The Time Travel Chronicles (46 page)

My eyes fall to the floor. A weight of powerlessness drops my shoulders. It isn’t just about Vincent Galler anymore. I can see myself molding into my father day by day. Slipping further into my addiction. Finding more of my numb solace in the future. Running away from my problems in the past. And the worst part is that I can
feel
all of this. Feel myself drifting further and further, dragging myself down by the weight of this powerlessness into the deep. This deep well of destiny that few accept they’re in. And that fewer climb out of.

Terry looks at me with concerned eyes and pats me on the back. “The world is run by pricks, man. Past, present, future. No one’s going to change that. Best to just accept it and move on.”

He smiles and gently squeezes the back of my neck, trying to comfort me. I shake my head when it doesn’t work. There is only one comfort I know that will. And it’s in a plastic amber bottle in my pocket.

Someone knocks on the door. It’s time for Vincent’s appointment. I don’t think I’m ready for this. I need to drop. I just want to escape. I want to run from this miserable present.

“There’s our favorite client,” he whispers.

Terry gets up and places the chair back on the other side of the desk. He walks over and opens the door.

“Mr. Galler, come on in.” Terry lets him through the door. “Miller is waiting for you at his desk. I’ll be outside.”

Terry closes the door behind him, and Vincent walks over to me, standing in front of the desk.

“Hey, Vincent.” I try to be warm with my greeting.

“Is my insight ready?” he asks.

I nod my head.

Keep it together. Just get through this. Your eyes will get what they want soon enough. Just get through this.

“With your payment, you have three questions you can ask me.”

“I just have one.” He looks down at the floor and takes a deep breath. My mind races, begging him to ask me anything related to legal trouble, so I can somehow spin it to let him know he will be a murderous piece of shit one day. And then he asks me, “Will my company still be operational and profitable in the future?”

I resist smacking my head.
That is your question? Seriously?
I smile, trying to mask my frown and my tears. I look at the page holding one of Tracie’s pictures. I see her dark skin. Her large, poufy hair. Her wide smile.
I’m sorry,
I tell her.
There’s nothing I can do.

“Yes,” I say. My eyes start to tingle, craving drops. Right now. “Anything else I can help you with?”

He shakes his head, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. “That’ll be all.” He turns around and begins to walk away. With every step he takes, my itch intensifies. Everything inside me wants to stop him, to kick his ass, to show him his future, his
real
future. Not the success. Not the money. The trials. The legal cases. The ugly truth of his nature that I’m sure he can’t even see in the mirror.

But I don’t. I don’t do anything. I let him go.

I choose not to meddle.

I fumble for my bottle, not able to take the itch anymore. I just want to go numb. And just as I feel the bottle in my hands, just as my body knows of the relief that’s coming, something happens.

The air in the room changes. I feel warmer. The silence grows quieter.

I recognize this feeling…

Someone is warping here from the future.

I turn around in my chair. A clap of thunder rings in my ears. A man in a dark coat suddenly appears. He’s kneeling down, a hand on the floor holding him up.

My heart races. My hands shake.
Who the hell is this?

He shakes his head, blinks away the blur. He wobbles up to his feet, then gains his balance. And there in his hand, I see his fingers wrapped around a black handgun.

“Hey,” I say, lifting my hands to show him I’m not a threat. “Who are you?”

But he doesn’t answer me. He’s not even looking at me.

He’s looking at Vincent.

I turn back around and see Vincent facing him, slowly inching towards the door still, backing away from the room. Vincent’s frown finally molds into fear. His hands shake as he lifts them. His eyes widen in terror.

“Vincent Galler,” the man says, his voice deep and cold. He lifts his gun, points it at Vincent. “You will be responsible for the death of Tracie Thomas.” He cocks the hammer down on the gun. “But you won’t be anymore.”

Vincent reaches out and shouts, “Wait!”

And then he fires. The bullet slams into Vincent. He falls to the floor, a spray of blood coming from his chest. He screams in agony. Rolls around on the floor. Clutches his bleeding wound. Terry bursts in.

“What the hell!” he shouts.

The man aims the gun at Terry now. I remember my gun in one of the drawers at my desk. I slowly inch towards it. 

“Throw your gun on the floor, Terry,” the man says.

Terry looks at him in shock.
How does he know his name?
Terry tosses his gun to the floor.

The man walks over to Vincent and stands over him. He points the barrel at him again. “No!” Terry shouts.

But the man doesn’t listen. He fires three more bullets into Vincent’s chest. And Vincent stops squirming. Vincent stops breathing. Vincent lies there dead.

Blood rushes through me as my heart pounds.
I have to do something.
I finally grab the gun in my desk, kick my chair back, and draw it on the man. “Put your gun down!”

My hands shake holding the cold steel. My finger is on the trigger. I promise myself I’ll pull it if I have to.

“Shoot him, Miller!” Terry shouts. “This is the guy they’re chasing! This is that meddler!”

The man drops his gun. He raises his hands above his head.

“Turn around,” I say.

He turns to me. He lifts his face. Raises his eyes towards mine.

And then I see him.

One brown eye. One red. Glowing. A scar from his cheek running up through the fake eye. Half his head with dark hair, half his head bald from a burn. His hands are lined with scratches, his neck peppered with bruises. And I see it. It dawns on me, like a hallucination suddenly appearing before me.

