11
“Don’t throw up,” Levi says, ducking his head down, preparing for the wave. He’s more concerned about losing his meal than Chafin’s threat, or the fact that we’re about to be torn through time once more. “Don’t throw up.”
“What is that?” Chafin says, stumbling a few steps back, but keeping his weapon trained on me.
“Afraid this is where we part ways,” I tell him. The sound of my voice is all but drowned out by electrical crackling filling the air.
The wave of distortion rolls toward us. It looks different this time—still impossible to see through, but where there was once a kaleidoscope of color, there is now a wall of shimmering white. The invisible orchestra rises up again, the deep resounding bass shaking inside my chest and distorting Chafin’s scream.
I’m floored by the passing effect. I feel it roil through my insides, sending a chill to my core, before ripping out through my feet and plummeting downhill. But how far?
Eyes clenched, I feel the cold all around before opening my eyes and seeing the world made white. For a moment, I think the effect has somehow transported us to another dimension this time, a stark, lifeless place. Then I realize the truth: it’s winter.
I stagger to my feet, untying the jacket and pulling it on. Cassie and Levi groan as they stand, shaky from the lingering aftereffects of time travel, and our recent battle. They’re being worn down, but I’m impressed by their resolve. Once we’re dressed in our stolen coats, I turn my gaze uphill.
“We’re fighting time and the elements now. We need to hit this hill hard. Stopping could—”
“Eeeearrrggh!”
The scream makes me jump. I spin toward the noise, drawing and aiming my handgun, the barrel snapping to a stop between Chafin’s eyes. He’s on his knees, undone by the time-wave and the jarring impact of being transported through time. Never mind the physical discomfort, the psychological impact of finding yourself somewhen else is enough to undo even a hardened man like Chafin.
I lower my weapon, crouch down, and pick up his revolver from where he dropped it. “Give it a minute. Catch your breath.”
“Is this hell?” he asks.
“Winter in Appalachia,” I tell him. “So, close.”
“What’s he doing here?” Levi asks, and it’s the very question I’m asking myself.
“It’s taking everyone,” Cassie says.
“And not just from our own time.” I glance at Chafin, whose feeble struggle to stand matches my effort to decipher the ramifications of what we’ve just learned. “Everything, from our time back, comes along for the ride.” I tug on my coat. “Anything not part of the Earth. Trees come and go. The leaves change with the seasons. But anything…loose is carried through time.”
“Not your truck,” Levi points out. He’s right. The truck throws a monkey wrench in my theory. “Maybe it’s a question of mass and how close it is to Synergy?”
“Mass?” I squint at the kid. Didn’t take him as the type to have paid attention in science.
“Yeah, like weight? Maybe the truck was too heavy. Or something?”
It’s better than any theory I can come up with. “Maybe.”
“So, then what?” Levi says. “We just need to make ourselves heavier? Root ourselves somehow?”
“We don’t even know what year it is now,” Cassie points out. “Even if that worked—and I don’t think it would—living our lives in the past is not a solution. The further back we go, the worse things are gonna get for me.”
“Far enough back,” Levi says, “things aren’t going to be pleasant for any of us.”
I step away from the conversation. Something is nagging at me, nibbling at the fringe of my attention.
“Hey,” Chafin says, standing on shaky legs. When no one responds, he growls a bit and says, “Hey! Someone tell me what in the name of the good Lord is going on? Where’d all this snow come from? How did we get here? It’s summer, for Pete’s sake!”
He’s frantic. On the cusp of losing his mind. Can’t say I blame him, but Chafin was a problem when he was balanced. If he can’t pull himself together, we’re going to have to leave him here, or… I shake my head. Killing an unarmed man, even if it would help our own survival, is not an option. Not in any time.
