Rewind

by Carolyn O'Doherty

  “Damn it,” Barnard mumbles. He slams the door and walks around to the driver’s side. Rain pounds the car’s metal roof. I try reaching for the door handle, but my bound hands make the stretch too awkward.

  Barnard slides into the seat beside me.

  “Here.” He shoves the jacket into my lap and clicks the buckle into place. The soggy nylon feels slimy against my skin. My fingers are growing numb from lack of circulation.

  Barnard considers me. “Lean forward.”

  I shrink away from him. What now? Will he inject me with Aclisote right here?

  “Come on.” Barnard pushes my shoulder so hard my cheek collides with the glove box. Barnard pulls my bound hands toward himself.

  “Can’t have you jumping out at the first stoplight.”

  My cheek stings. I rest it against the smooth plastic while he unwraps the cords around my wrists. The returning blood stings my fingers. Barnard reties the cord around my left arm, just below my stitches, fastening the other end to the base of the seat belt. I pull on the cord. My motion is limited to about a four-inch distance, and the cord is strong enough that there is little hope of breaking free.

  “There,” Barnard says. “Now you’re not going anywhere.”

  He turns from me and starts the car. It’s a newer model, the kind whose engine hums so quietly I can barely hear it beneath the drumming of the rain. The car slides out into the street, and I rest my head against the seat. Water from the abandoned raincoat oozes onto my lap. I pick up the pile of wet nylon, intending to toss it on the floor, but when I do, something heavy scrapes my leg. A pulse beats in my throat. I glance at Barnard. He’s concentrating on making a left turn. As casually as possible I wad the raincoat up in my lap, burying both my hands in its folds as if I’m cold.

  We wind our way toward the freeway. The going is slow; every light turns red at our approach. I wriggle one hand through the jacket’s folds until I find the weighted pocket. With stealthy slowness, my fingers inch their way until they reach the small lump. A grim smile thins my lips. The raincoat Yolly brought me is the same one I wore last night. The one where I left Ross’s lockpick.

  I slide my prize out and finger the thin bits of metal. The nylon sheltering my hands rustles. Barnard looks down. I hold still, watching the regular pass of the windshield wipers. We drive for a while in silence. When I move again, the rustling sounds loud in the enclosed space. I need a distraction.

  “Any one of us could do it without the Aclisote, couldn’t we?” I transfer the pick to my left hand, which is awkward, but necessary, since the leash is on my right arm to avoid the stitches.

  “Do what?” Barnard asks with false naiveté.

  “Change things in frozen time.”

  His hands clench the steering wheel. “That’s not possible.”

  “If it’s not possible, then why am I leashed?”

  “To keep you safe,” Barnard says. “With your chronotin so high, freezing might make you sick. Clearly, it’s already causing hallucinations.”

  I take out the tension wrench and run it against the flat face of the leash. Without looking, it’s hard to tell exactly where the lock is.

  “Freezing doesn’t make spinners sick,” I say, “and I am not hallucinating. You’ve been giving me Aclisote my whole life to prevent this very thing from happening.”

  The windshield wipers smear rain across the windshield. Barnard frowns out into the blurry world. The wrench slots into the keyhole.

  “You would do the same,” Barnard says, “if you were in my position.”

  My fingers twitch, nearly jerking the wrench free. His admission surprises me less than his tone. He sounds defensive. Barnard gives me a sidelong glance.

  “Think about it,” he says, “the world can’t have a bunch of spinners running around changing things whenever they want.”

  “Why not?” I ask, trying to sound like I’m really curious so he’ll keep talking. Beneath the raincoat, I twist the wrench to the right like Ross taught me: just hard enough to tighten the pins without pushing them so far the mechanism locks up. I bend my right hand down to hold it in place and reach for the pick. The awkward motion makes my palm cramp.

  “It’s a matter of balance.” Barnard seems to have warmed to his topic. I wonder how often he gets to talk so openly. There can’t be too many people who know. “For a society, free-roaming spinners would cause total chaos. You could be anywhere, doing anything, and the rest of us would never know. We’d never feel safe.”

