1981, he thought a final time before falling asleep in 1919.

  * * *

  Martin promptly woke up in the same spot, as did the rest of the men who had fallen asleep in a big circle around him in the Oxford Hotel’s basement. They were all on their feet by the time Martin arrived.

  “Okay, we’re all here,” Chris said once Martin opened his eyes. “Let’s head up to the bus.”

  Chris pulled Martin up by the arm as Martin shook his head to clear the fog that accompanied a heavy sleep.

  The hallway they had arrived in appeared the exact same as the one they had left, newer lights in the ceiling the only visible upgrade.

  “Take the stairs,” Chris demanded. “Quickly.”

  The men formed a single-file line and marched toward a door at the end of the hallway, past the conference room where the Road Runners had just held Martin hostage 60 years in the past, or two minutes ago, depending how you viewed it.

  Martin, not knowing what the hell was going on, joined the back of the line, Chris rounding out the group behind him.

  Boots clapped along the concrete ground, echoing throughout the hall as the line of men disappeared into the stairwell. Once in the stairwell, the sound reflected louder in the tighter space, like a marching band squeezed into a public bathroom.

  They climbed one flight to reach the main level, just next to the main entrance, where they swiftly poured out of the hotel and back onto 18th Street. Martin followed and was relieved to see numerous skyscrapers in the city. They had certainly reached 1981 as Union Station also appeared in its more modernized version with neon lighting on its exterior.

  “Around the corner!” a man from the group shouted as they slowed to a powerwalk.

  The sidewalks were empty of foot traffic, suggesting it must have been the middle of a workday. It only became crowded during the lunch hour and after 3 P.M. when people started leaving for home.

  They walked the direction opposite of Union Station and turned right at the next intersection where a small black bus waited. It reminded Martin of the kind that would eventually become commonly used as party buses, only this one lacked the flashing lights and built in ice chests full of beer bottles.

  An older man with a white beard and a black fedora craned his neck as the group filed onto the bus. He had a cranky expression, his face scrunched into years of fatigue.

  “We’re all here,” Chris said as they filled the bus. “Let’s move!”

  He clapped his hands excitedly.

  Martin sensed they were being followed based on the urgency with which Chris barked his orders. After learning firsthand what the Road Runners’ main objective was, he didn’t exactly feel safe sitting in a bus full of Chris and his men. What if they tried to bomb it? Surely they would sacrifice Martin’s life if it meant wiping Chris and twenty of his goons off the planet.

  He shook the violent images that filled his head and stared out the window as he plopped down in a seat near the front. Chris had sat directly behind the driver and they appeared to be catching up on the day’s activities.

  Martin watched as the city passed by his window. Everything had changed since 1919, both in the buildings and the few people he saw out for an afternoon stroll. Gone were the days of everyone dressed in suits and magnificent gowns. Now people wore jeans, mullets, and carried boom boxes over their shoulders. We’re definitely in the 80’s.

  The bus rumbled through the city, reaching the freeway within five minutes and revving up to a much higher speed. The men remained silent, keeping to themselves and looking out their windows. Martin hadn’t noticed earlier that they were all wearing sunglasses and long pea coats, looking like a group of mobsters on their way to a fancy dinner.

  Chris leaned back in his seat and Martin took the chance to move up one row to speak with him, sliding in beside the old man.

  “I know you have questions,” Chris said. “You always do.”

  “Can you blame me?” Martin replied. “You like to leave all of the details out when we speak.”

  Chris smirked. “I literally warned you last night about the Road Runners, and you still managed to get captured within 24 hours. You’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, my friend. A hotel tour? Really?”

  “They told me you’re trying to rule the world. Is that true?”

  Chris sighed. “These people will say anything to recruit and brainwash. I’m not trying to rule the world. I’m part of a coalition trying to make the world a better place. I have counterparts on each continent. I’m in charge of tying to gain control over North America, as my counterparts are trying to take control of their continents.”

  Sounds an awful lot like trying to rule the world, Martin thought.

  Chris laughed. “We’re not trying to rule the world.”

  Shit. Martin forgot that Chris could hear his thoughts.

  “If we wanted to rule the world,” Chris continued. “We would’ve done that already. It’s as easy as manipulating some governments and running them from the inside. In a sense, that’s what we’re trying to do, but not in the selfish ways it may sound.”

  “So you’re glorified lobbyists?”

  Chris nodded. “You could say that. We definitely have the funds to lobby for anything we desire.”

  The bus rattled as it slowed, turning off the highway. They had driven ten minutes east of downtown and arrived to Stapleton, a small neighborhood only known for its airport in 1981.

  “We’re here, gentlemen,” Chris announced, standing and facing the rest of the crew. “Remember to get on the plane quickly. Dinner will be served.”

  The bus turned into the airport grounds and drove around a small building to the back where private hangars awaited, each with private jets lined up neatly beside each other.

  “You have your own jet?” Martin asked. “I thought you could go wherever you want – why waste your time flying?”

  Chris chuckled. “Martin, please. I’m not Harry Potter. I can go to any time I want. If I need to go somewhere else in the world, I still have to travel there.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Our headquarters are in Alaska,” Chris said.

