Second Chance (12 page)

". . . get the damn ROTC off campus, for one thing."

It was Tracy who spoke, her pretty face aglow with righteous indignation.

"It could be done," said Keith quietly.

"Here we go again," said Dale. "The old blowing up the ROTC building routine. Careful, Keith, or
somebody'll
take you seriously."

"Maybe they should," Keith said, and gave Tracy a look. It was so quick that it would have been easy to miss, but Woody recognized it for the conspiratorial glance that it was.

And he became aware of the tension that had come over all those who shared his future, his memories of the past, and, it seemed, his consciousness. How long would it be before Keith and Tracy made their dark, fatal, visit to the ROTC building? A month? Weeks? Only days?

His mind whirled.
Could anything be changed?
He was in the past because of what had happened in the present, and his present (
now the future—oh God!
) had been dependent on what had happened in the past. If it had not been for the loss of Tracy, his nostalgia would never have been strong enough to make him want to come back. So wasn't his very presence there evidence that he couldn't change anything?

Even so, it didn't matter. Logic, even under the most illogical of circumstances, had to take a back seat to love and friendship. "Dale's right," Woody said. "You ought to forget it. Violence isn't the answer."

"It's
an
answer," Keith said. "When every other answer's been tried and doesn't work."

"Keith—“

"Woody, you know that old story. Sometimes you have to whack the mule over the head with a two by four to get its attention. We've whacked the mule, so now maybe we just have to shoot the motherfucker. Hey, nobody likes violence." The way he smiled made Woody wonder. "But if it's the only way to let people know you're serious
 
. . ."

"Things will change without it," Alan said. "A couple years from now ROTC won't be mandatory on any campus.”

“Sure. And how do you know?"

Alan glanced at Woody, who gave his head a small shake. "I just know, that's all. Things are changing."

"Not fast enough."

"You can't blow up any buildings, Keith," Judy said, lecturing like a mother hen. "Please. Just don't." She turned to Tracy. "That goes for you too."

"Who made you my mother?" Tracy said, surprised.

"Well, I'm old en—"

“
Judy
." Woody's response came without thinking.

Tracy looked from one to the other. “Jeez, you guys are weird tonight. Let's change the subject, huh?"

"No," Woody said, looking at her, touching her hair. "It's important that you believe us, that you believe us implicitly."

"It won't matter, Woody," said Alan. "I don't think it can change anything . . .
we
can change anything."

What the hell?
Woody thought.
Was Alan going to come out with the truth? Maybe it was the only way, the only way to convince Keith and Tracy
.

"What are you all talking about?" Tracy said.

"And why," Dale asked, "do you all look like you're sharing a secret? I mean, it's like we've got the pizza-goers and the
non
-pizza goers, and the
nons
know something we don't.”

“Yeah," said Keith. "What's the deal?"

"Let's tell them." It was one of the few times Eddie had spoken since the others had entered. "They're going to find out anyway."

Alarmed, fearing this sharing of the truth with phantoms,

Woody waved a hand weakly in the air. "Why? How? . . .”

"This night isn't ending," said Eddie. "No time is passing. The clocks? Watches? They slowed down as we got younger. Now they've stopped. There's still no noise outside. My watch, the clock on the dining room wall, all of them, I bet. Check them."

Eddie was right. Woody looked at his wrist, around which was the Timex he had worn in college and lost years ago. The second hand was frozen at 11:28. When he looked up, he could see everyone nodding, everyone except for the three friends.

"How about yours, Keith?" he said.

Keith shook his head. "I haven't worn a watch since
Easy Rider
. But what do you mean, there's no noise outside?”

“Cars, trucks, voices," said Alan. "Nothing."

"Are you deaf?" Dale said. "Listen." They did. Except for the noises in the room, Woody heard only silence. "You don't hear cars?"

"What's this bullshit all about?" Keith said. “You putting us on? You decide to play a little joke on us?"

"It's a dumb joke, whatever it is," said Tracy, and Woody saw the fear behind her anger. "Knock it off, huh?"

"We're not from this time," Woody said, unable to lie to her. "We're from almost twenty-five years in the future. We came back somehow. In our own bodies. Got younger."

Even as he said it, he realized how outlandish it must sound, even to illusions, hallucinations, ghosts, memories.

"Aw, Woody," Tracy said, shaking her head as though she was disappointed in him. "Come on."

Frank stood up. "I'm going to go outside," he said. "Just for a breath of air, and to see what the hell's out there."

"I'll go with you," Curly said. "I want to see too."

'This is definitely not groovy," Keith said.

By then Frank was at the door. He turned the knob, pulled the door inward, and froze.

Through the open door Woody could see nothing. It was deeper than darkness alone, as though someone had erected a panel in the doorway and painted it a flat black that offered no reflection. Woody stood up, and heard Curly say, "Worse and worse. This is like a computer game."

"Type 'STICK HAND INTO DARKNESS,"' Eddie said.

"Now what?" Tracy said. "You guys see a monster that we don't? Maybe a dinosaur that got in your time machine?"

Woody looked at Keith. "What do
you
see?"

"The hallway. The floor, the banister, the walls, the light." He stepped to the doorway, walked past Frank and Curly, and was immediately swallowed by the darkness. Diane gave a little scream, and in another moment Keith's head, left shoulder, and hand appeared, as if breaking a vertical surface of black water.

"It's okay, guys. I'm alive." He grinned and stepped back into the room. "Next into the chamber of horrors?"

Curly put his hand on Frank's shoulder. "Let me try it.”