  “So you have to kill us?”

  Barnard has the grace to flinch. “It’s for the good of society.”

  “Why not just do it when we’re tested, then?” I jam the pick too sharply and feel the soft give of a pin falling. I slide it out and try again.

  “Why let us grow up at all?” I ask.

  “Killing babies is monstrous.”

  “And killing teenagers isn’t?”

  “You might not die. I’m overseeing a very exciting study right now at the Central Office. It’s showing a lot of promise …”

  A study. If the idea wasn’t so horrifying it would be funny in a macabre way.

  “How many people have you personally murdered?”

  “Most of you would have died anyway.” Barnard turns the car onto the freeway with Ross-like aggressiveness. “Aclisote isn’t all bad. When it was first discovered everyone saw it as a blessing. No one is sure if the strain is mental or physical, but before Aclisote, hardly any spinners survived their childhood. Time really does kill.”

  Barnard gives a little chuckle. I feed the pick back into the lock, making tiny wiggling motions to try and set the invisible pins. Something clicks. I shift the wrench a hair farther to the right and feel around for the next one.

  “I know it sounds harsh from your perspective,” Barnard continues, “but all in all it’s not a bad compromise. You’re guaranteed life for at least fifteen years. You’re taken care of, kept sane, you do good work—it’s more than a lot of people get.”

  His words make me so angry I have to stop messing with the lock.

  “So all you Norms,” I say, “sit around being self-righteous while we’re drugged and locked up?”

  “Oh no,” Barnard protests, “most people have no idea. That’s the gift we give them. They get to enjoy their happy, safe, peaceful lives, unsettled by neither excess crime nor out-of-control spinners. Only Center directors and a handful of politicians know the truth. We’re the ones who bear the burden. The ones who know. It’s hardest on us.”

  The car hums along in the center lane. I check the speedometer. Sixty-eight miles per hour. I concentrate on the lock, making tiny motions with the pick. Another pin falls into place. Another. The leash falls open. The faint buzz in my brain fades. I swallow. I know this is a desperate plan, a terrible plan, dependent on so many variables it’s more likely to fail than to succeed. It’s a plan that might kill me. It’s the only chance I have.

  I lift my unleashed arm out from under the raincoat.

  “Alexandra?” Barnard has noticed my silence. He turns his head and sees me reaching for him. The car swerves as he jerks away from me.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  It’s now or never. I wrap my fingers around his wrist. I say the command out loud. I want him to know.

  “Freeze time.”

  Barnard’s eyes widen as the world stops. All of it. The falling rain, the speeding traffic, Barnard’s fancy car. All of it except us, our bodies, still moving sixty-eight miles per hour as we fly toward the immobile dashboard.

  The airbags do not deploy. The seat belts do not lock. Barnard’s body careens forward, the steering wheel plunging into the soft curve above his belt. An instant later my head hits the glove box with enough force to stun me. Pain explodes through my brain, physical impact combining with the whiplash jolt of time ripping away from me. The car leaps ahead. I hear myself scream as we swerve wildly across the highway. Barnard wrenches the steering wheel. The car skids
sideways. Brakes screech.

  A cement divider rears up, filling the windshield with a wall of solid concrete.

  21

  A SIREN WAILS. RED LIGHTS BURN THE BACKS OF MY eyelids. Words, urgent and meaningless, attack my ears. The smell of burnt rubber and wet pavement soaks the air. When I take a breath, stabbing pain shoots through my side.

  Someone pulls up my eyelid and I wince under a bright light. My mouth tastes like metal. I close my eyes again.

  “Responsive.” A brisk voice. Female. “Nothing obvious broken. They’ll need to suture the forehead.” She places something soft against my head, holding it in place with a few bands of medical tape.

  “Can we move her?” A younger voice, male, with a slight southern twang.

  “Yeah, bring a gurney.”

  “What about him?”

  “Unconscious. Send Riker over.”

