Incursion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 2)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “Should we be proactive with the rift-slipping device?”

  “You mean dismantle it?” Fuji nodded. “Let’s hold off. Lucas needs to believe in your Incursion Chamber first. Otherwise, he’ll be a real bear to deal with if we eliminate what he thinks is his only hope of finding Drew. He says his hallucinations have stopped, but I know that’s a lie. I can see it in his eyes. Something is off. Way off.”

  “It has become clear he will do anything to find his brother.”

  “Frankly, I don’t blame him. I’m sure there are things I don’t want to know about, but he’ll get the job done; he always does. I just wish there was a better way.”

  “A heavy heart condemns even the most strident man.”

  “There’s a big hole to fill, yes. But we’ve got work to do. I’m not taking any chances by underestimating the situation, again.”

  “Time always finds a way,” the tiny monk said, looking at the professor with pinched eyes.

  Kleezebee put his hand on Fuji’s shoulder. “It won’t be easy when the time comes, but I need you to keep me on task, no matter what it takes. Understood? We must allow it to happen, just as it should. Don’t let me waver. Otherwise, the final reversion can’t happen.”

  Fuji bowed. “As you wish, Professor.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Stump Fisher opened the back door to the alley, dragging a thirty-two gallon plastic trash can of garbage from the morning’s baking through the threshold. He pulled the waste bin twenty feet across the cracked pavement and through the collection of shadows and rainwater puddles, stopping twice to rest his knees and back. The recent fall down the stairs leading up to his apartment had left him swollen and sore. Ice had built up overnight and he hadn’t noticed it, not until it was too late. It was never a good thing when you see your own feet flipping up in front of your eyes, just after you commit your entire balance to the top step of a long cement staircase. Gravity makes short work of an old man’s mobility, especially with an extra hundred pounds heaped on your waistline.

  He continued walking six more strides until he was standing next to the brown-colored rented dumpster. Pick up was the next morning, and it needed it. Two weeks of trash was piled up inside the bin, and he wasn’t sure if there was room for any more.

  He stood on his toes to reach the twin pair of lids protecting the top of the dumpster. He flipped both of them open and looked inside to check the free space. A blast of rotten stench rose up from the heap, overpowering his nose. He gagged, then wiped his watery eyes. Despite the pungent odor, his curiosity wouldn’t let him look away.

  He scanned the contents. Everything looked normal except for a set of thirty-gallon plastic bags in the back left corner. All four were black and each one had its red-tagged ends tied into a knot. One of the bags was about the size of a bowling ball and leaking red fluid, while the rest were full-sized and looked heavy by the way they hung across the uncontained refuse supporting them. But they weren’t his; he never used trash bags despite the city ordinance; he always dumped free-willy to save money.

  For a second, he thought about opening one of the bags to see what was inside, but that second passed. Better leave well enough alone, he thought, knowing in his gut what type of crime scene might be inside. Someone could be watching him, or it was some kind of homicidal setup. He knew the odds of either of those situations being true were slim—he just wasn’t that important. Why would anyone go through that much trouble to frame an old man?

  But still, he took a minute to study the second floor windows on both sides of the alley: The curtain were closed on each of the seven windows. There were no signs of movement. He figured the bags must have been dumped by some low-life who was too lazy to take his leftovers to the landfill. He thought about calling the town’s pretentious constable to report the suspicious trash dump, but decided against it.

  “Fucking vandals,” he said, turning away to face the trash barrel he had brought out from the bakery. He kicked the side of the waist-high canister, tipping it over. Its trash spilled into the alleyway in a spiral pattern, shooting away from him in several directions. Stump stood still for a minute with his hands on his hips, studying the mess he had just made. He shook his head in disgust at his own temper.

  He bent down and used his right hand to set the plastic container upright, then shuffled around and spent the next few minutes picking up the mess he had made, tossing the refuge into the can one handful at a time. After he was done, he grabbed the bottom of the receptacle with one hand, and the top edge with the other. He lifted the can and flipped it over the edge of the dumpster, barely hanging on to the bottom lip. He shook the litterbin twice, before pulling it back and putting it on the ground.

