Rewinder

by Battles, Brett

  I seize on this possibility out of desperation.

  The nurse in New York lied to me. I wasn’t unconscious for four days. I must have been in a coma that lasted much, much longer. Years, maybe. So, in a way, I’ve traveled into the future. I did it by sleeping my way there.

  My theory is riddled with holes, such as how long would I have to be out for so much change to occur? Or why would the cemetery be replaced by houses? But I shut these out of my mind and try to convince myself that I’m right.

  What I need is proof, something that will ease my mind.

  I walk several blocks until I spot a sign I’ve seen before.

  7-ELEVEN.

  At the one in New York, I remember seeing newspapers in a stack near the front counter. The store down the street would likely contain the same.

  Sure enough, upon entering, I see a rack near the door with a sign across the top reading LOS ANGELES TIMES. It’s not a paper I’ve heard of, but it probably comes from the downtown district. Unfortunately, the rack is empty.

  I look over at the clerk, a Spanish-looking man in his mid-forties. “Are there any more newspapers?”

  “Today’s are here. Just haven’t put them out yet. If you want a copy you’ll have to pull it out of the bundle by the back door.” He nods his chin toward the rear of the store.

  “Thank you,” I say, and head back.

  The stack is sitting on the floor, held together by several clear straps. I have to move one to the side to see the date.

  MARCH 24, 2015

  It has to be a misprint.

  I hurry back to the front of the store.

  “You didn’t find ’em?” the clerk asks.

  “What’s the date?”

  “Uh, the twenty-fourth.”

  “Of March?”

  “Yeah.

  “Two thousand fifteen?”

  He looks at me through narrowing eyes. “What else would it be?”

  I leave the store in a state of shock. The honk of a horn is all that keeps me from stepping onto the road and being hit. Moments later, there’s a part of me that wishes I didn’t heed the warning.

  I can no longer hide the truth from myself. There’s only one answer for what happened, and it has nothing to do with a faulty Chaser.

  Something in the past has changed, and the ripple has led to this.

  Two words repeat over and over in my mind.

  Twelve seconds.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EXHAUSTED, I USE a trick Johnston taught me: find an out-of-the-way, quiet spot that shows no signs of anything having been there in a while, then jump back to eleven p.m. and stretch out. By the time my eyes crack open again, it’s already after nine a.m.

  The hours spent asleep were not gentle ones. I was bombarded by dreams of my world unraveling and being replaced by different versions of what I can only describe as hell. I also saw people I know—Marie, Sir Gregory, Palmer, my mother, my father—fall past me, calling my name as they grab for my hand, but always slipping away before I can close my fingers.

  And Ellie.

  For a moment upon waking I feel relief, but it quickly fades. I don’t know if the world I’m in now is hell or not, but I do know the world I’m from is gone.

  One other thing I know.

  I’m the one who did it.

  I can’t afford to make another mistake, so it’s imperative that I know for sure the change occurred at the Three Swans Tavern.

  I need to find a library.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I catch sight of my old-fashioned shirt. Before I do anything else, I should clean up, get some new clothes, and find something to eat. And money. I’m going to need some of that, too.

  Using the Chaser, I skip into a series of back gardens until I find a home where the occupants aren’t home. One more time hop and I’m inside.

  The house I grew up in had only a tub for washing. In this place, I find a bathroom off the largest bedroom upstairs that has not only a tub twice as big as my family’s, but also a roomy shower.

  I have no idea how long it will be before the people who live here return, but I’m a mess so I strip off my clothes and step inside.

  Once I figure out how to balance the temperature of the water, the shower is amazing. I don’t think I ever want to take a bath again. I look around for soap but find only several plastic bottles. One is labeled SHAMPOO and another BODYWASH. I know what shampoo is, and though the phrasing is odd, I can guess what bodywash means.

  Five minutes later, I’m dripping wet but clean. I grab a large towel hanging from a nearby rack and dry off. In the bedroom, I search for clothing. I don’t like the idea of stealing but I don’t have much of a choice.

  From what I find, I know a man and a woman share this room. It’s shocking to me how much clothing the woman has. Dresses and blouses and skirts of various lengths fill most of the closet. They’ve got to be Threes for sure to be able to afford this much. And shoes. My lord. Who would ever need so many shoes?

  The man’s clothes are limited to a handful of jackets and pants and shirts. I pull out a shirt but immediately see it won’t fit me. The man, though probably around the same height as I am, clearly has a much larger girth.

  I decide to check the other bedrooms. One of the rooms belongs to a girl, but boys live in the other two, one of whom, it turns out, is about the same size I am. I pull on a pair of pants made of a blue, rugged material, but when I zip and snap up, I find that the waist rides low, exposing the top of my butt. I search through the boy’s cabinet for a pair that has a higher waist, but all the pants are the same.

  I realize I’ll have to make do, for now, with the pants I have on, as uncomfortable as they make me feel. I go in search of a shirt. In an upper drawer, I find a pullover of a thin soft fabric that feels like cotton. It’s dark gray and has a silhouette of a stylized bat printed on the front. It’s long enough to cover the top of the pants so I won’t be exposing the crack of my butt to the whole world.

