Time Agency (7 page)

Jerry was covered in blood and running through a sewer system. He wasn't so well-dressed anymore unless disheveled bloody suits were the height of fashion. His body ached, and his head pounded. He had taken a serious beating. He was vaguely aware of how he got into the sewers, but most of his memory was blank. His first memory was when he woke in a storeroom of a bookstore with a dead body at his feet and a gun in his hand. He panicked and knocked over some boxes. Then there was a knock at the door. The only course of action that seemed logical was to make the person leave and sneak out the back. The person turned out to be some sort of ninja or secret agent because the unknown assailant took Jerry down. Luckily, there had been a sewer entrance in the courtyard because the police were hot on his heels. He heard footfalls and saw flashlights down the tunnel. He ran harder.

He was faster than the flashlights and well ahead of them. For reasons he did not know, his eyes adapted to low light very quickly. As soon as he was far enough away from the flashlights to be in pitch black, he could see. It was like he had the infrared light spectrum built into his eyes. When the flashlights faded, everything seemed to have a green tinge. He couldn't quite explain it, but he was thankful because he didn't see how he would be able to elude his pursuers without the enhancement to his eyes.

He also noticed his body had more endurance than the people holding the flashlights. He was able to outdistance them without exerting much of an effort. He didn't stop running until he was pretty sure no one could ever find him. Hours later, he was lost and unsure where he had been. He slowed down to figure out his position. He walked until he found a ladder. He climbed until he came to an access panel.

Jerry climbed through the access panel into a subway tunnel. A train barreled down the track toward him. He ducked back down after being almost thwacked by the train. The rumble stopped, and he poked his head back up. It seemed clear, but he decided to wait. He wasn't sure about the length of the tunnel or the interval of the train. He heard another rumble about fifteen minutes later. After a few hours, he figured out the pattern. Fifteen minutes. Train. Fifteen minutes. Train. Thirty minutes. Train. Then repeat the cycle.

He decided the thirty-minute wait was probably his best option. He considered abandoning the subway tunnel idea but decided whoever chased him through the sewer would monitor the entrances and exits to the sewers. His better probability of escaping without notice would be to enter another system. He needed to leave the sewers entirely. A half hour between trains was probably better than he'd ever find in a big city unless he waited for the night train schedule. The men with flashlights would have dogs by now, and he wasn’t sure if he could outrun a tracking dog. He could not hide his smell. He needed to get back to the surface.

The train rumbled by, and he got out of the hatch as fast as he could. The subway tunnel curved in either direction. He didn't detect anything more than the standard subway tunnel lighting. He decided to go the direction the train was heading. He felt that running away from the train was a better idea than running toward it. He may be adding to the precious seconds he needed to make it to the stop. He ran at a near sprint. His lungs and heart seemed to kick in naturally. He felt the strain on his body but not as much as he would expect. He could keep his pace indefinitely.  

He ran for what seemed like hours, but in reality, was only fifteen minutes. In the lowlight of the subway, his night vision didn't quite kick in. It was too bright for infrared and too dark to see very well. His foot kicked a piece of scrap metal, which was almost obscured by the darkness. He tumbled to the ground and cut himself in the rocks and filth. He scrambled to his feet. Precious time was lost, and he was nowhere near an exit. He slowed his pace anyway. Another fall on the train track was dangerous enough with the rocks, metal, and city filth, but the lost time in the thirty-minute window could be even more dangerous.

He jogged without any loss of lung power. His body ached, and the cuts stung. The darkness began to feel crushing. He felt a wave of panic threatening to overcome his senses. A wave of nausea flooded his innards. The walls were closing, and he heard the distant blow of a subway whistle. The train was coming. He looked for anywhere to hide, but the walls fit a subway car like a glove. Unless he could flatten himself on the walls, he would be torn apart by the car. He thought about laying on the tracks and waiting for the car to pass over him, but he didn't think there was enough clearance. He rekindled his sprint and ran as fast as his lungs will let him. If he tripped now, he'd be dead. He began to feel the rumble of the oncoming subway car.

His lungs began to burn. He finally pushed himself to the limit, and the fatigue started to overcome his body. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest. The rumble became louder. He rounded a corner and saw light. There was a stop ahead. With lungs on fire and a heart that felt it was about to give out, his body screamed. Cuts and bruises pulled him apart. The adrenaline shot through his body and deadened the pain.  A light of a subway car began to fill the tunnel behind him.

The commuters waiting for the train were startled as he burst forth from the tunnel. People screamed and pointed. The crowd gawked and stared. They pulled out their phones and began to record the incident. Jerry noticed how people’s first reaction was to document rather than help. The horn of the oncoming train blared and yanked the thought from his head. The train was visible now. He was seconds from getting crushed. He used all of his last might to jump to the edge of the platform. He didn't quite make it and held on the edge with his last remaining strength. He attempted to pull himself up. The train screeched to a halt as the driver slammed the breaks. A wave of panic washed over the onlookers. One man, one anonymous man, grabbed Jerry and pulled him onto the platform as the train shrieked by. The crowd sighed with relief, clapped, and cheered.

Jerry puked and spat up blood. The anonymous man had disappeared before the crowd drew close. A businesswoman patted Jerry on the back. He regained his breath as the people stuck their phones into his face. Some others shooed the crowd away to give him space. After he somewhat recovered, Jerry looked down at his clothes. A lot of the blood was gone. His clothes had cleaned themselves. He felt his hair, and it felt combed.

Jerry looked up at the crowd. They took a step back. Their expressions turned from pity to fear. Even the woman patting his back moved her hand away. On several monitors built into support beams, there was a security alert. Jerry's 3-D imaged face rotated on the screen. Under his face, it was listed that he was wanted on suspicion of murder and the number to call with information. One person from the crowd began to dial their phone. Jerry jumped to his feet and pushed himself out of the crowd toward the exit.

