Chapter Three
by Andre Infante
There’s a long flickering moment. Broken glass pours silently past the traveler’s face. A fragment of splintered desk flies past the window. Turning shadows play on the inside of the car. There’s an impact and his head whips around a dangerous orbit. His foot grinds nastily into something with an awful crunching noise. A wall of black comes hurtling towards him on the right. Stop. Nothing Restart. The air smells like saltpeter and fumes. The traveler cautiously opens one eye. Gray smoke and crushed metal greets him. He shifts slightly in his seat. Broken glass is sprayed over the lapels of his coat. A hard shard of metal is buried in the carpet next to his ear. Something wet on the side of his head: blood. He opens his other eye, and looks around. Inside his coat, the dog whines and makes a bid for freedom. He rolls over in his belt, broken glass crunching. He undoes the belt buckle with difficulty, and looks around the inside of the car. The passenger side is pointed at the ceiling of what looks like some kind of financial building. Most of the engine block is just gone, and what’s left is jacknifed into a structural support, which is partially bowed over, causing the ceiling to slope at a dangerous angle. Office workers are lying all over the place. He gets onto his hands and knees and looks at the girl. She’s unconscious, thrown against the front seats, but not out of the car. His hand is still curled up in her jacket. With effort, he extracts it. She doesn’t look like she’s dead. She’s breathing, at least. A fucking office building. Of all the places to jump dragging a car, a fucking office building? Sometimes random chance has a sick sense of humor. He tries to focus, tries to breathe. His lungs hurt. He shifts his weight, and an intense pain in his foot rises into his awareness. Focus. Can’t think about that now. Shaking his head, he crawls over to her, the shredded body of the car shifting under his weight. People don’t seem to have figured out what happened yet, which is good. Unfortunately, he is all too aware how quickly a group of traumatized people can go from ‘confused’ to ‘lynch mob.’ He runs his hands along the length of her neck, looking for broken bones. His hands settle on her shoulder blades. She really is quite pretty. Focus. Her neck is fine. A cursory inspection reveals no head injuries. He reaches for his canteen, and dumps the last of his fresh water onto her face. She stirs. The dog nuzzles the back of his leg. He pets it absently, silently urging her up. Her right ear is bleeding, and it occurs to him that he can’t hear anything. He reaches up to his own ears, and feels gingerly. No blood, but they’re ringing. As he straightens, he feels the familiar ache in his joints. He must’ve dropped a thousand feet, easily. He glances around, trying to figure out where he is. Clothing doesn’t tell him much, there’s too much smoke in the air. His ears are ringing too badly to catch any scraps of language. The girl is up. Not steady, but up. They crawl out of the tangled remains of the automobile and move away from it as quickly as possible. His foot hurts. There’s a hot little knot of wrong at the end of his leg and it spasms with every step, sending little stabbing pains up his leg. A wave of nausea rises in his throat as he takes a step. A dozen scared eyes track them as they limp. Nobody attempts to intercede. The traveler figures they have about thirty seconds before brains kick in, and people start to act like people instead of rabbits. They make it to the stairwell without incident. His hearing is coming back a little. He can hear the crackling of fire. Near the wall, they find the Swiss driver. He’s pinned under a desk thrown by the car. There’s quite a lot of blood running out from under the desk, and he seems only half lucid. He’s saying something to the girl that the traveler can’t quite make out. He glances up at the French girl, and somehow she’s got his gun. Before he can work out what to do, there are two muffled thumps and the driver’s face caves in on itself in a crater of blood and skull. She pockets the gun, and walks calmly into the stairwell. He hustles after her, dragging his foot. They hustle down several floors, and duck into an empty room off to the side. The lights are out. He just stands against the wall for a moment, breathing hard, while the dog hurries in and begins to sniff around the perimeter. Now what the fuck was that about? He shakes his head, and inspects the French girl. She’s got a look of cold satisfaction on her face. Not a trace of guilt. He shakes his head Not his problem. He has a policy against killing people unless they really, really deserve it. Well, he supposes the driver sort of did. He stops himself. Again, not his problem. This murder is on French girl’s conscience, and she seems to be coping just fine. He needs to focus, needs to focus. He notes a window at the other end of the room. