Trapped in Time
Short Story
by Stephen Collicoat
Frank Yarby stared, swore, then braked. As the rig began to fishtail,
he came to his senses. Correcting the drift, he eased his foot off the
brake, feathering the control to bring the massive bulk of his truck to
an abrupt, but not dangerous halt. He glanced anxiously in the driver's
side mirror. Nothing there. The gods were smiling. A car crowding him
would've been wiped out. It was an hour after dawn. Growing light, but
still cool. A relaxing time to drive, with few cars or trucks on the
road.
Braking had shaken Charlie Birch awake. He was strapped in, so he
wasn't hurt. Charlie shouldn't have been there. The company rules were
clear: only the driver in the cab at any time. The company's insurance
policy didn't cover passengers.
Four years ago, a driver had picked up a student hitchhiking to
Melbourne. The girl was young and pretty. As the truck sped down the highway,
her hand fell to the driver's lap. After a pause, she giggled and
unfastening his belt, began to unzip his trousers. A station wagon lumbering
past on the other side of the highway carried a man, woman and four
squabbling children. Only the truck driver survived the crash.
So instant dismissal for any accompanied driver. Yet there was Charlie.
Reckless, but Frank couldn't see an alternative. Charlie had been
Frank's responsibility since schooldays when he grew angry at the sight of a
crowd of bullies taunting the sweet, trusting and completely
defenseless Charlie had stepped in to fight. He thought it ended there. It
didn't.
Charlie always needed help. While you could push him away for a
while, he always returned, eager for friendship. The more others made fun of
their friendship, the more determined Frank was to keep his buddy.
Charlie was simple and couldn't hold a job. The best he could expect
was stacking leaflets or counting balloons into packets at a sheltered
workshop. He tried that one morning and walked out after wolfing down
lunch. 'Did they think I'm stupid or something?' he demanded of Frank.
'Oh, Charlie,' Frank sighed. 'What can I do with you?'
'Take me with you in the truck.'
'I can't do that. Someone would see us. I need the job.'
'I can spell you.'
'You can't drive a truck.'
'I could if you taught me. It looks easy.'
'No way! Promise me you'll never try to take the wheel.'
'Alright. I bet I'd be a good driver though. Probably better than you.
You just don't want me to show you up.'
'Maybe,' Frank said wearily. 'But you're not going to learn driving
from me and I don't want you whining on; nagging to take over. First
bellyache I hear and you're out, thumbing a lift back to the city.'
'I promise I'll be good and I'll keep my head down whenever we see
another truck or stop for food. Nobody will know I'm with you. Anyway,'
Charlie added slyly, 'you've often said the worst thing about truck
driving is that you fear you'll fall asleep. I can talk to you about all
sorts of things to keep you awake.'
'Gee, that's a boner! I can hardly wait to have you rattling on, giving
me a bloody headache. Well O.K. It's crazy but I'll give it a burl.'
So there was Charlie who after hours of jiggling around, chattering,
humming or singing Patsy Cline's 'I Fall to Pieces' over and over in that
funny, broken voice of his had finally fallen asleep. Frank glancing
over, smiled with affection at his friend. For all his faults, Charlie
was a lovable guy.
Then Frank looked ahead, saw the object lying on the highway and hit
the brake.
Charlie rubbed his eyes, smiling at Frank. 'I was dreaming,' he began.
'We were on a desert island and it was a sunny day. The sand was white
and clean, though the light hurt my eyes and I could see fish in the
shallows. All sorts and every color of the rainbow. Where are you going,
Frank? It's rude not listening when I'm talking. Frank?'
Frank without answering, switched off the engine and pocketing the key
climbed out of the cab. He ran down the highway and reaching the
object, stared down at it in consternation.
Charlie flung open his door. 'What is it?' he called.
Before Charlie got out of the cabin, Frank was back.
'We need the warning signs. Find them in the back. Put them on either
side of it. Give other drivers plenty of warning. I almost ran over it.'