“You being here is as much a surprise to us as it is to you.” Levi hugs his arms over his chest and blows steam from his mouth, up into the frigid air. While there’s only a few inches of snow, it’s covered with an icy sheen that cracks underfoot. The bare branches glisten with a layer of ice, giving the forest a magical feel. Despite the harsh conditions, I think we’re lucky to have arrived after the storm of freezing rain. “Hell, us being here is a surprise. And for the record, we don’t know what’s going on, neither.”
“What do you know?” Chafin asks, looking a little steadier.
The three of us are silent for a moment. Then Cassie asks, “You read?”
“A bit,” Chafin says, eyeing his pistol, which I’ve tucked into my waist.
“How about H.G. Wells?”
The name is familiar to me, but I don’t read many novels. If Cassie is asking about a writer, he must have been around before the 1920s. What’s most confusing about her line of questioning is that I had no idea she was a reader. I haven’t seen many books at her home, and she’s never brought up reading anything longer than the Synergy Security Manual.
“Some,” Chafin says, though he seems ashamed to admit it. Even in the future, admitting you’re a bookworm in a land of rough coalminers is enough to make people not trust you.
“The Time Machine?”
Chafin opens his mouth to respond and then freezes in place. His eyes dart about the forest. Then his mouth slowly closes. He spins around, glancing in every direction. “Are you saying... No… It ain’t—”
“Winter?” Levi asks. “’Cause it wasn’t a minute ago. And now it is.”
Chafin’s bewilderment melts into despair. “It ain’t possible,” he whispers. Then louder. “How?”
“We don’t know,” I say. “We were carried through time, just like you.”
“And likely anyone else on Adel,” Levi says.
The nibbling becomes a frantic chew, and then realization draws a gasp from the depths of my chest. It’s enough to make even Chafin flinch in fear.
“What is it?” he asks.
Cassie puts a hand on my shoulder. “Owen?”
“They’re still here,” I say, before looking her in the eyes, a new kind of fear burning in my chest.
“Wait,” Levi says, “Who’s still… Gal dang. Your pa. And you!”
We scan the woods around us like we might suddenly come upon them. But I know they’re nowhere to be found. My father wasn’t a foolish man. Anyone on Adel would have heard the gunfight with Chafin’s men. With my younger self in tow, my father would have gone out of his way to avoid the confrontation.
But what else would he have done?
With the forest changed, and the road gone, he’d still know the mountain. Like us. And he’d have done what any reasonable person would do—head to town. Look for help. But there wasn’t time to make it there. So now my father, who’s supposed to die tomorrow, is stuck in the past, in the snow, without any way to get help.
On one hand, I’m afraid for them. For my father’s life, but also for mine. If my younger self dies out here, will I, too? I was young and fragile back then, afraid of everything—unless my father was with me. Back then, he was larger than life. An unshakable behemoth who stormed through life’s problems and projected confidence. He was my rock, until he wasn’t.
I have no doubt that my father—a simple man with simple needs and desires—is as confused by what’s happening as we are. But he’ll be focused on me, and on surviving. They were dressed for fall, but my father could have a fire burning inside a few minutes. They might even be better off than we are right now.
Doesn’t matter, I decide. They’re family, and I won’t leave them to go through this
alone. “Change of plans,” I say. Before I can explain, a nearby scream rises through the air, echoing in the leafless forest. I turn toward the sound, looking back in the direction from which Chafin came.
“What did you do with Arthur?” I ask.
“Left him tied to a tree,” Chafin says, equal parts defensive and concerned.
A second scream is followed by a high-pitched. “Help!”
I scan the forest around us and then look uphill. My family, and the answers we need, are somewhere else on Adel. But I can’t just leave a man to die—horribly, by the sound of it.
“Come with us or not,” I say to Chafin. “That’s up to you.” Then I look to Levi and Cassie who both nod. They’re on board with my plan, even if it does set us back once again. We strike out through the icy snow, our collection of footfalls sounding like crunchy cereal in a giant’s mouth. Chafin hesitates for a moment and then follows.
