Altering the Apocalypse: and Other Short Stories About Humans and Time Travel

by Fred Phillips

  On September 9th, I walked down to the nearest NYPD precinct, pushed my way through the door into the busy lobby, and walked up to the sergeant at the desk. But, I turned around and walked out without saying a word. Have you ever held the power to save hundreds, possibly thousands of lives but have no idea how to do it, or at least convince others that they have to act? It was as if I had the opportunity to play God, a benevolent God, yet my powers fell just short of the task. Almost God.

  On September 10th at 2:22 PM -- I remember the time because I had spent the last four hours just staring at the clock in bewilderment and fear -- I figured out what I would do. Would it work? I was smart enough to understand that plans often sound better in the vacuum of a lonely room, or on a barstool in a crowded room than they do in the complexity and convolution of the real world. I also realized that, though I comprehend quantum physics as much as the next gifted and talented science geek, and I can recite the value of Pi out several hundred digits, I am not that overly impressive when I'm away from a science lab or a computer. But, I recognized that it was the only plan I had and time was getting desperately short. Putting my plan into action required a few phone calls to authorities, some intimate knowledge of the World Trade Center, and the balls to commit a crime.

  “Hal, can you get me some information on the World Trade Center? Just some architectural drawings, some detailed info that would make others conclude I know something about it.”

  “And Frankie boy, just exactly what are you up to?”

  “Hal, you definitely don't want to know. You might be the only person I know who might believe what I've been through, but for now, many things are better left unsaid.”

  “The devil’s in the details?”

  “How unscientific of you, but if you want to call it the devil, I’ll go with it.”

  Hal came through with rudimentary specifics of the World Trade Center. Enough for me to sound knowledgeable about the construction of the buildings. With the information, I found the balls I needed and made the calls to various law enforcement agencies, enough calls that they finally believed me.

  I cannot truly describe what goes through your head as you watch two jet planes fly into the World Trade Center, knowing that I was destined to be one of the victims. I played God to save myself and most likely thousands of others, though I will never know what happened the first time they crashed into the towers, and what happened to that particular timeline. Did it disappear? Does it go on and parallel the one I'm on now? Or is time just a never-ending spiraling circle that is beyond the comprehension of mere mortals?

  As I sat in the New York City police precinct in mid-town Manhattan on September 15th, alone in the room, waiting for federal officers to arrive, I was too scared to think about the mysteries of time. I realized that I was a criminal, a felon, someone suspected of treason, and I had no idea how to tell the truth, because the truth would sound like a big steaming pile of fabrications, fiction, and fantasy.

  I also realized that I might have cheated or destroyed time. You know, that paradox about going back in time and killing Hitler? I changed something here; affected the lives of thousands of people, and that doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Things have unintended consequences, and what I did could have set off an endless chain of those unintended consequences, but only time will tell, I suppose.

  Though it might be possible that these time travel paradoxes are just a fear not based in fact. You remember Y2K, right?

  My only contact with the outside world from the moment the planes crashed into the towers until the police arrived at my door had been a phone call from Hal moments after the towers crumbled and sent massive clouds of dust floating down the chaotic streets of lower Manhattan, and a second phone call I made to Hal to ask for some help in obtaining information on the attack.

  “You're alive?” His monotone belied his worry.

  “I'm alive.”

  “You knew this would happen, didn't you? I heard about the bomb threats and the evacuation and then the planes crashed into it. You had something to do with those evacuations, didn't you? You saved all those people, tell me that.”

  “Hey Hal, thanks for those plans. I need one more favor. I need any information you can get on the attack. As soon as you can. Hours. A few days. Names, flights, anything in the news and anything kept secret from the news.”

  “You got it. But I still don’t understand.”

  “You believe in time travel?”

  “Well, I have hopes.”

  “It's true. I'll see you again real soon.” And I hung up.

  Hal called back in two days. I was still alone in my room. I wrote down everything he said.

  “Good luck, buddy.”

  “If my name makes the papers, don’t believe anything you read.”

  I was not left alone in the small room, handcuffed to a chair, for long. Two dark-suited men, with chiseled faces, and the close-set eyes of government agents, entered, followed by two NYC detectives with heavy five-o'clock shadows. The two agents sat down across from me, and the two detectives sat down on either side of me; an attempt to surround and to force a surrender, I assume.

  “So, Mr., um, Clinton, you are the man who called in the bomb threat, or should I say threats against the World Trade Center, am I correct?”

  “Yes, that's me, sir.”

  “And you work for a government agent, um, T, I, T, is that right? TIT, jeez, they gotta change that one. But, that is you, correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You called at 7:28 PM, September 10th and gave information regarding a bomb that would go off on the 30tht floor of the North Tower and the 20th floor of the south tower, is that right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you called again, providing detailed knowledge of the offices and the structure of the building. You wouldn't provide the location of the bombs, correct?

