A slight smile ticked up at the corner of the man’s mouth as he fixed a piercing gaze on Amhurst. He held out his own hand in return. “It’s Gernot. Gernot Kalkolov.”
37
Time Drop
Thin wisps of smoke and dust swirled around Blake Tannor’s prone form. He stirred and slowly opened his eyes; he was lying face down in the dirt. For a long moment his mind was a blank, not remembering who — or where — he was. Then it came to him in a rush of memory, and he closed his eyes, rolling over on his back to take in a deep breath.
He stayed like that for a while until he found the strength to crane his head up and look around. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been here before regaining consciousness, but he’d made it — at least, he’d made it somewhere; the exact date he’d have to find out soon.
He gave himself a once-over and moaned at the aches in his body and the disheveled state of his clothes. He looked and felt nothing like Arnold Schwarzenegger from the Terminator movie. The scene of the Model 101 machine rising gracefully from a kneeling position ran through Blake’s mind, and he let out a raspy grunt of a laugh. Having woken up planted face first in the earth, he hardly resembled the lumbering coolness of that killing machine from the future. On the contrary, he’d arrived more like the supporting protagonist Kyle Reese — battered, bruised, and groaning. Blake’s lips were dry and dust covered; this alone required him to spend some time spitting dirt-turned mud from his mouth.
When he felt strong enough, he pushed himself upright and looked around again, spotting his travel bag close by. He forced himself to rise to his feet, wobbling as he stood, as if the synapses in his brain were misfiring. He walked on reluctant limbs and, after a few steps, plopped down on the duffel bag to rest some more.
Blake glanced around and noted the pattern on the ground where he’d crash landed. It looked like his body had been thrown hard against the earth from the force of the wormhole that had swallowed him up and spit him out. Blake wasn’t sure what he’d expected for his entry into 1948, but making such a violent one was something he hadn’t anticipated.
Wallace told him the process wouldn’t be painless. That was an understatement. Blake felt remarkably older than he had just moments before, when he existed in 1986; like the jump back had sapped a lifetime from his body. And his throat felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. He coughed, and the pain grew worse. He winced, and took a shaky breath. Hell, it even hurt to breathe.
He spent the next while settling his body and mind down and after a little time he was able to stand without the weakness in his knees. But he still took a moment to focus more on his surroundings. He appeared to be on the outskirts of a town, not far from a road leading to the world beyond. Wallace had said it was important to travel back to a location where he wouldn’t bring attention to himself, and Blake had to admit the man was right. He could only imagine what would have happened if he’d popped into 1948 in the middle of a crowd of townsfolk.
Car lights in the distance tore through the darkening night like slow moving comets streaking through the sky. Blake grabbed the duffel’s hand strap and began to drag his things in the direction of the road. The bag carved a snaking trail in what he hoped was Australian soil. He realized that he should have opened it to check his things, but it was far too dark now. Blake figured if he’d made it here in one piece then everything inside the bag would be undisturbed as well.
What felt like ages later, he managed to get to the strip of road in time to flag down the oncoming vehicle. When it slowed and pulled over, Blake — car enthusiast that he was — noted the make and modeclass="underline" a Standard Twelve four door.
The driver rolled down the window and poked his head out, squinting in the dim light. His graying scalp sported a well-worn fedora, which he pushed back to get a better look at Blake. “Are you alright mister? Are you stranded?”
“I guess you could say that.” The sound of Blake’s own voice hurt even his ears. It came out like cobbles scratching against each other and created more searing pain in his throat. He tried to swallow, then coughed.
The driver and passenger in the old car recoiled, eyeing him with sudden wariness.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been sick for a few days now and I can’t seem to shake this one.” Blake attempted a grin, but the vehicle’s occupants still regarded him with suspicion.
“You haven’t been coughing up blood have ya?” the man inquired.
“No, nothing like that, just really sore.” Blake rubbed his throat to reinforce the point.
Relief passed over the man’s craggy face. “I thought it mighta been the Tuberculosis.”
Blake shook his head, not wanting to speak more than he had to. The first thing he was going to do when he got anywhere close to a store was buy a jug of water. He’d never been so thirsty in his life.
“So how’d you end up out here? You don’t sound like you’re from around these parts.”
Blake shrugged. “Some guy gave me a lift, but this was as far as he brought me.”
“Really?” The man frowned and scratched his head beneath the brim of his hat. “The last turn off is a ways back.”
Blake didn’t know the topography of the land, but he knew he looked like he’d made a long hike. “I’ve been walking for a while.”
“I wonder why the fella didn’t just take you the last leg into town?”
“He seemed to be in a rush, but I was lucky enough to be taken this far.” Blake gestured toward the road. “Is that next town Adelaide?”
“Yup.” The man heaved open his door and climbed out. “Well, let me help you with your things. We were on our way to a gospel meeting, but we can take you on into town.”
“I really appreciate it,” Blake said, smiling with genuine relief that at least he was where he needed to be and that he wouldn’t have to walk all the way to Adelaide. Now to find out if he was in the right year.
The man stuck out a calloused palm. “I’m Lester Creswick, and that’s my wife, Grace,” he indicated with a tick of his head.
Ethan took the man’s hand and offered a greeting to Mrs. Creswick. “Ma’am.” Then he said to Lester, “My name’s Eth— eh, Blake … Blake Tannor.” It felt alien to introduce himself this way, but if he wanted to be associated by his middle name he needed to start using it.
Lester helped him load his bag into the back seat and Blake climbed in beside it, settling himself behind Grace on the passenger side.
In the company of his new acquaintances, Blake didn’t want to rouse any unneeded questions, but he had to be certain what year it was. Asking outright would get him some looks and he didn’t feel like giving up his free ride into town. He glanced around the interior of the vehicle; this Standard Twelve appeared to be the 1937 model. “This is a nice car. How old is it?”
Lester started the vehicle up and continued back onto the road. “Betsy,” he said as he patted the dashboard. “We call her Old Betsy. She’s eleven years now, but we take good care of her.”
Quick math told Blake he’d been spot on. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or fully terrified to be so far away from … home.
“So, where are you staying in Adelaide?” Lester asked.
“I haven’t figured that part out yet. As you can tell from my accent, I’m new in town.” Blake smiled at the old man through the rearview mirror. “Do you have any suggestions?”