I didn’t have much time to find the train station. The police would watch the security footage from the bookstore. Being arrested would give a time traveler a time, date, and private location to find me. The people from the future were coming for me. I just didn’t know when or where. I needed to make it to the locker. There had to be something. At the worst, I’d be at a train station, and I would be able to hop a train out of the city. I could disappear in a small town.

It took a couple of tries, but a person eventually was able to explain the location of the remodeled train station. I arrived at the station without incident. I made sure to watch for police while I walked. I still hadn’t figured out the well-dressed man’s stake, and whether or not he was an ally. The identical bookstore clerks and the fact that he was covered in blood made me doubt him. The fight with the well-dressed man was clunky. Again, I wished I were a secret agent. A historian wasn’t cut out for this work. I guess it’s too much to ask to be a ninja historian.  I should have told my younger self to go to ninja school. 

The train station was old, very old. But it was restored to its former look. People bustled on their tasks. I glanced around the great chamber. There was a giant clock, ancient pillars, and tiles. The station looked like the set of a historical novel, but people and vendors mismatched the architecture to the era. It was like the people should be wearing top hats and walking with canes. Instead, they wore skirts and suits. They talked on phones and tapped on touchpads.

The lockers were near the back. I pulled out the key and inspected it. There was no number on the key or at least anything to indicate what key went to what locker. I was half tempted to start testing out lockers when I saw a sign that said: “Locker Rental” and a bored employee. I approached the employee and proffered my key with a sheepish look. “Excuse me. I seem to have forgotten my locker number.”

“ID?” The employee said.

I pulled out the blank ID card from my wallet. Hopefully, it will be the right one. The clerk began to type on the computer when a security alert flashed on the screen and the monitors in the station. For a brief moment, I froze. I ran through all the exit possibilities in my head. I considered swiping the ID card from the employee. Instead, I decided to slip away while he was figuring it all out. The well-dressed man’s face appeared on the screen. He was wanted on suspicion of murder. I turned back to the clerk.

“217,” the employee said, snapping me from my shock. I blinked a couple of times.

“217,” he said again and handed me my ID, a little irritated. I took the card back from him and turned to leave. A thought crossed my mind, and I turned back to face him. He looked at me and said, “You know that guy?”

“Who?” I said, slightly confused.

“The killer.” He pointed to the security alert.

“Oh...no,” I lied. “Sorry to bother you, but I had a hell of a week. This probably seems like a strange question, but when did I check out the locker?”

“Don't you have the contract?” he said, irritated.

“I lost it.”

He grumbled and began typing again. He pulled out a device and looked at me expectantly. “Do you have a tablet or a phone?”

“No.”

I really upset him. He put the device back down and went back to his workstation. “I'll print it out again, but you signed a contract. It clearly outlines the terms. That's three days overage. You are paying for all of today even if you are not using it.”

“I was supposed to come three days ago…” I asked. Three days was the extent of my memory and visit here.

The employee rolled his eyes and shoved a pile of papers at me. “Yes, your card will be charged for three days of overage. You better clear out your crap today, or it will be four days.”

“Thanks,” I said. The employee's voice trailed off as he berated me. I looked through the pile of papers he handed me. The papers were mostly legal garbage and disclaimers. The part about the late fee was highlighted. I had rented the locker ten days ago. There was a copy of my ID card with the papers, and the person who rented out the lockers certainly looked like me. I looked at the name on the card, John Johnson. Either my parents cursed me with the most generic name on the planet, or I had more proof that I wasn’t a secret agent. I cursed my pre-memory wipe self.

I walked towards the lockers and found the rows in the teens. Locker 217 was far enough back that the only people who could observe me opening it would have to make an effort. Whatever was in it, I didn't want anyone to see me open it. The key fit perfectly. I twisted it, and the locker popped open. There was another briefcase inside.

“Fuck me,” I yelled. A woman a few lockers down stared at me. I gave her a look, and she turned back to her business. The last thing I needed was some bullshit quantum lock and more questions than answers. I probably was an asshole and was just fucking with myself.

Click.

I opened the unlocked case. It opened just fine. Inside, there was a mint. I took the mint out and slipped it into the memory mint device. I checked for any onlookers. No one was looking. The woman had moved on, and the occasional person walking by probably wouldn’t notice much with a glance.

After securing the mint in my pocket, I felt around the briefcase for anything else. It was empty. I shut the locker and turned into a security guard. The police had probably viewed the security footage, and now my face was on all the monitors.

He smiled and said, “Not that I was snooping, but you can file a claim with the office if you think the contents of your briefcase was stolen.”

“Oh no, I always keep an empty briefcase when I travel. It’s so I can fill it with gifts for my family,” I lied. Even though my nerves were attempting to climb out of my gut, I was able to push them to the recess of my mind and feign normalcy. The nuances of social interaction were always my strong point. I am probably this way because I used to talk my way out of fights from the schoolyard bullies.

Another memory bubbled to the service. I remembered being in school, but it was a very different school, at least different from here. A kid pushed me, and I talked him down from a pummeling…the other kids… I lost the memory. The guard was talking to me.

“What?” I said politely.

“I wasn’t calling you old or anything. I noticed the paper contract. It’s all pay with your smartphone now. I don’t trust them. Whatever happened to credit cards?” he commented.

“I love paper. I like the way it feels,” I said.

“My grandmother said the same thing. That’s why you remind me of her. She always wants receipts printed out. The clerks would get so mad when they had to dust off the machines for her.”

“Hey, it’s good chatting with you, but I have a train to catch,” I lied.

“Oh yeah man. Need help finding it?” he said.

“No,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” But I wasn’t sure what constituted as fine.