'But what is it?'
'We need the police, but you can't be here when they come. Here's what
we'll do. Put out the signs while I ring a taxi. It'll take you to the
nearest town. Here's some dough, grab a coffee while you wait and I'll
find you. No wandering off. Don't sulk. As soon as I'm finished here,
I'll swing by and get you. Probably be an hour, two at tops. Don't know
what got into me. Should've steered round it, kept going. That's my
trouble Charlie. I always stick my nose in someone else's business.'
'But what is it?' Charlie persisted as he climbed out of the cab to
look for the signs.
'An arm,' Frank called back. 'A woman's arm.'
Charlie appeared at Frank's door. 'You mean severed?'
He took the signs and ran up the road, eager to see it.
When he reached the arm, Charlie started and called back in a worried
voice. 'Frank, it's not meant to do that, is it?'
'What?' Frank asked distractedly as he punched numbers into his mobile
phone.
'The arm. It's still moving. The hand's opening and closing, like a
claw.'
* * *
Professor David Scales loved to teach.
Part of the reason was vanity. Where but a university lecture theatre
would the opinions of a middle-aged man matter? Scales also enjoyed
helping develop brilliant minds. Mary Costas had produced a stunning
thesis. Unlike the usual turgid academic prose, she wrote simply, clearly and
forcefully. Her arguments, though bold, were backed by meticulous
research and careful reasoning. Scales believed his assistant, who was
working with him as part of her postgraduate program, had a great future.
He turned on the tape recorder, 'Tell me what you see,' he invited her.
'A woman's arm.'
'Estimated age?'
'Tone, including skin elasticity and lack of wrinkles, suggests someone
in her early to mid twenties.'
'Occupation?'
'Can't say. I doubt that the victim did much work. The hand is finely
formed. No calluses. Manicured nails. No polish. No rings to indicate
wealth or marital status. The skin is in exceptional condition. Tanned.
Flawless. I've never seen human skin before that hadn't at least some
imperfections. No bracelet, but a device that looks somewhat like a watch
on her wrist.'
'We'll come back to the device later. You're right about the flesh. It
seems to be a human arm, but it's almost too perfect to be real. We'll
lift a small section of skin for DNA analysis, as well as take a
scraping beneath the nails for microscopic analysis. Continue. Signs of
life?'
For six hours after the police had taken possession of the arm, the
woman's hand had opened and closed spasmodically. Now, resting on a
laboratory bench in the secret government-run institution located in wooded
hills an hour from Melbourne, the hand lay limp, as though despairing.
'Very faint,' Mary said, measuring the pulse.'What is this?' she asked.
'It can't be a human arm. No limb continues functioning when it's
severed from a central nervous system.'
'That's if it's severed,' Scales mused. 'It looks more as though it's
still attached to a body, which we can't see. Look at the end of the
arm. It isn't cut. There's no sign of blood, bone, muscle, tendon or
cartilage. The arm just blurs away. It sounds crazy, but I believe it's
still attached to a heart and brain.'
Mary was only half listening. 'That's odd,' she broke in. She was
examining the fingertips. 'There are no whorls.'
'Rare,' Scales conceded, 'but not every human being has prints. There's
a genetic disorder...'
'I wish we had more time,' Mary broke in. '24 hours just isn't enough.
It'll take that long to run a full DNA analysis. We need to do a full
battery of tests, including reaction to external stimuli, such as pain.
Did the Minister explain why our report was so urgent?'
'Do politicians ever give reasons?' Scales asked gloomily. 'I agree
there isn't nearly enough time, but that's all we've been given. This has
certainly spooked our masters.'
He looked down at the object strapped on the wrist. 'Now, what's this?
For the purpose of the tape, I'm removing an object that looks like a
watch. It resembles a 'Rado' watch but it has no hour or minute arms,
indeed there are no visible controls below the watch glass.'
'If it is glass,' Mary cautioned. 'And is the link bracelet steel or
some other substance?'
