Into Each Life, Some Rain Must Fall

It wasn't supposed to be raining. Rain was always scheduled for seven o'clock.

He checked his watch. It was 6:15 PM. An antique, but a convenient one, he thought. Most people simply relied on the weather to structure their days. Yet some people — like the Man — went out of their way to find clocks and watches or other gear-tech. Tonight, it seems, it had paid off. It was not yet seven, and something was wrong.

He idly wondered why people handcuff briefcases to their wrists. If you dislocate the thumb, the hand slides right out. He knelt down next to the body, snapped its thumb, and slid the handcuff off.

He placed the briefcase on the ground and retrieved his coat, which had been ripped away in the struggle. From the pocket, he pulled out a small black notebook and a pen. He recorded every job in detail. It helped ground him, he told people, but really it was protection should he fall out of favor with his employers. His hands were dirtier than almost anyone in The Company. The Man kept that part to himself.

Why was it raining?

This was the fourth night in a row, and the rain had been getting earlier. First, it rained at 6:59. This was nothing to worry about; glitches happened all the time. Then 6:45. Then 6:30. Now 6:15. Was he the only one who noticed it?

After writing down the night's activities, he closed the black book and placed it back in his breast pocket. He stared at the briefcase for a moment before picking it up and going on his way. He decided to placate his hunger before returning to the Station.

He walked into the automat to the familiar jingle of the bell above the door. It was a small establishment, with only half a dozen or so tables. He scanned the small transparent doors on the wall, waiting for something to pique his interest. He settled on a reuben sandwich. He slid his chit into the slot, and with an approving beep, the door clicked open.

As The Man ate, his eyes rested on the briefcase. He had done hundreds of jobs just like this, but the content of his packages never interested him. His apathy was his trademark. He didn't ask questions; he didn't want answers. Still, he could not take his mind off the briefcase. There was nothing preventing him from opening the briefcase; his only requirement was that the package reach the client.

It was archaic in design, certainly 21st Century, yet it looked brand new. The Man carefully placed the briefcase on the table, shoving his half-eaten sandwich out of the way. He ran his thumbs over the brass latches, contemplating the warped reflection staring back at him. He looked different — tired. This life was catching up to him. He flipped the thumb switches, and slowly opened the lid.

The briefcase was filled with bundles of green paper. It was money. Paper money, the kind that hadn't been used in decades. Occasionally you could find a single bill in a pawn shop or on the Network, sold for a bit of 21st Century nostalgia, but nothing of this quantity. The Man wondered where it came from, and why he was tasked with getting it back. This was worthless; it didn't matter how much was inside. He would finish the job regardless, and left the automat for the Weather Station. Vladimir, his handler, was expecting him.

He checked his watch. 7:00. The rain was still going strong. Lightning flashed, and a rumble of thunder shook the Man. An uneasy feeling spurred him forward with intense urgency. He quickened his pace, and was soon running down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of oncoming pedestrians toward the water. His heart was racing. He had to get to the Station as fast as he could.

Finally, he reached the winding pathway leading up to the Weather Station. The Station was a behemoth of a building, precariously placed on a cliff over the sea. The foaming waters buffeted the rocks below. The roof of the Station was forested by dozens of satellite dishes. Lightning struck again, drawn to the metal rods protruding from the building at all angles. From below, it looked like a fortress.

The Man continued his approach. He stopped at the massive wrought iron gate, easily twenty feet high. The swirling tendrils of iron curled in toward each other, passing through themselves and back out. He tapped on the keypad but the scanner did not respond. He pressed the intercom button, but it too gave no response. It was then he noticed that the gate was slightly open. With all of his strength, he pushed against the barrier until the gap was large enough for him to squeeze through, and continued his climb up the hill.

The road leading from the gate up to the Station was entirely mud. As he ascended the rain grew in intensity, and the wind blew harder. The Man moved as quickly as he could through the quagmire, eventually resorting to crawling on his hands and knees up the steps to the door. The wind screeching in his ear, he pulled open the door with the last of his strength and slipped inside letting it slam behind him.

He was soaked. Every inch of him was covered in mud and rain. He peeled off his coat, now much heavier from the rain. He reached into it and pulled out the small black journal, worn from the use of many years, yet somehow untouched by the rain. He quickly jotted down the events of the last hour and replaced it into his back pocket.

