Even before it had cleared the trees the BearCat opened up, livid streams of fire chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk-ing from something patient and furious and roof-mounted. Large-caliber rounds exploded like cherry bombs across the time-locked and invulnerable planking of the hayloft exterior.
Jack shouted Beth’s name and that drew the needle-nosed attention of the double-gripped machine gun on the BearCat. Without breaking fire it swung the flashing stream toward Jack, who had no choice but to cut south toward the cover of the garage-no powers available. Boiling red lines of tracer fire stitched the air, rebounded in curling spirals from an environment that wouldn’t budge.
The BearCat gunner tried to lead the fleeing figure but couldn’t rotate fast enough. Fire swept toward and rebounded off the garage, rounds ricocheting madly. Someone cried out, “Whoa whoa whoa! Watch what you’re fuckin’ doing!”
A risky three-round burst from Beth got their attention and the BearCat threw into reverse, angling to net both Jack and Beth inside its firing arc.
Jack caught a glimpse of the vehicle, noting the roof gunner protected on all sides by shoulder-high plating. Something else caught his attention: the bracing applied to the BearCat’s chassis. Segmented, it followed the X and Y axis of the vehicle. The design was similar to the rigs worn by the Peace Movement and Monarch chronon troopers.
That frame was keeping the BearCat active inside the stutter.
Jack shouldered the rifle and squeezed. Recoil sent the first shot high, sparking off the hood. The second shot hit one of the rig’s polished segments square on. The panel took the hit, buckling, to no effect.
The gunner opened up. A.50-caliber round struck the garage, fragmenting. A needle of molten lead slashed across Jack’s forehead.
He threw himself behind cover and fell back, clutching his face.
Paul’s hands were scraped from tumbles, and from slapping bark to suddenly course-correct. His path had been chosen thoughtlessly and yet, he soon realized, he had always known where he was going.
The mound was easy to miss, constructed as it was with craft and guile. Built into a gentle-sloped hill and masked with deadfall the shelter looked like part of the environment-more so now than when Jack and Paul had played there as kids. The forest had incorporated it into itself. Drifts of pine needles had built up against it, while moss had prospered across the roof of mud and daub.
It was a sign.
No. He was panicking. He…
They were everywhere: on the far side of the shelter, flush between two trees, there!
He ran for the tumbledown shelter, kicked away drifts of soft deadfall, and clawed at the primitive hewn-log door. He wrenched the door, strained it toward himself on fused hinges, rotting wood tearing along the frame, troweling up soft earth in which knots of earthworms writhed furiously, and swung into a foul-smelling twilight. The frail door clattered, warped with damp, into the handmade frame. What light made it in here fell through the gaps in the rough planking. The floor was cold, moist earth.
Eye pressed to a gap in the door’s planking Paul saw two Shifters, monstrosities like Dr. Kim, side by side, not fifty feet away. Fritzing, flashing, snapping, tortured as different versions of their form fought for dominance, staggering for him as though he were the cause of their pain.
A rotten foam mattress decomposed on a raised earthen platform against the wall. Opposite this, a rudimentary wooden shelf had collapsed, just below the shelter’s single long window-someplace to eat and watch the woods, maybe. A heavy wattle-and-daub cover swung down to close it off. Paul approached, peered through the slats, and whimpered. Control was slipping.
Three more Shifters, arrayed unevenly, between thirty and fifty feet distant.
He was surrounded.
As soon as people stop shooting, Jack told himself, I’m getting on a plane.
Then he remembered that since stepping off his last flight he had rocketed onto the Most Wanted list.
All because Paul wanted to do good. “These people trust me, he said. I’m responsible for their livelihood, he said. They promise this massive unlicensed black-hole-driven motherfucker is perfectly safe, he said…”
Beth risked a shot, the round snapping harmlessly past the BearCat gunner’s helmeted head, but keeping him low.
Will knew the machine was defective. Said it was obviously defective. The miscalibration had got by everyone on Paul’s team. Was it sabotage? And if it was, who did the work?
Who in Monarch had the expertise to tweak a time machine to cause this kind of damage, and conceal it from a team of experts?
Jack needed an elevated position if he was going to get a shot over the gunner’s shielding. The garage was too low. If he went for the barn that’d put both he and Beth exactly where those Monarch goons wanted them: dead center. He needed another option.
Jack felt the stutter change. Blinking blood out of his eyes, he saw every slow-motion thing stop. There was a different tide within the energy of his body now; and an opposite, subtle momentum to the energy of the world.
The stutter was rewinding, slowly, and picking up speed.
On the driveway, Will’s desk reassembled. Flames fed their own reduction, seeming to fuel the house’s slow reconstruction. Cinders turned to sheaves of paper. Disturbed gravel tidied up as the desk left the ground.
Jack waved to Beth, frantically. He pointed to the BearCat, then to him and her, counted three on his fingers, then mimed firing. She nodded agreement.
The desk was airborne, two feet off the ground and accelerating as the stutter gained momentum. The house began to suck the exploding ether back into itself, planks eagerly flying home. Window frames reassembled as they traveled back to their housings, preparing to self-socket.
Jack swung out blasting as Beth streamed a fusillade overhead. The gunner responded by going full auto even as he ducked behind his shield. Jack kicked in his somewhat replenished reserves and flashed across the gravel, twisted, landing butt first on the unstable desk. Beth scored a few close hits, the gunner yelped, and the machine gun stopped barking for one crucial moment.
The desk angled steeply, quickly. Jack dropped the carbine to keep his grip on his ride, but the desk hadn’t just fallen out the front of the house; it had been blown out. It had come out flipping.
As it rotated beneath him Jack tucked his legs, grabbed the lip of the desk-its four legs now skyward-and scrambled to get his feet onto the underside.
The BearCat driver was screaming, “Shoot, you fuck! He’s right there!” Beth exhausted her mag, which bought a few more seconds, and then the gunner was back at his station.
Jack mantled onto the underside of the desk as it climbed to eye level with the second floor, which was when a reverse-burning 1997 phone book shot up from beneath the desk and smashed Jack in the face.
His head snapped back. His center of gravity held for a moment… but the desk kept rotating. A steel leg came down, jammed hard in his chest, doubling Jack forward as pain exploded below his collarbone. He threw his arms forward as the desk leg shoved him down. His fingertips strained for the desk’s edge, but there was no reaching it. Instead, desperately, his fingers closed on the leg, like an impaled man might grab the spear that was killing him. The rotation was slow enough that he could grasp it with both hands, hanging free, hands over his head and feeling his grip slip.
The desk was the right way up, two floors above the gravel, on its journey to the attic, when the machine gun swung toward Jack.