“Hmm, trailer trash. What the fuck did she see in this loser?” he said, pulling his car into a dirt lot just opposite Jared’s house. Carver watched the young man jump from his truck and walk up the wooden steps to his front door. Jared unlocked it, pushed it open and disappeared inside. Carver reached over to his glove compartment and pulled a sharp serrated knife from it, then tucked it into a leather sheath. He put the blade in his coat pocket and waited for night to come.
***
After sitting in his car for forty-five minutes, Carver exited and crossed the road. The night was his advantage; he loved the dark. As he approached the trailer, he slipped a pair of black leather gloves over each hand, then pulled out the knife. The steps to the door were creaky and felt frail under his weight, but he didn’t waste any time getting up them. It didn’t matter if the college student heard Carver; he planned on knocking anyway.
After three hard hits on the door and a ten-second wait, Carver heard shuffling inside. Jared swung open the door casually, and Carver gave him a sinister smile. The knife sliced its way into Jared’s ribs, cutting them on contact and penetrating his left lung. Jared’s hands gripped Carver’s arms, and they both toppled to the floor. As Carver lay on top of him, he pulled out the blade and stabbed him again, this time sinking the tip into Jared’s beating heart, using his full body weight to get as much depth as possible.
“Now it’s over,” Carver whispered. “She’s mine.”
“I don’t wan—” Jared muttered incoherently, as the life slipped from his eyes.
Carver bounced on the knife a few times, pulling it out and sinking it back into Jared’s chest.
The seasoned killer then stood and pulled the knife one final time from the body, carefully, to not drip blood anywhere other than Jared’s shirt, where Carver wiped the blade clean. The trailer was already trashed, which worked in his favor. Dirty dishes were everywhere, even on the floor. Clothes, blankets and many reels of 8mm film lay scattered throughout. A projector (still running) sat facing a white wall, casting a square of light on the paneled surface.
Carver stepped over the fresh corpse, and his gloved hand immediately found and flipped the light switch. In only the glow of the small movie machine’s light and with the door wide open, Carver lifted Jared. Like a firefighter carrying a victim, he trudged down the steps and through the poor excuse for a lawn, then looked both ways for prying eyes and jogged across the road, quickly making his way to the trunk of his car. The twenty-seven-year-old psychopath, always planning ahead, had already spread out a tarp on the floorboard, keeping Jared’s blood from soaking into the carpet. Since Jared’s heart had been punctured, most of the blood was internal. Carver knew, as long as he kept the body upright, there would be no messes made; he would drive accordingly.
***
After calmly transporting the body through town, Carver exited Sorrow’s Sky and got on the highway to Cosmos. Four miles to his destination and he already felt as though he was home free, a perk of working for the police department. If he were to get pulled over, they’d soon see that he was one of them and send him on his way with nothing more than a pat on the back. It was, however, quite odd to have a male in the trunk. It was one thing to have hairs and fibers from a female, but the thought of a man’s DNA back there gave Carver the shivers. He would clean it before his next kill, he decided.
On the quiet drive Carver thought of Julia, her beautiful smile and her soft touch. She made him want to be a better person. He thought of killing her, then thought of marrying her. He couldn’t wait to hold her naked body in his arms, lifeless or not. For the first time in his life, Carver Thorton was torn.
He turned into Arpac Hills Cemetery and cut his headlights. Welcoming him to the sacred land, the black entrance sign above him disappeared from his windshield and over the roof of his car. A light rain trickled down, and the full moon lit his way and then some, casting eerie shadows all around. It was spooky, looking at all the plots on either side of him. A misty fog covered most of the headstones, and the thick trees looked like dark silhouettes, towering islands in the massive sea of graves. Carver kept an eye out for any movement; he searched the area for looters and thrill-seekers, anyone who could identify him or his car.
