Golden Oldie

As the bullhorn amplified cop’s voice rang through his eardrums, Phillip Kenworth reached for the backpack. “We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up.” Phillip glanced toward the window. Red and blue lights strobed on the glass creating a kaleidoscopic rainbow on the far wall.

Two minutes. That’s all I need. Just two lousy minutes. Phillip knew the police would try to talk him out before they came crashing in. They didn’t know if maybe the bank robber whose house they were surrounding had any hostages. He didn’t, but they didn’t know that. Still, they were bound to be extra motivated considering he was the first man to successfully break into - or was that out of? - the Federal Gold Reserve.

“Phillip Kenworth! Come out or we WILL come in. There’s no place to go.” Phillip pushed the lever and set the toggles. “We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up.” Phillip glanced toward the window. It looked like a psychedelic disco party gone mad.

Maximillian, his two year old border collie, barked excitedly, adding to the cacophony. “Hush Max,” he said absently. The dog jumped at the window, trying to reach the source of the strobing lights. His excited barks rang through the house. Max’s scrabbling claws on the glass created an undertone of noise that grated on Phillip’s inner ear.

“Phillip Kenworth! Come out with your hands up.” Phillip quickly double checked the parameters. Please God let Uncle Thomas’ machine work. Three times he had tested his recently deceased Nobel Prize winning uncle’s machine. It had functioned perfectly.

The first time he had simply put a playing card under his cup of coffee, set the machine for ten minutes before, and … went. He didn’t feel anything in particular, but when he checked the card wasn’t there. Ten minutes later it had appeared as if by magic. The second time he had set the alarm in his kitchen stove for one hour ahead and again … went. The stove clock was beeping and where it had been 2:05 it was now 3:05. Yes!

Phillip had then tried out the final parameter: A GPS coordinate input function that allowed him to determine not only when, but exactly where, he would reappear. When he opened his eyes in the middle of the towns large park at 3 a.am. he knew he was set.

Phillip,had no clue how it worked, and, to be honest, didn’t really care. Uncle Thomas, aka Dr. Thomas Kenworth, PhD, M.Sc, DSci, had told his nephew that his invention was too dangerous to turn over to the government. It had too great a potential for catastrophic misuse. Before leaving the lab at Quantico on his last night he had destroyed all official records of his research, packed the thankfully portable machine into a back pack and left the grounds of the FBI research laboratory.

When the government goons caught up with him, Uncle Thomas - who had an inoperable brain tumor - had shot himself. First, though, he had mailed a cryptic note in an old family code to his sole surviving relative - his nephew Phillip. Deciphering the note, a bemused Phillip Kenworth had followed the directions to an old cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains where he had located his uncle’s machine under a couple of loose floorboards.

To say the least, Phillip, had been skeptical. Time travel? Really? What about paradox? Every sci fi story he had ever read about the subject always ended up with a bad twist. Still… who knows? He had been convinced after his tests.

That’s why he took the backpack to work with him a few days later. On the day he was scheduled to assist in inventory of the gold reserves. The security forces had wondered about the odd contraption, but could find nothing dangerous about it. Phillip had told them it was a new system for helping with the inventory. The guards had shrugged and passed him through. They never noticed the flattened nylon bag he had taped to his chest under his shirt.

There were always supposed to be two people in the secure vault at all times but Phillip knew that, at some point, Adrian would have to take a piss break. His fellow inventory specialist had a UTI that caused him to urinate frequently. When Adrian had excused himself to hit the latrine with the admonishment, “Don’t steal all the gold while I’m gone,” and a chuckle, Phillip had taken his shot.

Pulling out his uncle’s time machine he set the date clock from 24 October 2024 8:20 p.m. to 26 October 2024, 10:00 p.m. The GPS coordinates which he had carefully checked he set for the alley behind the coffee shop across from his apartment building. Setting all but the last switch he hurriedly pulled the canvas bag from his chest and filled it with gold bars. He could barely carry it. Stepping onto the one man foldable platform he had flipped the final switch just as Adrian walked back in.

Appearing in the alley two days later, Phillip had hurriedly checked the street for surveillance. It was his hope that after two days any watchers on his apartment would be either gone or lax. Pulling his ball cap from his back pocket he had picked up the machine, shouldered the bag of gold bars, and casually strolled to his apartment and let himself in. Judging from the crapload of cops outside, the surveillance hadn’t been as lackadaisical as he had hoped.

“Max, shut up!” Checking that the cops were still outside, Phillip shouldered the bag of gold and stepped onto the fold down platform. Destination, New York City, Central Park, March 6, 2044, 2:00 a.m. Phillip smiled for a moment. March 6th was his birthday. Given the way gold had skyrocketed in value, he figured he had a major fortune in the bag. Happy fucking birthday to me, he thought. Just as a battering ram hit the apartment door, Phillip flipped the final switch.

Appearing in a field of grass in an empty stretch of park, Phillip Kenworth laughed. Hell yeah! I did it! Shouldering the bag and machine pack he headed toward the park entrance. He wondered momentarily about the eerie silence. Still it was two in the morning… even New York slept at some point.

….

Timothy Fenton and Harold Ward were just rounding the corner on their nightly patrol of the park perimeter when a guy carrying a bag over his shoulder and a backpack appeared from behind a bush.

“Halt! Password!” Fenton shouted out.

The man had startled, looked at the two men, and took off in a shambling run. Raising his rifle, Harold Ward sighted in. Centering his sights on the fleeing man’s back he carefully squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, destroying the silence. The man dropped and was still.

“Nice shot,” Fenton praised his partner. “You got the asshole.”

The two young men assigned to perimeter patrol by the leader of the Resistance Force team walked up to the body. The man lay sprawled there on his face, a large hole in his spine. Leaning down, Fenton checked the backpack. Whatever the machine in it had been, it was definitely destroyed.

A gleam of yellowish material protruding from the bag caught his eye. Prying the corpse’s fingers from the strap he peered inside. Gold bars. What the fuck?

Fenton straightened up, a questioning look on his face. “Any clue why some dipshit would break curfew to carry a bag of worthless heavy metal somewhere? Gold hasn’t been worth shit since the first bomb dropped five years ago.”

Harold Ward just shrugged.