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his foot, he stomps across the room to the window. It is of vital importance that he work out where he is. He stares out at the city outside, a modest metropolis in the thrall of late summer. He can see some architecture that’s definitely German, lots of domes and spires. Well, that’s something. If the girl ditches the veil and keep that damned hair out of sight, she can probably pass for a good frau. The traveler is confident in his ability to pass for a vagrant anywhere on earth. He turns around to look at the room. The girl has settled in a pile of dirty clothes and elbows near the door. The room is an industrial library, of some kind. The walls are lined with shelves of boxes filled with paper. At the far end there’s a window and a desk. He sees a little box of children’s toys on one corner. He turns to a shelf to his right, grabs one of the boxes off the shelf, and tips it onto the floor. Clues. Something. He is very definitely not thinking about the crushed- about his foot. The traveler thumbs through documents. A book falls out. It’s a French-German dictionary. He sets it aside, and keeps looking. The ringing is starting to fade, a little. His ears have started to hurt in earnest. He finds a paper, and lifts it. The header says ‘Dresden Keramic Corporation.’ He nods. Dresden. He’s been to Dresden before, before the war. Beautiful city, nice people. Should be reasonably safe from the fighting. He turns around, and hears the girl say something. He turns and squints at her. “What?” “Je l'ai dit, why the fuck can’t I read this?” She’s holding the dictionary in her right hand, and staring at him with emotion somewhere between accusation and terror. He groans, inwardly. He was really hoping she wouldn’t have a chance to find out about that. He sighs. “Nous voyage par effet, eh, ‘quantum tunnel?’. Le-” She’s staring at him blankly. He tries again. “Have you ever noticed that we always land on our feet? Nous débarquons debout?” She nods, slowly. “Well, um, I took this stuff, we called it Philadelphia Oil- a drug, I guess. It keeps me that keeps me a little bit out of sync. Um, Je suis un peu hors de la synchronization? Well, it needs a metal barrier to tunnel through, and there’s a lot of metal in the earth’s core, so the iron in the mantle produces a caged tunneling effect, um, uh. Actually, you don’t need to know any of this. One second.” He walks over to the desk in the corner, reaches into the toy box, and produces a shiny tin soldier, about an inch high. He hefts it in his hand as he limps back, and settles onto the floor in front of her. He puts the soldier down. He reaches into his pack, and pulls out a dirty leather glove, which he sets next to it. The dog walks up and begins sniffing it, and he pushes it away. He extends his fist, and sets the soldier on the top of it, just over the little hole between his curled thumb and pointer finger. He looks at her and holds her gaze. “Tel est le monde.” He opens his fist a fraction, and the toy shoots down the length of the hole. He clenches his hand at the last second, catching its head. The tin soldier now hangs suspended from the other side of his hand. “You see? We travel through the earth in straight lines. We should be upside down when we jump, but we aren’t.” She nods. He hopes she gets this. He sets the soldier down, and picks up the glove. He hangs it upside down between his thumb and forefinger. He taps it. “It’s upside down. Il est à l'envers.” With his free hand, he reaches into the glove and tugs it inside out. Frayed leather seams stick out. He glances at her to make sure she’s following. “I think your head travels a little faster than your feet, so, um, Il est debout. Droit est désormais à gauche. You get reversed. Right becomes left.” She blinks. “As a result, reading text gets a little tricky. Also, you’re probably left handed now. Don’t worry, it’ll reverse again next time we jump. If we have to leave you on an odd jump, don’t worry about it to much, it’s pretty easy to learn to read backwards.” She glares at him. “Vous alliez me dire à ce sujet - quand?” He shrugs. She shakes her head. “Fucker.” He closes his eyes. He can’t deal with this. “Look, just, deal with it, okay? Jesus, French girl, I could have left you to die in the ocean, do you know that? Do you know how hard it is to deal with you? Can you even understand? God, I need to sleep.” She stares at him blankly. He gives up and gets to his feet. “Fuck. Never mind. Come on. The police will be here soon. Nous avons besoin de courir.” He takes a step towards the exit, puts his weight on his foot. The world goes gray around the