Plague Of Time
Kevin Cope

 




The old Biotech Technologies building stood quietly in back streets of the city. The long shadows of the low evening sun accentuated the old weathered exterior, making it look dry and lifeless, like an old orange peel. Only the city tramps found it appealing. At dusk they would fill up the side and the back alleys, enjoying the warmth of the hot air, as it slowly drifted from the ventilation shafts.

No passers-by ever gave it a second glance. They probably didn’t even notice it at all.

This was why it had been chosen.

Inside the building, two floors below street level, a small anxious woman in a white coat hurried along a brightly lit corridor. She clutched a bundle of papers, tightly to her chest as she passed by a multitude of doors.

As she walked down the corridor, a loud voice startled her, causing her to flinch and momentarily lose her stride. She heard the loud agitated voice again as it emanated from behind a nearby door. She studied the name on the door, as she passed: Dr J Baxter.

She remembered hearing people in the rest room talking about him. He was known for his short temper and long memory. She quickened her step and hastily disappeared around the corner.

                                                                           * * *


Baxter hung up the phone and slammed his hands down on the desk in frustration. It was late, and his head was beginning to ache. He grabbed the frames of his glasses and pulled them away from his face, letting them drop onto the desk. He dropped his face into the palms of his hands and let his large stubby fingers slide down, tracing the worn contours of his face as they went. He stared into the distance, thinking. The phone conversation had been frustrating to the point of anger. He hated the way he was never given any straight answers anymore and right now all he wanted to do was to go home and get some sleep.

But first, there was something he needed to do.

He stabbed some numbers into his phone and waited for an answer. He placed the phone onto one of his large rounded shoulders and clamped down onto it with his chin. He listened to it ring at the other end. As he did so, he stretched out his arm, pulled open the top draw of his desk and began to dig around, searching for some aspirin. After nine or ten rings the phone clicked and switched to an answer machine.

The machine gave no message to the caller, just a faint click and then a high-pitched tone.

Baxter listened to the tone and then threw the phone back onto the receiver. He flicked his head back quickly and swallowed dryly, forcing the aspirin down his throat. He stared back at the phone rubbing his temples.

He would have to wait a while longer.


                   * * * *


A light rain had started to fall across the city. The small bar was almost empty. Above the entrance, bright neon lights flickered on and off with an intermittent, fizzing hiss, producing an erratic dance of blue light in the puddles below.

In a far, dimly lit corner, a young couple sat close together, hand in hand, whispering and laughing, oblivious to the world around them. The only other movement came from the barman; who was lazily sorting and cleaning the glasses.

On a stool, near the entrance sat a despondent looking man. He hunched himself over the bar, his head almost buried in between his shoulders. Occasionally he would bring his eyes up to meet his own reflection in the mirror opposite. The mirror ran the full length of the bar, and the low-level lighting accentuated the thick growth of stubble on his chin and he seemed shocked to see his own tired eyes staring back at him. He slowly pushed and nursed his drink around in the thin puddle of liqueur under his glass. His foot tapped slowly, almost nervously on the bottom of the stool, making his long black raincoat scuff lightly over the floor.

Ben Truman looked down for a few moments and stared at the last remnants of ice in the glass. He looked at himself in the mirror one more time, and then pushed the glass aside. He pulled out some money from his top pocket, and left it on the bar. He looked around, gave a nod to the barmen and headed towards the door.

He had been at the bar for nearly an hour. From his seat at the bar he had an excellent view of his apartment. No one had followed him. He was sure about that. He wasn’t really expecting anybody to, but he liked to be cautious all the same.

He headed for the exit and swung the doors wide open. He felt the damp night air cling to him as he stepped out onto the wet pavement. In the distance, his eyes caught the city skyline, as it glowed orange against a black, unnerving sky.

He cut between two parked cars and quickly crossed the road to his apartment. His body was feeling heavy and sore now and he longed for a hot shower.

He walked past the doorman, whose was hungrily biting into a large sandwich and took the lift up to the third floor. He slid the key in to the lock and entered his apartment. He went into the living room and placed a thin silver tube on the table next to the computer. He pulled out the swivel chair from under the desk and sat down in front of the screen. He kept the lights off and pulled up the blinds to let the light of the street lamp filter through the window. He thumbed a switch and watched as the machine flicked into life, throwing a hazy blue light across the rest of the room. After a few quick keystrokes, he was logged onto the agency’s network. Next to his Monitor was the small black box that he would use to download the samples inside the tube. A few lights on the box flicked once in recognition as he switched it on. At the side of the box, there was a small hole, the diameter of large pen, into which he pushed the metallic tube. After a satisfying click, he engaged an icon on the screen and watched as the network took over. The screen remained almost inactive, apart from a small rotating spiral in the bottom left of the screen. A few moments later the tube was ejected, it was returned to him black and as brittle as charcoal. Truman slowly pulled it free from the box and discarded into an ashtray. It was no use to anyone now.