  Someone places a brace around my neck. Strong hands reach under my shoulders to lift me from the car. They stop when they realize my left arm is attached to the seat belt.

  “What’s that?” Southern Boy asks.

  I feel a pull as he yanks on the cord.

  “There’s a Crime Investigation Center jacket on the floor,” the woman says. Her voice carries the rolling consonants of a native Spanish speaker. “She must be a spinner. I didn’t know they tied them down.”

  “What do we do?” Southern Boy sounds nervous.

  I force my eyes open. A face bends over mine. A woman, about thirty, with tan skin and thick hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “You awake?” Her hands move professionally over my body. “What hurts?”

  Everything, I think. I hold up my bound wrist.

  “This.”

  She takes hold of my forearm. My wrist is raw and the bandage covering my stitches has come off. The rope must have ripped it from my arm when we crashed.

  The woman calls to someone over her shoulder. A quick snip and I’m free. I try to climb out of the car. It’s awkward moving in the enclosed space, made smaller still by the floppy airbags the real-time crash released.

  “Not yet.” The woman pushes me back, her hands gentle but firm. She wears a blue uniform with Portland EMT woven on her chest. Beneath that, a nametag reads Teresa Gonzales.

  “We’ll take you on the gurney,” she says. “OK? You might have internal injuries.”

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Not yet, chica, you’re still in shock.” She slides one arm under my back.

  “You gonna help me here?” she calls over her shoulder.

  A man in a matching blue uniform moves forward with a tentative step. Southern Boy. He isn’t as young as I’d thought, maybe late-twenties. Dirty blond hair cut short and skin as raw as if he shaved over pimples with a rusty blade. He hesitates a minute, then grabs hold of my legs. As soon as he deposits me on the gurney he steps away.

  I turn my head as best I can in the neck brace. Barnard’s car is totaled. Glass from the shattered windshield sparkles through the drizzling rain. It looks like a gem heist gone bad, diamonds an inch thick on the car’s seats, and more spilling across the pavement. The front hood bends upward. Steam billows from under the crumpled metal. A line of traffic has already piled up behind us. On the far side of the car, two more EMTs lean over Barnard, who seems to be out cold. A flicker of hope flutters inside me. My ridiculous plan has worked. I am out of the car, alive and unleashed.

  Teresa pulls a blanket over me and pushes the gurney toward the waiting ambulance. “What’s your name, chica?”

  “A … Amanda. Jones. Amanda Jones.” I touch my side. It feels bruised. I take a few more breaths. There’s definitely something not right. “What’s wrong with me?” I ask.

  “You’re going to be fine, Amanda,” Teresa says. The gurney rolls into the ambulance with hardly a jolt. Southern Boy is already inside, grabbing straps to secure me. Teresa takes a seat by my head.

  “Who should we call?” she asks.

  “Call?” The adrenaline coursing through my body spikes. If the Center staff meet me at the hospital, all of this will be for nothing. I should freeze time now, get out. I struggle to push away Southern Boy’s hands. The ambulance’s engine roars as the van rolls out. Too late. I sag back onto the gurney.

  “Nobody,” I say. “There’s nobody to call.”

  “You’re a spinner, right?” Teresa touches the bruised marks on my wrist. She has very smooth skin and the soft eyes of a doe.

  “I know you’re all orphans, but whatever Center you work for cares about you, too.”

  The patent falseness of her statement makes me want to scream. I swallow hard, trying to keep the anger from my face.

  “I live at the San Francisco Crime Investigation Center,” I say. They’ve probably already called in Barnard’s license plates, but maybe I can buy myself a little time with misdirection. “We’re up here to help on a case.”

  Teresa nods to Southern Boy, who picks up a walkie-talkie and passes on my information. I keep watching Teresa. I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know spinners are poisoned, that not everyone is part of the conspiracy. The thought only helps a little.

  Teresa leans forward and reaches for a needle. Taking my arm, she pats at my inner elbow. I yank it away.

  “What’s that for?” I demand.

  “Just a saline drip. The doctors like to have it going before you get in so they can easily administer whatever medicine you need.”

