Dead Time

by D. L. Orton

  “But whoever is sending those goddamn spheres knows!”

  “And who is sending you messages inside fireballs?”

  “I don’t know for sure. Me from another timeline, I think. But that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is the time machine is in that mountain. I’m sure of it. And if my future self tells me I need to go now, then I need to go. Now.”

  She looks unconvinced.

  “The lab to build the biotech devices is in there too,” I say. “You don’t have to take my word for it. The papers they found in DC say as much.”

  “If the power can be restored, and if we can get the radio working, and if we can clear out the CO2 and get the Bub folks resettled—”

  “Christ, Soleil, that could take weeks, maybe months! I don’t have that kind of t—”

  “—and if the genetics lab is as good as you claim, I’ll ask Uncle Dave to fly us out. Until then, you stay here. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the best I can do.”

  I let my head fall into my hands, too frustrated to reply.

  She places her hand on my back. “I came here this morning to ask for your help, Diego. I need more of your blood to continue my research, and rather than sedate you as Uncle Dave suggested, I’m asking for your cooperation.”

  I don’t respond, and she eventually pulls her hand away.

  We sit in silence for a minute, and then she stands up. “I should go.”

  I watch her walk over to the door. “I’ll cooperate,” I say. “The sooner you get the biotech figured out, the sooner I can go home.”

  “Thank you.” She turns back to me. “The ‘her’ in your message, is that my mother? I mean in your universe?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what Mom thought. She said it was Dad’s handwriting—your handwriting.”

  “Yeah. The only woman I’ve ever loved is dying, and I’m sitting here on my ass counting ceiling tiles.”

  She drops her gaze. “When Mom read the note, she did something she hasn’t done in years.”

  I shut my eyes, not sure I want to hear this.

  “She started crying,” Soleil says. “She’s locked herself in her room, and she won’t come out. She says it’s her fault Dad and Lucas are dead.”

  “Mierda.” I turn away from her, feeling adrift in turbulent seas.

  “I’m ready now,” Soleil calls out, and after a few seconds, I hear the outer door clang open.

  She turns back to me, looking exhausted. “If I can’t figure out how to build the biotechs, Mom’s going to die right along with the rest of us—along with what’s left of the human race.”

  “Yeah,” I say, hating myself six ways to Sunday. “I know.”

  24

  Now I Know What Love Is

  Shannon

  The door of our room bursts open and Peter’s father stumbles through, struggling to keep his balance.

  I watch him fumble for the light switch and stifle a scream.

  “Get up! I need your help finding another box of bourbon.” The light comes on, and he freezes. “What the fuck?”

  He must have had a lot of ethanol because I can see him struggle to make sense of the scene: I’m alone in the huge bed, and Peter is cowering in the corner underneath a pile of blankets.

  And then what few neurons the man has left kick in and he staggers toward his son. “You chicken shit, limp dick, faggot.”

  “This is my room,” Peter says, backing away from his father, “and you’re not allowed—”

  The man backhands his son across the face, sending Peter sprawling onto the floor. “You lying son of a bitch. You ain’t a man, you’re a—”

  I scream and kick off the covers, scrambling over the bed toward Peter.

  The drunken man grabs my ankle and drags me back across the sheets. “Not so fast, blondie.”

  I shriek and try to kick him away, but he pins me flat on my stomach, yanks down a bed curtain, and wraps it around my ankle.

  “Don’t fight,” Peter says from the floor, his nose bloody. “He’ll only hurt you worse.”

  “That’s the smartest thing out of your mouth since you told your whore of a mother the exact same thing.” The man loops the thin fabric around a bedpost and secures it to my ankle, tying me down to the bed.

  “Alright,” Peter says, getting to his feet. “Just don’t hurt her. I’m begging you.”

  I stare at him, unable to believe he’s giving his father permission to rape me.

  “I’ll do as I damn well please.” His father lifts my hips and flips me over onto my back. I scream and try to kick free, but he grabs my throat, cutting off my breath. “Shut it, blondie, or I’ll cut your tongue out.”

  I twist my head toward Peter, pleading with my eyes for his help, but he turns away.

  “You ain’t even got the balls to fight for her,” his father says as he climbs on the bed. “You disgust me.”

  The man looks down at me, his scarred face twisting into a grin. “Even if she’s dumber than a box of marbles, she’s a might pretty.” He squeezes one of my breasts and then kisses me hard on the mouth, his saliva getting all over my lips and chin.

  I try to push him away, but he’s too strong.

  “I usually like to do a bitch from behind,” he says, grabbing my wrists. “But with you, I wanna see that satisfied look on your face when you finally get what that faggot here ain’t been giving you.” His breath smells horrible, and I shut my eyes and turn away.

  He laughs and pins my wrists above my head. “Listen up, Petey. The spunky ones like it hard and rough.” He rips down another curtain and ties my wrists together. “They like a man who can show ’em who’s boss, give ’em something to scream about. Don’t you, blondie?” He yanks on the fabric, dragging me across the sheets.

  I let out a surprised shriek and try to break free.