The dead had always intrigued him. He didn’t fear dead bodies; he feared ghosts. His opinions on the afterlife were well thought out, and, oddly enough, he did believe that what a person did in their life was either rewarded or punished in the end. As he kept his driving to a slow pace, his mind tricked itself into seeing ghouls running through the markers, ducking behind them and jumping out at him. There was something strange about the old cemetery.
Carver headed to the back of the grave garden, and, where the road ended, he put his Chevy in Park and killed the engine. Not wanting to spend any more time than he had to in the land of the dead, he popped the trunk. The young murderer reached into his pockets and pulled out four dollars in change—quarters, nickels and dimes mostly. He tossed them on the grass in front of the car. When he got to the trunk, he found that Jared’s body was heavier than before; he soon realized he must have burned off the adrenaline he used during the excitement of the kill. Carver struggled to get the deceased to the tree line of the forest—about fifteen feet from his front bumper—and couldn’t figure out why the grass was so wet. His back felt strained. The dark woodland trees towered over him, and he dropped the body, then ran as quickly as he could to his car, feeling a chill on his back the entire way.
Wanting to make sure his plan would work, he got in his car, closed and locked the doors, then turned on his lights, illuminating the body. The loose change slowly rose from the grass, each one reflecting the light and twirling around, as if there were no gravity.
In the glow—a bit too soon for his comfort—a gray leg stepped from the trees. The skin looked rough, like leather. Carver clenched his hands, trying to keep them from shaking. The alien body was malnourished, and its arms were long, sending the tips of its fingers to its knees. Its large head held two oversize black eyes, and its mouth was full of jagged brown teeth.
Another creature stepped out with such ease and then another. Together they picked up the body, and Carver didn’t stick around to watch the rest. He flipped his car around and sped out of the dead zone. Feeling a bit of relief as his tires squealed onto the highway, he clicked on his radio and lit a smoke.
Chapter Eight
Just in Time
Dr. Whittier pulled down his dark blue rolled-up sleeves. The breeze blew at his back, almost pushing him toward his destiny. He buttoned the clasps around both wrists, adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag and crossed a mostly empty parking lot to a familiar building. He checked his watch. It was 7:05 a.m.
It always astonished him that the military never put guards around the property, but, looking back, he realized there was no need. Nothing bad had ever happened during his time here, and no one ever tried to trespass. Besides, he knew that guards would have just drawn attention to the place. The military had, however, given him a panic button, positioned under the smooth black surface of his go-to rolling table. Thankfully he had never needed to push it.
He had always thought that the building had an odd feel to it; that feeling was always with him, especially when he was alone. The doctor was actually quite relieved the day the military introduced him to his young apprentice, Jonathan. After that, Gary didn’t mind the eerie feeling of the place; he had someone to share it with. Memories rushed his mind.
Upon pulling open the large glass entrance door, he couldn’t help but smile. The lobby still had that nostalgic scent of buffing wax and copier paper. It was odd though, in all his time here, he never once saw a maintenance employee. Once a military team with fully automatic weapons and heavy Kevlar burst through the doors and raided the building room by room. They never fully explained themselves, and the doctor just assumed it was some sort of drill.
His shined black shoes clicked on the floor with each step. Making his w
ay to the elevator, he unhooked the flap that held his bag closed. Once inside, he pushed the 5 button, and, as the doors closed and the lift rose, he pulled from the large pouch a small frail box tied together with a thin string. The doors opened, and Gary stepped out, crossed to Room 302 and peeked in the window. His heart was pounding. He saw himself in the lab, standing with Jon, talking about specifically this, time traveling to this date. Gary looked once again at his watch: 7:07 a.m.; it was time. He pulled open the door, reached in and plopped the box on the floor, then quickly retreated to the elevator.
Gary felt a constant rush of adrenaline while waiting for the elevator doors to close. He kept expecting his other self to poke in his head, and it would all be over. But he took comfort in the fact that his younger self would most likely be more intrigued by the box and its contents, rather than who left it.
