Read a sample chapter from The Death of Time by Byron Grush

In this chapter, the time travelers are stranded in different eras. We open with a not too distant future in which a "would be dictator" who may be familiar to readers, gets his come-up-ings.

24

Strange Fruit Hanging from the Cherry Trees

Washington D.C., Spring, 2024

Killing them once had not been sufficient to quench the anger and undo the horrors of the regime. Bodies, still bleeding from bullet holes, were dragged along the walkway next to the National Mall Tidal Basin. Water flooding the banks of the basin covered much of the walk so the angry crowd tugged the bodies up across the grass and laid them under the cherry trees where kicks were applied at random to the swelling cadavers. Someone emptied a handgun into the very dead victims. Someone else brought a coil of rope, and soon there swung by the feet from the stoutest of the tree limbs, the former would-be dictator, his daughter, one of his sons, and a son-in-law. The scene was reminiscent of the last public appearance of Benito Mussolini and his mistress, hanging in the Piazzale Loreto in Milan in 1945.

It had taken two years for the revolution to mature to the point where at last it seemed an end was in sight. What had started as a covert operation by the militant New Black Panthers had soon spread to other groups and non-groups across the country, especially within poor and disenfranchised communities. Members of the Armed Forces and the Police had come over to the cause, usually undercover, as this war—and it was a full-fledged war—was not being fought in the open yet. Now there was talk of reform—a reformation along the lines of the old constitution, with added safeguards to assure that something like this could never happen again. Never?

Dangers existed that foreign interests might intercede and influence the process, just as Russia had done years ago when elections were still being held and computerized voting machines could be hacked. It would be a long, slow, and painful journey to “make America great again”—a slogan whose perverted meaning would now be redefined.

It was just the beginning of a new struggle. Four Southern states, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida, seceded from the Union for the second time in nearly two-hundred years. There were many in the North who said, “good riddance.” There were still many politicians and judges in place who were appointees of the would-be dictator. A purge began. More blood. Even a Supreme Court judge met the fate of the First (or was it the Last?) Family.

Those with a modicum of wealth stepped up to be leaders for the birthing of the new democracy. They made sure that their own interests were placed in the forefront. Others, not so fortunate financially, who struggled day to day, fell back into the old gang mentality which fostered separatism and channeled anxiety into violence. The divide which had always existed deepened; there was no common enemy to unify the down-trodden. And the rich saw a path toward becoming richer—an exclusive path.

It was too late to reverse the damage done to the environment. Already the signs of an approaching doomsday were evident: sea levels were rising, the weather was intense and often devastating—bringing droughts that brought firestorms and winds that brought hurricanes and tornadoes, floods and mudslides. A new dust bowl developed in the west. Some said it was God’s punishment for (fill in the blanks with whatever or whomever you most despise). Some said, with the utmost irony, we should have acted sooner.

Melanie and Judo had been active in the struggle since those first days when they had materialized in D.C. and met Effy and Bernard Montgomery. Bernie was skeptical about Melanie’s ability to fit in with the New Black Panthers but soon gained respect for her once she started planning burglaries for the group to obtain weapons and other supplies. Her experience as a fugitive, when she and Judo had robbed service stations, gave her an insight into the use of subterfuge and misdirection during an act as simple as shoplifting or as complex as a midnight “crash and grab” at a Walmart or a Fleet Farm. Judo became an expert at disabling burglar alarms and surveillance cameras.

Now that the first phase of the revolution was over, the pair of weary time travelers was ready for a road trip to a less volatile realm. Both desired to return to Tennessee to their original home town of Oak Ridge. It had been over 70 chronological years since they had left although the actual elapsed time they had experienced only totaled three or four years. Their parents and friends would no longer be alive. Yet their need for closure was strong so they prepared themselves mentally for the changes they would find—and the losses.

They liberated a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle from a parking lot and switched its license plates with a late model Buick they found on a side street. In the back seat they found an old Rand McNally which they consulted for the best route between D. C. and Oak Ridge. They decided on Interstates 66 and 81, a journey of over 500 miles through rural Virginia to Knoxville, where I40 would take them into Oak Ridge.

80 miles out of D.C. they pulled off the interstate at Strasburg for fuel; the VW only held about 10 gallons of gasoline. There was an Exxon station next to a McDonalds and it seemed like a good idea to get some take-out they could eat on the road. The door opened easily but the place was deserted. Even the smell of grease and salt and spilled catsup was gone.

At least the gas pumps still worked and the stolen credit card they used hadn’t been canceled yet. Melanie had just finished topping off the tank when a gang of angry young white men came around the corner of the station and headed straight for them.