As we approach the scene of the earlier battle, I slow down and do my best to walk silently, letting my weight push through the ice and compress the snow beneath. The others step inside my prints, allowing them to move without making a sound.
Ahead, I see bodies from the 1920s, half buried in the snow, like it fell everywhere but on top of them. I crouch behind a tree, leaning out to survey the scene. When I don’t see Arthur, I glance back at Chafin. He points off to the left and I strike out again.
“Please, God! Someone!”
Arthur sounds close, just beyond a big oak. I creep up to it, as slow as I can. The only thing that can make a man scream like that usually has ears, and I’d prefer to not to be heard before understanding the situation.
Clutching the tree’s bark, I lean out to the side and see Arthur, hands behind his back, bound to a birch tree.
Just a few feet away, licking a dead man’s face, is the largest mountain lion I’ve ever seen—in person or in pictures. And while it’s tasting the dead man, it definitely has eyes for Arthur, who makes himself the more interesting meal with each kick of his feet and each pitiful wail.
The big cat lets out a low growl, and for a moment, I think it’s about to pounce. Then it turns and looks me dead in the eyes.
12
“What are you waiting for?” Arthur says, straining to be heard while not wanting to draw the cat’s attention back to him. “Shoot the dang thing!”
“Cat’s just doing what cats do,” I tell him, without taking my eyes away from the feline. While I haven’t ever stared down a mountain lion before, I know enough about them to not act rashly. First of all, the cat is far faster than me, and I’m not entirely sure I could draw and shoot it dead faster than it could charge and wrap its jaws around my face. Cassie might be able to gun it down while I’m assaulted, but not until after those inch-long canines have punctured my skull. I also don’t want to kill it. Drawn by the scent of blood, it really is just fulfilling its natural role. The only reason Arthur was in any danger is because Chafin left him tied up, surrounded by the smell of death.
“Fan out to the sides,” I tell the others.
“What in the hell for?” Levi asks.
“Intimidation,” I say, hoping the cat is smart enough to know when it is outnumbered. I’m not sure what year it is now, but people have lived here long enough that I’m confident the cat knows we’re dangerous. It might also know we’re delicious, which could have something to do with its reluctance to back off.
The cat’s eyes dart to the others as they step out on either side of me, their feet crunching loudly in the crusted snow.
“Bare your teeth,” I say. “Growl.”
Feeling a bit ridiculous, I follow my own advice.
Levi groans, “This is like gal-dang drama class.”
Between growls, Cassie says. “You took a drama class?”
“There was a girl involved,” Levi says before joining in.
The cat’s ears fold flat as it takes a step backward. Our intimidation tactic is working, but it’s also backing the cat straight toward Arthur, whose eyes are widening in abject terror.
“Shoot it!” he screams, regaining the cat’s full attention.
I feel a sudden pressure on my hip and then a shift of weight, as my handgun is pulled up and away. The weapon rises, aimed toward the cat, which is standing in front of Arthur. I grasp the weapon as the trigger is pulled, angling it up. A single round blasts through the air, punching into the tree bark a foot above Arthur’s head.
The sudden report makes the cat flinch, but it doesn’t retreat. Then Levi steps forward, raises his arms in the air and shouts. “Rwar!”
The already spooked lion bolts, disappearing over a ridge in three long strides.
With a twist of my hand, I disarm Chafin, and in the same quick move I deliver a backhanded slap to the side of his face. The blow is hardly a punch, but solid enough to bowl the man over. He lands on the ground, stunned and rubbing his cheek.
“Thank Jesus,” Arthur says, struggling against his bonds. “Y’all came back for me.”
“And you sold us out,” Levi says, crouching beside the man, knife in hand. It’s the same knife he used to kill Chafin’s man…and save Cassie’s life.
Arthur eyes the blade. “About that…” He looks around the forest, at the dead men, and then at Cassie and me. He’s trying to concoct a story, but he’s coming up blank.
“You got nothin’,” Levi says, leaning in with the knife.