edges, and all the air goes out of his body. He drops to his knees, wretches, puts his hands out to brace himself. The girl is standing behind him. She hooks her arms under his, and pulls him backwards. He drops hard onto his back, held up by his pack. The dog is around his legs, sniffing and whimpering. The French girl pulls his boot off with exceptional care. He struggles into a sitting position, just in time to see his foot. It’s – well, it’s pretty bad. One of the toes is bent at a weird angle, another is swollen, and the middle toe has a white ridge of bone protruding. Something heavy crushed the boot, broke the toes, tore the skin open in a few places. The whole end of the foot is covered in blood and grease and dirt. She shakes her head. She extends a hand towards him. “Medicine. Now.” “It’s fine. I’ve got it.” He reaches onto his pack, and unhooks the German medical kit. He opens it up, and removes a small bottle of iodine dissolved in alcohol. He takes a deep breath, unscrews the end, and pours some over the wound. The pain comes down on his foot like burning gasoline, takes all of the air out of him. He drops the bottle and sinks onto his back, clutching the carpet, panting, trying not to scream. He’s vaguely aware of the girl grabbing the medical kit from him. He tries to pull it together, and snatches the kit back. Breathing hard, “I said, I’ve got it.” He grits his teeth, and picks up the bottle, which has spilled onto the floor. He grabs a cotton rag from the medical kit and begins, carefully and with shaking hands, to wipe some of the grease and blood away from the wound. The girl is looking at him, annoyed. She’s inspecting the foot. “Ces pieds doivent être fixés.” The traveler ignores her. This is as clean as he can get it, without risking shock. He reaches into the kit again, and pulls out a red tin, in English, labeled Sulfanilamide. He opens it gingerly, pulls out a small white paper envelope. He tears the end off, and pours it onto the wound. It burns, but not as bad as the alcohol. He can hear authoritative voices a long way off, at the edge of his hearing. They don’t have a lot of time. “Okay. I’m good. Let’s move.” She shakes her head. “Bon Dieu, tu sais que ce n'est pas assez bon.” He sighs. He’s going to go into shock. He can feel it. But, fuck, she’s right. The toes need to be set and splinted as quickly as possible. He reaches down, very carefully, to one of the toes, and gives it a gentle pull. The pain takes everything. He drops back onto his pack, eyes unfocused, sweat standing out on his forehead. He tries to see what’s going on. The French girl is shaking her head. She picks up a pencil from the desk. “Bite this.” He wants to –needs to- do this himself, but just now he’s too busy trying not to pass out to resist. He lets her push the pencil into his mouth. Reaching downward, she grabs his toes. She looks up and makes eye contact with him. “This will hurt.” She yanks on the broken toes as hard as she can. The traveler screams, and then the world goes spotty and quiet, and the darkness in the corners of the room closes in on him. There’s a long, timeless moment of peace, and then he realizes that he’s running. Somehow, the French girl has got herself under his shoulder, and they’re running down some alley. She must be stronger than she looks. He looks around. They’re still in Dresden, he couldn’t have been out for that long. He takes some of the weight himself, and she looks at him. He tests his stride. The foot is still intensely painful, but it’s no longer critical, just background pain. He wonders what she did to it while he was out. They come to a large, busy street, and he gestures that they should stop. He collapses against a dumpster, and pulls his boot off. The toes have been splinted with the pencil, broken in the thirds, then wrapped in gauze and taped. It’s not an expert job, but it’ll probably heal alright. He suddenly feels a horrible jolt. “Le chien, le chien! The dog, where’s my dog?” She reaches into his coat, and pulls the dog out from under her arm. He grabs it happily, holds it to his chest, and then sets it down. It begins to sniff around the garbage and pees in a corner of the alley, but never travels more than ten feet from him. She looks at him. He looks at his watch. Still thirteen minutes until jump time. “We’ve got about ten minutes. Um, Pas pour un autre dix minutes.” She nods. He considers. “You know, with France being a German territory, you could probably hitch back from here. Um, lemme think. Je pourrais vous laisser ici?” She’s on him in a second, gripping his lapels, shoving him backwards into the wall. “Vous ne me laissez à Dresde,” she hisses at him, then turns away and looks around the corner. He stands stock still against the wall for a moment. “Okay. Fine. It was just