Forty Leap (11 page)

“Are you hungry?” the lead man asked before
locking me into a cell.

I nodded.

Several minutes later, I was brought a tray
of beef and vegetables with a short loaf of hard bread and a
pitcher of water. The food was good, the meat and vegetables of
much higher quality than I would have expected. Of course, I hadn’t
eaten anything like it in several weeks so it was possible that my
perception was skewed.

It was several hours before someone came for
me. The man who took me from the cell was different from the man
who had brought me there. He didn’t speak at all and I wasn’t sure
that he understood English. I was led back up the stairs and onto
the main level. We only passed the grand lobby, but I could see
that the sun had set and the true effect of the lighting of the
chandeliers. If it wasn’t a police station, it would have been
beautiful. I saw no other prisoners. In fact, it seemed that I was
the spectacle of the hour as all eyes turned to look at me. Once
again in an elevator, I was taken to the seventh floor where I was
marched through a group of cubicles, once again to be ogled by Arab
office workers, and deposited into an office.

The office was small, but had a nice view of
the street. The street lights were lit and there was moderate foot
traffic. But I couldn’t really look at it for very long without
being overcome by this terrible sense of loneliness. I felt so far
away from home, years and years from everything I had known. The
clock on the desk read 7:22.

The door behind me opened and a man entered
the room. He was a young man, probably five or six years younger
than I was, and he wore an expensive black suit with tiny little
pinstripes. He was carrying my wallet, my phone, and my notebook.
His name was Samud.

“You have not kept up your journal,” he said
to me.

“I lost bits of time,” I explained while
explaining nothing.

He nodded skeptically. “Five years is a large
bit to lose.”

I didn’t react. It was not surprising. Five
years. Jennie was five years gone.

“Please sit.” Samud offered me the chair
opposite the window and took his own behind the desk. I took the
seat, my heart growing cold.

“I apologize for taking so long to see you,
but it was very difficult tracing you. Your identity matches the
identity of a man who was reported missing more than six years ago.
You were last seen at your place of employment…”

“K-mart,” I said sadly.

“Yes,” he said both surprised and delighted
at my knowing that. “This matches an entry in your journal. I am
also familiar with the man Warren Li that you mention in later
entries. Quite a hero among your people. He brought over one
thousand refugees out of Arab occupied territory and into what
remains of the United States before he was killed.”

And just like that I started to cry. My head
dropped into my hands and the tears came. I don’t suppose I cared
so much about Li, but hearing that he had died was too much for me.
The faces of all of the people I had seen in that short time
flashed before my eyes. The Tiris, the wispy man, the gang man who
Jennie had…

Jennie.

Jennie.

Jennie.

Samud’s hand fell on my shoulder and he
shoved a soft tissue into my hands. “Please, my friend. No one here
will harm you.”

I looked up at him, struggling to regain my
composure. It seemed a very long time since I had been afraid for
myself.

“It’s 2014?” I asked.

He nodded. “I would normally disbelieve the
assertions made in your journal. This time skipping power…”

“It’s not a
power
,” I corrected. “It’s
something that happens to me, not something that I do.”

“Of course,” he acquiesced. “However, the
circumstantial evidence would seem to support you.”

I sensed a trap. “What evidence?”

“The annexation of North America’s north east
has been complete for almost four years. All of what was once New
England as well as New York, New Jersey, Delaware, and parts of
Maryland have become territories of the United Arab Nation. For
many months, our soldiers rounded up American refugees, but there
has not been one seen since the very end of 2012. In addition, the
dates of your journal entries and the major events listed in those
entries seem to correspond with your time lapses.”

“Then you believe me?”

He shrugged and took himself back behind his
desk. “I do not disbelieve you.” He passed over a piece of paper. I
took it and looked at it. It was a print out of an old news article
from England. The pilot of a British jet insisted that his co-pilot
had disappeared for just a second, and then reappeared. The
description of the incident reminded me very much of my first
experience, with the spilled coffee. I handed the paper back to
Samud.

“You see,” he said. “There are many of these
articles, describing people disappearing and other such incidents
which allude to your condition in others.”

“Can you help me?” I asked, showing perhaps a
bit too much desperation.

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it would
be impossible for me to bring this to my government for research. I
would be laughed out of my position. However, I have some friends
who may be interested in doing some research while we put up the
appearance of integrating you in as a regular refugee.”

“How do we do that?”

“Under the treaty signed by our two
governments, no United States citizen is to be held in United Arab
territory for any length of time in excess of the time it takes for
his government to receive him.”

Shaking my head, I began to laugh a little.
“What does that mean?”

He smiled at me. “It means that you will be
added to a manifest immediately. Your government receives manifests
at irregular intervals, depending on how long it takes to process
the previous manifest.”

“How long is that?”

“It varies, depending on the people. First,
your government has to do an identity check for every name on the
list; they don’t want to admit spies or terrorists. Once they’ve
cleared all the names, the manifest is placed into a queue for
delivery. Upon delivery, the United States does whatever it does
with the manifest and the people on it. It can take years to clear
a new manifest. As you may have noticed, there are still thousands
of United States Citizens in United Arab territory. Since there has
not been a new refugee for some time, I have added your name to the
last manifest, which is almost twenty months old. It will not clear
for some time.”

“And what do I do until then?”

“We will have to conduct our research in
secret. You will have to appear as a transfer from one unit to
another. As soon as we can insert you into a new unit, you will
work just like everyone else.”

