Out of Time Page 10

  “I thought I saw something…” a man’s voice said.

  “There’s nothing there. C’mon, I’m hungry,” another voice answered. “The wife hid a meat sandwich in my pack this morning. I’ll split it with you.”

  There was a pause, the light holding them hostage, and then: “Yeah, ok.”

  The light flicked off. The muffled sound of footsteps on the grass faded away. Sharon began breathing again.

  “Are we safe?”

  Richard peered carefully around the tree. “For the moment,” he said.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Now we find my friends and get under cover.”

  They scurried from shadow to shadow until they were within a few yards of a small block of buildings across a narrow street. The windows were dark, and the building appeared abandoned; but as she looked closely Sharon saw the windows were sealed, like she’d done in the TPC safe house in London in 1940 during the Blitz. There were people living there.

  Richard sprinted across the street, Sharon behind him. He tucked himself into an alcove next to a door and after Sharon was fully in shadow, he quietly knocked on the door. There was a shuffling sound, and a voice spoke.

  “What do you want?” It was the voice of an older woman.

  “We’re here for bread,” Richard answered.

  “We only have loaves during the day,” the woman replied.

  “Then we will take the night bread,” Richard said.

  Night bread? Sharon mouthed. Richard shook his head and held up his hand to stop her from saying anything else.

  The door opened, showing half a face barely lit by a dim gloom behind her.

  “How many loaves of night bread?” she asked.

  “Two,” Richard answered, nodding at Sharon in the dark.

  “Of course,” the woman said. “Come in, quickly.” She opened the door just wide enough for them to slip through, before closing it fast. She pointed to a flight of stairs to the right.

  “Up,” was all she said and then disappeared behind another door. Her home, Sharon assumed, as she heard multiple locks engaging.

  The building was a shabby version of an apartment block from the 1930s or 40s on her world. Hoisting her pack full of vegetables, Sharon followed Richard up the thinly carpeted stairs. Though threadbare the carpet muffled their steps and the only sound was the soft swishing of their jumpsuits as they moved. On the next level were four doors off a hallway that ran next to the staircase. Richard headed for the third one and knocked again.

  The door opened a fraction.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re here for the ship in the bottle,” Richard said.

  “Ship in the bottle,” the voice repeated.

  “Yes,” nodded Richard. “If you hold it up to your ear, you can hear the ocean.”

  The door closed and then opened again, wide enough for them to get inside. They found themselves in a living room, simply decorated. There were two windows in the corner. If they had not been sealed, the room would have had a lovely view of the park in the daytime.

  “Is Petrone here?” Richard asked.

  “No,” said the man who answered the door. “But we expect him soon.”

  A woman and two children peered around a corner from what Sharon assumed was the kitchen. A man and a woman watched through a set of curtains hung over the entrance to what used to be the dining room but was now a makeshift bedroom.

  “You may sit,” the man said, gesturing to a worn couch against the wall.

  Sharon sat on the edge of the couch, her pack by her feet, feeling uncomfortable. The woman downstairs had been cautious but satisfied with their responses to the code words. These people, on the other hand, were eying them with doubt and not a little distrust. There was fear here, a lot of it. Sharon hoped this Petrone Richard had asked for would arrive soon.

  “What’s your name?” Richard asked the man who opened the door. He crossed his arms and stared at Richard and Sharon, saying nothing.

  “I’m Richard, this is Sharon,” Richard said to the woman and children watching from the kitchen. The man who opened the door stepped in front of them, and they disappeared from the doorway.

  “Oh, orangutans and Ferris wheels are my favorite, too,” he said laughing his croaking laugh.

  Sharon’s heart sank. The suspicion of the people in the apartment was like an unpleasant smell and she was certain Richard sensed it, too. She feared the tension would trigger his temporal aberration disorder. How would these people react if he started shouting about things they couldn’t see and fighting things that didn’t exist? They would throw them out into the night to be captured by the obchestpol.

  “What’s Ferris wheels?” the man asked narrowing his eyes.

  There was a knock on the door. The couple in the dining room closed the curtains and vanished. The light in the kitchen flicked off. The man gestured at Richard and Sharon that they should hide on the other side of the door.

  “Yes?” the man said through the crack.

  “It’s Petrone,” a deep voice said.

  Richard broke into a smile as the door opened. Petrone was a large man in a worker’s uniform smelling of sweat and machinery. He held out his enormous hands when he saw Richard.

  “You have returned. I’m glad to see you. And you must be Sharon Gorse,” he said engulfing Sharon’s hands in his. “I have heard many things about you and your grandmother from Richard.”

  The cold atmosphere in the apartment warmed immediately. The people in hiding came out, glad to see Petrone, hugging him and shaking his hands. There was a marked thawing toward Richard and Sharon, with shy smiles and greetings.

  “This is Richard and Sharon,” Petrone said. “We can trust them. They’re here to help and have unique skills we can use.”

  These must be the dissidents Richard talked about, Sharon thought. Those who had formed an underground to fight against the dictatorial regimes dominating the planet. She sat back on the couch in relief, her pack on her lap.

