Dumpster Guy pulled him along, and murmured, “Stop looking at him. Beat cops don’t like that—keep moving.”
Ah, so guardians are beat cops, and I’m a punk. Still smarting from the billy club, Payton could guess why “beat cop”. The “punk” part? Not so much. They hurried down the street, with Payton attempting to catch sight of street names and numbers as they passed them, fumbling to store them in his brain, which was reeling with sensory overload. He did notice many of the businesses in this part of the city were closed down, their doors and windows boarded up. “There’s some kind of trouble here?” he asked as they hurried by, waving his hand at the vacant buildings.
“You are new here. Most of these street level entrances are blocked. Entrances are three stories up.”
Payton shifted his gaze. Sure enough, there seemed to be activity a few levels up from the dour streets. Why?
After several blocks of flight, they turned a corner and Dumpster Guy fell back against the wall, clutching his chest, breathing hard.
Payton could see the man was not well. “You okay?”
“Asthma,” Dumpster Guy replied with a rattling gasp.
“What are you doing down here, man? This air will kill you.”
The man started to laugh, “You think?” then stopped when his laughter erupted into a thick, mucusy cough. He bent at the waist with his effort.
Payton cringed at the sound. He slipped off his bag again and pulled out a pack of water, broke the seal and handed it to Dumpster Guy. “Here. Drink this. It should help. It has all your basic nutritional needs.”
Still coughing and unable to speak, Dumpster Guy glanced up at him and rolled his eyes, though he did take the offered pack.
As Dumpster Guy drained the pack between bouts of coughing, Payton glanced around, absorbing this new neighborhood. It seemed the same as the old neighborhood, but here there were a few open businesses. A convenience store, one proclaimed, and across the street, a smoke and cannabis shop—oh yeah, they used to inhale carcinogens back around this time. Dumb-asses.
He and Dumpster Guy were standing before a heavily iron-bar reinforced pawnshop. Kind of quaint, as grubby shops go. He knew this was where desperate people brought stolen items to be traded for cash back in the day. It was a whole industry, if he recalled correctly.
He jumped when a collection of rags piled up against the wall of the pawn shop moved, proving to be a sleeping man. The man peeked out of his filthy surroundings with rheumy eyes, sizing up the world before he committed to crawling up onto his hands and knees, then creakily to a hunched stance. He brought a thin grey blanket from the concrete as he rose, giving it a weak snap before slinging it over his arm and shuffling along the avenue, reaching behind and pulling his crusty gray pants free from the crack of his skinny behind.
The WEN 2036 homeless seemed to have missed the “Saturation Period” memo. Apparently here, color cost money.
Payton’s eyes snapped back to another “collection of rags”, knowing what they represented now and waited for this ghost to rise up and walk as well.
“That one’s dead.” A deep voice close to his ear made him jump away and turn in defense. This was getting old; he was showing too much fear, a deadly weakness down here in the trenches, he knew. This sneaking up on a person was a street skill he’d need to learn. Plus, he needed eyes in the back of his head.
A dark-skinned man with outrageous thick black dreads was studying him with undue interest, Payton decided, grasping hold of the two straps digging into his shoulders. What he wouldn’t give for one of Coru’s tasers now.
The man raised his hands. “Hey, it’s cool, man. The meat wagon will be around to clean him up. Gotta keep the city’s rep intact.”
“Meat wagon?”
“Meat wagon. It makes a run every morning to pick up the stiffs.”
“The stiffs?” Payton repeated, his lips wooden, his voice faint. What hell had he fallen into?”
The black man stuck out his hand and nodded, his massive hair bouncing. “Name’s Dom.”
Payton looked at Dom’s meaty hand apprehensively. Was this a trick?
Dumpster Guy wheezed, “Dom’s okay. And I’m Weazer.”
Stellar endorsement.