“It's not hard," Keith said, then laughed. "You clowns are good. You really look scared, Curly. And Frank, you look like you're about to wet your pants."

"Wait," Woody said. "I'm the host. I got you into this. I'll go."

"’It's my party and I'll go if I want to . . ."' sang Keith. "Take my hand," Woody said to Curly. "I'll step into it." Keith laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "Holy shit.”

“It's blackness to us," Woody explained. "Pure darkness. I think it's because we don't belong here."

"Yeah," Keith said. "You all belong in psychiatric care. But go ahead, man, step into the Twilight Zone."

Woody did. Holding on to
Curly's
hand, he put his own arm slowly into the darkness, afraid that he would be grasped and hauled through.

But he felt nothing. That was the only way he could describe it later. Nothing. Neither air nor water nor heat nor cold. It was as though his hand and arm had ceased to exist. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but although his mind gave the order, he could not feel his nerves and muscles respond. He stepped back then, and his arm and hand reappeared.

Keith laughed. Dale, smiling, shook his head. “You're still alive?" he said.

Woody ignored them. "Hold on," he told Curly, and walked slowly through the door into the soul of night.

His skin and eyes and ears ceased to function as organs of sense. Only his brain retained a spark of consciousness, just enough to realize that this must be death, only the brain still functioning, knowing that the body was dying around it, the heart that supplies it with blood now cold and still, the muscles that did its bidding moving no more. And soon the brain itself would flicker, its electric messages end, and it too would be part of the everlasting darkness, of the black, of death . . .

Sensation screamed through him as his body churned into life in an instant. Unable to cope with the sensory overload, he collapsed into
Curly's
arms, his legs rubbery, his mind spinning.

"Woody," he heard Curly say, and realized that he had been pulled back by a lifeline of flesh and bone, and knew that if he had gone into that darkness without holding his friend's hand, he would have been either dead or something worse, beyond death.

"Woody? Are you okay?"

"You two are a trip," Keith said. "It's a hall, man. You're acting like it's the gate to hell. Well, if it is, we just got some pizzas there."

"Hold the anchovies and the brimstone," said Tracy, and laughed at her own joke when no one else did.

"We can't go through there," Woody said when he had his voice back. "I felt as if . . . as if I was dying. Or dead."

"What do we do?" Alan asked. "Are we trapped here? I mean, we're obviously not getting out that door, and no time is passing. I'm only a lapsed Catholic, but I remember Limbo well enough. This could be it."

"Hey," said Tracy, "I'm sorry you're all having such a miserable time. But don't you think maybe hell is more like it? I mean maybe your
gate
there is the way
in
. You've read
No Exit
?"

"Tracy—"

"Don't Tracy me, Woody! I don't know what you guys have been smoking, but it's made you all mean and paranoid and really
freaky
. If you don't like it here, go back to the future or wherever the hell you came from." She stood up and walked into the inner hallway, tears filling her eyes.

Woody stood for a moment looking after her, torn between his desire for the past and his unexpected terror of it. Then he felt
Curly's
hand on his shoulder, turned, and looked into his friend's pale face.

"Go see your girl," Curly said softly. "Then we'll figure a way out of this."

Tracy was in the bedroom, sitting on the bed next to the window, looking out at the night. She was not crying, but Woody could see that her eyes were moist with denied tears. "Tracy," he said as he stepped into the room.

She gave him a look both accusing and pleading. "What's
wrong
with you? Why are you acting like this, Woody?"

He sat next to her, not touching her. "I know. It sounds crazy, absolutely insane. But crazy or not, it's the truth." He took her hand, and felt the tears pool in his own eyes. "I love you, Tracy. I've loved you for over twenty years—"

"Stop it," she said, turning away from him, her voice cracking in fright.

"No, listen, please. I want you to know that—that I love you. I think that's what brought me back here, loving you so much, and maybe I dragged everybody else along with me, or maybe it was a communal thing, I don't know. But we can't stay here, because we don't belong. It isn't our time."

"What do you
mean
? Look at yourself—you're Woody, you're twenty-one years old, you're not some
old man
!"

"Inside I am. Not an old man, but older."

"Then where am
I
?" she asked, and he felt ice line his throat. "Where am I in this . . . future of yours?"

"You're . . ." He couldn't say it. In her presence, in the aura of her energy, her vitality, it would have been blasphemous. Just . . . do something for me," he finally said. "I know you want to go with Keith . . . to the ROTC building. Don't do it. For the love of God . . . if you love me, please don't do it."

She looked at him for a long time, her gaze hardening, the lacy lines between her brows growing deeper. "Is that what this is all about?" she said. "You're trying to scare me out of that? What, you gonna tell me that I'm in prison in the future? Or dead?"

"Tracy—"

"You know, being honest with me
could
work. You don't have to stoop to this."

"It's the truth. I'm sorry. But it's the truth."

Tracy got off the bed. "I wasn't going to, Woody. But now maybe I will.
If
a certain party we know decides to make a certain political statement. But don't worry, you won't know anything about it. I wouldn't want you to get your clean little futuristic hands dirty." She whirled around and walked out into the hall.

Woody followed her into the living room, where, as if in defiance of his request, she sat next to Keith and glared at Woody with undisguised anger. The look made his heart sick. He stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do, what to say. Limbo was right, he thought. Lost souls trapped forever. And how long would it be, if time could still be measured, before Limbo became, as Tracy had suggested, hell? The dream was already drifting into nightmare.

"Woody?" He turned, saw Frank standing by him. "We've got to try and go back. I was talking to
Sharla
and Curly, and they think maybe we could do it the way we came."