  “Alaska?”

  “Yes. It’s a perfect hideaway. And it’s not just Alaska; it’s northern Alaska, practically on a glacier. No one ever thinks of going there, or even wants to go there. I’m pretty sure your Road Runner friends know about it, though, and I believe they’ve set up a similar type of hideout nearby.”

  The bus came to a complete stop at the last hangar, and the doors swung open.

  “Let’s go, gentlemen!” Chris commanded, leading the way out.

  Martin followed him into the hangar where they approached a luxurious private jet with glossy blue and red exterior, appearing freshly waxed. There were no words, logos, or anything that could identify the plane as belonging to any one in particular.

  Chris approached the stairs that led up to the jet and walked up without any hesitation. He looked over his shoulder and waved to his group of confidants below, still making their way across the hangar.

  Martin followed, his legs trembling with each step, not sure what the hell he was getting into. I don’t belong with this group of people. They all carry guns and sit in silence, taking orders from Chris like he’s the goddamn president. I just want to explore, not get caught in the middle of this stupid war.

  Martin entered the jet to find a world of luxury. It was clearly from the future, not 1981, as flat screen TVs hung on the walls, oak tables decorated the lounge, and wide, cushioned recliners were the only options for sitting. Laptops and tablets were piled neatly on the tables, and Martin longed for a return to 2018. It felt like a mere pit stop between the trips to 1996 and 1919, and now 1981.

  Where is my true self? he wondered. When he left for 1919, his body was asleep in his bedroom in 2018. But when he jumped from 1919 to 1981, what happened then? Could he fall seven dimensions like that movie Inception?

  And what the fuck happened with Sonya? Is she really a Road Runner? Or is this all some big joke?

  His chest felt like it had taken a bullet in the heart, the blood of his pain spreading throughout his body. His mind waited in a state of shock for the truth to reveal itself, and he found himself unable to focus his thoughts on anything aside from his six months of life with Sonya in 1996.

  You’re stunned. That’s what this is. Just like the morning you realized Izzy was gone, and just like the night you accepted that she was never coming back. Stunned.

  If she really was a Road Runner, then all of their time spent together had to have been part of some epic plan to get him to join their team. What other explanation was there for them to all end up in a hotel basement together?

  She played you. Your wife fucked your brother, and your new girlfriend only dragged you along to fight on her team. Now here you are, on an airplane with a madman, and your life no longer in your own hands.

  Whatever was happening, he’d have to wait for answers. The rest of the crew piled into the jet, conversation a low murmur among them all. Chris grabbed a recliner in the main lounge and ordered a meal from a young waiter who had appeared out of nowhere.

  Martin approached the old man.

  “Chris, I’d like to know what’s going on,” he said calmly, even though he wanted to burst with a flood of questions.

  Chris looked up to Martin and rolled his eyes. “My god, Marty, can you ever just sit down and relax? All you ever want to do is ask questions. I’ve told you we’re going to our headquarters. We’ll have a meeting when we get there to discuss our next steps. Now find a spot and shut up. You’re on a fully equipped, private jet with anything you can imagine. Order dinner, have a drink, I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”

  “Sorry.”

  Martin left Chris and found a lone recliner looking out a window. The old man had really snapped at him, making him feel like a disciplined child sitting in timeout. He didn’t know if he should mingle with the men in pea coats and sunglasses, and decided to keep to himself.

  Everyone had settled in their spots as the airplane rumbled to life. The lights dimmed, and many of the men removed their sunglasses and slid sleeping masks over their eyes. Martin wanted to sleep, exhausted from the day’s events, but his mind wouldn’t allow it.

  Something had felt off since Chris and his gang arrived. Were they really there to rescue him from the Road Runners? He sensed that more was at stake. Why did both sides show such an interest in a middle-aged, out-of-shape man with no skills aside from chugging beer and whiskey? Martin only had to take a quick look around to see that he was the only one who didn’t belong with the rest of the group.

  All of the men seemed like programmed robots, rarely speaking to each other, obediently doing exactly as Chris demanded. Nothing about them seemed realistic except for the fact that they looked like humans.

  Could Chris be trying to brainwash me and turn me into one of them?

  Martin lay back in his recliner, his brain torn between sleep and a desire to keep his eyes open. The latter won, and he watched Chris for the entire duration of the six-hour flight. The old man eventually fell asleep after finishing his steak dinner.

  What are you really up to?

  20

  Chapter 20

  Six hours later the plane landed in the small town of Barrow, Alaska. The pilot announced their arrival, but Martin had no idea where to find the city on a map. Chris explained it was the northernmost tip of the state with a shore that touched the Arctic Ocean. The city had an airport, with a small neighborhood practically on the landing strip.

  The jet’s door opened and they filed out, Martin gawking at the Arctic Ocean in his immediate view, glaciers floating like giant ice cubes. He had never seen a glacier, or iceberg, or whatever the hell they were called.

  Giant chunks of ice.

  He immediately shivered, as the town was known for high temperatures in the mid-30s. The heatwaves of summer might push the thermometer to 45 on a good day.