  “Please, Shannon,” Peter says, almost crying. “Let him have what he wants.”

  The man loops the end around another bedpost and cinches my arms up so tight that it cuts off the circulation to my hands.

  “Stop it!” I say. “You’re hurting me!”

  He laughs. “The boy’s right. It’s high time you was introduced to the staff of a real man.”

  A tear runs down my cheek, and I look over at Peter, begging him to help me.

  He sits there on the floor, cowering.

  “He ain’t gonna do nothin’ but watch,” Peter’s father says and slides his hands up my thighs. “And wish he was man enough to do it himself.”

  He squeezes my breasts hard enough that it makes my eyes water, but I don’t cry out.

  “See, Petey? It’s just like I told ya. For women, sex is pain, and the sooner they learn to tolerate it, the better.” He slides his hand down between my legs, grabs on to my crotch, and rips off my underwear.

  “Please, Peter! Don’t let him—”

  The man clamps his hand over my mouth. “You make another peep, and I’ll beat all that pretty out of you, you hear me?” He stares down at me, spit dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Well? What’s it gonna be?” He raises his eyebrows. “Don’t matter to me either way.”

  I shake my head.

  “Suit yourself.” He takes his hand away and starts undoing his pants. “And if you think what I done so far hurts, wait till you take all my meat inside that tight pussy of yours.” He grins. “Now that’s gonna be some real good hurtin’.”

  Behind him, I see Peter raise the footstool above his head.

  I stifle a scream, but the man’s eyes get big and he turns quickly, ramming his elbow into his son’s face. Peter staggers back, but manages to swing the heavy piece of wood down, bashing the sharp corner of it into his father’s skull.

  There’s a dull crunching sound, and the huge man collapses on me, his blood spurting across my face and chest.

  I try to shove him off me, shrieking and kicking and crying, but he’s too heavy.

  Finally, Peter drags his father away, shoving
the man’s lifeless body onto the floor.

  I try to wipe the blood off my face, but my hands and feet are still tied to the bedposts, and all I can do is lie there on the damp bedding and sob.

  “Are you okay?” Peter asks, his face white and his hands bloody.

  I stare at him, unable to speak.

  He covers me with the sheet and then unties my hands and feet. “I shouldn’t have let it come to this. I thought we’d have more time.”

  I close my eyes, my whole body trembling.

  Gentle hands slip beneath my shoulders and knees, and then Peter picks me up in his arms and carries me into the bathroom.

  He sets me down on my feet, but I’m too weak to stand.

  I grab onto his shoulders, and he wraps his arms around me, holding me against his chest. “I’m sorry, Shannon. I was trying to protect you from that, and all I did was make it worse.”

  I sob into his shoulder until I have no more tears inside.

  “Hey,” he finally says, looking down at me. “I’m sorry.”

  I press my lips together, trying not to cry.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  I shake my head.

  He holds on to me with one arm, grabs a washcloth off the towel rack, and wets it in the sink. I can feel his hands trembling as he wipes the blood and tears off my face.

  “You killed him,” I finally say, my voice sounding disembodied. “What are we going to do?”

  He drops the soiled cloth and reaches into the shower. “Well, to start, I need to get you washed up and into clean clothes.” He turns on the water, waits for it to get hot, and then starts unbuttoning my blood-stained dress. He eases the soiled material up over my shoulders and then pulls it off me.

  I lean against him, shivering in my thin slip.

  “I’m taking you into the Wilds,” he says, “the abandoned part of the biodome. It’s dark and cold, especially at night, but it has oxygen—at least it did the last time I was there.” He lifts me up and carries me into the warm stream of water. “You’ll be safe there—at least for now.” He sets me on my feet again, but when he tries to step away, I cling to him, refusing to let go.

  “Don’t leave me,” I say, my voice trembling.

  He puts one arm around my waist, steadying me. “I won’t.”

  And then he washes the blood off me, starting with my hair and moving down to my shoulders and chest.

  “Is he really dead, Peter?”

  He nods, sliding his hands over my hips, legs and feet, his touch gentle and sure.

  I wait until he’s done, and then look up into his eyes. “You saved me.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Thank you.”

  He turns off the water and wraps a towel around me. “We’ll stop by the kitchen and take as much food as we can carry. And we’ll bring the rebreather masks with us, just in case.”

  “But we haven’t tested them,” I say, and use my towel to wipe dried blood off his face. “If the seal isn’t perfect, we’ll die the second we’re exposed to the virus.”

  “I trust you, Shannon. If you say they’ll work, then they’ll work.”

  I stare at him, not recognizing the man looking back at me.

  Finally, he turns away.

  I bite my lip. “You don’t have to come with me, Peter. Everyone knows about your father, how he killed your mother and abused you. They won’t blame you for this—most of them will be happy he’s gone.”

  He’s quiet for a bit, and there’s a part of me that’s terrified he’ll agree.

  Finally, he meets my gaze. “If you don’t want me to come, then I won’t.”

  I reach up and wipe more blood off his lips. “Oh, Peter,” I say, glancing at his mouth. “I want you to come with me.”

