Time and Time Again

The sky was an orange haze dotted with long black clouds and he could see the buildings of the city silhouetted in stark blackness against the burnt horizon. Fires raging everywhere, he thought, a whole city blazing. Out here in the suburbs the smell of smoke loomed in the air, it crept down the street touching everything as it went, leaving its oily black print on the quiet abandoned houses. The homes had not yet been touched by the creeping fires so despite the derelict nature of the streets and the ever-present soot, one could almost imagine it was just a quiet Sunday in the neighborhood. Lyle knew better though. No-one would ever live here again, no children playing outside, no weekend barbecues, nothing. This town was dead now. Like the rest of the country. Maybe even the world for all he knew. He sat in the wicker rocking chair and sipped, a healthy pour from a bottle of old whiskey he had found in the cupboard of whoever’s home he now took temporary residence in. He drank and watched the city burn in the distance.

Bombs most likely. What a terrible way to go. All that work, years and years of human development, just to be blown away in an instant. He could see some of the buildings were jagged and missing chunks, as if some great rat had wondered by and taken bites from buildings as it passed through. That would be a new one, giant rats. He felt a smile creep into the corner of his lips at the notion, then felt guilty at smiling at a time like this. He sipped the whiskey again and felt the warmth of it settle in the pit of his stomach and bloom out. He was already feeling it in his head, too much more of it and he would have to put off the nights work. Not a thought he relished, he had more to do still. So much to do. He held the glass up to the horizon and watched the orange light dance in the crystal cut edges, watched it flicker here and there in hatched lines with each turn of the glass. Then he tilted his head back and downed the last of it in one gulp. Grimacing against the burn, he took a small journal out of his breast pocket flipped it open and, under a growing list, wrote the word “bombs.” He flipped the journal closed, stood and took one last look at the crumpled city, then turned and headed toward the front of the house.

Back to work. How many times had he thought that now? He had lost count somewhere along the line. I really must stop putting off this work. Lately he had felt a sense of great progress, a sense he didn’t want to lose. He had only been in this small suburb for a few hours, but he remembered the last time in the city, he had stayed there almost a week, telling himself each morning that he must get back to work. But the work was hard and draining so he had put it off, wandering the city, recouping. There had been no ash and destruction there, in fact it had been remarkably clean. To him it had looked like the whole city decided to go on vacation. Popping out for a bit, be back soon, he had thought to himself. But he knew there, like here, nobody was coming back. Was it the disease there? I don’t even remember now. Oh well, he was here now and must be getting on. He walked around the house and back into the main road, eyeing both directions. Turning west down the street.

Lyle had come to town looking for gas. Sometimes it was no problem to find, depending on where he was, others it was an agonizing search. He had the sinking notion he was in one of those scenarios now. So primitive, gas. You’d think there would be some better way by now. Oh well, doesn’t matter now I suppose. He continued down the road, peeking into each garage and finding all empty. He suspected as much. Why wouldn’t they be gone? His mind played out the scene of families hurriedly packing, throwing whatever small items they valued into the trunks and hopping in frantically. He pictured the traffic as people tried to get out of the small suburb, cars lined up desperately honking, the worried faces of children pressed to the glass, seeing the distant city erupt in a series of flashes and the sky turning the deep burnt reddish orange that signaled the end. He wondered if any survived.

Further out on the road leading to the far end of town he came across a string of cars, some abandoned, some with such nauseating sights inside he had to turn away from. Things he’d seen before that still haunted him. All the cars were blackened in areas, covered in soot and ash, a fresh coat of end of times paint. None had had gas. He supposed he knew that when he saw them stopped haphazardly in the road, scattered about like children’s toy cars. He wondered if the empty ones were people who made it on foot, perhaps they had gotten somewhere safe in time. He hoped so. The guilt from seeing the ones still grotesquely inhabited left a deep hollow pit in his stomach.

He had been hopeful there would be gas here he had seen the rows of houses still intact. Now though Lyle felt a sense of hopelessness. Despite his failures in the past, he was desperate to make progress, he was desperate to keep going, to truck ahead. How long would he be stuck here, how long would he have to scour for enough gas to get back to his work? He could not afford to lose progress now, not after so long. Night was falling and the quiet bore into him, he felt the vast weight of loneliness closing in, smothering him. He picked up his pace.