'Good point,' Scales conceded. 'We need to send this away for material
analysis.'
He stared at the object. 'It's impossible to determine from its
appearance the purpose of this object. Is it a watch, a phone, some
transportation device or a means of identification? Beneath the glass, I see a
shifting mist of grey, green and blue colors. There's no discernible
pattern.'
Using tweezers he turned the object on its side. 'There's a small
button here. I'll press it to see what reaction it causes.'
'Don't, John!' Mary Costas exclaimed in alarm. 'We need to X-ray the
object. It might be danger...'
Her warning came too late. Professor Scales pressed the button.
Fortunately, the research establishment was set in three hectares of
bush. The large trees, which were instantly reduced to blackened stumps
absorbed most of the explosion, though windows were blown out of many
homes in the nearest town. Of the research station, nothing remained
except a deep, smoking crater.
* * *
'For Heaven's sake!' Peter Ulverstone thought crossly, 'What is all
this nonsense? Some media beatup? Last time, I looked it wasn't April
Fools Day.'
He had tuned in his car radio, seeking some light classical music as he
drove the last kilometers to his home in Hawthorn, a suburb of
Melbourne. Instead of Albioni and Couperin, the airwaves seemed filled with
excited chatter as people rang in bizarre news or engaged in absurd
speculation.
Marj from Chelsea, for instance, reported finding a man's foot in her
refrigerator. Bill, a retired prawn fisherman from Lakes Entrance had
seen a nose growing out of a tree. Two children, aged 10 and 12 reported
an ear resting on a garden wall as they walked to school in Carnegie
and their State School Principal, Mr. Mathews confirmed the sighting. As
they spoke, the children were delightedly examining the object and the
police had been called.
From time to time, politicians, government officials and other experts
gave their views or blamed groups, including Muslim extremists.
Nor were the sightings limited to Victoria or Australia. Reports
included a lady in Denmark, a priest in California and puzzling rumors from
several mainland cities of China.
'Has the whole world gone mad?' Peter demanded of his empty car,
turning off his radio. Next time, he promised himself, I'll bring some CD's
on the trip. It's only rubbish on the radio.
He reached his home and stopped his car to lift open the garage door.
His next door neighbor, Chris Furness who until now only nodded to him
in passing, saw him and coming over to the side fence seemed keen to
talk.
'Have you heard about Mrs. Barker at No. 31?' he demanded without
preamble. 'She's just been on the radio. Seems she found a...'
'Sorry Chris,' Peter interrupted hurriedly. 'I hear the phone ringing
inside my house. Perhaps later.'
'Love to... your wife,' Peter finished lamely, hurriedly letting
himself into his house. Damn, he thought, what was the wretched woman's name?
Didn't matter. He was inside, quarantined from crazy gossips.
Sanctuary! A beer from the fridge, change into some old clothes and chill out,
perhaps listen to some Brahms. Nothing too heavy. Relax until he felt
strong enough to face the world again. Wonderful to be single and alone
at times like this.
His feeling of euphoria lasted less than a minute. Then he heard a
man's voice calling feebly from the kitchen.
There on the draining board was the improbably handsome head of a man
aged in his early twenties: dark glossy hair in ringlets, tanned skin,
startlingly blue eyes, regular features and even, white teeth. The head
swiveled to face Peter. Licking dry lips, it pleaded for water.
During the several minutes Peter took to recover from his shock, the
head repeated his plea several times. 'Who are you?' Peter finally
demanded. 'What are you doing in my home?'
'Water,' the head croaked. 'Please. I'm dying of thirst.'
Peter noted that although the head was lying only several inches from
the tap, it seemed unable to reach it. Even it had, Peter doubted it
could have turned the tap with its teeth. He always turned the taps
tightly before leaving.
Peter opened a cupboard, found a tumbler and filled it.
'Help me,' the head begged. 'Tilt the glass over so I can drink.'
It was awkward at first to find the right angle that allowed a steady
flow of water past the lips, but Peter soon managed it. After gulping
down three glasses of water, the head seemed satisfied.