a suggestion. No need to get touchy. It’s quite a nice city, if you get to know it.” She gives him a look, and he shuts up. She sits down. “I’m hungry.” He shrugs, apologetically. “All I’ve got is cat food and some old bread.” She holds his eye. “I’m hungry.” He nods, slowly, and reaches into his pocket, groping for a can and his knife. With some effort, he opens a can. He spoons some onto the cobblestones for the dog, takes a few bites himself, and hands the can to her. She scoops some out with her fingers, tastes it gingerly. She looks surprised. “Ce n'est effectivement pas terrible.” “Yeah. I mean, it’s just tuna. Kind of bland, but you can live on it.” She doesn’t understand him, but that’s okay. Even a little bit of food in his stomach is helpful. He can feel a little clarity coming to him. He pulls his boot back on, and reaches for his canteen. It rattles in his hand: empty. Right. That is a problem. Well, he can deal with it later. He carefully hooks the canteen back into place. He shakes his head. He’s tired. Ever since Frenchgirl showed up, his sleep schedule’s been completely out of whack. He needs to focus on taking care of himself, as soon as he can get rid of her. Sleep more, maybe see if he can steal a bottle of multivitamins soon. He shakes himself. He’s drifting off. He needs to address something else. He looks at the French girl, who’s finished the catfood. She’s perched on the edge of the dumpster, scanning the street. She’s looking at a large, fancy-looking church on the other side of the street. He decides to get it over with. “Hey, um, French girl. Can I have my gun back, please?” She stares at him for a long moment. She produces the gun and holds it in her hand for a long moment. The small black gun shines in the sun. Then she passes the gun back to him. He checks the safety (it’s on), and slips it into the correct pocket. Now that he has the gun, he looks at her. “You know, you really should stay here. Believe me, you’re safer here than you are with me. It’s not a bad city, really.” She gives him a look that could freeze water. “Vous n'avez aucun problème, me laissant avec les nazis? None?” He shrugs, puzzled. “The Nazi’s, the Russians, the English. What the hell do I care? It’s not important. The way I see it, the important things in life are a bed, a friend,” he nods at the dog, “and the next meal.” She gives him a look. “There’s a war on.” He shrugs. “Not my war, not my problem.” She looks at him with disgust. “People are dying, you sac de merde.” He looks at her in wounded surprise. “People die all the time. I’ve been fed by Nazi’s. I’ve been clothed by the British. Both sides have tried to kill me on numerous occasions. You want me to say that one is worse than the other? No. That’s not a road I’m going down. You shouldn’t, either. It’s not your concern. One side will win. Life will go on. You should really stay here.” She stares at him, gives him the finger, and turns away. He shrugs, and sits there staring at the wall for a little while. A light rain begins to fall. She shivers, and leans in under the eaves. He pets the dog and runs a hand experimentally through the air around him. It feels like watery syrup. Only a matter of a few minutes now. He paces out the alley. No point in taking any brick with him if he can avoid it. He stands in the center of the alley, and stands upright, looking up at the grey sky, raindrops breaking on his face. The dog knows it’s coming, and curls up at his feet. The girl notices it, and after a moment’s debate, walks over to him. She stands back to back with him. He can feel her shoulders digging into his, can feel the tension in her back. And then his watch dings, and they’re gone. After a moment, the bells of Dresdner Frauenkirche strike the hour. A wall of water rushes up at him. A taste of warm saline: ocean. He bobs to the surface. The dog is already there. The girl is treading water not far away when he breaks the surface. He pulls the bedroll off his back and begins to inflate it. After a moment, it’s sufficiently inflated to roll himself into. After a moment, the girl stumbles up onto it beside him, dangling her feet in the water. The dog climbs up onto his chest. The girl is sitting off to one side, and it’s tipping the bed, sending little jets of water down his back. “Lay down, you’re tipping the raft.” She gives him a long look. “I’m serious. Sleep. You don’t know when you’ll get another chance.” After a long moment summing up her options, she lays down, her back to him, and mutters. “Essayez quelque chose, et je te casse autres orteils.” He winces. His foot is still killing him. “Got it. Go to sleep French girl.” He starts to close his eyes, and then has a thought. He reaches back, and unhooks the still from his pack. He tilts the lense at the top so that it catches