He exited the complex and crossed the parking lot. The doctor had stashed his hovercraft in the trees, just off an empty field, where the rest of his crew waited for him. He hated having to bring them along, but the time device required more power than the touch of one man’s hands. If he hurried, they could leave without anyone ever knowing they were here. If not, and they were spotted, it could alter historic events and change the course of time. The only thing he wanted to change was his past self’s knowledge of the device. By leaving himself a hint, maybe he could figure it out sooner, and all that time wouldn’t be wasted. Maybe the note would allow his younger self to think differently and change the way he travelled through time. It was for the better, or so he assumed. But unfortunately for Dr. Gary Whittier, he had no knowledge of the event to happen next.
Chapter Nine
What Are the Odds?
Dr. Gary Whittier stepped into the street, unaware of the 1950 Pontiac Chiefton hauling toward him. His pale blue tie blew in the breeze, subtly coming to rest on his dark blue long-sleeved, button-up collared shirt. The strap of a brown leather bag dug uncomfortably into his shoulder. Nothing was more important to him at that moment than adjusting it for relief.
The driver, Pauline Walton, was busy finding a radio station that wasn’t filled with static; her eyes were only partially focused on the road. The car’s slicked-back roof and brand-new tires kept it quiet, but the sound of Gary’s head impacting the hood as his body crumpled underneath the Chiefton was a sound Rosine Meyers—who, at the time, was detaching her front yard hoses from their spickets—would never forget. The driver slammed on the brakes, just after the rear tires went over the man’s body. She had enough sense to avoid braking while he was still underneath the car; better to run over him than skid over him.
Blood from Gary’s head had pooled around him and soaked into the dirt, as he lay dead in the road with a broken neck. Pauline dialed 9-1-1 on her portable communicator, and, in no time, the SSPD were on the scene.
Tom, Carver and Kattic were contacted shortly after the uniforms checked the contents of the dead man’s wallet.
Tom pulled up in his silver ’55 Buick. He had turned in the squad car shortly after payday and was allowed to use his personal vehicle from then on—the perk being the department paid for oil changes, gas and other maintenance.
“Did they say why they called us in?” Carver asked, finishing a smoke and tossing it out the window. “We don’t get called to random traffic accidents.”
“They didn’t say. You gonna tell us what happened to your eye?” Tom said, pulling the key from the ignition.
Carver laughed. “I was defending a lady’s honor at the fair.”
“That’ll do it,” Kattic said, allowing a laugh to escape his lips.
Tom shook his head. “No. I’m betting you got drunk at the beer garden and ran your mouth to a bigger man. You’re gonna admit to it one of these days. I know it.” He smiled.
The three investigators exited the vehicle and approached Chevez, who was jotting down some information in a small pocket-size notepad.
The uniformed officer turned to them and raised his eyebrows. “Hey, guys, got a case for you. Still swollen?” Chevez asked, examining Carver’s black eye. “You need to put some damn ice on it.”
“It’s fine.”
Tom arched his neck to better see the body behind the officer.
“This is Dr. Gary Whittier. His military ID card in his wallet says that he worked for the army,” the officer announced.
“Great, we’ll have soldiers down here in no time,” Carver said rolling his eyes.
“No one’s contacted them yet, and, as far as I’m concerned, no one will until you guys take a look,” Chevez explained, finally taking his eyes off his notepad and placing it in his back pocket. “The doctor was crossing the street, when Ms. Walton hit him head-on. Doesn’t look like she was speeding, but she did admit she wasn’t paying attention.”
“OK, so why are we here?” Kattic asked. “We’re elite. We don’t investigate jaywalking accidents.” His tone sounded sincere, but his comment ended up blunt and matter-of-fact.
“Well, when we opened up the guy’s wallet to find out who he is, we came across something kind of strange.” Chevez, with gloves on his hands, handed out three more pairs to the investigators. They put them on, and Kattic took possession of the wallet. “The guy’s state ID, military ID, driver’s license and bank card were all issued in the year 1966, four years from now.”