It was well into a near moonless night when Lyle stumbled upon a small pale-yellow house with the garage still closed. A twang of hope made his heart do a small somersault. He walked across the drive, each step echoing a loud click-clack in the night stillness. His face pressed to the cool glass, he tried to peer into the small windows, but there was no light and he could not tell if a car sat parked inside. Crossing to the front, he clasped the doorknob and found it unlocked. He stepped in. The house was dark and he was immediately met with stale cool air. He had made it halfway across the foyer when the smell hit him. It stopped him dead in his tracks and he could feel the whiskey roll in his stomach, burning the back of his throat as it threatened to come back up. His body bent forward, gagging. He knew the smell well now, had smelled it in other homes, in other towns. He never got used to it, probably never would. He steadied himself and swallowed hard, forcing everything back down. The guilt dropped into the pit of his stomach again and he closed his eyes to it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. That phrase again, repeated in his head again and again so often now. Finally, he stood and made brisk, almost leaping steps through the house to the small door set in the side. Pulling it open and stumbling inside, nearly falling flat on the hard ground.

The air was cleaner, the smell had not penetrated here yet thankfully. He leaned against the door and took several deep breaths, trying to will himself to calm down. After some time, he pushed away from the door, hearing his shirt make a sticky squelch sound as his sweat drenched back peeled off the wood. There was no car. Lyle noticed that at once. But there was a small red gas can, tucked neatly on the bottom shelf along a side wall. His feet moved fast, crossing to it eagerly. Warm relief shivered down his body as he picked it up, felt the weight of the full can. A tired smile broke out as he hugged the can close to his chest. This would be enough for now. He could get back to work, he could hopefully make this all right. He braced himself and ran through the house, holding his breath against that nightmarish rotten smell.

He continued to run through the street, past all the houses and out into the road leading towards the city. Excited to get back to work. He felt his lungs like sandpaper in his ribs, his throat tight and burning. He ran past cold empty house, past the cars that stood empty and the cars now acting as crypts, down a side path. He ran and ran, sweat flowing down his head, stinging his eyes until finally he was back in the small clearing, he had started his journey in earlier this morning. He slowed to a walk, breath heavy, and went to the small house built back into the woods, heading straight in and into the basement. He stepped over the coils of chrome tubing that snaked across the floor in arcs to the tall metal box rising up in the center of the basement. With shaking hands, he pulled the generator open and fitted the spout of the gas can in. The generator slurped it down in big gulps and soon the can, which had felt unbearably heave as he ran, was light and empty. No longer need it was tossed aside with a dull clang. He kicked on the generator and heard the groan a of it coming back to life. The room lit up, the box began to beep and small green lights flickered on and off around it. There was a small door that opened onto a seat just big enough for one and into this Lyle sat.

Lyle sat for a long time, thinking. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the small gold locket. It was smooth and cool in his hand and he traced the shape of it with his finger. A heart, their names inscribed. She wore it almost everyday since he had given it to her, until one day it was given back to him by some doctor in a small bleak hospital waiting room, the same doctor who had given him the worst news he would ever hear. His finger traced the locket again then opened it. His Melissa stared back at him. Lyle stared at her small picture for a long time, then snapped the locket shut and looped it around his neck. His eyes drifted to the green button opposite him. Time to try again. It would work this time. It had to.

He opened the small journal and stared at his list. Disease…volcanic eruption…drought…bombs. No matter what he did to stop the accident, to save her, it destroyed everything else. They had warned him about it, explained the theory that one small change creates larger ripples, that the technology was only meant for observation. He had tried anyway despite their reasoning. He would keep trying, it would work eventually, he just had to keep at it. Keep working. All would be well again, life would be normal, like before. He would save her and keep the world the same, keep everyone okay. Just keep trying. He closed his eyes and reached out and pressed the green button. The machine jolted and then came the sickening whirl as everything seemed to drop suddenly around him, time seemed to lurch back rapidly. He braced himself as blackness swallowed him. Then he was back, back again and he could hear her steps upstairs heading for the door. He called her name. This time, he thought. It will work this time.