  “Okay, then,” he says, still holding on to me. “But we have to go now. It won’t take them long to miss my father.”

  I nod.

  “Can you manage getting dressed by yourself? While I pack our things?”

  I nod again but don’t let go of him.

  Even though I’m standing there in a torn, damp, see-through slip—no part of me hidden from him—I don’t feel embarrassed or afraid anymore.

  I trust him.

  He helps me back to the room and I sit down on the unstained side of the bed, unsure what to put on. Besides a handful of underwear and the bulky woolen robe, the ruined dress is all I have.

  He opens one of the hidden cabinets. “I got you some clothes. They’re more… practical than a dress.” He takes something out of a drawer. “I know they’re not as nice as what you had at the Bub, but they’re clean—and they’ll keep you warm in the Wilds.” He sets them on the bed next to me and walks back toward the bathroom.

  “Why are you helping me, Peter?” I run my fingers across the clothes he’s saved for me. “And why didn’t you force me to sleep with you that first night—or any other night? There was nothing I could have done…” I look up at him. “But you didn’t. Why is that?”

  “Because I” —he exhales— “Because it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Oh.”

  He closes the door.

  I put on the clothes, some pants like the woman in I Dream of Jeannie wears but made of heavier cotton, and a man’s button-down shirt that is thick, soft and warm. I collect our meager belongings and then knock on the bathroom door.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m ready.”

  He comes out, the blood gone, but his lip fat and a bruise forming around his left eye. He opens the door to our workshop. “I’ll get the masks. Can you fold up a couple of blankets?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He disappears, and I pull his clean blankets out of the corner, roll them up into a tight bundle, and look for something to tie them together. I consider using the bloody bed curtains, but end up pulling the belt out of the man’s pants and wrapping it around the bundle.

  Peter comes back a minute later and puts my toiletries and underclothes into his backpack.

  “Good thinking,” he says when he sees the rolled up bedding. “First I need to get my bow, and then we’ll go to the kitchens.”

  “Your bow?”

  “For protection,” he says and rolls his father’s body over. “We need to get through the Barrier before they discover what’s happened.” He takes a set of keys out of the man’s pocket. “And these will help.”

  “What about water?” I ask. “Should I bring the glass bottle in the cabinet?”

  He shakes his head. “I know how to collect condensation off the biodome walls. We should be okay as long as we have something to store it in.”

  “Should I take the empty bottle?” I ask and pick up the bundle of blankets.

  “No. The abandoned side is full of garbage, Shaz.” He swings the pack up onto his shoulders and then takes the bundle out of my hands. “We’ll find something.”

  It’s the first time he’s called me by my nickname—although he’s heard me call myself it tons of times—and I realize that something between us has shifted.

  More like tipped over.

  “I can carry the blankets,” I say, reaching out for them.

  He half-smiles. “I’ve got them for now.”

  “Really,” I say. “I want to help.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And, again, I’m sorry I let things go this far. I’ve been planning to leave for a while, but I was afraid you…” He glances down at his hands. “That you wouldn’t want me to come with you.”

  “I like you and all, Peter,” I say. “I like you a lot, actually—but sometimes you say the dumbest things.” Without really thinking about it, I kiss him softly on the lips.

  He closes his eyes—and kisses me back.

  Time stands still, our lips touching and my heart pounding.

  And then he pulls away. “We need to go.”

  “Just a sec.” I get the book of poems he gave me and zip it into the side of his backpack.

  “Anything else?” he asks.

&
nbsp; “No,” I say. “I’m ready.”

  He takes my hand and leads me out of the room.

  “Thank you for saving me, Peter.”

  “Nunc scio, quid sit Amor,” he says and shuts the door.

  “Is that French?” I ask, looking up at him.

  “No, it’s Latin.” He guides me down the dark hallway. “My mother taught it to me.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  25

  Alternate Facts

  Diego

  I’m awakened by a noise, but by the time I’m fully conscious, it’s stopped.

  It’s pitch black—the only lights are a dim LED above the toilet and the flashing red beacon of the smoke detector in the empty cell across the hall.

  I hold my breath and listen, my heart rate quickening.

  There’s the faintest scratching sound—and it’s getting closer. Someone switches on a flashlight, the beam flickering across the floor and ceiling out in the hallway.

  “Mr. Crusoe?” The voice is a whisper. “Where are you?”

  “Over here.” I feel around for my jeans and then shove my legs into them. “Last cell on the right.”

  I hear footsteps, and then the flashlight beam jumps into my cell, bouncing off the metal sink and toilet until it finds me.

  “Diego?”

  I put my hand up to shield my eyes. “Yes. Who’s there?”

  “Ingrid.”

  I can’t recall anyone with that name—in this universe or my own. “Ingrid?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Nurse Sweet.”

  “Nurse Sweet?” I squint into the beam of light. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have something for you,” she says. “From Dr. Kirk.”

  I still can’t get used to the fact that Bella uses Dave’s last name, and before I can stop myself I say, “You mean Isabella Kirk?”