The lobby of the station was empty. The automatic lights had not come on when he opened the door, so the power must be out. That could explain the glitches, the Man thought to himself. Luckily, he knew the building well. He walked, sure footed, over to the junction box on the far end of the room and flipped on the emergency breakers. He heard the generators in the basement power up, and one by one, the lights flickered on. His heart stopped.

Everywhere he looked, he saw skeletons. The Man was no stranger to death, and this was certainly not the first time he had seen a skeleton, but he had been here less than a week before, when he had been tasked with this recovery. Yet the bones were clean, as though they had been dead for years. Some were seated at tables holding magazines. One pair seemed to be in the middle of a chess game. He wondered if one of them was Garrett, the technician who regularly defeated him. Other skeletons still stood as if glued to the floor, some in mid-stride. He had to find Vladimir.

He made his way upstairs, passing what was left of the people he had worked with for years. He climbed flight after flight, his anxiety climbing with his altitude. Eventually he made it to the control room. If the machine had malfunctioned, this is where Vladimir would be, but all he found was an empty room.

The emergency generators had rebooted the main computer. He typed his password in and navigated to the security cameras. He dialed back to 4 days ago, when the weather first changed. There had to be some connection. As he entered the date code, “ERROR” in block letters appeared on the small screen in front of him.

“NOT FOUND” the computer spoke to him in a pleasant voice. “PLEASE TRY ANOTHER ENTRY”

He keyed in the previous day.

“NOT FOUND,” the computer repeated, “PLEASE TRY ANOTHER ENTRY”

He tried one more day. The day he had been given the job.

With this final attempt, the screen showed the fuzzy green-tinted image of the main control room, the camera occasionally panning across the room. In the middle of the room, a supervisor was speaking with a group of technicians. The supervisor seemed frantic — panicked. He wished these cameras had audio. The camera shook. The people on the screen stumbled, struggling to keep their balance.

A small blip in the corner of the screen appeared, and then disappeared. A few seconds went by, then the blip reappeared. It grew into a circle the size of two men. As the camera panned, the perspective on the circle did not. Out from the circle came an object — the briefcase, followed by a man. He was dressed in all black, carrying a handgun. Staring at the screen, the Man could tell it was the one he had killed. The figure in the video placed the briefcase and gun on the ground, and put his hands up.

Then the shaking started again, and the video cut.

The video came back, revealing himself and another man: Vladimir. He remembered this conversation well, just as he did every briefing. He saw that Vladimir was shaken, but thought nothing of it. After a few moments, the screen went black again.

“RECORDING OVER” the computer said to him. The Man sighed, and started to search the control room for more clues. On a desk, he found a disk with his name on it — his real name. Vladimir was the only one who knew his real name. He placed it in the slot on the computer and Vladimir’s face filled the screen. He was gaunt, as if he had aged forty years since he had last seen him six days ago.

“Petyr. I am sorry. There are things we didn’t tell you about this retrieval. Somehow, the machine has opened a rift in spacetime, and a man — your target — came through. He said he would give us the case if we let him leave, and that it contained twenty thousand dollars. Open the case and you will see that this is true, although its contents are not of this time. He managed to escape, and since his arrival we have been experiencing…time dilations.

"We think he came from the mid 21st Century, but we’re not sure. All we know is if the anomaly is not taken care of, the disturbances will get worse and grow until it swallows everything. I fear it might be too late for us; we were too close to the epicenter. If the man is dead, as I assume he is, he can no longer have an effect on this timeline. The case, however. You must return the ca-”

The room began to shake. The Man — Petyr — spun around in time to see the dilation grow out of nothing. It was a dark circle of nothingness; it took up no space at all, yet seemed to span the room. His eyes could not comprehend it. He quickly picked up the briefcase and threw it into the void. He did as he was told. The shaking increased in intensity and the Man was sure the building was going to collapse.

He flew down the stairs, three, four at a time. He made it to the lobby, and out the door, quickly grabbing his waterlogged coat. He slid most of the way down the hill. As he cleared the wrought-iron gate, he turned to see the Station, in its last moments, fold into itself before disappearing into nothing.

The rain had stopped.

Petyr sighed, pulled out his book, and wrote down what he had just experienced. As long as it was all in the book. He replaced the book into his coat, pulled it over his shoulders, and walked away, leaving the collapsing cliff behind him.