'Oh that's better,' it sighed. 'It was so hot there on the draining
board with the sun beating down through the window for hours. I thought
you'd never come: that perhaps you had gone overseas and wouldn't be back
for months.'
'Why didn't you move to a cooler spot?'
'I tried, but I'm stuck. I can only move my head slightly. I feel as
though I'm encased in concrete. Where were you, anyway?'
'I was interstate. I travel a great deal in my job.'
Having explained, Peter wondered if he was going mad. Not only am I
having a conversation with what seems to be an unattached head, now I'm
justifying my actions to a stranger.
'Do you have any food?' the head asked. 'I haven't eaten for ages. I'm
famished.'
'There won't be much. I generally stock up when I return,' Peter
answered doubtfully, opening the fridge and peering inside. 'Oh, here's
something. Eggs and bacon okay?'
'What are they?'
'Surely, you know. Where do you come from?'
Peter showed the food. 'These are eggs. This is bacon.'
'They don't look appetizing.'
'Well, they haven't been cooked. Give me a chance!'
'Where do they come from?'
'Well, bacon rashers are strips from a pig's flesh which are cured,
while eggs come out of the rear end of a chicken.'
'Gross! I don't know the pig or chicken creature and what's this term
'cooking'? I can see we really need to upgrade our briefing software. On
second thoughts don't explain the terms. I'm really hungry. Please,
prepare this food. Will it take long?'
'Only a few minutes. I warm a frypan, add a knob of butter, break the
eggs into the pan, leave or flatten the yolks. Anyway, watch what I do.'
'I haven't much choice,' the head remarked sourly. 'Still, it's always
instructive to watch primitive customs.'
'What's primitive about cooking bacon and eggs? You're very fussy.'
'Fussy?' the head closed its eyes as though searching for meaning.
'Ah,' it said, opening the lids, 'I see what you mean. No, I'm not. We're
warned about the health dangers, such as eating food. It could contain
harmful bacteria.'
Peter felt offended. 'Pardon me! This is good, fresh food.' He brought
the sizzling pan over to the head and waved it beneath the young man's
nostrils.'Doesn't that smell appetizing?'
The young man crinkled his face. 'It's revolting! Do you really eat
this?'
'If you don't want my food, say so!' Peter snapped. 'It smells great
and I'll eat anything you don't. Frankly, I'm sick of you. This is my
home and you're an intruder. If you think that I want to spend time
taking orders from a bloody head, you're very much mistaken. If you don't
like what I'm doing for you, then you can bugger off.'
'I'm sorry,' the young man apologized. 'I can see I've angered you. I
didn't mean to patronize - that's the term isn't it - you. It's been a
terrible strain. First there was the accident and now I've been stuck
here worrying about what happened to my wife and children. They were with
me when it happened. For all I know they might be dead.' Peter, a kind
man, felt moved by the sight of the young man's tears. Tearing off a
sheet of kitchen paper, he gently dried the eyes. 'Have some food,' he
suggested gently. 'It'll make you feel better.'
The young man eyed the food offered on a fork doubtfully, but took a
tentative mouthful.
'Actually,' he said after the first four mouthfuls. 'This is really
very good. Weird, but tasty.'
'Do you come from another planet?'
'Of course not! Do I look like a little green man?'
'No,' Peter conceded, 'but then an unattached head looks pretty
strange.'
'It's not unattached. I have a body just like yours: a healthier and
better looking body, but still human.'
'So, where's the rest of you? Coming by post?'
The young man looked puzzled, then laughed. 'I see. A joke. Please
don't be impatient.When we elect to travel, they download all sorts of
information about the age we're visiting. There's so much data, it takes
seconds sometimes to access it and the program has difficulty
understanding subtleties of language, like irony or humor. Can I have some more of
that white and yellow stuff?'
He finished the meal and Peter wiped grease from his lips.
'So where's the rest of your body?'
