Rewinder (17 page)

The Washington I’m familiar with was captured and executed, thanks to information provided by Richard Cahill. In this new timeline, Cahill died before he could fulfill his role and Washington not only lived but thrived.

How do I describe how it feels to confirm I’m both the annihilator of my world and the creator of this one? That, in a single slip of my hand, I’ve changed the paths of millions—maybe billions—of people and likely killed more human beings than all the tyrants in history combined?

Perhaps
kill
isn’t the right word. To be killed, a person would have to exist and then have his or her life taken away, right?

It’s not murder. It’s not genocide.

My crime is taking the lives of those who now have never been. There’s no word for that.

I begin reading the book but this is merely out of habit. My mind is so numb that the words might as well be in a foreign language. My eyes are following the patterns while my fingers automatically turn the page when I reach the end, that’s all.

“Excuse me, sir.” The voice comes from somewhere behind me, but I pay it no attention. “Excuse me. Sir?”

A hand touches my shoulder and then pulls away. I turn my head and find a smartly dressed woman standing behind me.

“The library’s closing in ten minutes,” she says. “If you want to check that book out, you’ll need to do so now.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you.”

She walks off without another word.

I look down at the book that has confirmed my crime. I’ve gone through nearly three-quarters of it and can’t recall a single word. I do need to hold on to it so I can really read it, but borrowing it the traditional way would likely require identification I don’t have. Luckily, I’m not limited to the traditional route.

I look around to make sure no one can see me, and then use my Chaser to hop back to the middle of the previous night at the library.

There are fewer lights on than during operating hours, but it’s more than bright enough for my needs. After retrieving the book I was reading and slipping it into my satchel, I hunt around for a biography on George Washington. When I locate the right area, I’m surprised by the number of choices I have. The man who was no more than a footnote in the history of my world is clearly a legend here. I pick one at random and add it to my bag.

I have no intention of stealing these books. When I’m done, I’ll return to this very night and replace them on the shelves so no one will be the wiser.

Before I leave, my stomach starts growling so I reach into the satchel for one of the apples, but they’re all gone. There’s no bread left, either. I don’t remember eating but I must’ve done so during the lost hours I sat staring at the book.

Another growl lets me know I need to find some food fast. Since I still haven’t figured out the money situation here, I can’t just walk into a store and buy what I want. I could hop around until I find a place that was closed, but that might take some time. So I decide to search the library first, hoping those who work here keep food someplace.

I discover a room for employees only that has a few large, box-like machines that dispense food. Here again, I need money. Thankfully, in the next room I find a refrigeration cabinet, much nicer than any I have ever seen. Inside are several bags and containers. Most have names on them, but there’s half a sandwich wrapped in plastic sitting on a lower shelf, unmarked.

I feel a tinge of guilt as I pull the wrapper off but I’m too hungry to let it stop me. After I shove the last bit into my mouth, I look in the cold cabinet again, this time for something to drink. Several metal cylinders of various colors with names like Coke and Sprite and Dr. Pepper are spread around, some additionally marked Diet.

I pick up one of the red Coke cans. The mechanism for opening it is new to me but only takes a few seconds to figure out. A hiss and a pop greet the pull of the tab, followed by a sizzling sound from inside. The can is cold but the sound makes me think the liquid is hot. Perhaps it heated up when I pulled the tab. Careful so I don’t burn anything, I take a very small sip.

Cold.

And sweet.

I take a longer drink.

And good.

Tipping the can back, I let the liquid run down my throat. I’m able to finish only half before I need to stop. The sweet flavor is wonderful but almost too much.

With my stomach no longer complaining, I decide to take advantage of the location. I sit at the table and start reading. But things don’t always go as planned, and before I can get a handful of pages in, the words begin to swim and I lay my head down and fall asleep.

__________

I
’M AWARE OF
voices behind me, but am still in that zone between dreams and reality, so I don’t realize the significance until someone grabs my shoulder and shakes me.

“Hey. Wake up!” The voice is sharp, female.

I blink, and for a second have no idea where I am. Upjohn Hall? My father’s house?

No. There is no Upjohn Hall, I remember, and it’s highly likely my father is among those who have never existed.

I’m in a now that shouldn’t be.

“What are you doing here?” My inquisitor is a short, thin woman in a brown skirt and beige blouse.

I part my lips, but don’t know what answer to give.

“Do you speak English?” she asks.

Finally finding my voice, I say, “Yes. I’m, uh, sorry. I didn’t, um— ”

“How did you get in here? Did you break in? Or were you hiding when the library closed last night?”

“No, neither,” I tell her, which is true.

“Maybe he was accidentally locked in.” This comes from a different woman standing back by the door. She’s younger, maybe even as young as I am, with long auburn hair and suntanned skin. She’s wearing blue workman’s pants like mine and a black button-up sweater that matches her black-framed glasses. Her tone is considerably more sympathetic than her friend’s.

The older woman glares at me. “Is that what happened?”

I nod. “Yes. I was, um, locked in. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So where were you when the staff closed up?”

“Um…”

The woman frowns and glances back at her colleague. “Ms. Davis, call the police. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“The police?” I say. “But I didn’t do anything.”

“And what do you call trespassing?”

“Maybe we should cut him a break,” Ms. Davis suggests. “He was just sleeping. He didn’t hurt anything.”

“And how do you know that? Have you searched the building yet? Who knows what he’s done.”

“I haven’t done anything.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my satchel sitting on the table, less than an arm’s length away. If I can get my hand inside, I can press the button combination that will take me fifteen minutes back and ten feet to the side.

Ms. Davis points past me, and I’m momentarily afraid she’s going to tell the older woman to take my bag. But what she says is, “You really think he went around destroying things then came in here to read a book about…” She looks at me. “What were you reading?”

