"Alt-History Sunday Sneak Peek"

This is the intro to an unfinished short story about temporal terrorism, set in the Bush years for maximum chuckles. I'm still working on the ending.

I also have a new novel in the works--haven't sold my first one yet, of course, but stay tuned!

-Paul

 

                On September 11, 2001, federal agents arrested a group of terrorists whose hijacking plan would have brought down the Twin Towers. This operation was conducted with little fanfare, the perpetrators were locked away, and few newspapers even bothered with a front page splash about the plot. The CIA and FBI had done their jobs and the threat of Al-Queda was contained; as far as the media was concerned, there wasn’t really much to report.

                On September 12, radical eco-terrorists from the future set off a device in the middle of Times Square. This device directly linked New York City with a period in the late Cretaceous, sixty-seven million years in the past. This “temporal link” erased whole entire neighborhoods, including portions of the Bronx and Queens and much of upper Manhattan. The fabric of space-time was permanently shredded in the region, and the rips spread quickly, replacing parts of upstate New York and nearby New Jersey with vast swathes of jungle. Carnage, confusion and panic were widespread, and the National Guard was mobilized. By the time that President Bush declared a national state of emergency, several thousand people had died: many were shunted into the past when the Link was activated, and countless were injured by prehistoric creatures. Many of these were carnivores, suddenly and violently introduced to an environment they did not understand. They reacted aggressively, seeing the intrusion of human beings and skyscrapers as an assault on their territories.

                The photograph summarizing the madness, taken by war correspondent Steve McCurry, shows an Allosaurus rearing its head over Central Park. Its taloned foot presses down on a police cruiser, and NYPD officers are firing their sidearms at the animal. The serrated teeth of its massive jaws are bearing down on the officers, all of whom would lose their lives that day trying to secure the nearby boroughs.

                It goes without saying that the Link defined a generation, changed the face of the earth, so on and so forth. The terrorist’s ultimatum—an immediate end to carbon emissions, under threat of further devices being detonated—were ignored, and Operation Home Front was begun to exterminate the dinosaurs and find the people responsible. Over the next decade, hundreds would be arrested on suspicion of harboring temporal fugitives, and the fledgling President would be impeached after he authorized the use of nerve gas on “contested” (read: rioting) areas of New York City. The damage to time’s fabric continued to unfold, spreading from state to state, churning out regions and animals from bygone eras into America’s terrified streets.

                Some fortified their homes. Many simply packed their things and ran.

                Jim Conway’s family drove right into that shit.

"The Uber Out of Time"

You slam the door on your way out.

Stupid, stupid. If you'd just kept your voice down, just tried to work things out, maybe she wouldn't have accused you of all that. Stupid. Doesn't she know what you're going through? You can't be expected to listen to this shit. It's not your fault--you were coerced! You can't be blamed.

You need some air; you need to get away. Soon the ride-share car rolls up the street, speckled by drizzle. It's a Saab, of all things, but well-kept. You haul on the door handle and throw yourself in.

The driver turns around. He's nondescript. The app says his name is Kameel. "How's it going?"

"Hey." You aren't interested in small-talk. Not right now. Rage burns under your skin, and you feel like punching the back of the passenger seat. You don't.

"So, when do you want to go?"

You stare at him. "Now. I thought that was implied."

"No, no..." He holds up his phone. The app there is unfamiliar. You look down and see the app you have open isn't familiar, either. It sure as hell isn't one you downloaded. "I mean, what year? What point in your life?" He checks his phone. "You are Chuck Wentworth, right? You didn't put in a timeline when you requested me."

You stare at him. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm Chuck." You're not.

The app is asking for a year and a date. Outside, the rain is thickening, fat spots of drizzle sliding cold and viscous down the Saab's window. Some corner of you wants to slug the guy, or laugh. But then the other side, the shrewd self that's been hiding lipstick smudges, kicks in. Maybe you'll humor him. See if there's a scrap of truth in his bullshit.

"How far can I go?" Can't believe this crap.

"That's on you, man. Big surcharge on 2020, though. Surge pricing, y'know?" Oh, ha-ha, very funny. You roll your eyes, and the rain stops coming.

It doesn't just pass--it stops falling completely. In midair. Droplets hang suspended; wind-swept showers wait on the cold breeze, captured like a photograph. A photograph you're inside of. Nearby, a sparrow caught in the wetness dangles over a puddle, the spray of its takeoff surrounding it, a halo of dew under the soggy orange streetlight glow.

The driver fidgets. "What's it gonna be? If you wanna cancel, that's fine, but there's a fee..."

"No, I'm fine, How about...." You swallow, the walls of your belief cracking open. "Same timeline. But... six months from now."

An eyebrow is raised. "You sure? Same timeline?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, bro. You asked." He circles the block, gently easing around frozen cars. When he arrives back in the same spot, there's a blinding flash--the corona of two hundred suns flashing across the sky all at once. A wave of heat and cold in alternating stutters washes over you. You find your fingernails longer, your hair shaggy. Your stomach paunchier. Clearly these six months without her have been stressful. Good thing you didn't have to live through them.

"Well, there you go, man. Home sweet home. Thanks for riding."

"Thanks..." You climb out of the car. It's sunny, now, and beautiful. The early, crisp days of March. You check your phone and see that you were charged $10.56 for your ride, courtesy of Yog, a company you've never heard of.

Well, damn.

You swagger up the sidewalk towards your apartment--free, easy, no weight on your shoulders. Barely comprehending. Yet you're loose now: no more responsibility. You cheated, in more ways than one: you've escaped. Now you can live your life without interruption, without nagging. Thank God. You always wanted to be a bachelor, on the inside, but you hated the loneliness, the stigma. Now you can start over.

When you get inside, your girlfriend is on the couch. She looks due in about three months: puffy, tired, and enormous. Her things litter the walls, crowd your tiny living space. She looks miserable.

"Hey," she says, cradling a bowl of ice cream. "Did you get that second job?"