Podioracket Presents - Glimpses

  The mention of Craig's wife brought a sickening realization to Covey. "What about Leigh? Where is she?"

  Craig looked away and swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, I thought you already knew. She's dead. I'm so sorry, there was nothing I could do for her."

  Covey's jaw tightened and rage filled his eyes. He looked away from Craig and clenched the sheets of his bed in his fists.

  "Look, I don't want to burden you with anything else. I shouldn't have even brought up joining Red Horizon right now. I'm going to…"

  "Tell me more about it," Covey interrupted.

  Craig looked at him with a sympathetic expression on his face. "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Tell me about Red Horizon."

  Craig nodded. "Right now we're building our numbers. Trying to get as many people sympathetic to the cause as we can. We've established several warehouses outside of major cities in the southeast United States where we've been training soldiers. We want to build an army. We want to take down the Roth once and for all."

  Covey nodded vigorously. "I'm in. I'll do it."

  Craig didn't know what to say. "That's great. We don't have too many people with your kind of experience in our group right now."

  Covey looked down at his bandaged right hand. He had been permanently changed; the missing fingers were just a physical reminder of how true that really was and he would live with it the rest of his life. His disfigured body was a hideous tribute to his beautiful Leigh. She was gone and he was here, uglier than he had ever been before.

  "I think I'm going to try to get some sleep," Covey said. "I still feel pretty weak. But I want to hear more later."

  "Absolutely," Craig said as he stood. "If you need anything, just hit the buzzer by your bed. Someone will be right in to get you whatever you need."

  "Thanks," Covey said and lay down on his back.

  He heard steps as Craig walked to the door, the slow swing of poorly-oiled hinges and the soft connection of door and frame as it closed. Then silently, but with the violence of a river rapid, Greg Covey cried.

  * * *

  "Greg?"

  Covey opened his eyes. He was in his living room. Everything was just as he remembered it from the last night he had ever been in that home. He was sitting on his couch and it hadn't changed a bit since the last time he had been here. Even the old smells were the same and floods of memories came pouring back.

  He turned to look next to him. Leigh was sitting on the couch right beside him. She held his right hand in hers. He had all five fingers again. He was so overcome with happiness, but even in the midst of it he knew something was wrong. He didn't want to think that something could be wrong, but it couldn't be avoided. He hadn't been in this home for five years. Not since the night that Leigh had died.

  Tears welled up in his eyes as he asked the question he wanted more than anything to keep inside. "I'm dreaming aren't I," Covey asked.

  Leigh shook her head and smiled. "No, this is real. You've died."

  Covey let out a small laugh. It came from an abundance of joy like he had never felt in his life. He felt like all the weight of the pain and emotional turmoil he had been going through was ripped off like a band aid and underneath was brand new skin so excited to see the sun again.

  "But you can't stay dead," Leigh finished.

  Covey's smile wilted. "What are you talking about?"

  "I've only got a minute before you're going to wake up and be back at the helicopter crash."

  "No!" Covey shouted. The joy was gone. "I've done my time! I want to be with you again!"

  "But that's the good news!" she said still smiling. "You will. But not yet. You've still got a tough job ahead of you. You've got to look out for Jacob Craig's boy. He really needs you right now, a lot worse than I need you."

  "But I need you!" Covey said.

  "And I'm here for you," she said. "I can't wait to see you again. I love you, Greg."

  Covey coughed out a sob. "I love you too, Leigh."

  "Don't worry," she said with a smile bigger and more beautiful than any Covey could remember from life before. "We've got good luck on our side."

  "COVEY!"

  Rain like needles was pummeling his skin again. Pain roared through his whole body, and the world was grey and blurry again. Several men were standing over him. It was the other half of his squad from the second helicopter.

  His mind felt like it was caught in a tornado of emotions. All he had ever wanted in the world was placed in front of him and then as quickly as it had come it was snatched away again and replaced with an agony worse than he had known before. The joy he had felt was gone. So was the sadness and despair. All that was left was anger; an eternal bitter seed that finally had all the resources it needed to grow. But in spite of the emotional turmoil, Covey felt remarkably lucid. The pain was excruciating, but his focus was back.

  One of the men from his squad, Private Morrell, came running over to him and knelt beside him in the mud, surveying Covey's wounds.

  "Can you hear me?" Morrell asked.

  Covey spit blood from his mouth but didn't try to move anymore. "Yeah, I can hear you," he reluctantly said.

  "Damn, Corporal," Morrell said as his eyes moved from face, to missing arm, to missing leg. "The whole right side of you is shot to hell. I can't believe you're alive."

  "That makes two of us," Covey muttered.

  Morrell pulled a small metal device out of his jacket that looked like an egg on the end of a stick and moved it toward Covey's shoulder.

  "I've got to cauterize your wounds, Corporal. This is gonna hurt like hell but it's gotta be done or you'll bleed to death before we can get you out of here."

  "Just do it," Covey said.

