Darius traveled quickly by foot. He ran when he could, walked when he was tired, and used the cover of buildings or bushes to hide. The steady quick beat of his heart pulsed at his temples and his hands became wet with sweat. He wiped them on his jeans, shifting the revolver back and forth between his palms. He loaded it with bullets in the plane. At first, he wasn’t sure if he should put it in one of the bags he was carrying or hold it in his hands but the choice to keep it ready for use turned out to be a vital one as he found the city swarming with GPU forces, blockades, and burning buildings.
He recalled looking down at the intricate microchip-like outlines of the city during the flight and seeing puffs of white and black smoke as bombs went off but hearing nothing over the loud engine of the plane. The landing was quick, and he practically ran out of the small plane, across the deserted runway of the airport. Now he stood, body pressed against the wall of a convenience store, watching the Faction military troops march through the street with rifles in hand, accompanied by tanks and other well-armored vehicles.
He looked at the measly revolver in his hand and thought how ironically stupid that he would go up against all of that with a single 6-shot pistol. Instead, he clung to the cover of the wall and waited for them to pass. When they did, he crossed the street and favored the less-traveled side streets and neighborhoods even though it took him longer to reach the home of his in-laws. Few people were outside, and it seemed that most were either cowering in their homes, behind locked doors and barricaded windows, or have left town, hoping to escape the ensuing battle. He moved through the eerily quiet streets lined with homes without conflict and when he did see someone, they were too engulfed in their own hasty tasks than to mind him.
By dusk he finally arrived at his destination as disappointment swelled to the surface. The one-story cottage style home lay still as if abandoned with no signs of life inside. He knocked on the door twice with no answer and tried to peak through the front window of the living room, but all was dark through the slits of the white blinds. He reached for his phone and turned it on, and a slew of texts came chiming through, all of which were from Nora days prior except for one. As he read the messages, he realized the pain he had put her through by her pleading words for him to come home, answer his phone, and finally, just call her back when he could.
She thinks I’ve abandoned her and Lily, he thought. Coward! How could he beg to reclaim his place by her side? Then he read the final text from that morning and a sliver of hope seeped in. “I love you.” she wrote, “meet me here if you are still alive.” An address followed and his heart leaped at the notion that he had not lost her affection after all but when he tried to call her, it rang and rang and went to voicemail.
“I’m coming, Nora.” he texted back even though his new target was now 50 miles away. Frank’s car in the driveway was gone but Darius remembered that his in-laws loved to bike during the spring and fall. He tried his key to the front door and to his surprise it still worked. He entered the dark home and navigated his way to the garage door where he found Frank’s 10-speed bike and promptly ‘borrowed’ it for the trip he was about to make. There was no way he was going to walk the 50 miles and he was better off on a bike than on foot, although traveling was just as dangerous in any form during a war.
He leaned the bike against the wall by the front door and made a quick sandwich, unsure when the next time would be that he’d eat again. He packed a bottled water in his backpack and as he readjusted the strap of the messenger back his thoughts drifted to the Holy Bible hidden inside. What if I get caught and they find it on me? He looked around at the quaint living room, but he couldn’t possibly leave it there for someone to find while looting. If he did, then it would be Frank and Janice who would be prosecuted for false possession.
He walked the bike outside and locked the front door behind him. The sun cast a red glow over the horizon as long shadows from the houses and trees crept past the deserted street towards him and what should have been a sleepy end of winter night was disturbed by the ongoing crackle of gunfire somewhere that was too close for comfort. Be like David, he told himself as he mounted the bike and pedaled swiftly down the street, even though he was a lone army of one on a single mission.
The trains had stopped running that morning, all the conductors refusing to work while everything around them was in a blaze of destruction. Janelle always felt like no one she knew had a car except Elan, yet the roads were flooded with cars like a long, stretched parking lot with no exit in sight. People sat in their cars only to move an inch at a time. Frustration and maybe even panic forced some of them out, abandoning their vehicles in the middle of the roads creating even more traffic. The caravan of migrants leaving Bethune grew and grew as the hours let on and the day progressed into one of the hottest winter days she’s ever known. Maybe it just felt hot from walking and the awkward extra weight of the rifle.
Loren walked protectively next to her children who were both pulling luggage full of clothes and bedding. She kept her hands on the rifle across her body, ready to use it should the situation call for such a thing. Janelle’s stomach was still upset from the day’s events despite the weary trek out of Bethune but at least her mind had calmed a bit with the slow progression of the caravan. Small children clung to the hands of their parents and when they tired, were swept up into the arms of their protectors. Baby cries echoed through the migration whenever explosions were heard in the distance and a man in a black uniform stood firmly on the edge of the sidewalk with military gear strapped about his body and said over and over again, “keep walking.”
Elan and Loren seemed to have been on the same page all along as both declared they would safely see the family to the shelter. Tashanda said nothing about her plans but it seemed to Janelle that she’d stay with them and not take up arms like their sister. Her new boyfriend was nowhere to be seen, apparently taking precautions for his ailing mother and sick brother. As the city of Bethune slowly ebbed in the background and the countryside welcomed them with mounds of dried brush, the shelter took shape from Janelle’s imagination of a big warehouse-type building into a rusty set of doors encased by an awfully thick frame of concrete. The rest of the shelter seemed to disappear against the backdrop of a hill.