Still. He didn’t know these guys. They could be grooming him, like Coru had warned. Still, he had no choice. He reached out and shook Dom’s hand, ready to run at the first sign of trouble. Nothing happened. Dom’s hand was warm and dry, and the shake wasn’t the classic over-compensating ‘grip’n’jerk’. Payton snickered despite himself.
“You can stick with us, learn the ropes, kid.” Dom’s expression was sympathetic and amused. “You’re remarkably clean and well fed, and while I’ll admit the head tats are cute, they don’t mean squat down here. These streets will eat you for breakfast.”
“I-I can’t. I have to stick around. I’m meeting my brother, Coru. He’s a big guy, really big. Has a tattooed head like mine; more ink. He’s the kinda guy you don’t want to meet in a dark alley.” He made himself smile. “I was supposed to meet him in an alley.”
Dom shrugged. “Okay, kid. But watch your step—you have a big X on your forehead right now. Not everyone down here’s as friendly as me and Weazer here.”
Weazer straightened up to his full height. “Just don’t go back to Waights’ beat. He don’t like you already.”
Payton pushed his mouth to one side and nodded. “Yeah—I got that.” Only, he did have to go back, didn’t he? It was where Coru would be looking for him. They’d travelled down the same Time Bore—it made sense they’d both emerge at the same location. The time of arrival? Not so much the same, apparently.
Dom added, “Just keep moving. Look like you got some place to go. Come to the shelter on Cordova near Main. There are a few shelters down there. Get yourself inside before dark is my advice. If you’re caught short, get your ass up a tree down in the park, tie yourself up there so you won’t fall and stay put ‘til light.”
Payton blinked at Dom’s advice. “Seriously?”
Dom went to the bundle of rags by the pawn shop and bent to lift the man’s over-sized coat. Payton staggered back at seeing the man’s throat had been slit from side to side. The dirty dark stain seeping out from under the rags beneath him was old, dried blood.
Dom dropped the cloth and dusted off his hands. “Like I said, no sleeping in the alleyways or doorways if you can help it. Not safe.”
“All—all right. I won’t. Which way to the park?”
“You don’t know Vancouver’s Stanley Park?” Dom frowned. “Where you from?”
He was in Vancouver! Good to know.
“From…” Payton scrambled for the name of one of the local towns that surrounded Vancouver back during this time. He’d scanned the map so quickly when they were getting ready, he barely remembered them. Oh yeah. “Hope. I’m from Hope.”
“What are you doing here?”
He stuck out his chin. “Meeting my brother.”
Dom nodded, but Payton could see he didn’t believe him. “Okay kid. Good luck to you.”
With grim nods, Weazer and Dom left him there, on the corner of Cordova and Water Street. It took all of Payton’s self-control to not run after them.
But he had some tagging to do. He pulled out his spray pen, tucking it just inside his palm and up his sleeve so it wasn’t readily seen and joined the foot traffic with a purposeful expression, and circled back toward his original landing spot.
For the next few hours and sticking within a four-block radius, he painted his messages to Coru, only this time, he said he’d be in Stanley Park at 6 every night as well. He was careful to paint out the messages when he was alone and in an easily seen area. He must have been better at looking focused on his imaginary destination than he’d hoped, because no one stopped him, no one questioned his being here, not even the cops. There were a ton of cops down here, all big, all with expressions of intense scrutiny in their eyes, and a “just try me” attitude in their swagge
r.
Still, it was going well, and he had painted out more than twenty messages before he ran out of ink. If Coru failed to see this, he was blind.
Payton tossed the spray pen into a dumpster as he passed it, and kept on walking, this time following the signs he’d discovered in his roaming for message sites. It wasn’t long before he reached his destination.
Stanley Park was huge. Gigantic. He practically sagged with defeat.
It wasn’t as if Coru would be able to walk into the park and see him immediately. This had to be hundreds of acres, all along the ocean’s edge, and it was crowded. He left the tall city buildings behind him, as they gave way to the forest, the park and the park buildings. Soon he saw the park was framed by a seawall. Atop the seawall he saw walkers, joggers, bikers, and bladers. People of all ages and nationalities filled the walkway, some intent on their exercise while others moved slowly, talking and pointing, recording pictures with hand-held devices, all the while the water lapping at the stacked and cemented stone wall upon which the walkway was built. There was even an aquarium.