  He decided not to close the lids to the dumpster—maybe some fresh air would rid the area of the stink. Besides, he didn’t feel like walking all the way around to the backside of the unit to shut both covers. Why waste the energy or add any more wear and tear to his aching body?

  Just then, a black limousine-style skimmer swerved around the far end of the shadowed alley and headed his way. Its headlights turned on, beaming intensity into his eyes. He put his hands in front of his face, trying to block the headlights, just as he heard the vehicle’s mercury-powered levitation drive increase its whine to full pitch.

  He cracked his fingers open for a long second and looked ahead—the skimmer was traveling directly at him, easily redlining to its top speed. Stump didn’t see a person behind the wheel, meaning the skimmer was in auto-drive mode. Stump took two wobbly steps to his right and hurled his pudgy body out of harm’s way, landing face-first into a pile of empty wooden crates stacked against the wall to the right of the bakery’s back door. The top-most crate broke into pieces with his hands and arms stuck inside.

  His plastic trashcan got pummeled and squashed behind him. He thought about having to bend over and pick up all its trash contents again. Then the pummeling stopped, as did the skimmer’s engine whine.

  He rocked himself back and forth on top of the crates with his hands until he was able to free himself from them. He flipped his rotund frame and sat upright, his lungs puffing air using brisk, choppy breaths.

  The stretch skimmer, which was easily forty feet long, backed up slowly, freeing the twisted waste bin from its eight and a half inches of ground clearance. The pressure release made the can swirl around like a ballerina, allowing it to stand upright before it popped open and resumed its natural shape.

  The anti-gravity vehicle changed its angle of reverse, slipping into a dimly lit area about fifteen feet away from Stump. He could only see the rear bumper of the skimmer clearly as it crawled in reverse through the shadows toward him.

  The old man thought about fleeing, but decided against it. He was in no shape to run and knew he wouldn’t get far. With his luck, he’d crack an ankle or pull a hammy. Then he’d need a scooter or wheelchair to get around and probably need help bathing. No thanks, he thought. It’s safer to just stand here and deal with this situation—whatever this was.

  Seconds after the lengthy skimmer came to an abrupt stop, three of the four rear doors opened in perfect unison. A pair of legs stepped out of each door and grew into the backlit silhouette of a towering man. Each had to be close to seven feet tall and three hundred pounds. The breadth of their shoulders dwarfed Stump’s robust waistline, and that was no small feat.

  “Ah, fuck me,” he whispered, as his breath shortened and hands shook. He could almost feel his blood pressure increasing, as it gushed wildly through his veins. His heartbeat pounded at the walls of his chest, making him feel dizzy and lightheaded.

  Steam from the underground sewer system rose up through the manhole covers and swayed behind the gang of hulks, reminding Stump of a horrific scene from an ancient movie he once saw about an underground, drug-crazed beast terrorizing a coastal city on Avanti Prime.

  The man on the passenger side of the vehicle and farthest away from Stump stood next to the lone remaining closed door of th
e limo, while the two closest behemoths raced toward him. Within seconds, their powerful grip secured his arms, lifting him off the ground and carrying him forward until he was within arm’s reach of the rear bumper.

  The third bodyguard bent down next to the unopened rear door of the skimmer. Moments later, he swung it open, then stood at attention like a chauffeur serving his master. A fourth person slid out of the vehicle and stood, facing away from Stump. He coughed twice, indicating a male, based on the deep tone of voice, and spread out his arms and arched his back.

  This latest arrival, who stood maybe five foot nine inches, turned toward Stump and moved slowly through the cascade of shadows highlighting the vehicle. Stump studied him, trying to decipher his identity, but the absence of a forward-facing light source made it difficult to gleam any definitive clues. He could see the outline of a mane of long hair that was loosely curled and trickled down past the neckline, but the man’s most noticeable feature was the four-pronged cane that he carried in his right hand, matching his slow and uneven stride.