  In the closet, I find shoes. Not nearly as many as the woman has, but several times more than the single pair I had growing up. The ones I try on are a bit large, but they’ll do.

  After dressing and collecting my things, I head down to the kitchen. There, I take two apples from a bowl on a counter and several slices of bread out of a clear bag, and then turn on the faucet and take a long drink of water. I want to look through the cupboards but I’ve already taken enough from this house, so I set a new destination on my Chaser and leave.

  Though I still don’t have any money, I feel less conspicuous now. As I walk down some busy streets, I see larger vehicles that appear to be for transportation of large groups, similar to the Pub Cs—public carriages—I’m familiar with. They stop every few blocks at locations marked by signs. These usually have overhead covering and a bench where people can wait for the next ride.

  It’s at one of these that I find an older woman who points me in the direction of a library. __________

  THE SIGN OUTSIDE reads:

  LOS ANGELES PUBLIC LIBRARY

  WOODLAND HILLS BRANCH

  Los Angeles again. Still no mention of New Cardiff.

  Inside, the library is laid out not too differently from those I have known. In the history section, I decide to work my way backward through time, so I start by choosing volumes that will give me an overview of the twentieth century.

  After finding an empty table hidden among the shelves, I crack the book open and begin to read. It’s not long before my heart starts to race. With the exception of location names—though not even all of those—nothing’s familiar here. It tells of “world wars”—two of them—and more individual nations than I can fathom. The British Empire is nonexistent, at least in the way I know it. Instead, a “Commonwealth of Nations” encompasses many of the territories I know as being under direct rule of the king. According to the book, those territories are now mostly independent nations.

  What surprises me is that the only part of North America that bel
ongs to the group is Canada. The part of the continent that’s always been my home is its own nation, with no direct political ties to the kingdom at all. It calls itself the United States of America.

  When I come to the section about the 1970s, I feel the weight of my actions closing in on me again. In the year 1976, the US—as the book often refers to it—celebrated its bicentennial.

  Two hundred years of existence means the nation was started in 1776, one year after the twelve-second error at the Three Swans Tavern.

  Leaving the book unfinished, I hurry to the shelves and select a text specifically on the history of the United States of America. I don’t even make it past the table of contents before I know the truth.

  A chapter entitled “George Washington” includes subsections with the titles: “The War Years 1775-1783” and “The First President 1789-1797.”

  The Washington I’m familiar with was captured and executed, thanks to information provided by Richard Cahill. In this new timeline, Cahill died before he could fulfill his role and Washington not only lived but thrived.

  How do I describe how it feels to confirm I’m both the annihilator of my world and the creator of this one? That, in a single slip of my hand, I’ve changed the paths of millions—maybe billions—of people and likely killed more human beings than all the tyrants in history combined?

  Perhaps kill isn’t the right word. To be killed, a person would have to exist and then have his or her life taken away, right?

  It’s not murder. It’s not genocide.

  My crime is taking the lives of those who now have never been. There’s no word for that.

  I begin reading the book but this is merely out of habit. My mind is so numb that the words might as well be in a foreign language. My eyes are following the patterns while my fingers automatically turn the page when I reach the end, that’s all.

  “Excuse me, sir.” The voice comes from somewhere behind me, but I pay it no attention. “Excuse me. Sir?”

  A hand touches my shoulder and then pulls away. I turn my head and find a smartly dressed woman standing behind me.

  “The library’s closing in ten minutes,” she says. “If you want to check that book out, you’ll need to do so now.”

  “Oh, okay. Thank you.”

  She walks off without another word.

  I look down at the book that has confirmed my crime. I’ve gone through nearly three-quarters of it and can’t recall a single word. I do need to hold on to it so I can really read it, but borrowing it the traditional way would likely require identification I don’t have. Luckily, I’m not limited to the traditional route.

  I look around to make sure no one can see me, and then use my Chaser to hop back to the middle of the previous night at the library.

  There are fewer lights on than during operating hours, but it’s more than bright enough for my needs. After retrieving the book I was reading and slipping it into my satchel, I hunt around for a biography on George Washington. When I locate the right area, I’m surprised by the number of choices I have. The man who was no more than a footnote in the history of my world is clearly a legend here. I pick one at random and add it to my bag.

  I have no intention of stealing these books. When I’m done, I’ll return to this very night and replace them on the shelves so no one will be the wiser.

  Before I leave, my stomach starts growling so I reach into the satchel for one of the apples, but they’re all gone. There’s no bread left, either. I don’t remember eating but I must’ve done so during the lost hours I sat staring at the book.

  Another growl lets me know I need to find some food fast. Since I still haven’t figured out the money situation here, I can’t just walk into a store and buy what I want. I could hop around until I find a place that was closed, but that might take some time. So I decide to search the library first, hoping those who work here keep food someplace.