  “Yes, I mean, no sir.”

  “You told the officer on the phone that you meant to cause no deaths, that property destruction was your only goal, correct?”

  “Yes sir, I meant no harm to anyone.”

  “You then called security at the World Trade Center, the FBI in New York, a top-secret phone line in Washington, that no one, even the people who work at that office, should possess, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “And, thank God, we believed you, thank God you sounded credible, and thank God the security at the center and the NYPD had the good sense to order a complete evacuation of both towers. As a result no one, except for a few members of the city's bomb squad were in the building on that morning... story sound right so far?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “But, lo and behold, at 8:46 AM, a plane crashes into the North Tower, high enough up so the bomb squad could easily escape and then at 9:03 a second plane crashes into the South Tower. Meanwhile, a plane crashes into the Pentagon and another, perhaps headed to the Capitol, crashes into a field in Pennsylvania, and it seems as if it all adds up to a bunch of towel-heads with a grudge against Uncle Sam. Yet, we have you. We can triangulate the cell phone calls -- I'm surprised a smart fellow like yourself wasn't long gone by the time we busted down your door and found you.”

  “I’m surprised it took so long to find me.”

  “Lotsa shit going on here. Chaos reigns supreme. The NYPD moves at its own pace, and shit gets slowed to a crawl down when we have to coordinate with the FBI and every other federal acronym you can think of.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “But, the NYPD sometimes gets its man, and this brings us back to you. Who are you and what do you have to do with a bunch of Muslim extremists bent on destroying the United States?”

  “Well, I don't-”

  “First things first.” He slides a piece of paper across the table until in rests in front of me. He then pushes a pen so it rests next to the paper. “From your first conversation with the NYPD. Confession to the bomb threats. Read and sign.”

  I
read it quickly, making sure it only contained information about the bomb threats that were called in to various authorities. It did, and I signed.

  “Now, we discuss the planes, and I hope to hell you aren’t gonna say it was an amazing coincidence.”

  “If I can-”

  “Honesty is the best policy. They teach you that at the fancy science academy you attended, or perhaps at Stanford?”

  “Not a coincidence, and you may not believe it, but my calls were the only way I could think to save people.”

  “Oh, you some kind of Nostradamus and Mother Teresa all rolled into one? You knew the planes were coming cuz you read it in your tea leaves, saw it in your crystal ball, or perhaps your Ouji board. Oh, and then you thought you would save humanity, that it? But, asshole, what about the people on the planes? Those innocent men, women, and children are dead. Those people –“

  “I d-didn’t know what planes. I, um, wish I could have-”

  “Yeah, yeah, cut the bullshit. I wanna know how you knew. Who the hell are you?”

  “As you already know, I work for a top-secret government agency, we, um, well, we make-”

  “Timing devices for missiles and planes and fancy weapons us lowly government agents know nothing about.”

  “Yeah, that's it. But, there's more.” I had a plan when I came in. I didn’t have much confidence in it, but it was all I could think of. I had read and watched everything I could about the hijackers and the planes they had commandeered and I thought I might be able to use that information.

  “You know, sir, my belongings, you took them from me when I was processed.”

  “Yea, a wallet, a few cards, a wad of bills, and some fancy watch.”

  “If I could have the watch for a moment, I could show you what we work on and it may explain a few things.”

  “So, you want me to get your watch, which may or may not be a watch. Maybe it has a little poison pill in it and we sit here and watch as you kill yourself taking your secrets to the grave. We're not quite that stupid. Or maybe it contains one of those bombs you called everyone about.”

  “Well, how about you keep my handcuffs on? I cannot really open anything or put a pill into my mouth. I just need to show you something. As long as I’m not chained to a chair.”

  The four men looked at each other for a moment, and it was obvious that curiosity was overtaking fear. The lead agent nodded to one of the detectives and he went out the door, reappearing a few moments later with my watch, that wasn't really a watch, in his hand. He placed in on the table in front of me. One of the uniformed officers unchained me from the chair, but made certain my handcuffs still held my hands together. When he was finished, I placed my hands on the table and then moved to grab the watch as all four men observed with trepidation and apprehension.

  “As you would imagine gentlemen, this is not really a watch though it does tell time.” I thought of something memorable to say, as the moment called for it, but my creativity had left the building. “It does some amazing things, but it doesn’t blow anything up. I slid my hands closer to the watch. “Though it doesn’t tell time, it is telling me that it is time to go.” My hands slid an inch more across the dirty table and I clicked the button with a firm touch of my thumb, just as the NYPD detective tried to grab it out of my hand.