'Probably back where I started. Look, I'm really sorry that I offended
you making rude comments about your food. It's just that the
21st.century is dangerous to me.Your air is thick with airborne infections and
harmful bacteria. Because we solved those problems long ago, our bodies
lack natural resistance.'
'So, you're human but from the future.'
'Yes, eight centuries ahead.'
'Well, it doesn't sound advanced to me to end up with your head in one
century and a bum somewhere else! What happened?'
'I don't know,' the young man groaned. 'It's unthinkable. They always
assured us there was no possibility of error. None of us believed an
accident could occur. There are thousands of transportations each year.
I've been on scores this year. Never a problem. The computers are
supposed to see any problems and resolve them long before we're aware of them.
So, I keep wondering, what went wrong.'
'Does transportation means traveling through time?'
'Yes, most of us travel back into history. Your century is mildly
interesting, but I was in 18th century London last week. That was a real eye
opener.'
'I imagine, but if you live in such an advanced era why do you come
back to see us?'
'Everyone does it, because we're bored. We have peace, prosperity, no
disease and perfect bodies that last for hundreds of years.What else is
there to do?'
'It sounds wonderful! Do you have a name? I'm Peter Ulverstone.'
'They call me P45.'
'That's a dreadful name! Why that?'
'I can't say. I never thought to ask.'
Peter smiled at the head. 'I'll call you Defarge after a character in
Dickens' ''Tale of Two Cities'' '
Defarge repeated his name. 'I like it,' he decided.
'Do you think that whatever went wrong was caused deliberately?'
'That's a horrible thought, but humans can't affect the computer
programs that set the teleportation. Centuries ago, the machines began
writing their own code.'
'That's a worry. If your computers did this deliberately, then you may
be trapped in our century forever.'
Defarge blanched, 'But why? Machines only have our good at heart.'
'That's what they tell you, but maybe secretly they think a few nasty
lessons will teach you how much you rely on them. Perhaps they don't
need you any more and this is the first shot in a war of extermination.'
Defarge looked troubled, 'That's 21st century thinking. We'd never
consider something diabolical like that could happen.'
'I could be completely wrong,' Peter shrugged. 'At this very moment,
your machines might be trying to pluck you all back to the 29th century.
There have many reports of human parts turning up around the world.'
'So I'm not alone?' Defarge asked eagerly. 'Others from my time?
Perhaps my wife and children?'
'Certainly, there are arms, legs, noses and ears all over the
place. You're the first head I've heard of.
'You know,' Peter continued reflectively, 'I don't know anything about
the world you come from, but it seems to me that perhaps just as you
have no natural resistance against disease, you've become so complacent
that you can't recognize, much less deal with evil. You come back to
earlier times, and probably laugh at our crude machines and primitive
beliefs, but for all our faults, we can usually recognize when something
threatens us. For instance, we'd never give complete power to a machine.'
Defarge frowned. 'For a primitive, sorry, for a 21st. century man, you
make sense. Do you have any wine? We don't have anything like that and
can only drink when we teleport.'
Peter found some claret and poured two glasses. 'I should contact the
police and tell them you're here.'
Defarge looked horrified. 'Please don't. I'd hate that! All those
questions and tests! We're not supposed to make contact with people in other
times. Most of the time we operate a device on our wrist that makes us
invisible.'
'But I can't keep you here. It's probably illegal to harbor an alien.'
'I'm not an alien, and think of how your life will be changed if you
tell the authorities. I can't move from here so an army of snoops will
take over your house. Imagine all the policemen, scientists and
journalists eager for answers. You'll never have a moment to yourself.'
Peter thought carefully about what Defarge had said.
'I guess we could give it a trial,' he conceded. 'With luck, your own
time will take you back before anyone realizes you're here. Certainly, I
have all sorts of questions.'
'Fire away,' Defarge invited.
'Well, for a start, do you believe in God?'
Trapped in Time © COPYRIGHT 2006 Stephen Collicoat.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
04/12/06