  I discover a room for employees only that has a few large, box-like machines that dispense food. Here again, I need money. Thankfully, in the next room I find a refrigeration cabinet, much nicer than any I have ever seen. Inside are several bags and containers. Most have names on them, but there’s half a sandwich wrapped in plastic sitting on a lower shelf, unmarked.

  I feel a tinge of guilt as I pull the wrapper off but I’m too hungry to let it stop me. After I shove the last bit into my mouth, I look in the cold cabinet again, this time for something to drink. Several metal cylinders of various colors with names like Coke and Sprite and Dr. Pepper are spread around, some additionally marked Diet.

  I pick up one of the red Coke cans. The mechanism for opening it is new to me but only takes a few seconds to figure out. A hiss and a pop greet the pull of the tab, followed by a sizzling sound from inside. The can is cold but the sound makes me think the liquid is hot. Perhaps it heated up when I pulled the tab. Careful so I don’t burn anything, I take a very small sip.

  Cold.

  And sweet.

  I take a longer drink.

  And good.

  Tipping the can back, I let the liquid run down my throat. I’m able to finish only half before I need to stop. The sweet flavor is wonderful but almost too much.

  With my stomach no longer complaining, I decide to take advantage of the location. I sit at the table and start reading. But things don’t always go as planned, and before I can get a handful of pages in, the words begin to swim and I lay my head down and fall asleep.

  __________

  I’M AWARE OF voices behind me, but am still in that zone between dreams and reality, so I don’t realize the significance until someone grabs my shoulder and shakes me.

  “Hey. Wake up!” The voice is sharp, female.

  I blink, and for a second have no idea where I am. Upjohn Hall? My father’s house?

  No. There is no Upjohn Hall, I remember, and it’s highly likely my father is among those who have never existed.

  I’m in a now that shouldn’t be.

  “What are you doing here?” My inquisitor is a short, thin woman in a brown skirt and beige blouse.

  I part my lips, but don’t know what answer to give.

  “Do you speak English?” she asks.

  Finally finding my voice, I say, “Yes. I’m, uh, sorry. I didn’t, um— ”

  “How did you get in here? Did you break in? Or were you hiding when the library closed last night?”

  “No, neither,” I tell her, which is true.

  “Maybe he was accidentally locked in.” This comes from a different woman standing back by the door. She’s younger, maybe even as young as I am, with long auburn hair and suntanned skin. She’s wearing blue workman’s pants like mine and a black button-up sweater that matches her black-framed glasses. Her tone is considerably more sympathetic than her friend’s.

  The older woman glares at me. “Is that what happened?”

  I nod. “Yes. I was, um, locked in. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “So where were you when the staff closed up?”

  “Um…”

  The woman frowns and glances back at her colleague. “Ms. Davis, call the police. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “The police?” I say. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “And what do you call trespassing?”

  “Maybe we should cut him a break,” Ms. Davis suggests. “He was just sleeping. He didn’t hurt anything.”

  “And how do you know that? Have you searched the building yet? Who knows what he’s done.”

  “I haven’t done anything.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my satchel sitting on the table, less than an arm’s length away. If I can get my hand inside, I can press the button combination that will take me fifteen minutes back and ten feet to the side.

  Ms. Davis points past me, and I’m momentarily afraid she’s going to tell the older woman to take my bag. But what she says is, “You really think he went around destroying things then came in here to read a book about…” She looks at me. “What were you reading?�
�

  “It’s a history book,” I reply. “About the…United States of America.” It’s the first time I’ve said the phrase aloud and it feels odd on my tongue.

  “A history book, Ms. Hendricks.”

  “I don’t care what he’s reading. Call the police.”

  Reluctantly, Ms. Davis walks over to a wall-mounted com-phone. In that moment, neither woman is looking in my direction, so I slip one hand into my satchel and grab the strap with my other. Once my fingers find the correct buttons, I pull the bag to me and push the emergency escape combination.

  Both women disappear as my perspective shifts ten feet and I’m dumped on the ground. I can only imagine the librarians’ reactions. At least they weren’t looking at me when I winked out. They’ll probably find some rational way to explain what happened to me.

  I pull my satchel’s strap over my head and get to my feet. At the table, my earlier self is slumped on top of the book, sound asleep. I’m tempted to wake him up and tell him to get out of here, but I’ve already made my escape so it makes sense to let things play out.

  The book, which I would dearly like to grab and take with me, has to stay, or else it would change the things that are about to happen. I could come back for it later, but I think it best to avoid this library from now on. I set the Chaser to take me just outside the building at dawn, but before I press GO, a poster on the wall catches my eye. It’s an announcement of an upcoming “continuing education” seminar at the “Central Library.”

  A central library sounds like a place that would have all the information I need. I hastily write the address on a piece of paper. As I finish, I hear footsteps in the hallway, soft and distant, but heading in this direction.

  It’s time for me to leave.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MY PRIOTIES ARE simple: survive, learn, fix.

  I focus first on survival.

  Several blocks from the library, I spot another 7-Eleven. The red, green, and white sign has become comforting and familiar in a world full of the unknown.