and two tailor shops down a side street four blocks away. Unfortunately, one of the tailor shops is locked up tight, while the other shop and the clothing stores all have several customers inside. Fewer people will give me a better chance of getting away.

  I slip into an alley with the intention of waiting until one of stores is less busy, but then I spot something white fluttering from a back window three floors above me. A shirt. I scan the rest of the building and spot hanging in a higher apartment window several dresses and a couple pairs of pants. There are other windows where clothes are drying, but these two straddle either side of an iron fire escape that runs up the back of the building, making them much easier to reach.

  I loathe the idea of stealing from another residence, but this is an opportunity I can’t pass up.

  After tucking my shirt in and sticking my chaser inside it so I can use both hands, I maneuver an empty barrel below the fire escape and use it to reach the ladder sticking down from the second-floor landing.

  My leg throbs as I jump up to grab the lowest rung. I need to attend to my wound soon. If it becomes infected, it could derail what I need to do. It’s a problem for later, though.

  I head up to the third-floor landing, making as little noise as possible. The metal structure isn’t designed to be silent, though, and the best I can manage is to minimize the intensity of the clanking. Every few steps, I glance over at the building across the alley, convinced that I’ll see someone staring out a window at me, but so far my presence has gone unnoted.

  I move to the railing along the right-hand edge of the third-floor landing. The window I’m interested in is three feet away, and the shirt one foot farther. I lean out over the rail, stretching my arm as far as I can. My fingers touch the shoulder of the shirt, but I’m unable to grab on to the material.

  Propping myself on my good leg, I raise my bad one higher. This helps me to extend my length by a few more inches, and I’m able to clamp my thumb and first two fingers over the shirt and give it a pull. It easily slips from the nearest wooden clip holding it to the wire across the window. The other clip, though, isn’t so eager to give up. When I give the shirt a hard yank, the clip pops off the shirt and flies into the air.

  I curse to myself. If the clip falls inside the hous
e, I’ll be discovered. But instead of flipping through the window, it hits the stone outside it and then tumbles through the air to the alley below.

  Careful not to let my new possession touch my bloody pants, I pull myself back onto the landing, then head up one more floor. The window the pants hang in is closer to the fire escape, and the pants should be easier to obtain than the shirt. As I reach for them, though, I hear a shout behind me.

  A woman is leaning through a window of the opposite building, pointing at me. She continues to yell at me in German, and though I can’t understand her words, I get the meaning well enough. More people look through their windows, and a few join in with shouts of their own. I see a man on a lower floor duck back inside, and I’m sure he’ll be in the alley in moments.

  I reach for the pants, intending to grab them and then make my way up to the roof. There should be another way down, which will allow me to avoid those who’ve already spotted me. But as I’m pulling the pants free from their clips, a hand reaches out and grabs my wrist. It’s old and small, but squeezes tight like a vise. I hear a door open down below, and see the man who’d been looking out his window rush into the alley.

  I give my arm a yank, but the hand does not let go. Realizing that my best option is no longer to go up, I swing one leg over the rail that surrounds the landing and then the other leg, and jump through the window into the apartment.

  The old woman who’d grabbed my wrist stumbles backward, but she quickly gets over whatever shock she may have had and starts talking loudly at me in what I’m sure is some kind of lecture about the flaws of my character.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as I scan for the door.

  The apartment is stuffed with furniture that’s even older than the woman. On the walls are a few dusty paintings and some framed photographs.

  The woman steps toward me again and tries to grab the pants away. I can’t help but feel like a complete jerk as I move them out of her reach, but it’s not like she’ll understand me if I tell her that I need the pants so I can save the world as she knows it.

  The only exits from the room are on either side, open doorways to elsewhere in the apartment. I move toward the one on my right, hoping it will lead to the way out, but I find myself in a bedroom. There’s an old man on the bed, sleeping. These, I think, must be his pants, and I feel even worse.

  The woman comes in behind me. She’s still berating me, but her tone is now a harsh whisper.

  “Excuse me,” I say as I push past her back out of the room.

  I hurry over to the doorway on the left. It leads into a small kitchen and dining area, but more importantly, there’s a door that looks like a main entrance.

  I glance back into the other room and see the woman walking toward me as fast as she can. I wish there was something I could leave for her to pay for what I’m taking. But I have nothing of value, and all I can do is say, “I really am sorry.”

  I pull open the door and enter a long dark hallway. There seem to be exits at either end. I go left and limp-run past a handful of other doors by the time the woman enters the hallway and yells after me. I worry that her neighbors will rush out to help her, but it’s not until I reach the end of the hall that I hear the first door open somewhere behind me.

  Stairs lead both up and down. I head to ground level, the old woman’s shouts fading fast. When I reach the bottom floor, I peek into the hallway. The closest section is a mirror image of the fourth floor, but then, maybe ten doors down, the left side opens up in what I assume is the lobby of the building.

