The Time-Traveling Outlaw (2 page)

The Mexican made a couple of exploratory swipes, but the stranger was ready for him now, easily moving out of the way. The Mexican finally showed some emotion, grinning to expose a silver tooth. Sally could tell he was enjoying this. He liked to fight, and maybe it had been a long time since he’d come up against a real challenge.

He feinted to the left, then lunged harder to the right, but the stranger didn’t fall for it. The tip of the knife shot straight for his lower rib cage, but the stranger deftly pivoted so that the knife cut through empty air. Then he grabbed the Mexican’s wrist with both hands and twisted hard. Sally heard a sickening series of crunches, like a bunch of wet twigs snapping. The Mexican screamed.

The knife fell, sticking straight up in the dirt. The stranger let go with one hand, knelt slightly, and plucked the knife up. 

Sally saw motion out of the corner of her eye and pivoted the shotgun in that direction. The skinny one was reaching into his boot, pulling something out, and Sally saw the glint of it in the sun, a small-back up pistol. He’d been confident in his companion’s knife skills, but now that the tide had turned, he’d had enough. 

Maybe he didn’t think Sally would actually pull the trigger. But he was wrong. Before he could raise up with the tiny pistol and aim at the stranger, Sally squeezed not just one, but both the triggers, unloading both barrels at him.

The twin blasts hit Skinny in the chest, blowing him backwards off his horse. The sound thundered in Sally’s ears, the force the blast knocking her back a half step. Blood sprayed in the air where the man had just been sitting atop his horse. 

Sally shook her head to try to clear it, and watched through a haze of smoke as the stranger looked from Skinny’s horse to her. Then he turned his attention back to the screaming man he still held by one arm. The stranger gripped the knife in his bloody hand and plunged the blade up under the Mexican’s breastbone, all the way to the hilt. He then withdrew the bloody knife and let go of the man’s arm, letting him drop to the dirt, which began to soak up blood.

The harsh tang of gunpowder filled Sally’s nose as she reached down for the leather pouch under the wagon seat, retrieving two fresh shells. She cracked the shotgun open, dumping the empties, and reloaded. She snapped the gun shut and trained it on the only one of Sturgess’s men left alive.

“Get on your horse and get out of here,” she said. 

The older man’s eyes were wide with fear and anger. “You’re gonna pay for this,” he said, but he was moving to his horse. He pulled himself up into the saddle. “You and your little friend here.” He nodded at the stranger, who just watched him flatly, standing there wrapped in her blanket, the bloody knife still in his hand.

“Just get going,” Sally said, the shotgun aimed at his head. “Before I change my mind.”

He turned the horse and kicked it into a full gallop, heading back up the road to Lockdale in a cloud of dust.

Only until he was nearly out of view did Sally lower the weapon, letting out a heavy breath. Her arms were shaking. The stranger reached down and pulled a bandana from around the dead Mexican’s neck. He wrapped it around his cut hand and tied it tight. Then he unbuckled the sheath and tossed it in the back of the wagon.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking up at her.

She let out a weird little laugh and wondered if she was in shock. “For what?”

“I got blood on your blanket,” he said.

Then she laughed harder, hoping it didn’t sound hysterical. He was something, this man, whoever he was. She didn’t know where he had come from, but she was grateful. He might have just saved her life.

“Are you okay to ride one of these horses?” she asked him. Skinny’s horse was black, the Mexican’s a dusky gray. He looked at them. 

“I think so,” he said. 

“Good,” Sally said. “Then help me tether one to the back of the wagon. You can ride the other. My home is just about a mile up, a little ways off the road.”

He looked at her with those icy blue eyes, and there it was again, a look that seemed like recognition. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I should just be moving on.”

“Nonsense,” she said, putting the gun back down on the seat. “You’re hurt. I don’t know much about doctoring, but I know enough to fix that up.” She nodded at his hand. “We’ve got a little room in the loft of the barn. You can rest up there.”

He looked back down at the two dead men in the dirt, then he nodded. “Okay.”

“Just one more thing,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“We need a proper introduction,” she said, stepping down off the wagon and walking to him. He was sweaty now, spotted with blood, but God did he look handsome. She put out her hand. “Sally Macintosh.”