More uniformed men stood out front and seemed to be instructing people to enter. They looked just as intimidating as the man in the city who called out to no one and everyone at once, “keep walking.” Janelle wondered how long they would have to stay there and when they returned home, would there even be a home to go back to? Her parents were being taken to another shelter and as she walked past the large steel doors into the cool, dimly lit stairwell she took one more look at the fading reddish glow of the receding sun.
Jasper was busy typing on the mainframe keyboard while people behind him moved about, collecting files and various forms of hardware. He was listening to his favorite band through his headphones and humming along while his slender long fingers stroked the keys. It was an exciting day, and he couldn’t wait to go through the drives once everything was transferred over. He was so enthralled in his work that he didn’t hear the man who stood beside him, trying to get his attention.
The man eyed him and, instantly annoyed, pulled the headphone and snapped it back against Jasper’s head with one quick motion.
“Owe, you dick.” Jasper declared as he removed the headphones and let them rest around his neck while he rubbed his pink ear.
The man in the tan shirt and cargo pants laughed. The muscles of his arms flexed effortlessly with every movement, “Proper wants to know if you’re done yet?”
“Almost, have about 20 more minutes. You know, this is an artform. You can’t rush art.”
He smiled, “don’t be such a nerd, just make it quick.”
“You know, you’re not very wonderful for someone named Mr. Wonderful. You’re more of a dickhead if anything.”
Mr. Wonderful smiled and walked away; Jasper scowled after him. He hated when people interrupted his work. It took time to navigate the intricacies of software. People just didn’t understand the complexities that went into such things. Computers weren’t like light switches. The Artificial Intelligences of computers needed to be coaxed, finessed, and befriended into compliance. You can’t hack an AI with passcodes, they were like people in that they needed to trust the human user before they even allowed passcode attempts for data. He typed a string of code with quick strokes of the keyboard - now, where were we?
As Jasper typed away, Mr. Proper observed a group of men place C4 onto the Portalis Major. For years he had used the PM to go back and forth into time. In a way, he was going to miss it but with Big Baby online, they had no choice but to destroy the PM. The technology for such a machine was the sole proprietorship of the North American territory and being that he was head of the Transtemporal Agency, he was certain there was no other time machine in the world. He wiped his glasses with a white handkerchief from his pocket.
“Make sure you put enough. I want not a lick remaining, nothing that can be backwards engineered. I want this to look like a pile of dust.” he declared with a grin.
Once the PM was destroyed, the AI of the mainframe downloaded, the destruction of the Transtemporal Agency was to take place next. One would call it overkill to blow up the PM and then blow up the building, but Mr. Proper knew better. Leave not a trace was his motto and he intended to leave absolutely nothing behind. He glanced at his watch just as a group of soldiers came marching in. It was time to go and time to kiss it all goodbye.
“Here you go.” Mr. Romantic said as he handed him a manila folder.
Always dependable and brave, Mr. Romantic rose through the ranks quickly to land himself as second-in-command of the Transtemporal Agency. Tall, lean muscles, and handsome, he was the type of man who had a different woman on his arm every week, but he left his playboy antics outside of work. Here he was a serious player and a model Carson, if there ever was an ideal representation, then Mr. Romantic was the embodiment of a 100 year long top-secret endeavor to create the perfect super soldier. The third generation Carsons were superior to Mr. Proper’s first-generation status in every way yet it was Mr. Proper’s experience in war, strategy, and intelligence made him number 1 in his field.
Mr. Proper glanced at the list inside the folder quickly and then shut it again. “Are these all the names?”
“Those are all the names he gave us right before he died.” Mr. Romantic said, taking a handkerchief to his shiny brow. “I’m certain there are no more.”
Mr. Romantic wasn’t keen on torture but the many techniques he learned over the years often led to speedy confessions. He used a truth serum on those he needed to get information from because in a way, it was more humane and required less affliction and torment.
“May God rest his soul.” Mr. Proper said, thinking of Captain Crow. But the deed was done, the man was dead, and they had 7 Carsons to hunt down and he had no idea what missions were sent to the past for. However, after today, they’d be lock in the time they were sent back to, unable to return once the Portalis Major is destroyed. It would be up to his team to hunt them down because they couldn’t leave them trapped in time either. They were capable men who know too much about the future and capable men can cause a lot of damage. They’d find out soon enough that they cannot return to the future they actually belonged to.
Mr. Wonderful, looked up from his C4 placement near the bottom of the PM and said, “God rest his soul indeed, Crow was a piece of shit.”
Murmurs of agreement sprang up from other two men as they finished sticking C4 to their sides of the PM. The sticky white blocks dotted the machine and for a moment a sense of melancholy came over Mr. Proper. He almost did not want to say goodbye, but he tipped his chin and nodded his approval.