  The process took less than two minutes and Morrell wasn't exaggerating about the pain. The device heated and cooled to extreme temperatures simultaneously. As he gently touched every square inch of Covey's damaged skin, scar tissue instantly formed, creating a shield for the nerves and muscles underneath and stopping any additional bleeding. Covey had to hold his breath as Morrell yanked the large metal piece out of his leg and quickly burned the wounds shut with his cauterizer. So much pain. It was almost more than he could handle. But then it was over and Covey let a long breath out.

  "Our other unit is already taking out the anti-aircraft guns that shot you down so they'll be flying you out of here in about ten minutes."

  "Great," Covey barely breathed out. He could feel the darkness coming back in over his eyes again. But he knew this wasn't like last time. He wasn't dying this time even though he wished he could. It was simply his brain shutting down from the shock of pain. His eyes fluttered and closed.

  "Hey, stay with me," Morrell said and patted the left, undamaged side of Covey's face. "Don't you die now after surviving this long. Did you know you're the only one on that chopper to live? Everyone else is dead. You've got some serious good luck, you know that?"

  Covey grunted but didn't open his eyes. The sleep was coming and he couldn't stop it. It was better not to fight it. He'd rather not remember much of this anyway. He spat once more to get the rest of the blood out of his mouth before consciousness slipped away.

  "There's no such thing as good luck," Covey said and fell asleep.

  https://www.podiobooks.com/title/eternity/

  Fleeting Time

  Keith Hughes

  Wednesday, September 03, 2008 8:14 PM

  The desk of Dr. Francis Bertrand was a study in the paradox his life had become. Upon it lay a small electronic personal digital assistant and a simple letter. In these two things he beheld the contradictions of the fleeting span of his time on earth, and the virtually limitless supply at his disposal.

  The aging scientist had a friendly face that normally held bright, cheerful eyes. Now they carried the weight of pain and sadness. His thin, nearly white hair provided an unmistakable reminder that the pale scalp had probably been covered in his younger years. Despite his age a steady hand plucked the lett
er from the desk's worn wooden surface. As Francis read, his lips became a thin line and he squinted a little, causing his laugh lines to appear in stark relief. His eyes moved rapidly as he scanned the letter again, but the words led to the same result. He felt as if the claw of Death gripped his shoulder, and the hand that held the letter shook as sadness and not a little fear tore through him. He carefully placed the letter back on the desk next to the PDA in an effort to still its trembling.

  While both items had the ability to encompass his doom, only the paper document sounded a certain death knell. When the platitudes were stripped away there remained only a few key words: cancer, prognosis, and months. A range of single digits before that last term sealed his fate by the end of the year.

  Francis pulled his gaze from the desktop and turned to look out the window. The dim, pink glow of the fading sunset invaded the few spaces left by the many trees in his front yard. It had been an unseasonably warm week, and was undoubtedly summer's last hurrah before acquiescing to the looming fall and winter months. His Louisiana roots appreciated the respite from cooler weather.

  He turned his gaze away from the window, trying to fight the maudlin feeling that was creeping over him. Picking up the letter again, he opened a desk drawer and placed it inside. Francis slid the drawer shut, hiding it from view. The document had done its damage and could harm him no further.

  Now he picked up the PDA and inspected it. While he had not created the device itself, indeed it was an off-the-shelf consumer item, he had irrevocably modified it. The product of years of research and experimentation, the PDA contained the supreme achievement of his career: a time machine.

  "My greatest work," the scientist said softly, his Louisiana accent still present, as he stroked the smooth metal. He had already taken it on one short trip, a matter of a few hours into his past to talk with himself. The device had performed well, but further testing was needed. For reasons he could not consciously define he had not been comfortable doing that work in his lab. So in clear violation of Intellisys policy he had smuggled his invention home.

  The pain of old age and disease punctuated his movements as he slowly stood, still holding the PDA. This room was where he had always felt the most comfortable. It was meant to be a dining room, but he had converted it to a home office. The wall behind his desk was lined with pictures of famous and powerful people he had met during his life, meant to impress his visitors. But the only picture he cared about was hung on the wall opposite, where he could see it from his desk. Now his eyes were drawn to that fading image of his younger self and his new bride. The woman he had built a life with, until she had received her own letter years ago. With careful steps he left the security of his desk to stand before the photo. Inscribed below the beaming couple was a date: June 23, 1962.

  The doctor's eyes danced across the image of his young bride once more, and he smiled. His invention still needed a thorough shakedown, and given his current medical condition he was the best person to do it. Francis had nothing to lose, and he could not deny himself the joy of seeing the results of his work. He lifted the PDA and turned it on. He tapped on the screen a few times, then pressed the button to start his journey. He had a wedding to go to.

  * * *

  Sitting in the back of the small church Francis watched as his younger self, a mere twenty-eight years old and new to his professorship at Western Michigan University, promised to love, honor, and cherish the equally youthful woman who held his hand.

  When Francis had arrived in 1962 he had taken the bus from Detroit to Kalamazoo, staring enraptured out the window at the billboards, cars, and buildings. So much had changed in the last forty-six years; more than he had realized.

  "…so long as we both shall live," his younger self said loudly at the front of the church, returning the elder's attention to the ceremony.