He reached out and took her hand, his callous grip tightening. Some men, when they shook a woman’s hand, they kept their grip limp, like a dead fish, maybe afraid of being too rough. She hated that. But this man didn’t do that. His grip was firm.

“My name is Logan,” he said, a little grin crossing his lips. “Logan Carver.”

“Inmate number 6707,” the robotic female voice said. “Logan Carver.”

He stood before the gate, its top ringed with barbed wire. His hands were bound with plastic zip cuffs. He was flanked on either side by two guards of Wicklehut Corporate Penitentiary. One was young and skinny, the other middle-aged and fat. Both probably earned minimum wage. Maybe a buck over if they were lucky. 

“Raise your head,” the voice said.

Logan lifted up his face so the scanner could positively identify him. As he did, he looked past the barbed wire into the night sky. All those stars. He wondered if there were life on any of those stars, and if there were, whether things were as fucked up there as they were here.

“Identification positive.” 

The gate buzzed and began to open. Not many prisoners left the main facility to come through this gate. On the other side was a corrugated Quonset hut. The prisoners could see it from the yard of the main prison, but nobody really wanted to go there, because nobody ever came back. 

“Some spooky shit goes on up in there,” Terrance had said to him one day in the yard. He’d been standing by the fence, just looking at the building through the chain links. 

“Do you know what’s in there?” Logan had asked.

“Man, you don’t want to know,” Terrance had said. Logan had only been at Wicklehut for six months then. Terrance was working on his tenth year. “Pray you don’t ever find out.”

The inmates called it The Icebox, though Logan never found out exactly why, and Terrance didn’t know. All he knew was that everyone considered it bad news. 

And now Logan was headed there himself. Two weeks prior, he’d been pulled out of his cell with no warning, taken to the infirmary, and gassed unconscious. He had resisted, but that had been pointless. He’d woken up with the worst headache of his life. They’d thrown him back in his cell with no explanation. He’d gone over his body in the shower that evening and found three new scars, each about an inch long: one behind his left knee, one under his right armpit, and the last on the back of his neck, at the base of his skull.

He didn’t know what they’d done to him, and he didn’t expect an answer. All of this was illegal, of course. But he wasn’t allowed phone calls, and his lawyer, some court-appointed lackey, just ignored everything he said with a tight-lipped, condescending smile.

As the gate clicked fully open, Logan saw a short Asian man standing on the other side, dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and slacks. Another guard? He didn’t look like one. Logan wasn’t sure what he looked like, but he could tell the man had military training. His eyes were alert, unblinking, and his body held the posture of someone coiled and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

The guards pushed him forward. Now there were no more fences between him and The Icebox, just a gravel yard with a short, winding sidewalk.

The gate began to close behind him, and the Asian man, expressionless, began to walk toward the building. Logan stayed by the fence. 

The man stopped and turned to look at him. He took something out of his pocket, a small black plastic device. He pressed a button on it and Logan’s world filled with pain. His knees buckled, and he nearly fell to the concrete. A fire had erupted down his spine. He would have screamed, but he couldn’t find his voice. His eyes filled with tears.

The man let go of the button and the pain stopped, though the aftermath lingered. Logan felt like he was going to throw up. His heartbeat pulsed in his head.

The man put the device back in his pocket and lifted a hand toward him. With two fingers he motioned toward Logan.
Follow me
. Then he turned and began to walk again.

Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He staggered forward, falling in behind the man. At the door to the hut the man lifted his face for the recognition systems to kick in. He also placed his palm on a flat panel near the door, and breathed into a small tube. Tight security.

Electronic bolts on the door unlocked, swinging open into darkness. The man stepped in and Logan followed. The inside was sparsely lit, the space mostly empty. In the center sat a few tables with computers, some chairs, and what looked like a dental chair.
They’re going to put me in that
, thought Logan.
They’re going to put me in that thing, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

A young, fat man with a full beard sat at one of the terminals, furiously typing. He wore a white lab coat, stretched around his stomach and sides so tight it looked like it was about to burst. He looked up and smiled nervously as they approached.

“Ah, Kazu,” he said. “You brought the next subject.”

“Subject for what?” Logan asked.