He was just about to switch the computer off when he noticed the clock on the screen. According to the date, he had been away for almost three days. The tiny clock that was implanted under skin on his wrist, showed only a difference of three hours. ‘Damn’ he muttered under his breath.

He switched off the computer and headed towards the shower, stripping off his clothes as he went. He stepped into the shower and braced himself against the powerful jets of water as he turned it full on. The invisible film, that had covered and protected his body, was now starting to degrade, and he scrubbed it off with controlled disgust. He shivered involuntarily, as he thought about all the filth and disease that had been neutralised, and was now contained within the sticky, white residue being washed away between his feet.

‘I’m not going back to that hell hole again’ he told to himself. ‘ No matter what they pay me.’

Ten minutes later, he was out and dressed in clean dry clothes. As he dried his hair with a towel, he padded into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and looked in, marching his toes up and down against the cold tile floor as he searched for the contents. He pulled out a carton of juice and some ice and then married them in a tall thin glass. He walked back into the living room, placed the glass on the table, and collapsed onto a large leather couch in the centre of the room. He shut his eyes and let random thoughts drift in and out of his mind.

Thirty seconds later the phone rang.

Truman’s eyes opened quickly and focused on the discoloured ceiling, wondering how long he could let the phone ring without answering it.

Five rings later he leaned over and picked up the receiver.

“Yeah.”

“Truman, its Baxter. We’ve got a problem. You’ve gotta go back.”

“What do you mean, we’ve got a problem.” Truman said, as he tipped back his glass and letting the drink filter through the ice onto his teeth.

“Listen. We’ve checked your return kit. There’s a strip of immune capsules missing.”

Truman quickly turned his thoughts back and tried to remember his movements. He had been returned to a safe site just outside the city. He was never returned to the same site twice. He had once asked why this was and was told ‘for security reasons.’ and that was the end of the story. He never pushed it any further. He had left his kit in a secure locker at a designated office and had made his way home. The kit was then picked up, checked and dealt with by people that he never saw, and never heard.

“Have you double checked?” said Truman.

Baxter was silent, he wasn’t going to answer that and Truman knew it.

“You’ll have to go back and find them. We don’t want the trouble we had last time.” Baxter said urgently.

“How about our…” Truman hesitated. ”Friends. Are they onto us yet?”

“No. But you know how sensitive they are about these things. If we don’t do something about it now, you can be damn sure they’ll pick up the disruption and trace it back to us.”

“Damn.” Truman said, as he rubbed the dull ache above his eyes. “Can’t I at least get some rest first?”

“No, no time, you’ll have to go right away. You know the procedure.”

Procedures, always procedures thought Truman.

As Baxter was always telling him, “You can be passed back to any point in time, but you have to understand, if something goes wrong, it has to be fixed as soon as possible from the present time. Because if you don’t go and fix it now. You might get hit by a car tomorrow and die and we’ll be in even bigger trouble than we are now.’ Baxter always seemed to thrive on the complexity of the situation.

“Okay, okay. Give me twenty minutes.”

Baxter said nothing and they both hung up the phone.

Truman pushed himself off the couch and went into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror and winced at his bloodshot eyes. He grabbed a bottle of tablets from the shelf above the sink and tipped three orange tablets into his palm. He tipped them into his mouth and swallowed, hoping they would numb the pain in his head.

He grabbed his jacket, switched off the console and left the apartment.


                                                                          * * * *


It was 2:38am.

Truman’s mind began to spin. Within the hour he would be transported back to the middle ages; to the year 1349AD, to the nightmare, and to the plague that had killed one third of the world population seven centuries ago.

He had taken the immune capsules with him as a precaution against infection. The tiny capsules would boost the immune system by over thirty times for a period of twenty-four hours. He was told to use them only as a last resort. They were unstable and unpredictable, but could help save his life if the worst happened and he was wounded in any way. The capsules would help fight off infection until he could receive proper treatment on his return.

He tried to grasp the implications in his mind.

The results of having a sick deranged sole in the Middle Ages find them and in turn, have them save his life, could be catastrophic, if world history had dictated that he was destined to die, along with the other countless millions. He could literally change the whole course of history. Not to mention the confusion and curiosity of finding a strip of tiny blue tablets contained within a strange transparent material.