  The slender man seemed to be traveling purposely though the shadows to delay his identity. Even so, Stump noticed something radically different about his physique: The left leg was ultra-thin and tapered from wide to narrow, starting at the knee and ending with the foot. Stump realized it was a peg leg, like a pirate, which made sense given the walking cane and his exaggerated limp.

  Finally, the man stepped into the light after reaching the limo’s rear bumper. He stood only inches away, almost nose-to-nose with Stump, his neatly-braided gray beard and eye patch now in full view. But the face-to-face position didn’t last long.

  Pressure swelled along the inside of Stump’s elbows, just before a powerful force pressed down on the crown of his back. Stump’s legs gave way, sending him to the ground on his knees a foot in front of the semi-crippled man.

  “Mr. Fisher, I presume,” the long-haired man said, with a calm but firm voice.

  Stump nodded.

  “My name is Gaylon Reece.”

  “I know who you are. I don’t use drugs, so what the fuck do you want?”

  “I sense great hostility in your words. Given your current situation, I, too, might choose to react in much the same way. However, since that is not my nature, I prefer a more measured approach to life, one filled with the sanctity of logic and vigilant reasoning, especially when dealing with terrorists.”

  “Terrorists? I’m no terrorist. I’m a baker. Now, let me go, you asshole,” Stump said, trying to rip his arms free from the two guards. He couldn’t.

  “I expect that we have dissimilar definitions regarding what constitutes a terrorist. Trust me when I say that it’s probably in your best interest if we simply agree to disagree. However, I should remind you to take a moment and think about your current predicament, and factor in which of us is standing, and which of us is on his knees. You are not in control, my friend, so I advise you to choose your words carefully the next time you are permitted to speak. And I strongly suggest that you conduct yourself with some level of decorum.”

  Reece walked his limp around Stump in a full circle, stopping again in front of Stump. “I’m betting that you, Mr. Fisher, are like everyone else in town. Your have your own interpretation of my reputation. Many of you, no doubt, think of me as a lowlife, omnipotent drug dealer who enforces his rules with unbridled harshness. While some of that may be true, I prefer to think of myself as a resourceful businessman, one who has perfected the art of transacting with a subsection of the populous that society has deemed less than fortunate. While that skill set serves me well, most of the time, when I’m alone and inside the tranquility of my own thoughts, I prefer to think of myself as a collector. But not just any collector. My passion is the pursuit of unique, quality items with extraordinary value. Items that, when in capable hands, turn ordinary men into extraordinary men.”

  “Yeah. Weapons. I get it. What the hell does that have to do with me?”

  Reece reacted with a powerful backhand across Stump’s jawline, spinning the baker’s head to the left. Two teeth flew from his mouth, leaving behind pain, blood, and empty sockets.

  Reece leaned in close to Stump’s face. “It would be far better for your health if you hold your tongue until I direct a query your way. Understood?”

  Stump nodded, though he’d never heard anyone use query before. In fact, this Gaylon character used nothing but odd words. Some type of pseudo-intellectual, he decided. But in reality, this guy was just another asshole with long hair. Stump sucked in and swallowed the blood pooling around the empty hollows where his airborne teeth used to be attached.

  “In a prior life, I collected a good many things. I started out by amassing the most prestigious collection of Hollywood memorabilia from the twentieth century, especially anything to do with the Pirates of the Caribbean movie franchise. It was my pride and joy. I would sit for hours, admiring each and every one of my treasures until the sun started its glorious ascent each morning. Eventually, I managed to scrape together enough capital to open my own retail shop. We traded in anything of value and managed to generate eleven years of increasing profits. You might remember my store? It was called Timeless Treasures.”

  Fisher didn’t answer. He just wanted the windbag to shut the fuck up and get on with it.