  If I was forced to describe the actual act of time travel to someone, I would say it feels as if a giant hand grabbed your shoulders and pulled you away at unimaginable speeds, the effect of extraordinary G-forces reducing your sight to a small tunnel pointed straight ahead. Just as you are about to black out and fall into unconsciousness, you are softly deposited in another time. And here I was.

  I was in the same empty room, with the same filthy beige walls, same shit-brown pressboard table, and same uncomfortable chairs. I immediately went through the list of names and numbers I had memorized. I started reciting, in my head the flight numbers, American Airlines 11, United Airlines 175, American 177, United 93, and then the names of the terrorists Hal had sent me; Mohammad Atta-

  “Holy shit. What the fuck just happened?”

  I jolted around and stared into the frightened eyes of the NYPD detective who had tried to grab my watch away at the last moment. His hand must have had a hold of my wrist at the exact moment I pressed the button, and he had accidentally come along for the ride.

  “Where the hell are we?” He implored.

  “Well, I'm sure this room looks familiar to you.” I spoke as calmly as anyone could who has just jumped back in time and taken someone unexpectedly for a ride. “But the real question, is not: Where are we? The real question is: When are we? If I managed to set my watch correctly, we are somewhere back two weeks or so, and-”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Time travel, detective. I came back once and saved hundreds or thousands of people in the towers, and I came back this time to save the people on those planes and the towers themselves. I have all the names of the people who hijacked the planes.” I pointed at my head. “All the names are in here. We can stop them.”

  He pulled out his police issue 9-mm service pistol, but as he stood there pointing it at me, it only took me a moment to decide my next move. I quickly ducked, reached out for his leg and pushed the button on my watch, all at the same time, not an easy feat for an athletically challenged man such as myself. Why I just didn't move through time by myself, I can't say. Why I dragged the bewildered NYPD detective with me, I have no good answer. But, I did. We went traveling through time once more, perhaps back another two weeks as the setting on my watch, the watch that is not a watch, remained unchanged. I truly hoped that my new detective friend would be both an accomplice and an alibi.

  Little Girl Lost at Sea

  On the morning of August 9th, 2016, an American-flagged general cargo and container ship was sailing from the Port of Miami to Hamilton, Bermuda. About twenty miles from its destination one of the crew spotted something off the starboard side. Through his binoculars, this experienced seaman thought he could make out what looked like a person clutching onto some type of debris. The captain pulled the ship in for a closer look. To their surprise they saw what appeared to be an adolescent girl clinging to a lifeboat.

  The crewmen lowered one of their own lifeboats and three crew members rescued the blonde-haired girl from the vastness of an unforgiving sea. The frail little girl had a temperature of 104, was badly sunburned, and delirious. She spoke in gibberish, had trouble remembering her name, and drifted in and out of consciousness. The crew found her a room, gave her as much water as she could consume, placed an ice-pack on her forehead, and let her sleep as they rushed to Hamilton, the capitol of the idyllic Atlantic island.

  At the hospital in Hamilton, the girl was tested, probed and prodded. When doctors decided she was stable enough to travel, she was flown to a children’s hospital in New York. The ship’s crew made the news, local and international. A few of the local news stations covered the girl’s admittance to the hospital in New York. When the girl’s name, Debbie Davenport, was released, there was a minor rush to figure out her story. News bureaus sent investigative reporters to marinas across the globe. Reporters scoured the Internet for any stories of shipwrecks and lost little girls, but nothing was found. Nothing until Jake Winston, a reporter for a New York City television station, found an archived news story about Deborah Davenport, a Long Island girl who had been presumed killed at sea. I’m proud to say that I’m Jake, and though I’m a bit low on the news totem pole at my station, I work harder than anyone else, and if there’s a story to be found, I’ll find it.

  I walked into the news director’s office, not sure how I would present the preposterous coincidence I had discovered. But a good news reporter always gets right to the heart of the story.

  “Boss, I got something you might want to see.”

  “You find this Debbie Davenport?”

  “Well, um, yes, and no.”

  “C’mon Jake. I’m a busy man. Stop wa
sting my time.”

  “Ok boss, but you’re not gonna believe this.”

  “Jake. Spit it out or get the hell out and let me get something done.”

  “There’s a story of a chartered boat that left Montauk, out on Long Island.”

  “Jake, I know where Montauk is. Jesus, get to the point.”

  “The boat left with the Davenport family – dad, mom, Billy and Deborah. Another family – an uncle, aunt and two cousins was also aboard. There was a captain and his wife. Captain’s name was Krully. Tom Krully. The boat never returned. The captain, this Krully fellow was found in a lifeboat. Some debris was found later. Krully said he had been adrift for six or seven days. He said they had hit some severe weather and everyone else was dead as far as he knew. His story made the news for a couple of days, as much as I could tell. I found a story about a funeral for the entire Davenport family. Very wealthy family – lived over in Glen Cove on the north shore of Long Island.”