  There was a sudden pounding on the door followed by a shout: “Open up! Open up now!”

  “Obchestpol!” someone hissed.

  It amazed Sharon at how fast the people in the room disappeared. She barely had time to register the room was empty before she and her pack were propelled past the curtain into the dining room-come-bedroom along with Richard.

  They ducked behind a set of bookcases that covered a small bolt hole in the wall. As the bookcase door closed, Sharon saw Petrone turn the bed over to become a dining table. Their hideout was crowded with six adults and two children, but no one made a sound. With the bookcases closed it was dark, but what was happening in the living room could be clearly heard.

  Petrone opened the door.

  “How may I serve you?” he asked the officers respectfully,

  “We must search your apartment.”

  “Of course,” he said opening the door wide to allow them in. “May I ask what you are looking for?”

  “Two strangers were seen near this apartment building after curfew. They’re wanted for questioning at headquarters.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Parallel

  The obchestpol officers searched the apartment for over an hour. They rooted through closets, overturned chairs, pulled out couch cushions, and seized food from the kitchen “for later inspection.” There was a terrifying moment when one officer began methodically pulling books off the shelves of the bookcases shielding their hiding space. Those crowded into the bolt hole held their breaths. Satisfied there was nothing troublesome in the bookcases, the officer retreated from the dining room, leaving the books scattered on the floor.

  Finally satisfied no one else was there, they left taking the confiscated food with them. Petrone waited another 30 minutes before he pulled open the bookcase.

  “They searched the other occupied apartments on this floor and have left the building,” he said. “I don’t think will return tonight.”

  The group filed ou
t of the hiding place. The apartment was a mess—the obchestpol had flung to the floor everything they had touched. Without comment, the others picked everything up and put it away, as if this kind of incident was commonplace.

  Petrone pulled Richard and Sharon aside.

  “They know you’re here. We don’t have time to wait. We’ll begin tomorrow.”

  “Begin what?” Sharon whispered to Richard as Petrone joined the others in the kitchen to salvage what was left of the food.

  “The mission to get to their temporal nexus,” Richard said as he eased the water pack from his shoulder. Sharon handed him her backpack full of vegetables and he carried both packs to the kitchen to replenish what the obchestpol had taken.

  It wasn’t long before the group retired for the night. The couple returned to the dining room that was again a bedroom. The family slept in Petrone’s room while Petrone made use of a cot in the kitchen. Sharon slept on the couch and Richard on the floor by the front door.

  Sharon rose early the next morning after a sleepless night. The dim gray light in the room suggested the sun had not yet risen, but already there was movement in the apartment.

  “It’s market time,” Richard explained. “They will stand in line for hours for bread or milk, maybe flour or eggs. Sometimes they will get some. Many times they do not. The food and water we brought was most welcome.”

  Soon, the only ones left in the apartment besides Richard and Sharon were Petrone, the two children, and their mother.

  Petrone moved the bookcase away from the hiding space and disappeared inside. A moment later he returned with a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine. He opened it carefully, out of sight of the kitchen where the children and their mother were eating a morning meal. Sharon heard low giggles from the children as they enjoyed the fresh vegetables.

  “These will get you into headquarters, along with the identification we’ll create for you,” he said.

  “Uniforms?” Sharon asked as he pulled clothing out of the package.

  “Yes, these are for those who work in the Science Division.”

  “How did you get them?” Sharon eyed the fabric curiously. It had a slick feeling like nylon but looked like wool.

  “Let’s just say the former owners no longer need them.”

  Sharon blanched and glanced at Richard. He seemed unconcerned with how the uniforms were acquired.

  The Science Division uniforms were dark blue jackets with matching pants. There was a small irregular area on the back of the jacket which, as she took a closer look, was slightly discolored. The material had been rigorously cleaned as if to remove a stain. Her stomach churned as she guessed the spot had been the blood of the former owner of the uniform.

  “Why the Science Division?” Sharon asked to take her mind off how the uniforms had been procured.

  “You must enter the science annex to get close to the Roman Ring. You’ll not be permitted to enter without them.”

  “The Roman Ring?”

  “It’s why we’re here,” Richard answered. “The Roman Ring is this earth’s version of the temporal nexus.”

  “And we’ll use that to travel back in time to stop the virus and the invasion,” Sharon said, nodding. She didn’t see the looks exchanged between Richard and Petrone.

  Sharon excused herself to the bathroom to change. The sink and the toilet were one unit, with the washing water above and to the side of the toilet component. It was an efficient design which used the wash water to clean out the toilet. The toilet itself wasn’t made for sitting, however, and it took Sharon a few minutes to figure out where to put her feet.

  Up to this point, the parallel earth had felt very much like her own earth, and she laughed to herself that it was in a bathroom she’d discovered the greatest difference between the two worlds. There had to be some symbolism in that, she thought drolly.

  She returned to the living room in the uniform, which fit reasonably well but her skin crawled at the thought of it. Richard pulled on his jacket. It was snug on him, but not so tight that it would arouse suspicion. Petrone was in a similar-styled uniform, though his was dark grey.