  “It was located just a few blocks from here, on G Street. But then the unthinkable Krellian invasion happened. My dream ended literally overnight when my neighborhood ceased to exist. So did my leg and eye, leaving me to resemble my favorite character of all time—Captain Jack Sparrow. Life is full of its little ironies, both lovely and perverse. It all depends on your frame of reference. But in the end, I still had to earn a living, so I embarked on a new profession once I recovered from my injuries. A profession that would not only pay the bills, but afford me the luxury of continuing to acquire items that would titillate my senses, which brings us to the reason for my visit. Recently, I acquired a handful of uniquely powerful items from a well-educated associate of mine. They were my most prized assets until late yesterday evening. Unfortunately for you and for me, some nefarious individual dared to enter my home and confiscate these items from my possession. These objects were of great value to me, and I would like them returned to me, immediately.”

  Stump wanted to answer, but wasn’t sure if he should or could. He waited.

  “You may answer,” the drug dealer said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t steal anything from you.”

  “I suspect not. But you do know the man who did. Actually, to be correct, what I should have said is that you knew the man who did. A young man, to be accurate.”

  Stump furrowed his brow. He wasn’t sure what the asshole was talking about.

  “Did you find the gift I left for you?” Reece asked, with one eyebrow raised. He pointed to the trash bin where Stump had found the collection of smelly trash bags hiding inside.

  Stump’s head sank, as did his heart. A massive swell of dread took control of body.

  “Don’t fret, Mr. Fisher. In a way, I did you and your family a tremendous courtesy. Your daughter won’t be besieged by any more emotional or physical abuse by her former lover.”

  Stump stared at the dumpster. “Piston?”

  Reece nodded.

  “Oh, my, God.”

  “I’m proud to say that justice was done, and swiftly I might add. He only had to suffer for fifty-eight minutes—a new personal best for me. I’m quite pleased by that fact. There’s nothing more profound, or of lasting consequence, than to extinguish the life of a thief.”

  Stump shook his head, fighting back tears. A short minute later, he looked up at Reece. “So what do you want from me?”

  “Shortly before Jerry, or Piston, as you call him, drew his last breath, he admitted that he did steal the stunners from me. Unfortunately for him, they were no longer in his possession. He told me that he left them with a friend for safekeeping. Would you care to hazard a guess who that
friend might be?”

  Stump had a suspicion who Piston’s friend was, but he couldn’t bring himself to say her name. He shook his head.

  “Where’s your daughter, Mr. Fisher?”

  “No. No. No. She’s got nothing to do with this. Leave her alone.”

  Reece pressed the tip of his cane into the middle of Stump’s heaving chest. “I won’t ask again. Where is Carrie Anne?”

  “Look. I’ll find your weapons and get them back to you. Just don’t hurt my daughter. I’m sure Piston forced her to take them. She’s innocent.”

  “No one’s ever innocent. We’ve all got blood on our hands, one way or another. Especially now, after the Krellian incursion left this city in ruins.”

  “Not my sweet Carrie Anne. She’s never hurt anyone—ever.”

  Reece called for his assistant, who was still standing by the open door to the limo. The man hustled to his side.

  “Search this establishment,” Reece told him, pointing at the back door to the bakery. “Find what belongs to me!”

  The man nodded, pulled out a handgun from the inside fold of his jacket, and entered the bakery.

  Stump heard his daughter scream.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Lucas moved his eyes away from Zack. He couldn’t watch his chest heave again under the violence of Yakberry’s realignment procedure. He knew if he watched, this horrific scene would remain etched into the walls of his brain forever. He already had more than one nightmare stuck in his synapses; he certainly didn’t need another.

  He focused his attention on the overhead mirror, staring at the reflection of the fat perpetrator who was orchestrating the torture—Yakberry.

  “Entering final stage,” the scientist reported to Kristov, while fiddling with his workstation. “However, I’m concerned about a few of these readings.”