He left the building and walked back through the deserted streets. He preferred to walk in the shadows. He felt safer and more in control that way.

He cursed himself again for letting them persuade him so easily into doing this kind of project in the first place. He was only doing it for the money. He knew it, and they knew it. They had sought him out because his DNA and genetic makeup had matched their needs. One in every hundred thousand they had told him. That was the odds of finding someone like him that could safely ‘pass back’, as they had worded it. They were powerful people, very persuasive and it was too good an offer to turn down. It seemed so simple at the time.

How he regretted that decision now.

Now he had to return to hell on earth.

It had started to rain hard now as he turned into a small dimly lit side street. He pulled up the collar on his coat and put his head down, as heavy rain began to prick his face. His destination was just a few more streets away.

The rain poured down, like white noise all around him.

Suddenly, his senses were alerted. There was some kind of movement behind him. It sounded close by. He turned quickly, his eyes darting around furiously, trying to pinpoint the direction from where the sound had come. He looked through the rain, as it beat down hard across his vision. He saw nothing. There was no movement, no sound, apart from the incessant rain. He instinctively clasped his fingers around a small syringe in his coat pocket, ready to plunge it into whoever was there.

Then, he heard the sound again; it was a metallic scratching sound, coming from behind a nearby wall. Truman’s heart raced as he watched the wall. He suddenly jumped back to one side, as out of the shadows, a large black cat jumped up onto the wall. A dustbin lid clattered to the ground. The cat stared at Truman for an instant with eerie yellow, translucent eyes. It darted down in front of him and across the road, disappeared through a fence and away into the night.

He watched for a few more seconds, his heart beating furiously against his shirt. He studied the darkness a few moments longer as the rain tricked down his face. He turned and continued on his way. With fresh adrenalin pumping through his veins, he began to walk faster, unconsciously tensing his grip on the syringe that contained a powerful tranquilliser.

Three streets later he stopped, looked around him and then entered the disused Biotech building using a small electronic key. He walked across the empty floor space to some heavy sliding doors, and then made his way down a rusty spiral staircase. His footsteps echoing noisily as he went. At the bottom of the stairs were three doors; all looked identical, except for one. Under closer inspection the right hand door had a single dim red light on its handle, no bigger than a screw head. He identified himself by placing his thumb on the handle and swiped a transparent card in front of an invisible sensor on the wall. The red light flashed once and the door clicked open.

He saw no one as he slipped in behind the door, but he knew that someone, somewhere would be watching and monitoring his every move.

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Truman was ready. Two technicians busied themselves around him, checking this and double-checking that. Now he stood looking at himself in the mirror. His fourteenth century attire was excellent, but as before, it had already begun to irritate his skin.

Baxter finished tapping something into one of the nearby consoles and then looked up at Truman through his wire frame glasses.

“Just go back, find the capsules and get the hell out of there.” Baxter said, scrutinising Truman’s appearance. The makeup people had done an excellent job, Baxter thought. Truman appeared to have aged ten years and looked like he was going to drop dead any minute. Perfect.

Truman nodded to Baxter and walked into the glass cubicle.

A few moments later there was a dull hissing sound, and once again, he felt as if his body was melting into the floor. He let the coldness from the machine surround him and let the sense of numbness take over his body. His mind twisted and spiralled around in his head, turning his whole being inside out. Then abruptly, there was nothing. He opened his eyes with a start, as if he had been suddenly woken from a deep sleep. The numbness slowly melted from his body as he felt his senses come back to life.

He quickly glanced around. Small shrubs and trees surrounded him. He pushed a familiar branch aside and stared through the leaves. He looked across at the deserted churchyard.

Fresh burials filled every square foot of sacred ground. The clear moonlight reflected off the newly filled graves like broken glass on black ice.

‘Oh my God’ he said out loud, his hand covering his face.

The thick, suffocating smell of death attacked his nostrils as it hung in the early morning air. It surrounded him like an incoming wave and seeped through his skin, straight into his bones.

In the distance, the muffled cries of the dying could be heard echoing above the streets like lost souls.

He had returned.

                        * * * *

Baxter stood behind an array of consoles, each one monitoring different signals coming from tiny sensors placed on Truman’s body. He had watched Truman enter the cubicle and waited patiently for the technician to confirm that he had returned safely. Baxter glanced at the screens for a moment and then returned to his office.

Baxter crossed over the corridor and swiped his card down the access strip guarding his door. He slipped his pass into his top pocket and entered his dark, stuffy office. The only light came from a small desk lamp, throwing long shadows upon the stark empty walls. He sat at his cluttered desk and started to scribble a few notes.