  I want to run again, but I worry that if someone comes out and sees me, it will make them curious and could cause problems, so I keep my pace to a quick walk.

  A mother and two young children are entering the building when I arrive in the small lobby. I grab the door for them, and she gives me a relieved look as she herds the kids inside.

  “Danke,” she says.

  This is a word I do know. I’m also pretty sure of what the response should be, but I don’t want to risk messing up the accent, so I just smile and nod as I scoot by them and exit.

  I clasp my ill-gotten garments against my shirt to help keep the chaser tight to my stomach, and head down the street. Thankfully, the sidewalk here is not as busy as the others I’ve been on.

  A couple of minutes later, I find another alley. This one is surrounded by mostly businesses, and there are few windows along it. I head down it until I reach several bins that will block me from view of anyone who might wander into the area.

  I pull off my T-shirt and jeans and then take a moment to examine my wound. I’m happy to see that though a few of the stitches have popped, more than I expected remain. It’s a dirty mess, though. I wipe what I can away with the jeans and then tie the T-shirt around it like a bandage. This won’t keep blood from staining my new pants forever, but at least it should slow the process.

  The white shirt fits well enough, but the pants are at least two sizes too wide at the top and nearly that much too short at the bottom. I look around for something I can use as a belt, and find a length of twine from a discarded package in one of the bins that will do the job. Set now, I head back toward the street.

  I make it within a dozen feet of the end when Lidia moves us again.

  A second later, I find myself in the backseat of a car. Since I was standing when the jump occurred, my chaser’s safety functions detected the obstructions and forced me to arrive in a crouch. It’s an unnerving sensation, but not the first time it’s happened. Thankfully, there are no other occupants.

  It’s night again, and the vehicle appears to be parked along a residential street, with no one currently using the sidewalks. Satisfied there’s no immediate threat, I check my chaser. We’ve traveled about ten hours to 3:00 a.m. on July 24. Since this makes it unlikely the owner of the vehicle will be returning anytime soon, I decide to stay where I am. It’s a perfect opportunity for me to figure out how to get a fix on Lidia’s exact location.

  I start methodically going through the menus again. The mapping function would have to be part of any search tool. But what else? I scroll through a dozen other menus, but nothing stands out to me. Returning to the master sections list, I’m about to select the category covering maintenance functions, when my attention is drawn to the line item several below it: COMPANION.

  Back at the institute, using a companion was an integral part of every trip. Companions eased the trip effects rewinders felt by taking much of it on themselves. They also helped with the accurate arrival at destinations. I’ve grown used to jumping without a companion since I disconnected the function soon after I’d exiled Lidia. My first chaser had somehow linked to Iffy, and I didn’t want my newly appropriated one to do the same and force her to take on my pain. But the fact that the machine could reach out through the companion function makes me think there might be something there that can be used as part of this detector.

  I look through its menu and identify two additional functions that I have a feeling are relevant. I think I’m close now, maybe one or two more functions to bring the tracker to life.

  As I return to my search, though, I’m yanked out of time again.

  I’m starting to feel like a dog on a leash that never knows when and in which direction its master will pull.

  It’s night and a city again, though if this is Berlin, we are in a totally different district. The buildings along the street I’m on are much taller. Not quite the skyscrapers of 2015 Los Angeles, but working on it.

  The time and date on my machine put us at 11:30 p.m. on June 1, 1950. I use the map function to decipher the location number, and discover that we’re in New York City, on the island of Manhattan. That explains the buildings. What it doesn’t explain, however, is the complete lack of activity. The New York I’ve read about, seen in movies, and experienced on a small scale myself seems to be in constant motion. Even in this earlier decade, the city was supposed to always be hopping. But the street is deserted. Even the intersections that
cross it are empty.

  It could be that I’m just on a minor road in a part of town that is more active during the day. Whatever the case, I have more important things to worry about. I sit on the curb and pick up my examination of the menus again.

  Though I hear a car turn onto my street, I stay focused on my task. I have no interest in the occupants, and assume they’ll have no interest in me, either.

  “Hey!”

  I look up, startled. The sedan rolling to a stop across from me is not just any vehicle. It’s a police car.

  As calmly as I can manage, I close the lid of the chaser and say, “Yes, officer?”

  He stares at me, waiting, but I have no idea what he wants.

  “It’s after eight,” he finally says.

  “Um, okay. I know.”

  Again the stare.

  “What?” I ask.

  With a growing scowl, he opens his door and climbs out. I can see his partner now, behind the steering wheel, looking bored. The first cop opens the back door and then motions me toward it. “All right, let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Come on, buddy. Let’s not make any trouble.”

  “I’m not trying to make trouble. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Is that right? Well, I hate to tell you this, but you’re three and a half hours over. As much as I’d like to ignore that fact, you know I can’t do that. Now get in the back, or I’ll put you there myself.” To emphasize his words, he takes a step toward me and sets a hand on the gun hanging from his belt.

  “Three and a half hours over what?”