Funny—so close to the ocean. Why didn’t they tour the water in submersibles? The oily smell reminded him that the probability of sea life in these waters was slim. Ah—so we bring in an aquarium. Irony in action.
There were other buildings as well, of course, more places for Coru not to see him here. And several roads, all headed in a new direction, all of which were well-travelled by a steady stream of over-the-top colored vehicles. There were flat areas, rolling, hilly areas, all covered in wide sidewalks and rich, closely mowed green grass, ready for picnicking, and playing outdoor games.
He should never have chosen Stanley Park as a meeting place. But the instructions he’d painted at this end of the city were done, there was no going back.
He roamed restlessly, needing to get his bearings and to maybe find a central location to claim as a good place to watch for Coru. He saw that Stanley Park was populated by a collection of buskers, selling their skills in music, dance, and on-the-spot portraits, along with hand-carts hawking ice cream, and handmade jewelry, garish stuff he’d never consider wearing, then laughed at himself when he realized these things were for the women, not the men.
He was surprised to see fresh popcorn, something he’d seen in old vid files, corn having died out during the Salish Droughts. He stood and watched the seller drop a small scoop of hard yellow kernels into a heated glass enclosure. They’d first sizzled in hot oil on the smooth stainless-steel bottom, then explode into snowy shapes that filled the enclosure to the brim in minutes. Huh. This was a good return for payment—if the kernels were cheap enough in this time.
The seller salted and bagged up the snowy popcorn and sold it quickly to passersby. When he met Paton’s curious gaze and motioned a just-filled bag in his direction, Payton shook his head and moved on.
Down the way, he found warm nuts being offered, another Salish Drought loss, and something called hot donuts, all of which emitted a nasty, greasy odor. Further still were cheap T-shirts, illustrated blankets, leather belts and colorful scarves, all waving in the breeze.
But the trees! The trees were spectacular, something he’d never seen in person before. He walked among them, touching their rough surfaced bark, sometimes warm from the sun, other times cool in the shade. They were so much bigger than he’d imagined.
In the histories, they never mentioned that trees moved, swayed in the breeze, that their branches emitted a comforting rustle so that you actually heard the winds around you and their leaves fluttering in that wind, sunlight glancing off their surfaces, the light below the trees almost glittering as a result. He found himself smiling as he pivoted, taking in the entire park, breathing in the strong briny, sometimes oily air coming off the Pacific Ocean.
This never happened in WEN 2341, and likely never would again. This was what Coru was fighting to restore back in their time. Seeing this, what the earth had been before Cloud Rez and before Surface, before the Clone Wars, Payton saw his brother’s efforts were puny, and would never achieve this magnificence. Back in WEN 2341…
He shook his head. He had to stop. Look at what you have, not what you don’t have, dummy. Resetting his filters, he looked again.
There were clean public washrooms here—hallelujah! There were places to rent bicycles built for two, and Segways—like they were something special—he had half a dozen of the things piled up in his closet at home. But here, they were a novelty.
What he wouldn’t give to get off his feet, but he had no local currency, no way to trade.
He saw some people were laid out on the grass, their eyes closed, taking in the sun and decided he’d do the same.
He found himself a quiet spot, rummaged inside his pack for an instant meal, ripped it open, added water and waited for the package to heat. In under two minutes, he had a hot meal, every bite better than the last. Crumbling up the light bag when he was done, he tossed it in a nearby refuse container and settled down for an afternoon nap. Coru might be on his way this very minute and it would be best to be rested and ready to go when his brother arrived.
The gentle heat of the sun baked into his body, loosened his limbs and allowed him to let go of his worries, just for this moment.
He awoke with a start when his bag was yanked out from under his head. Snagging the strap at the last minute, he saved it from the skinny woman who’d been brave enough to attempt the theft.