“It’s a history book,” I reply. “About the…United States of America.” It’s the first time I’ve said the phrase aloud and it feels odd on my tongue.

“A history book, Ms. Hendricks.”

“I don’t care what he’s reading. Call the police.”

Reluctantly, Ms. Davis walks over to a wall-mounted com-phone. In that moment, neither woman is looking in my direction, so I slip one hand into my satchel and grab the strap with my other. Once my fingers find the correct buttons, I pull the bag to me and push the emergency escape combination.

Both women disappear as my perspective shifts ten feet and I’m dumped on the ground. I can only imagine the librarians’ reactions. At least they weren’t looking at me when I winked out. They’ll probably find some rational way to explain what happened to me.

I pull my satchel’s strap over my head and get to my feet. At the table, my earlier self is slumped on top of the book, sound asleep. I’m tempted to wake him up and tell him to get out of here, but I’ve already made my escape so it makes sense to let things play out.

The book, which I would dearly like to grab and take with me, has to stay, or else it would change the things that are about to happen. I could come back for it later, but I think it best to avoid this library from now on. I set the Chaser to take me just outside the building at dawn, but before I press
GO
, a poster on the wall catches my eye. It’s an announcement of an upcoming “continuing education” seminar at the “Central Library.”

A central library sounds like a place that would have all the information I need. I hastily write the address on a piece of paper. As I finish, I hear footsteps in the hallway, soft and distant, but heading in this direction.

It’s time for me to leave.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

M
Y PRIOTIES ARE
simple: survive, learn, fix.

I focus first on survival.

Several blocks from the library, I spot another 7-Eleven. The red, green, and white sign has become comforting and familiar in a world full of the unknown.

Upon entering, I find many customers waiting in a line to pay for the items they’ve selected. My first step is to get an understanding of the money used here in the United States of America, so I pretend to be interested in some of the goods around the front end of the counter. From there I have a perfect view of the clerk and each customer he helps.

The money seems to come in three different forms—paper, coins, and some kind of plastic card. The first two are just like money from home, only instead of the colorful notes we have, the type in use here seems to be uniformly green and white. I see denominations of one and five and what I think is twenty, though the last passes quickly between hands so I can’t be sure. The coins are too small for me to see their designations, but they probably won’t be too hard to figure out. The type I don’t fully understand is the plastic card. When used, it isn’t given to the clerk but run through a machine on the counter, and then kept by the customer. The cards also seem to come in a wide variety of colors. I decide to avoid them for now. Sticking with the less complicated notes and coins should be enough to get me through.

I leave before I overstay my welcome, wondering where I can get my hands on some money.

A bank is a possibility. If it works here like the ones I’ve known, it’ll have a vault where currency is kept. I’m suddenly thinking like a master criminal. I don’t like it, but it’s the only choice I have at the moment. Besides, when I fix everything, none of this will matter.

I walk around until I find a building with a sign on it reading
BANK OF AMERICA
. I peek through the windows but can’t see the vault. I need to visit during business hours, so I find a quiet alley, set my Chaser for 9:15 a.m., and huddle down next to a large rubbish bin as I jump.

A loud whining greets me on arrival, and is quickly joined by a low rumble and the sound of feet. I don’t even have time to get up before a man wearing gloves comes around the side of the bin.

He jerks to a stop when he sees me, then barks something in Spanish and waves his arm, making it clear he wants me to move. As I get out of the way, he pulls the bin from the wall and turns it at a ninety-degree angle. A large vehicle approaches from the other side and lifts the bin into the air.

I don’t stay to see what happens next.

Upon entering the bank, I note the similarities between this facility and the few I visited growing up, but there are differences as well. First among them is a wall of thick glass or plastic that sits above the counter where the clerks work, physically dividing them from the patrons. Holes are cut into these panels for speaking and passing information. It’s an obvious deterrent to robbery, and makes me wonder how many this bank has experienced.

I walk over to the line of patrons but don’t join it. I take a casual look around through the clear wall until I spot the vault. After placing my satchel on a counter, I pull my Chaser out just enough so that I can see the screen, and then use the destination calculator to figure out the location address for the vault.

I make the jump from behind the building the moment no one is around, timing my arrival for the middle of the previous night.

The vault is pitch black. The only light comes from the Chaser screen, and it’s barely strong enough for me to see a few feet at a time. Most of the room is lined with tiny numbered doors, each having two separate keyholes.

I walk around but all I find are more doors. Some are larger and require only a single key, but it all adds up to the same thing—no money out in the open that I can grab.

Taking cash from a bank is something that feels anonymous to me and won’t trouble my soul, but with that option closed, I’m forced into a less desirable choice.

I find a store-packed street called Ventura Boulevard—again, the quantity and variety of establishments astound me. I jump from closed store to closed store, hunting for money. Many have their own safes, and those that don’t seem to have had their tills emptied at closing time. That said, I’m able to find a few notes and coins hidden in desks and under counters. To temper my guilt, I limit my take to no more than ten United States of America dollars at each stop.

I’ve amassed $63 in paper bills, and 72 cents in coins—which, as I assumed, were easy to figure out—when a loud, repetitive alarm begins blaring in the store I’ve just entered. Not having come through a door, I’m not sure how I set it off, but I hop out immediately and decide to get by with what I have for now.

At a coffee shop about an hour after the sun comes up, I go in search of food, and walk into a place called The Homegrown Café. I’m shown to a table and given a menu that immediately confuses me. The items listed are things like: tofurky and tofu scramble wrap, seitan and cashew cheese omelet, and wheatgrass shake.

The waitress approaches a few moments later. “What can I get you?”

“Uh…” Hopelessly lost, I set down the menu. “Do you have coffee?”