As he wrote, his eye caught a slight movement coming from the corner of the darkened room. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out the silhouette of someone sitting in his old armchair. The figure shifted his weight to one side and the chair creaked in protest. A voice barely louder than a whisper said.

“Has he gone?”

Baxter looked up, startled by the sudden voice, but not surprised; he was expecting a visit as soon as Truman had gone.

“Yeah, he’s gone.” Baxter said, sounding slightly uncomfortable.

“Does he suspect anything?” The voice said, leaning into the light. His long drawn out face looked at Baxter, his small black eyes piercing straight into Baxter’s soul.
  
“No. He only knows what we want him to know.”

“Good.” There was a short silence and then the figure, “What did you tell him?”

Baxter looked at dark figure of McKenzie, but quickly averted his gaze.

“We told him that he was missing some immune capsules. He never checks his own kit, so he had no reason to doubt me.”

Baxter looked at McKenzie again, as the thin spidery figure clutched the arms of the chairs like an insect about to pounce. He glanced into his eyes, trying to get an insight into this man’s mind; the only thing his knew about him was his name, and that he called the shots. McKenzie stared back at him.The long silence leaned on him like a heavy load and he looked away.

“How does he think he’ll find them?” McKenzie asked.

“We fitted him with a device that is sensitive to one of the chemicals in the capsules. A small dot in the palm of his hand will change from clear to blue when he is close to the capsules. It actually works quite well, we’ve tested it, but…”

“But.” Said McKenzie, cutting Baxter off and finishing the sentence. “He will never find them, because they were never missing. Correct?”

“Yeah.” Baxter said slowly, his dislike for McKenzie growing stronger by the second.

McKenzie rose effortlessly from the chair and looked at Baxter.

“I’m sorry it had to be done like this, but there was no other way. You do understand?“

Baxter nodded.

“What about your man? Where is he now?” Baxter said, desperately trying to piece together the whole picture.

“He was sent back at the same time as Truman, but obviously, he will be there a few minutes before, to watch Truman arrive and then to…” His voice trailed off as if in deep thought. He looked hard at Baxter and left the sentence unfinished. McKenzie sprung from the chair and turned toward the door, “Keep me informed.” he said and disappeared into the corridor.

Baxter sat silently as he watched the door close. He didn’t like what was going on. He had no idea what was going to happen to Truman. All he knew was that he’d be the one to pick up the pieces if anything went wrong.

The door clicked shut and Baxter was left alone, leaving him feeling like a discarded pawn in a chess game. The thin pen he was holding, now began to sink ever so slightly into the desk, it then quickly snapped under the pressure, splitting in two, stinging his hand and momentarily relieving some of the frustration building up inside him.

                    * * * *

The air was thick and still. A dark figure stood, hardly visible, in the shadows of the churchyard, watching and waiting. He was dressed as a peasant. Dirt and filth clung to his hands and feet, his face was pale and gaunt, his clothes barely distinguishable from rags. He carried with him the smell of death and the look of the Devil in his eyes. He looked like any other unfortunate being of that time. But, he was different. He knew, that in about sixty seconds, a man from the future was about to appear.

He watched the trees at the far end of the churchyard and waited.

A few seconds passed by and then and a tiny glint of light sparkled through the thick foliage. He watched the shadows for a few moments and then saw Truman make his way through the churchyard, stumbling and tripping on the damp mounds of dirt. The man in the shadows watched him disappear around the side of he church, and began to follow him. He would let Truman search in vain for a while, and then do what he had come to do. Besides, he almost felt at home in this place of misery and death.


                     * * * *



Truman tripped and stumbled his way through the churchyard. The ground was wet and muddy. As the moon momentarily appeared from behind a cloud, Truman gave a small involuntary cry as the silver light exposed the ground beneath him. The ground seemed to be moving. He stared at it, and to his horror, realised that it wasn’t the ground that was moving, but an immense, seething carpet of rats. They were feasting on the dead, their fur and long tails were matted with blood. It glistened sickeningly in the moonlight as they scurried from one half buried corpse to another.

There were so many bodies now. The amount of people succumbing to the plague was increasing tenfold every week. And as the dead started to out number the living, mass graves were becoming common. Death was so prevalent now, that people would not grieve for their loved ones anymore now, than if they had lost a dog or a goat. Every inch of every nearby churchyard was now covered with graves and freshly dug earth. Where the earth covering the bodies was thinnest, the rats had accumulated and had exposed the grey and black coloured limbs, allowing easy access with their tiny gnawing teeth.

Truman watched them in terror as he ran toward the church.