Kattic pulled out the cards and examined them closely. “Well, I could forgive a mistake being made on one of these cards but not all four.” He passed them to Carver.
“Have you checked the bag?” Tom asked, pointing to it, lying alone in the road next to Gary’s broken black-framed glasses.
“Nothing but a tablet inside, a fancy one,” Chevez answered and retrieved the bag for Tom.
Tom pulled the digital tablet from the leather pouch and touched his hand to the screen. It illuminated. The polished black casing was smooth, felt like some sort of metal, while millions of pixels gave the light blue screen a sharp, clear appearance. “Amazing it’s not broken. This is sleek, a model I’ve never seen before.” Tom looked up at the guys. “Think where we’d be if that craft hadn’t crashed here all those years ago.”
“I know. I love our technological toys. I don’t know what we’d do without them,” Carver agreed.
Tom nodded and his fingers navigated to the settings menu. “Son of a bitch.”
“What is it?” Kattic asked.
Tom read aloud, “This tablet is property of US Military Operations, issued December 9, 1966. Last software update, March 3, 1977. Contents within are above top secret.”
“Chevez, clear the scene,” Kattic instructed.
“Everyone in. We’re pulling out. Uniforms back to the station!” he yelled. “Let’s go!”
The three investigators waited patiently, as the officers removed themselves from the area. The red flashers on the roofs of each car slowly snuffed out, as the units disappeared down the block.
“If you need me, call.”
“Thanks, Chevez, and good work,” Tom said, as the officer retreated to his squad car.
The three men stood alone in the street with the dead body and the banged-up Pontiac. Carver glanced over to the nearby houses to find Mrs. Meyers peeking out her living room window.
“So are we all on the same page?” Kattic asked. “Are you guys all thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That this man isn’t from here? Yeah, we’re on the same page,” Carver answered.
“I don’t know what the military is doing,” Tom said, searching through the digital tablet for any clues. “I can’t access anything on here. Every folder is password protected.”
“This is obviously some kind of military operation. Maybe it’s best if we stay out of it. Does this really concern us?” Kattic hinted. “We sure as hell don’t have jurisdiction, and we don’t know the circumstance that surrounds this incident.” Kattic’s voice was stern, and he spoke with subtle hand gestures. “Unless there’s a reason to think otherwise, I don’t thi
nk we should get involved.”
“Agreed,” Carver said. “We’ll call the army, tell them about the accident and deny any further knowledge. Once we saw the victim was a military man, we contacted them. That’s our story.”
“I’ll make the call,” Tom said, pulling out his communicator.
“Let me see the tablet. I’m not 100 percent sure one of our guys didn’t touch it without gloves,” Kattic said. “Odds are the army’s very thorough with their investigation.”
Tom handed him the device, and Kattic immediately used his shirt to remove all the fingerprints.
“Nice morning for a conspiracy,” Carver said, scanning the sky.
Chapter Ten
Wake Up
Daniel Wallace was a war hero. His grave site in Arpac Hills Cemetery was 157 years old. He fought and died bravely in the Battle of Arpac Hills. Out of that battle came the city’s name: Sorrow’s Sky.
Back then the small settlement was just getting started, and a feud began between the men trying to build the town and the looters and crooks who lived a county over. Both parties wanted the land. The thieves began murdering the settlers’ young children, succeeding in sending a fierce message. After a bloody fight that lasted seven hours, the thieves were finally dead, and the land was earned; the thieves’ bodies were set ablaze. That night Daniel was buried on a nice patch of land with the other settler casualties. So when he awoke in his casket on October 20, 1962, the mourners for the newly deceased being buried at the cemetery this day were mortified to see Daniel crawling out of his nearby grave.
Most people gathered their children and ran, while a few stood staring in horror. The police were informed immediately, and patrols arrived just in time to witness the dirt-covered man making his way down one of the cemetery roads, toward the highway.
I Can Barely Breathe Page 4