“What has this world become?” she said as they jumped into the Beetle. Melanie nearly flooded the old car as she stomped on the gas pedal. The gang chased the car but luckily, the Beetle outdistanced them. Back on the interstate, Melanie said, “Now I have to wonder what Oak Ridge will be like!”

“I agree,” said Judo, “but the farther from Washington we get, the better. Why did the Dweller send us to this time? It really sucks.”

“Maybe to punish us.”

“If only we had the time machine again. We could go back and…”

“And create an even bigger mess than this is!”

“It would be worth a try.”

A few years ago, in the distant past

Grisha Viktorov, known to the time-travelers as The Dweller in the Mist, had just asked, “Now that you have heard my story, what will you do?” The people of the Dweller’s own time had no regard for humankind, he had said. They would misuse the technology of time travel for their own gain, he had said. It would spell the death of Time, he had said. I am opposed to altering Time, he had said.

“You have at your disposal an extraordinary device for transporting men through the space-time continuum,” said McGinley. “You could take us to your time where, perhaps, we could solve your problem. You would not be alone. If you do not wish to come along, send us. Tell us what has to be done. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise we’re stuck here on this disappearing cliff, on who knows what God-forsaken world,” said Wayland.

“I can not believe,” added Mac Conmara, “that your philosophy is so rigid that it can not allow for actions that might save the universe from the malfeasance of mankind. I would have agreed with you once upon a time, but now…I see no other solution but to go to the significant time and place where a simple action could divert the arrow of time…just enough…”

“It is not that simple,” replied Viktorov. “When you change something that has already happened, you create a duplicate reality. If the change is minor, the alternate remains local. If the change is major, the effect may extend across the entire universe. You create another phase of the multiverse.”

“But if this is so,” replied McGinley, “and your future people do cause the death of Time, then would not an alternate of the space-time continuum be created? You could not kill Time completely.”

“Unfortunately, that cannot happen. You see, Time only exists because of the phenomenon you call Light. We all are only pieces of light slowed down enough to solidify, as are the planets and the stars and therefore, the reality we call Space. In the natural order of things, the universe will expand and its energy will be used up until it has to stop expanding. Then it will be drawn back onto itself, attracted by the dark mass of its center…the great opposite force it left behind. It will begin to accelerate as it nears this center and when it reaches it…”

“Another Big Bang!” said McGinley. “But with the death of Time…”

“Energy is the movement of Light which is propelled by Time. No Time, no movement, thus no energy, and no return. This kind of death is final.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Wayland, “is that time and light are part of the same thing.”

“Very good, Wayland,” said McGinley. “We’ll make a scientist out of you yet.”

“But what then would cause the death of Time?” Wayland asked.

“The people of my time have developed a way of traveling through space…not through time, except for my own effort of course, but to travel faster than the speed of light. Your scientists think this is impossible, but I assure you it is quite possible. If this was coupled with the technology which I developed it would allow them to approach the final stages of the Big Bang. This would prove to be disastrous!”

“But why would they want to do that?”

“To harvest the most elemental aspects of existence. To give themselves riches and power beyond imagining.”

“So how do we stop them?

“First, by never allowing them to find me. Second by stopping you from traveling through time and changing things such that they might notice. They must never believe that time travel is possible.”

“And what if they develop time travel independently from you? We thought of it…why could not some future scientist do the same?”

“I am monitoring them. Not only can I travel through time and send things and people back and forth through time, I can also see alternate worlds by virtue of this device.”

Viktorov pointed to a flat screen that was mounted on one of the laboratory tables. As he did this, the screen began to flicker, then images appeared on it of a number of red-robed men clamoring about an odd-looking piece of apparatus. Rapidly blinking characters, which the others took to be lettering of some foreign language, began to move across the screen.

“Oh no!” said Viktorov. “Oh no…it has happened!”

Somewhere in Virginia, 2024

Melanie was tired and ready to give the job of driving over to Judo. It was time once again to stop for gas. They were not about to make the next big town along the interstate, Johnson City, on their rapidly dwindling ten gallons of gasoline, so they exited onto I581 toward Roanoke, Virginia. Near the first cluster of Quality Inn, Super 8, and Motel 6 establishments they located a filling station. The automatic pump rejected their stolen credit card.

They drove back up Peters Creek Road to the Waffle House. Roanoke, it seemed, had not devolved into a citadel of doom as had other burgs since the upheaval that had started in Washington. It was as normal as banana cream pie. A smiling waitress showed them to a booth by the window and asked if they wanted coffee. Judo ordered pecan waffles and Melanie asked for an omelet with ham, cheese, tomatoes, and jalapeños—hold the onions.