It’s me.

The man is me, from the future. I am the meddler.

He lowers his hands down to his sides and dips his chin, knowing I know. And then he walks over to me.

“Miller!” Terry cries.

I lower my gun, raise a hand to Terry. “It’s okay, Terry.”

My future-self stands in front of me. He reaches in his coat pocket and I flinch. He raises his hand, settling me down.

He pulls out a crinkled yellow piece of paper and places it on the desk.

“Look at it,” he whispers.

I unfold the paper. A list of names runs all the way down. Some of them are blacked out with marker. I don’t recognize any of them. Except for one, at the very top.

Tracie Thomas.

“Who are all these people?” I ask.

“Look at it again. Towards the bottom.”

I check it again. I run my fingers to the end of the list. And then I see it.

Jackie.

I look up at him, my eyes wide, on the verge of tears. “What is this?” My words fumble, almost cracking.

His red mechanical eye zooms in, focuses on me. “Those are all the people you’re going to let die,” he says. “Those are all the people your clients will kill.”

His one healthy eye glistens in the light. My chest tightens. My throat constricts. I close my eyes, hoping the tears won’t fall.

I see Jackie’s face. I see my father’s dead body, lying in a puddle of his own piss, blood streaming from his eyes. All my life I’ve tried not to become him. But I see now that I will become something much worse.

I fall to my knees. And I let the pink tears from my eyes fall into my hands.

My future-self kneels down beside me. He grabs the amber bottle of Drops on the desk and smashes it against the wall. “Stop dropping. Go get Jackie and run away. Love her ‘til the day you die. Go do something good with your life.” He squeezes my shoulders with the last of his words, makes me feel them. And then he leans in close, whispers in my ear, “You were right. Destiny is a well. But I’m your ladder.” He extends an open hand with metallic wires piercing through scars. “So take my hand, and climb out.” 

I grab his hand, and he lifts me up to my feet. He gives me a nod and walks away. I almost let him go. I almost let that be the end of it, but before he reaches the door, I say, “Wait.”

He turns around.

“Where are
you
going?” I ask.

He looks at the crinkled paper on the desk. The list of names of all the people I will let die. And then he looks at me, his face grim and determined.

              “To go save the rest of them.”

A Word from Ernie Luis

There was once a time when I looked up at my indie author heroes, all banding together to form a superhero team called the
The Future Chronicles
. It had never occurred to me that one day I’d be standing alongside them, writing stories with them and for them. I was a version of Miller, looking out and thinking of my future-self, wondering who he is, what he’ll do, where he’ll go. And then Samuel came along and asked me to join his superhero squad. And then I stopped wondering about the future. I started making it. I started writing it. “Welcome to
The Chronicles
,” he told me.

I am forever grateful to Samuel for inviting me to contribute. And I am especially thankful to Crystal for recommending me to him. This story is as much for them as it is for you readers.

Now to the readers. So you’ve read “Meddler”. First off, thank you. Thank you for picking this up and checking us out. You are the reason we write. Secondly, if you haven’t read it yet, beware, spoilers are coming.

I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of seeing your future-self, face to face. How would you react if you saw them? Would you be disappointed? Ashamed? Or perhaps proud? Happy of the things to come, the person you’ll become?

It’s funny, because we have almost complete control over this. There is nothing more moldable than the future. And unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, we don’t have time travel to go back in time in case we’re not happy with what we become. So I’d like this story to help you think of the future as not just something that will come to you, but of something you have direct control over. Make it something worthwhile when it finally comes.

If you’d like more time traveling adventures from me, check out my
Alternate Series
.
And if you’ve declared yourself an Ernie Luis fan, sign up for my newsletter, and I’ll give you some goodies and inside scoops on my future projects.

The future awaits us. Let’s go out and make it worthwhile.

Ernie Luis Newsletter

by Daniel Arthur Smith

T
HE WHOLE THING STARTED with the four of us and a riddle.  I could spin an existential yarn about how spiritual and transcendent it was to hack an ancient Tibetan time cycle, but really, it was all about the trip, the psychedelic rocket ride Marty Feldman called the ‘diatomic quantum flop.’  You’d think because of the Eastern twist that it was Danny Wong who brought it up.  But you’d be stereotyping because it wasn’t; it was Marty, though he wasn’t the one to make the Eastern connection, that was Dave.  Looking to the future, I guess that makes sense, but there is no way I can change it now if I wanted to.  That’s the thing.  Though I can see the room clearly when I want to relive it, nothing changes.  But I’m jumping ahead.  I tend to do that.  Let me start with the riddle.

Marty and I were hanging out at Dave and Danny’s patchouli patch in the student ghetto.  We were doing what you would expect four college kids to be doing, sitting under a huge Marley poster – Ziggy, not Bob – listening to jams, waxing philosophy, and enjoying the types of recreationals one enjoys in college.

Marty liked to hold court, to have all eyes on him, so after he passed the bong to Dave he dramatically deadpanned and said, “You’re traveling along a high mountain pass and you come to a bridge spanning a deep crevice.”

“How deep?” Danny asked.

“Really deep.”

“Like bottomless?”

“No,” Marty said, curling his lip back, “like a train bridge in the Alps deep.”

“So I’m on a train?”

Marty’s nostrils flared with a short breath of restraint. “No, you’re on a yak.  You’re on Everest.”