  “Maintenance Division,” he said pointing to himself.

  Richard handed her a bowl containing a thin soup made with the vegetables they brought. Flavored with salt, it was filling if bland. She smiled and nodded to the mother who watched from the kitchen to see if the food she made was acceptable.

  There was a knock on the door. Everyone in the apartment froze. A brown paper envelope slid under the door. Petrone waited 30 seconds before he picked it up. Folding back the paper, he pulled out two plastic cards.

  “Put your thumb here,” he instructed Sharon, pointing to a square on the center of one side of the card. She did and her thumbprint formed greenly on the card, like the change in color on litmus paper. Richard did the same and Petrone held the cards under the light of a lamp until the green on each card turned black.

  He handed them each their card and gestured that they should clip them to their uniforms. There were no other distinguishing marks on the cards—no photos or names.

  “I will guide you. I know the layout of the building,” Petrone said as they readied themselves to leave. “Once we go through this door, I will speak for you. You do as I say. You do not ask questions, and you do not speak until we have arrived at the Roman Ring.”

  They left the apartment quietly. There was no sign of anyone else living in the building—no noises coming from other apartments, no shadows of people moving in front of their doors, no creaks or groans of floorboards. Sharon expected to at least see the woman who let them in, but all was deserted and silent.

  Outside the building was a different matter. There were many people on the sidewalk and in the park across the street. Most hurried from one place to another, heads pulled in as if trying not to draw attention to themselves. A few strolled, walking languidly with an air of confidence and even smugness that told Sharon much about this society—the privileged were the few, the down-trodden were the many. Several obchestpol were peppered throughout the crowd and were given a wide berth.

  They joined the flow of pedestrian traffic heading away from the park into the center of the city. Sharon kept her eyes on their guide, only looking away now and then to take in her surroundings without obviously gawking. The only obvious mode of transportation was walking. She saw no vehicles or signs of mass transit like buses or trains.

  “It’s easier to control a walking population,” Richard muttered in her ear as if he read her mind. He must have been thinking the same thing as he reacquainted himself with this ominous place, she thought.

  For several blocks the mass of pedestrians decreased as people dropped away to enter buildings or veer down side streets; then it grew larger again as new groups merged with theirs the closer they got to the center of the city. A large blocky structure rose high above the others around it. It was an ugly, utilitarian building that brashly proclaimed what it was—Soviet State North American headquarters.

  They joined one of several lines at the entrance. A security officer manned each door, examining employee identification cards and running a device across their bodies. After a beep, they let each person into the building one at a time.

  Richard stood in front of her, Petrone behind as the line slowly crept its way toward the entrance. The closer they got the more Sharon’s stomach churned. The obchestpol who raided the apartment the night before had said two strangers were wanted for questioning at headquarters. Now they were standing outside headquarters. What if the identification cards didn’t work? What if they were somehow discovered? What if this was all a pretext and Petrone was delivering them to protect himself?

  Richard held up his identification card and stood still for the scan. A reassuring beep later, he entered the building. It was Sharon’s turn. She tried to keep her breathing even and hoped the scanner could not pick up on her pounding heartbeat. There was a pause as the security officer looked at her ide
ntification twice before pulling out the scanner. She held her breath. Then the scanner beeped, and the security guard nodded, already looking past her to the next person in line. She almost didn’t remember to walk into the building. There was the sound of someone clearing their throat, and she entered without looking back.

  Richard was next to a news kiosk examining a magazine extolling the technological advances and social perfection of the union. Sharon picked up another which showcased the patriotic actions of citizens who turned in dissidents, traitors, and unwanteds. Disgusted, she put the magazine down just as Petrone walked past. She fell in behind him, Richard a few steps after her.

  Several staircases reached up and back from the central area of the lobby like spokes on a wheel. Petrone led them to the one on the far left and they climbed in silence. There were few others on the stairs, each exiting the stairwell as they arrived at their desired floors. Soon, only Petrone, Sharon, and Richard remained, still climbing upward.

  They stopped at the 12th floor. A sign on the wall read Nauchny Otdel in English below Cyrillic lettering, but there was no translation.

  “This is the Science Division,” Petrone breathed. “We’ll go down the hall and enter the temporal laboratory on the left. You will talk quietly between yourselves about time travel. I will be ahead of you on a maintenance call. Do you understand?”

  They nodded. Petrone walked out the door and into the hall. They waited a beat and followed, talking quietly to each other.

  Petrone entered a room on the left about 10 feet ahead of them. They followed him, still talking with each other as they entered the temporal laboratory, home of the Roman Ring, the parallel earth’s counterpart to the temporal nexus.

  The Roman Ring chamber was not as elegantly constructed as the housing for the temporal nexus. There was no glass wall through which it could be viewed and marveled at. This world’s time travel mechanism was enclosed in a giant steel vault painted a grey-green with small portholes for observing the interior. These were closed by hinged and latched doors. Even the sight of the Roman Ring was controlled and blocked and they reserved just looking at it for the privileged.