  The airport was smaller than the one they had left in Stapleton, a lone office building standing at the end of the airstrip, with only one hangar that housed two other jets.

  Another bus waited for them, and they wasted no time crossing the tarmac to enter it.

  “Welcome home, gentlemen,” Chris said proudly once everyone had settled into the bus. “We have some long days ahead of us, so tonight will be a relaxing night. If you didn’t eat on the plane—which it didn’t look like anyone did—get a good dinner tonight and sit back, watch a movie, read a book—whatever you do to unwind. Tomorrow we will start planning to get another of our own back, just like we rescued Martin today.”

  Chris looked down to Martin, who sat in the row behind him again, and winked.

  One of our own? Martin thought, then immediately shut down his mind since he was close to Chris. He hadn’t declared an allegiance to any side in this fight, and didn’t intend to. He just wanted to go home to 2018, dump his bottle of Juice down the drain, and pretend none of this had ever happened. No 1996, no witnessing Izzy’s death, no Sonya. None of it.

  You can’t do that now, remember? his mind cut back in. Your mother now has dementia because of you, or did you forget already? Are you really going to leave her to rot away in her own mind? Let her talk to you like a complete stranger?

  The bus ride had only lasted ten minutes when they turned onto a dirt road for another mile and pulled up to a mansion that looked as large as the White House. The dirt road gave way to cobblestone and led them to a wide roundabout in front of the house. A thin layer of snow covered what would have been a lawn. The mansion was made of dark stone, reminding Martin of a medieval castle. Two rows of a dozen windows lined the front, all of equal size.

  “What is this place?” Martin asked when the bus came to a complete stop.

  Chris looked over his shoulder with his usual grin. “My house. Our headquarters. Chateau de Chris. Whatever you want to call it. It’s where you’ll be living for the next few weeks while we figure out what to do.”

  “Do with what?”

  “With the Road Runners. We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to discuss. Tonight is all about relaxing. I know that’s a difficult concept for you, but give it a try. You might even smile for once.”

  Martin couldn’t take any more of Chris’s snide remarks. No, he didn’t want to relax. He had lost his daughter, his mother, his girlfriend, his life as he knew it. If things could go back to the way they were, drinking into oblivion every night, eating his pistol once a year, then he could relax. Routine brought him the calm he desired, not being kidnapped and flown to the fucking North Pole.

  The bus door slid open, and the robotic men all stood and filled the aisle, waiting for Chris to lead the way. It became more apparent with each passing second that these men were incapable of thinking for themselves. They simply followed Chris around all day and did as they were told.

  Chris rose, bones cracking and popping, and led the parade to the mansion.

  The house had no exterior decorations but was rather a plain fortress on a private lot, far from the town that was already off the map. They reached the entrance, a lone wooden door, and Chris pulled it open, leading the crew inside.

  The interior was something out of a movie, and certainly didn’t fit in this small town in the 1980’s. They walked into an entryway with a spiral staircase that led up one level and down another. A kitchen was to the left, and a lounge area to the right. A crystal chandelier hung above them, illuminating the room with abstract paintings as decorations.

  Martin stood frozen as the men all made their way up the stairs to the second floor. He looked up to the skylight windows that provided a glimpse of the gray sky.

  “Shall we?” Chris asked once the men had cleared out, leaving them in silence, the only audible sound a fireplace crackling somewhere around the corner. “Quite the scare the Road Runners gave you back there.”

  Chris crossed his arms and waited for Martin to respond.

  “Yeah. They didn’t seem too evil. In fact, they were gonna let me walk out before you showed up.”

  “Oh, please. They only play nice to try and trick you into trusting them. How can you trust a group who sent Sonya to trap you?”

  Martin had tried to push Sonya out of his mind, wanting to forget the fact that she had been playing him like a used piano since they first met. All of the lovemaking, late-night talks, and romantic dinners had been a lie to land him in a basement conference room with the Road Runners.

  “I’d rather not talk about that,” Martin said.

  “Understood. Let me show you around.” Chris raised his arms as if soaking in his surroundings. “This house is four levels. We’re on the main level. Kitchen, lounge, laundry – pretty much any of your basic needs. Food is always stocked and nothing is off limits on this floor. Make yourself at home.”

  He shuffled to the stairwell. “Downstairs is the basement and somewhere you’ll never need to go. We have an entire team down there conducting research throughout history and the future, creating databases and algorithms, and a bunch of other things I don’t really understand until they summarize it in a weekly report for me.”

  Martin joined Chris at the stairwell and looked down to a pit of darkness. Chris pointed up.

  “Upstairs has two more floors. The top floor is all bedrooms. The second floor has more bedrooms along with meeting spaces and my main office—well, more of an office and bedroom combo. It’s where you’ll usually find me.”

  “I take it I have one of these bedrooms?”

  “Of course. You’ll be on the second floor. I’ve already stocked your closet with winter clothes, or else you’ll freeze to death in this city. The highs are usually in the 30s, but the nights get as low as 20 below. You’ll want to stay inside, but don’t worry, our lounge has a fully stocked bar.”

 

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