  I tried, Evelyn, Francis thought to his long-dead wife, although he wasn't sure if his thoughts were directed at the woman he had buried or the younger vision that took her vows before him.

  God knows I tried to love you as best I could, every day.

  He felt tears on his cheeks and a pang of embarrassment, then a wave of relief as he realized that he was not the only one crying. It was a wedding, after all. Nonetheless, he pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his eyes and cheeks. He watched as the ceremony came to an end, and the happy couple stood before the crowd of witnesses.

  "It is my great pleasure to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Francis Bertrand," the pastor said with a wide smile, and the chapel filled with applause.

  Francis gave a slight start hearing his name without the appellation of "Doctor." It had been so long since he had earned that title, but it was still a couple of years in the future for the young man now leading his bride down the aisle.

  He joined the line of people waiting to congratulate the couple, and before long was shaking hands with his younger self. The full head of hair on his doppelganger was to be expected, but the fact that he was two inches taller came as a surprise to the older man.

  "Do I know you?" the groom asked. "You look familiar."

  "We are related on your mother's side," the doctor answered. "and we happen to share the same first name."

  "Well, I am glad you could make it," the young man said with an easy smile.

  "Take good care of her," Francis said with feeling, and then moved to stand before Evelyn.

  He was momentarily stunned at the sight of the young woman up close. Her auburn hair glowed softly in the light, which seemed to match the twinkle in her soft brown eyes. Her cheeks were slightly plump and so very smooth, with pale skin that seemed made of cream. So much time had passed he had almost forgotten how beautiful she had been, especially today. Francis bent to give her a quick hug, resisting an impulse to cling to the new bride. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek as he pulled away.

  "Congratulations," he told her.

  She gave him a smile of utter happiness. "Thank you," she said, joyfully content.

  Then he moved on and the moment was over. Seconds later he was walking out the door of the church. He stopped on the sidewalk and wiped another tear from his cheek.

  I am turning into a sentimental old man, he chided himself as he watched a car drive by that in his time would normally only be seen at the annual Woodward Dream Cruise.

  "Enough with visiting my past," Francis said firmly. He stepped around the side of the building, and stood in a recessed doorway that gave him some privacy. Taking out the PDA, he turned it on and entered a new destination in the Borrowed Time screen, the same date in 2018. This was ten years in his future, a time he would never be able to see in the normal course of his cancer-shortened life. He tapped the button and watched as the time of his youth faded away.

  In what seemed mere moments Francis was standing in the same place, but the world around him was totally different. For a minute all he could do was cough and wait for his heart to quiet down. His body's reaction to time travel was hardly pleasant. When the effects had subsided he stepped out of the doorway, returned to the street, and took in the changes.

  The windows and doors of the church building were covered in aging plywood. A faded sign on the building declared that it was for sale, as it had obviously been for some time. The lawn was unkempt, full of weeds and overgrown. The church looked like he felt, old and waiting to die. It was not the only building in this condition, as the entire area seemed desolate and forlorn.

  The roar of an engine drew his attention to the street. At first the Hummer that sped across the cracked pavement seemed quite ordinary, but then the olive-green paint job and the machine gun mounted on the roof registered in Francis' mind. A man was standing behind the machine gun, his head, shoulders, and torso emerging from a hole in the roof. He clutched the controls of the weapon, and seemed ready to shoot anyone who got in his way. Francis stared at the man in shock, and the soldier regarded him briefly as the vehicle sped past. It turned the corner with a squeal of ru
bber and was gone. Seconds later the sounds of gunfire could be heard.

  "What has happened here?" Francis wondered aloud. He pulled out the PDA and double-checked the date. He was in 2018 as he intended, but he was perplexed at his surroundings. It felt like he had arrived in 1980's Beirut.

  Francis walked up the street, toward where the business district used to be. He saw more buildings covered up with wood and realtor signs as he went. Apparently hard times came to this area some time ago.

  Just how hard have the times become? he mused, as more gunfire could be heard in the distance.

  Francis eventually came to a liquor store that had managed to stay open. Against the front of the building where he would have expected to find a newspaper box was a battered news kiosk. He immediately recognized the USA Today logo that was printed on the box, and almost smiled at seeing something that survived into this bleak future. But the illusion of normalcy was shattered as he noticed the line below it that proclaimed "The Official News Center Of The Martial Government." The screen that was mounted below the logo showed a constant cycle of the stories of the day. It kept returning to a bright blue headline that shouted "NEW CIVILIAN LEADERSHIP!" When he got close enough to see the details in the picture that appeared below the declaration, Francis froze in shock. He felt fear seep into his body as he looked at the smiling image of someone he never expected to see in such a context. The hair was grayer, and the face held more lines, but it was undoubtedly the CEO of Intellisys and his boss, John Felch.

  He recognized the backdrop of the photo as the front of the White House, and John stood on the perfect lawn with a large smile and a hand upraised. The caption read "John Felch waves to citizens after being appointed chancellor." Instructions printed on the kiosk told him to tap on a headline to read the story. His fingers hit the blue letters, and further instruction appeared over the picture. He could read it on the kiosk for twenty-five cents, or receive a printed copy for twice that.