“Now hold on a minute! I just—”
Levi slices, making Arthur jump with fright. When Levi stands up, sheathing the blade, the only thing cut is the rope binding the hairy outlaw to the tree. Arthur pulls his hands free, staring at them as a smile spreads.
“What’re you doing?” Chafin says with a groan, pushing himself up. “Man’s a criminal.”
“Seeing as how you were about to murder me a few minutes back, I’d say you fellas have more in common than not.” I holster my gun, buttoning it in place this time. I motion to Arthur. “At least this man was fighting for a cause that affects him and his own in the present day, and not a familial tiff that should have died out decades ago.”
It occurs to me that it’s entirely possible we’ve been transplanted to the years during which the Hatfield and McCoy fighting was at its fiercest.
“You got no love for your family?” Chafin says, climbing to his feet. “No respect for your name? For your history?”
“Only family that matters to me are the ones I can remember,” I say, thinking of my father and my younger self, somewhere in these frozen woods, confused and afraid. I’ve always pictured my father the way I remember him—strong, determined, confident—but now that I’m grown and projecting those qualities to those around me, I understand how, most of the time, it’s an act.
The sound of crunching feet and cracking branches turns me around. I see a flash of Arthur sprinting downhill. Then he’s out of sight.
Levi points in the direction Arthur fled. “So, yeah, think he remembers the mountain lion that dang near ate him?”
“Or noticed that it’s not summer anymore?” Cassie asks with just a hint of a smile.
I’m actually sure he’s keenly aware of both. “Means he’s more afraid of something else.” I look to Chafin, intending to level a Southern Baptist, condemnation-filled gaze at him. But I don’t get the chance.
Chafin’s head bursts in time with a rifle report. The red explosion is almost patriotic, flaring out like fireworks.
I dive behind a tree, unaware of who shot, how far away they are, or how many people we’re dealing with this time.
Arthur wasn’t running from us, or Chafin. He must have seen what was coming and decided to bolt rather than warn us, despite the fact that we saved his life…twice now, by my count.
“Don’t know who in tarnation you bootlickers are, but you can get the blazes off my land, or I’ll be forced to deal with you all in…” I draw my handgun slowly, glancing at Cassie. She’s armed and ready to fight again, but she looks weary and disheartened.
I understand how she feels. Is everyone on this damn mountain going to try killing us?
“What the dickens…”
He’s noticed the bodies.
While he’s clearly not opposed to taking a life in brutal fashion, he wasn’t prepared to come across the scene of a battle. And to be honest, I wasn’t really prepared to fight one, or to return to the scene to fight a second.
“Look here.” The man’s voice has raised an octave higher, no doubt realizing that we’ve got the potential to be as dangerous, if not more so, than him. “You two Marys and your colored strumpet can vacate this here mountain, or I’ll be forced to lay you down aside your friend there.”
The threat lacks force and reveals his hand. I’ll be forced… The man is alone, and judging by the slight slur in his voice, somewhat inebriated. That makes him dangerous, but also vulnerable. The drink doesn’t seem to have affected his aim any, but it hasn’t helped with his decision making.
“Firstly,” I say, trying to emulate the man’s accent, which is a strange mix of Southern, Scottish, and Irish. “The man you shot wasn’t my friend. Truth is, he was a lawman. And I’m glad you put a bullet in ’im.”
“Drat,” the man says, no doubt thinking Chafin’s death is going to bring him more trouble than he bargained for. I don’t bother telling him Chafin’s either a child in this time, or not yet born.
“Secondly, are you ol’ Pete Boone by chance?”
The man’s string of whispered curses are answer enough. Pete Boone was an infamous bootlegger, and I only know about him because my father used to tell me stories about him when we hunted these woods. Told me a fair share of other stories, too. About Indian burial grounds, buried treasure, and Civil War battles. Said the mountain hadn’t known peace from the time of the dinosaurs until his father’s generation. Seems my father’s oral history was more accurate than I’d ever believed.
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