Blake looked back again — he’d almost forgotten about his assailant. Satoshi’s eyes narrowed. He knew his prey was escaping, but he still held the upper hand. He covered the last few feet between them in milliseconds, the deadly point of the wakizashi aimed at Blake’s back.
It was now or die. Satoshi came crashing forward, and Blake swung out his left leg to trip the Japanese man in his forward surge. The blade flew out of his hand and hit the wall with a solid thunk as its owner face-planted on top of the table.
Blake’s head was spinning from his movement and the pain. His opportunity window was beginning to shut. He glanced around for anything to help his fight and spied the sword embedded in the table.
Satoshi was still stunned from the blow to his face. Blake leapt onto the man, grabbing his right arm and hefting it back. The arc of motion did the brunt of the work. Satoshi looked back, his eyes widening as he began to slide toward the anchored blade.
Blake heard hands scrabbling against a slick surface as the Asian lost his grip. But just before Blake’s body hit the ground, he halted. The blade had caught Satoshi just under his arm, piercing his rib cage. Satoshi gasped for air as the cut went deeper, and the room filled with the wet, sucking sound of a dying man.
But Blake wasn’t finished. Still holding firm to Satoshi’s arm, he pulled his weight up and dropped again. He did it again and again, Blake’s body dropping further with each repetition, as the blade sliced deeper into the Asian’s quivering body.
And then Blake’s reserves depleted without warning. His arm slacked, releasing his hold. He collapsed the last few inches to the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs. Blackness swarmed the edges of his vision again as he eyed his left arm.
The forearm was mangled beyond repair, with nothing but the thin bone of the ulna and the last bit of skin and muscle holding it together. He was going to lose his arm.
But not before he passed out.
42
The Musty Professor
Blake’s eyes opened reluctantly, like they’d been glued together. His surroundings were dimly lit by a lone lantern on a table by the small, low bed he was in. Also on the table sat an empty wine glass, a bowl filled with sugar cubes, a bottle with a label he couldn’t read, and a taller, spout-valve urn filled with a clear liquid.
The smell of smoke lurked in the room, bringing back the fragmented memory of a fire, a swordfight, and …
It all felt like a blur, but two things were certain: he was alive — barely — and his entire body was electrified with pain he could have never imagined in his previous life. But something wasn’t right. There was an enormity of sensation throughout the whole of him, except for his left arm. He must’ve passed out with the weight of his body on his arm, which accounted for the indescribable numb-yet-there feeling just below the elbow.
Blake shifted, waiting for the numbness to fade and the familiar tingling in his arm to rush in. What he received was a hot burning throb that seared near his elbow. He lifted his head from the pillow and tried to push himself up so that his back was against the headboard. He lost his balance and fell to his side, crying out as another blazing pang shot into his arm.
But this made no sense because his hand was still without feeling. Blake grimaced as he pulled his arm closer to his face, struggling to see its outline in the lantern’s soft glow. His breath caught in his throat. From the middle of his forearm down to where the tips of his fingers should have been, everything was gone. In its place was a bandage wrapped around his lower arm and elbow.
The scraping of wood against concrete brought Blake out of his horrified trance. He rolled his head toward the sound and by now his vision had accustomed enough to discern that he was still in the basement lab. There was a clothes locker at the foot of the bed and behind that he saw a figure rising from a chair in the corner. The form shuffled in his direction. Blake glanced around for a weapon, but there was nothing. Even the lantern and bottle were beyond reach.
Two legs stepped into the haze of light around the bed. The pants sat high as though in preparation of The Flood, and one of the shoed feet was missing a sock. Fashion was not the bearer’s strong suit.
The shape moved closer, and the face of Doctor William Amhurst emerged in Blake’s line of sight. “I had to remove your arm, young man. I’m sorry, it couldn’t be helped. I bandaged your leg as well; the bleeding was fierce, but the damage was minimal.”
If Blake’s mind had the ability and time to think coherently, it would have pondered how his life would be forever changed by this loss. But strangely, the first thing that came to him was Gernot. “Where’s the Russian?”
“He’s still alive. Upstairs.”
Blake’s brain still felt fuzzy. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “No, not him. The other one. The one that disappeared.”
“I’m not sure where he went.”
Frustrated, Blake let his arms drop against the mattress, and then grimaced at the instant, unforgiving shock that trailed into his shoulder. The doctor took a step forward in concern. Blake gritted through the sensation. “Dammit. It’s not where. It’s when.”
One of the old man’s grey brows arched. “Well, wherever he was off to, he won’t make it far.”
A glimmer of hope returned to Blake. “How so?”
“He was in the same shape as you,” Amhurst said, indicating Blake’s missing appendage. A wicked gleam flashed in his eyes. “And I gave that bastard quite a nasty gut wound,” he cackled with a wheeze that ended in a wet cough.
Blake considered where Gernot might have gone, and the pieces started to come together. If the Russian did manage to travel back into the past, nothing had been changed. For Blake, this meant that whatever he did or wherever he went, he was not capable of altering what had happened just now. The time arc continued on its uninterrupted path, with Blake lying here, missing an arm.
He still had trouble processing what had occurred, and that his only option would be traveling a course he couldn’t change. “How did you remove my arm?”
“With one of Satoshi’s swords.”
“It’s called a wakizashi. Do you still have it?”
The old man bobbed his head. “Yes. I sterilized it, if you must know, and put it —”
Blake made a face of irritation. “Not the sword, the —”
“I believe you said it was a wakizashi,” the old man interrupted.
“This isn’t the time to be a smartass,” Blake snapped.
“It’s better than being a dumbass, young man,” Amhurst said primly with a sniff.
Blake paused in his retort, taking in the old doctor, who seemed to possess the sort of quick wit and sharp tongue he had to admire; after all, it was so much like his own. “Touché.”
Amhurst beamed, giving Blake an eyeful of yellowed teeth.
Despite himself, Blake grinned back, then sobered quickly. “I apologize for my attitude; it’s not every day I lose part of my body, but it is the arm I was referring to.”
The thin skin on the old man’s forehead creased. “Why would you want the arm?”
“I just want to know if you have it,” Blake said, forcing himself to keep from sniping at the old man again.