  “No.” I cradle my arm, holding it away from her. Teresa holds up her hands in an I-surrender gesture. I curl my arms closer to my chest. “Where are we going?”

  “The closest hospital is City General,” she says. “We should be there in five minutes.”

  I nod. City General is good—only a couple miles from the Center. I stare at the ceiling, trying to do a mental survey of my injuries. I tense and relax the muscles in my arms and legs. Besides my sore side, all there seems to be is the bandage fastened around my forehead. Teresa said something about sutures. It’s probably from the first crash, the one without the airbags. I lie still, trying to be grateful the pain isn’t worse.

  Our ride is brief. The ambulance doors bang open almost before the van stops. Southern Boy hops down, and he and Teresa maneuver my gurney out in seconds. A doctor waits outside. Teresa starts spouting words like contusions, shock, and BP, followed by more acronyms I can’t follow. I switch my attention to the figures hurrying in the background. I see Julio almost at once. My lie about San Francisco fooled no one; they must have called the Sick as soon as someone reported the crash.

  Julio is making his way toward the ambulance at a rapid clip. In his hand he holds a leash.

  “Doctor!” he shouts. The man leaning over me hesitates, half-turning at the call. Julio jogs closer.

  I don’t have a choice. There is no waiting for an opportune moment, no careful covering of my tracks. I reach out and stop time.

  The freeze mutes the crowd. I undo the straps holding me on the gurney and sit up. Very gingerly, I take the brace from around my neck and twist my head back and forth. Stiff, but not terrible. Walking doesn’t go as well. My knees wobble, my head spins, and I’m dizzy to the point of nausea. I balance myself against the gurney. All I want is to curl up in a ball and go to sleep, but I know that isn’t an option. If I sleep, time will start again, and they will catch me. And every second of real time that passes means another drop of Aclisote into KJ’s veins.

  Thinking of KJ propels me forward. I fix an image of him firmly in my mind—a happy one of the two of us talking in the courtyard—and head away from the chaotic hospital entrance, out toward the street. I walk three blocks before I find someone on a bicycle, and then strain to drag the guy onto the sidewalk. I feel bad about stealing his bike. One minute, the poor guy will be riding down the street, and the next he’ll be sitting on the ground, bikeless. It can’t be helped. I don’t have the time or the strength to walk.

  The ride to the Center feels endless. One trip on t
he back of a tandem bike isn’t enough training. I fall over eight times before I master a semblance of balance and still walk the bike down hills because I don’t trust the brakes. Raindrops hang in the air, plastering themselves against me. Only panic keeps me going. If I take too long, I’ll lose control of time.

  I’m shivering by the time I reach the Center. The tall stone building blurs through the haze of rain, like the setting of a dream. Or a nightmare. I drop the bike and drag myself up to the front door. Locked, of course. I melt time and ring the bell.

  “Alex?” Charlie’s voice crackles through the intercom. “What are you doing out there?”

  I turn my face up to the camera that monitors the front door.

  “Dr. Barnard was driving me to the Central Office,” I say, too tired to make up a lie. I lean against the door. “We got in an accident. Let me in.”

  The door buzzes and I half-fall inside when it opens. Charlie is already out of his chair, a phone pressed against his ear. I freeze time before he gets any closer and then take off my shoe and use it to prop open the door.

  Urgency bites at my heels as I stagger toward the clinic. KJ, I keep repeating in my head. I have to save KJ. The door opens under my touch. The room is empty, except for KJ who lies in the same prone position I left him in. He looks worse than I remember. Sweat dampens his forehead. His mouth has gone slack. I place my hand against the skin of his exposed arm, the one linked to the snaking tube of an IV.

  Melt time. Freeze time.

  KJ doesn’t move. I rip off the tape holding the IV in place and press down on the insertion point the way I’ve seen Amy do before pulling out the needle. No response. I look for the reassurance of his pulse. It’s faint, the soft flutter of a wounded moth.

  “KJ.” I shake him. Nothing. I slap his cheek, lightly, and then harder.