In 2009, when I had been roaming the city of
New York with Jennie, the United States was trying desperately to
hold its borders in Pennsylvania, Upstate New York, Virginia, and
even further down south. There were Arab troops moving into
Florida. Resources were so low that police and private security
firms were enlisted to aid in the fight. Meanwhile, the bulk of the
army was trapped overseas fighting in Iraq, Iran, and Israel (the
three Is). United States forces held out just long enough for the
recalled troops to make their way home and save the deep South. The
United Arab Nation was contained and held to the northeast. Peace
talks began.

While all of this was going on, Arab troops
were also rounding up American citizens caught in the invaded
territories and placing them into internment camps. There were some
twelve million of these refugees when all was said and done. As
treaties began to get written, the Arab Nation collected
information on the refugees and released that information to the
United States officials. Thus began the counting and collating of
the captured and dead. Sadly, instead of demanding the immediate
release of its citizens, the U.S. chose instead to carefully
analyze the data, leaving parts of families stuck over the border
with no information and no hope. What made matters worse was that
the outraged families were no match for the throng of frightened
citizens who wanted everyone admitted back into the country
medically and psychologically screened. Those wily terrorists would
stop at nothing to get their spies into the country, even if they
had to brainwash its citizens. As a result, the treaty was amended
to include the concept of the Refugee Manifest.

A Refugee Manifest could hold as many as
fifty names or as few as twenty. Basically, the United Arab Nation
was to submit individual manifests to the U.S. for processing and
clearance. One the U.S. government had exhaustively checked every
name on the list and made preparations for return, the manifest
would be cleared and the people whose names were on it could be
transferred over the border. This process happened within a few
weeks at the beginning, but the United States became quickly
overwhelmed with the enormity of the task and it lost priority to
other issues. In the meantime, the Arab Nation had to feed and
shelter these people, so they demanded financial remuneration. The
U.S., petrified of receiving spies and terrorists, quickly
acquiesced. Funds were allocated and refugees were soon living on
the dime of the American taxpayer.

After several months, the U.A.N. decided to
rebuild and settle those areas that had been devastated by the
invasion. Though many workers came from their home countries in the
Middle East, the refugees were broken up into work units consisting
of forty people per unit. It wasn’t bad work, really. The people
were given decent housing, clothing, and food in exchange for the
work. They were also trained to do things that most of them had
never done. People with medical experience were held aside to work
with Arab doctors and the refugees were integrated into society,
albeit at a low social level.

Samud wanted to keep me close by so that I
could meet regularly with a Doctor Abdel Miktoffin. Miktoffin was
one of the
friends
of which he had spoken. Apparently, this
man had been tracking people with my syndrome for several years and
had collected an embarrassing and paltry amount of information. He
was hoping a “live subject” would open some doors for him. I
smelled personal ambition and resolved to be on my guard for the
duration of our relationship. Guile was something foreign to me,
but I was adapting quickly to a growing need for it.

So my work unit was downtown. We were placed
in apartment buildings that were converted office buildings. They
were close to what had been the South Street Seaport. I could smell
the sea air when I was dropped off. There was some commotion as I
arrived. Apparently, the building housed six work units, and the
Arab government had chosen midnight as a good time to pull people
from a cleared manifest. The lobby of the building was crowded with
people, both Arab and American. Several official looking people
were attempting to organize a short group of Americans into a line
and check off their identities on a clipboard. We were forced to
wait outside for an hour while it all took place. Finally they
began moving the procession out the doors to the waiting bus, a
converted school bus. I was exhausted by then and eager to accept
whatever bed they might offer me. But I could not help but stare at
the faces of the people getting onto the bus. Despite the fact that
they were obviously being released back into the United States, I
saw nothing but despondent stares. I felt sorry for them, wondering
what their journey would be like.

And then I saw Jennie.

She was five years older, a little taller and
a little more filled out, but it was definitely her. And, in case I
needed any more convincing, she looked up when I called her name.
She couldn’t initially identify the direction of my voice so she
began to look around. I called out again and stepped away from my
guards. This, they did not like. Dragging me backwards, they hauled
me toward the entrance of the building. It was now clear of people
and they seemed eager to keep me away from the people being moved
out.

I called to her again. And again. I did not
stop calling her name and I did not stop struggling against my
captors. Finally, her eyes found me and she looked confused for a
moment. Of course, I was clean and shaved and it had been five
years for her. I would have given her my name, but her confusion
was momentary. She said my name aloud and, though it was phrased as
a question, I knew that she knew who I was. Then she jumped out of
the line and started toward me. For whatever they used to restrain
me, they doubled their efforts with Jennie. Five years older and
five years stronger was she, moreso for the difficult work she had
been doing. But it wasn’t enough. They forced her onto the bus and
made sure she stayed in her seat while she pounded on the window
and silently called out to me. The last I saw of her as I was
dragged inside was the eerie portrait of her face in the dirty
window.

“But I need to see her,” I cried out. “Let me
go.”

It was no use. They did not understand me and
probably would not have cared if they did. They railroaded me into
an elevator and we rode up six floors to my new home.

I did not begin work the next day. I was in
no condition to work, having had a late night to begin with and
being unable to sleep at all after seeing Jennie, and Samud had yet
to formally place me into a unit. He came to see me that afternoon
and found me a glum and miserable companion.

“Something is troubling you, my friend,” he
said over a private lunch.

“Do you have a pen?” I asked.

He seemed confused, but was willing to play
along. He removed a pen from his breast pocket and handed it over.
Taking a clean napkin, I wrote down several names.