the sun, then screws the canteen into the hose coming off the side. He dumps the tray under the water, filling it with saline, and then sets it between his legs. It sloshes with each movement of the waves. With the sound of the ocean still in his ears, he closes his eyes and sleeps. He wakes up to the sound of the alarm going off. Oh fuck, he forgot to set the timed alarm before going to bed. The French girl is throwing him off. He gets ready to run if he has to. The bubble hardens and suddenly they’re gone. A few drops of boiling surf, suspended on top of the bubble, falls and splash into the ocean with a hiss. They land, with barely a thump, in the ocean again. It’s colder now, and night, but they’ve mostly dried by now, and it’s not too bad. He sits up to check on the dog, then lays back down. The French girl stirs, turns towards him, asks sleepily. “Où en sommes-nous?” “It’s alright. Go back to sleep.” She seems to realize how close her face is to his, rolls over with a sniff, and goes back to sleep. After a moment to check the amount of water in the canteen (it’s nearly full), so does the traveler. This time he sets the alarm. It wakes him up five minutes before the next jump. He gets up, tucks the dog into his coat, and makes preparations. He doesn’t wake the girl. He takes his boot off his good foot, and shakes a handful of pebbles and grit out into his hand. He shakes the grit out from between his fingers, until he’s left holding a dozen small stones. As the bubble hardens and begins to sizzle in the seawater underneath him, he rubs the dog’s stomach and tosses a pebble at the bubble. The bubble blurs the horizon into rags of daybreak and grey clouds. The hot ozone smell comes off it in waves. He can feel the oil cloth running under his ass as the waves push the wavering particles against each other. He feels hot and tired and dizzy and not quite real. He exhales slowly, and then throws another pebble. It passes the barrier with a burnt grease hiss. He throws another, while a fleck of foam boils away on the top of the bubble. He’s almost out of pebbles by the time he jumps. The sleeping mat crashes to the ground with a rush of spreading seawater. The traveler is prepared this time, and lands on his feet, sending a shudder of pain up his leg. The girl gets a little wet, but recovers nicely, landing in a low crouch. The dog simply waits for the raft to settle, and then trots off. The traveler glances around hurriedly, already packing up the bedroll. There are sidewalks, well maintained. Somewhere in the first world. He sees a church with a cross on top. Well, that narrows it down considerably. A gust of cold air hits him. Flat blue horizons, barren trees, Christmas lights under the noontime sun overhead. The traveler smiles. He’s always liked Christmas. Then he laughs, because he suddenly realizes that he’s back in America. The French girl looks at him with some alarm. He grins expansively, cold air stinging his cheeks. “Welcome to America!” She spits on the ground. “Juste ce dont j'ai besoin.” He ignores her. “Let’s go get a hamburger, with fake cheese and grease stains on the bag. You need to taste an American hamburger. God, I’ve missed hamburgers. Oh! A banana milkshake, with frost on the glass. It’s been so long since I’ve had a banana milkshake…” He takes off, still talking to himself. She is shocked to see real tears of joy in his eyes. Now she’s staring at him with some genuine concern. After a brief moment to read a street sign and make sure her body is correctly aligned, she chases after him. The dog is well ahead of her. He finds what he’s looking for after a couple of minutes. It’s a diner, off to the side of the road. It’s not a particularly nice diner. Part of the sign is broken, displaying, simply, an F. There’s a picture of a stoned looking boy in red shorts carrying a hamburger by the door. He nearly runs inside, shouting grandly back to her. “Viens, mon amour! Le ciel vous attend dans le hamburger!” She sighs, and follows him. They step into the diner. The dog keeps it’s head down and stays out of sight. The diner is empty, it must be well after lunch. A family sits in the booth towards the back. The traveler walks up to the counter and gives the man an expansive smile. “Two cheeseburgers with bacon if you have it, two banana milkshakes, a bag of French fries. Pronto, please, I’ll be leaving town in,” he checks his watch, “half an hour.” The cook gives him a dour look. “You can’t have that dog in here.” The traveler gives the dog a fond glance, and shakes his head. “It’s alright, we’ll take it to go.” He taps on the counter impatiently with one hand. The cook gives him a look. “You can’t,” he says with a slow drawl, “have that dog in here.” The traveler gives him a hard stare. “Listen, friend, if we stand here and