Kazu reached into the pocket of his slacks and took out the device, looking at Logan. Logan held up his bound hands. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I get it. No talking.”

Thankfully, Kazu tucked the device away again. The fat man got up from his chair and walked to Logan.

“I’m Sam Tidwell,” he said. “You can call me Sam or Doctor Tidwell. Whatever you like.”

“How about asshole?” Logan asked. Kazu gave him another zap, no warning this time. Logan's knees buckled as pain ripped through him.

“Is that really necessary?” Sam asked the Japanese man, who looked at him implacably.

“Sorry about that,” Sam said to Logan. “If you’ll just step this way.” Logan groaned and staggered to his feet. Sam led him to the thing that looked like a dental chair and motioned for him to lie down. Logan looked into the hard eyes of Kazu. He thought of trying to run. Of course he did. He thought of trying to fight. But he felt like he been fighting his whole life. First in the Army, then on the job, then for Natalie’s life. And for the past six years he’d been in prison, which was a whole new kind of fight. He was done. It was time to acquiesce.

He sat in the strange chair, then stretched out. It was actually very comfortable. He just tried not to think about the horrors they were probably about to inflict upon him.

Sam motioned to Kazu, nodding towards the plastic cuffs on Logan’s wrists. Kazu produced a black switchblade from his other pocket, snicking it open. He sliced through the plastic like butter, the bonds falling to the floor with a light clatter. Logan rubbed his wrists.

Kazu put away the knife and stepped back.

“Just put your arms on the rests there,” Sam said. Logan complied. Sam walked back to his chair and sat down, wheeling it close to a computer and clacking on a few keys. Metal braces slid up soundlessly over Logan’s forearms, wrists, and ankles. He waited, patiently. Maybe this was the end. Maybe, if he were lucky, it would be quick.

He heard a clicking sound, footsteps approaching from a dark corner of the warehouse, leather shoes on the concrete floor. As the figure emerged from the shadows, he couldn’t retain his stoic composure anymore. His eyes widened and he let out a gasp.

Harken Sturgess. His former employer stood before him, wearing a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a canary yellow tie. His gray hair was slicked back straight from his vulpine face: small, dark eyes, a slender blade of a nose, and a grinning, thin lipped mouth.

“Good to see you again, Logan,” Sturgess said. “Been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Logan said, not really caring anymore if the Japanese thug shocked him again. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Now, now,” Sturgess said. “That’s no way to talk to someone who’s about to make you famous. Well, either that or kill you. Either way works for me.”

Logan had no idea what he was talking about, but if he had known who was lurking in the shadows he would’ve put up more of a fight. If the bonds holding him were loosened for just a second, he would leap at the man before him and drive his fists into that bloodless smiling face until the skull caved in.

Sturgess looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll bet you didn’t know I owned this prison. How could you?”

Other than the fact that Logan knew he was a billionaire. But no, there was no way of knowing he owned Wicklehut.

Sturgess spread out his hands. “I own a lot of companies, including tech companies and military contractors, some of which experiment in some pretty fringe R&D. This prison was actually a perfect fit for some of my other holdings. It supplies a steady stream of human experiments for the less… ethical research. But you never quite know what’s going to pay off. And this, this could be my greatest investment of all. How ironic would it be if you, of all people, where the first successful traveler?”

“I have no idea what the hell you’re babbling about,” Logan said. “But could you do us all a favor and just get on with it?”

Sturgess laughed. “A man after my own heart,” he said. “You just want to get down to brass tacks. I admire that, actually. I acquired the prison not long after you were incarcerated here. I set up this testing facility not long after that. At first, I had a company in here testing cryogenic storage. Some of the initial subjects are still on ice. But I’ve since moved on. Sam here has come up with something quite a bit more exciting. He’s going to give you some instructions, and I suggest you follow them. You’ll be the ninth human subject we’ve tried. Only two of the eight made it back in one piece. One of those died shortly after returning. The other went completely insane. Chewed off his own tongue. Clawed his eyes out. I do hope you fare better, my boy.” With that, Sturgess leaned forward and patted Logan on the chest. It was like being touched by the leg of a giant spider. Then Sturgess walked back in the shadows, the sound of his leather shoes fading away.