Seeing his eyes open, she squeaked and hurried away. Just before she disappeared around a curved path leading back to the city streets, she brushed aside her tangled brown hair and cast one last speculative glance back at him. He knew instantly she would be getting bigger guns to get his pack. He’d be wise to keep moving, as Dom had told him.
Looking around, he saw it was dusk and the park was almost empty. He’d slept for hours. He’d taken a horrible chance, sleeping in the day.
He was in WEN 2036, and he was alone; no protective big brother in sight. Right now, his plan to integrate into this world looked like a pipe dream. Where… how would he even start? He had no marketable skills he could think of—no way to communicate. No home base from which to launch himself. No friends, no connections. What had he imagined would happen when he arrived?
Then he realized exactly what he’d imagined.
He’d imagined Coru would take care of everything.
Who would protect him now? He thought of Dom and Weazer. They’d been decent to him. They’d warned him about tonight. He glanced around, saw it was far too late to find the shelter they’d told him about. He’d slept through his window of opportunity.
Instead, he looked for a safe place in the Park. Dom had said climb up into a tree, tie himself in and to stay put until morning. If he’d guessed right, Skinny Girl would be back with re-enforcements. Best to do this thing without witnesses.
He shot to his feet, hurried over to the washroom. After the necessaries, he filled a bottle with water from the tap to save what he was carrying, then went back out, studying the trees that surrounded him. Time to find shelter.
A stand-alone tree was not a good idea. He’d do better in a collection of trees, where he could easily blend into the foliage. He struck out into the surrounding forest.
After a ten-minute search, he found the perfect tree—a cedar close to the water’s edge, one that looked to be a good situation for a lost time traveler. He laughed humorlessly inside his head and began the steep learning curve of Twenty-first Century Tree Climbing 101.
This was fun, fun, fun—leaping, grunting, slipping, sweating, falling, failing. Here was where his days sitting in the library stacks worked against him. Upper body strength? Not his strong suit. It would have been funny if he wasn’t growing more afraid with every failed attempt.
He was glad not to have an audience as he struggled, but in the end, pride was set aside—the specter of Skinny Girl and her potential helpers proved inspiring. He managed to get himself about thirty feet up the tree, confident he’
d be well hidden, though he was left trembling, his muscles abruptly weak and watery at the effort.
Afraid he’d now make a wrong move and fall to his death, he looked over the trunk for how to tie himself to it. If the bashing his body took from the thick branches on his way down didn’t take him out, the hard landing at the end would surely do the job.
He immediately set about settling into as comfortable a spot and position as he could manage, pulled cord from his pack and tied himself to the trunk, testing the cords this way and that, should he fall asleep. It was good.
He had sticky patches of pungent cedar pitch from the tree stuck to his palms and all over his clothes, gluing needles to him. There was no rubbing the pitch off, he only succeeded in smearing it farther. Ugh. But, it did smell good, clean, and fresh and in the end, he decided he liked it.
After tying his pack to the branch next to him, he pulled out his warming cloak, draped it around himself, leaned back against the tree and gazed through the forest and out to sea, some distant port and the twinkling lights of more city beyond. The sun was setting over the water now, and it was a spectacular sight of brilliant yellow, golds, pinks and vermilions. It was over too soon, leaving him in darkness, the moon only a sliver. He’d never seen anything like this back in his time.
His time. The stuffy safety of the stacks, studying past civilizations without getting involved. Without risk. Without cops beating on you for standing on the sidewalk. Without men with slit throats lying in doorways as people with vacant, beat-down stares hurried by.
Physical exhaustion, fear and loneliness did its work breaking down the last of his resolve to stay here in WEN 2036 and he felt his chin quiver. He dashed away the final betrayal, tears that sprang up now that he was alone in the darkness. He was supposed to come here and save the world.
Forget saving the world—how about saving his own ass?
3
THREE WEEKS IN …
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 3