argue about this, I won’t get my food, and the dog’ll stay in here longer than if you just gave me my food. So, turn around and go get me some food, and we’ll be out of each other’s lives as soon as possible.” The cook shrugs. "No dogs. There’s a sign. Get the hell out, and come back without the dog.” The French girl takes a step back. The travelers eyes have gone very, very hard. His voice is very low, very cold. . “Do you know what I’ve been through since I last had a banana milkshake?” He leans in close, eye to eye with the cook. “I have been stabbed. Shot. Exploded. Arrested by Nazi soldiers. Set on fire. Concussed. I have nearly frozen to death. I have been in a car crash. I have nearly drowned. I have fallen off of a cliff.” He leans forward into the cook’s face, breath blowing his nose. His hand snaps out and grabs his apron, lifting him onto his toes. His voice drops to an icy whisper. “I have subsisted on catfood and beef jerky for three fucking months, while acting as God’s personal punching bag. And now, I want a milkshake. So if you think for one moment, one single second that you are going to stand between me and my food, well, you are a sadly mistaken.” The cook is straining to get away, eyes bulging in his skull. “Do you understand me, you little insect? Shut up. That wasn’t a question. Now, if you don’t get me my food, hot and promptly sometime in the next minute and a half, I am going to take this sword, and I’m going to cut your damn lungs out. Look at that family over there in the corner. Imagine those little kids going home tonight with the image of your hacked up corpse burned into their brains. Look at me. Look at me. I am a goddamn crazy person. Now, I’ve got twenty minutes left. Go. Get. Me. My. Milkshake.” And then the cook is gone. The traveler has dropped him. He lands on his butt, scurries backwards, turns, and vanishes with a bang of double doors into the kitchen, and there is a tremendous clatter of a very fat man careening around a small space in mortal terror. The traveler sits down heavily on the barstool and pats his lap. The dog hops up into it. He spins around a few times, gives the family in the corner a friendly smile. The French girl is still staring at him. Very quietly, she sits down next to him, with all the care of a dynamite manufacturer. He nods at her. “You’re going to love this. There’s nothing like an American hamburger.” After a moment’s thought, he shouts into the kitchen. “And it better not be burnt!” This results in a further clatter. The traveler turns to the French girl, who is still wavering between intense irritation and fear. She looks at him, thinks for a moment, and then manages. “Vous ne pensez pas qu'il va appeler la police?” The traveler takes a moment to interpret this, then shrugs. “He probably already has. Don’t worry, we’ll be out of here before they arrive. This is Ohio, I think. Have you ever been to a police station in Ohio?” He leans over the counter to shout something else, when the cook comes running back through the door with two paper bags, which he throws down on the counter. The traveler checks the bags to make sure he got the order right, then he fished out his wallet, and finds some American dollars. He throws a ten dollar bill on the table. “That should just about cover it. Thank you sir, and have a lovely evening.” The cook just stares. The French girl tugs on the traveler’s arm. He turns, and sees flashing lights outside the building. There’s the sound of an abbreviated siren. The traveler sighs. “Come on.” He picks up the bags, under one arm, tucks the dog under the other, vaults over the counter, and runs. The French girl sighs, and follows him. They burst out the back way into a fenced in little lot. The traveler tucks the dog into his coat, hops onto the dumpster, and vaults over the fence with the ease of someone who spends a lot of time running away from people who want to kill him. He turns to help the girl over. She lands easily next to him, turns and says, “Which way?” He points, and they run. They get most of the way down the streets before the air begins to go opaque and blurry, and sizzle like frying stone. Then, where the two people and the dog were standing on the street, there isn’t anything. After the thump of collapsing vacuum, a man who happened to be standing on the curb might think he heard a distant whisper, echoing back through the curled knots of space. He’d be wrong, of course, but if he did hear a few whispered words, they would be these: “Oh god. We’re here.” BACK *** NEXT  |
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Sorry to anyone who actually read this. Getting the adds to target on a site like this is... challenging
Sorry to anyone who actually read this. Getting the adds to target on a site like this is... challenging