The narrow pathway alongside the church was deserted, and at the end of the path he stopped and looked around into the blackness. Now that the moon was hidden again behind another cloud, there was almost complete darkness. The only illumination came from the haunting glows of dim candlelight as it spilled out from some of the houses. He turned left, heading toward the maze of narrow streets.

Suddenly, some branches snapped behind him. He spun around and looked back down the path. He tightened his eyes against the night, but could see nothing except an eerie black void. The images of the bloodied rats came quickly to the front of his mind again, making him feel uncomfortable. Truman quickly pushed the thoughts away and continued walking.

Truman breathed in the heavy stale air as he walked through dark deserted streets. Occasionally in the darkness, he would spot a figure slumped on the ground or hear a pig snorting loudly, scavenging for food.

As he walked, he glanced down into the palm of his hand, hoping to see a change of colour coming from the sensor. He had been careful to retrace the exact same route, making sure he passed the same streets as before.

He came to a corner. He turned left and walked into a large open square. As a small familiar house came into view, he looked at the other buildings around the perimeter of the square. They looked awkward and top heavy, as if they were about to topple over at any moment. It had probably been a bustling market square at one time, before the plague had taken over, he thought. He imagined the square, packed with market stalls and people, trading and buying their valuable wares. But now only the alehouse remained busy.

Truman watched as a short stocky man staggered out of the alehouse, he held onto the wall and vomited noisily onto the ground. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and went back in colliding with the frame of the door as he went.

Truman stayed in the shadows, away from the light of the alehouse and made his way to a house tucked neatly into the corner of the square. He slowly pushed the door open and entered. He stood in the skewed doorway and surveyed the room. As before the ground floor was empty. The small room was almost totally bare, with only a thin covering of straw on the floor. A small candle, burnt almost down to the base, sat in the centre of a small, solid table in the middle of the room. A few stools had been placed around the table and on the back wall, Truman noticed a mixture of knives, hung up on thick black nails; undoubtedly used for butchering and slicing meat, Truman thought, as he stared expectantly once again at his palm. There was still no change, and it began to worry him. Maybe someone had already found the capsules, or maybe the sensor wasn’t working, and he had not spotted them on the way.

The ladder leading up to the loft area leaned precariously against the rafters. Truman adjusted the ladder, and climbed up to where the old man lay dead. The body lay on a mattress, which was no more than an old sack stuffed with straw. The top was stained and matted with the dead man’s blood. Truman looked at the man’s face as they eyes stared wildly into distance. At his side, his pale bony fingers gripped tightly at the straw beneath him, as if in an eternal agonising fit of terror.

Truman knelt down and searched the floor next to the body, brushing aside the straw to look for the capsules.

The immune capsules had been in a small leather pouch, which he had kept in a hidden pocket, sewn into his tunic. The pouch had also contained the thin hypodermic tubes that he had used previously for taking the microscopic samples of blood that he needed.

There was no sign of the capsules here though. He could not think where else they would be. This was the only place he had taken the pouch out of his pocket. He sighed heavily and sat on the bare floor, propping his back against one the rafters. He thought hard about what he was going to do next, while trying not to look at the grotesque discoloured body of the dead man lying in front of him.

He looked down to the floor below him. He could just see the top of the candle, its flame still burning strong and steady. It will soon burn out, he thought, as he stared at the clear sensor in the palm of his hand.

He came to the decision that needed to retrace his steps again. It started to get to his feet, when he noticed the sensor starting to change colour. He stared in disbelief as the tiny clear crystals started to slowly turn a pale shade of blue. Why is it changing now, he thought. Why now and not before. He looked down again at the dry wooden floor, searching in vain once more for the capsules. They were not here, he was sure of that. Maybe the sensor was faulty, or maybe they had been mistaken when they checked the return kit. An uneasy feeling rushed over his body, something didn’t seem right.

Below him, the candlelight flickered, as if a draught had passed over it. Truman froze as he heard the door below him creak quietly open.

Someone else was here with him.


                       * * * *



At the church, Vossner had followed Truman down the pathway, making sure he had kept at least fifty paces behind him. He had cursed himself when he had foolishly tripped over the tree root. It had been sticking up through the ground at an angle; his foot had just caught the tip of it and caused him to stumble. His muscles had tensed as he watched Truman turn around. There was no time to hide. He just hoped the darkness would conceal him. Luckily for him, Truman had only looked back for a short time, and when he turned and walked away, Vossner had moved closer to the church wall and waited for Truman to move out of sight.

Now he followed Truman silently, always on the edge of the shadows, just out of sight. He was thankful for the dampness, hiding the sounds of his footsteps

                       * * * *

To be continued…

 

 

Copyright © 2001 Kevin Cope
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"