“This place reminds me of the one back in Oak Ridge. We used to hang out there after high school sometimes,” said Melanie. “Sometimes during high school.”

“We need money, don’t we?” asked Judo.

“Yes, and we’d better dump the car. Anyway, it’s about out of gas. Maybe we can find a nice pick-up truck. Not better mileage, but a bigger gas tank.”

After the meal and a slice of banana cream pie apiece, the pair of wayward fugitives looked up and down the parking lot which the restaurant shared with a motel for a car or truck they could steal. Just in back of the Waffle House they saw a school bus. At first, the sight of the big yellow vehicle failed to elicit curiosity. Then:

“Look what it says on that bus, Melanie,” said Judo. “Long Island School District 204. Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“It looks just like the one that She took us for a ride in back in Egypt, or wherever that was. But it can’t be, can it?”

But it was. The door opened and out stepped Dr. Madison James McGinley. “Oh good…we found you,” he said. “Quickly now, get on the bus.”

“I guess we’re either on the bus or we’re off the bus,” said Melanie. “Let’s be on it.”

On the bus, besides Dr. McGinley, were Lorcan Mac Conmara the alchemist, Riordan Éamon Ó Ciardha the alchemist’s apprentice, Wayland Delany, and an Irish Wolfhound named Teige. Missing from the congregation was Grisha Viktorov, known to the time-travelers as The Dweller in the Mist. Viktorov was, nonetheless, at the controls; he was back in his laboratory on that strange alternate planet in the distant past where once the group had stood on a cliff, facing a wall of mist.

“I imagine,” said McGinley to Melanie and Judo, “that you two would like an explanation. We convinced the Dweller to allow us to retrieve you from this time period so that you could assist us on what will be a most important undertaking. He set us up with this bus and can send us anywhere in time and space. We are going to attempt to prevent the death of Time itself! Are you game?”

“Say, Mel,” Judo said, “look out the window. There’s a state trooper looking at the VW. I think I’d vote to go along with the Professor.”

Melanie nodded in the affirmative. McGinley sent Wayland to the Waffle House for a big box of cheese burgers and fries and a couple of liter bottles of Coke. Once Wayland returned, McGinley sat down at what would be the driver’s seat, if the bus had actually been drivable, and spoke into a microphone. “We are ready now, Grisha,” he said.

1779, Louisenlund Castle at Güby, Germany

 Comte de Saint Germain and Prince Charles of Hesse-Kassel stood watching a clay bowl in which a certain substance had been set aflame. Already the Count had exorcized the Creature of Fire that leaped therein. Now the special incense, having been blessed, was poured into the fire and the four lamps set in a circle surrounding the flaming bowl were lit. The Count began to chant:

 “Notamargatet, bless this circle. Yanoda, Milole, Alag, Aothio, bless this circle…”

The Prince had witnessed this ritual before, but it always enchanted him. He, like the Count, had placed the purple Sacred cloth on top of his head. The mystical symbols embroidered there were powerful. Soon the flames would die and a magnificent diamond would appear in the bowl, liquified at first, then becoming solid and translucent. The Prince had made the right decision in providing the alchemist with this isolated laboratory; riches beyond imagining would follow. The chanting continued:

“We invoke ye, Yalantina and Lemirot. Come forth, Lesiab and Telar. I call you, Elana, Ustael, Thaerrub and Badora…”

Something unusual was happening. Never before during the gem making ritual had the Prince seen the kind of thick mist that was forming in the room. As the mist swirled like a miniature cyclone and moved toward the alchemist, Prince Charles ran from the room, screaming. Count Germain stood stoically as he was swallowed. Moments later he was standing in front of a raised platform on which were seated ten men dressed in crimson colored robes.

“Are you spirits?” the Count stammered. “Have I actually been called into the company of the Holy of Holies? Am I to be judged for my sins? Or to be rewarded for my devotion?”

One of the men spoke: “You are le Comte de Saint Germain?” The Count replied that he was. “You know one who calls himself The Dweller?” Again, the affirmative. “This man we would find and bring to justice. His real name is Grisha Leontiy Viktorov, a rogue scientist who has stolen important technology from us. You know where, and when, to find him, do you not?”

“I…I don’t know. I’m not sure. I was taken there by…another seeker like myself. Hermes. He…she would know. Find Hermes.”

“Our ability to penetrate Time is limited. You will go to this Hermes for us. Return and help us to find Viktorov. You will be rewarded if you are successful. If you fail…”

The Death of Time