Chapter One
Tonight's The Night
There were no sirens, not yet. For now the smoke was clearing on its own, and the scene that had once been chaos settled into something a little darker. The wreckage was still warm, spread out over a small stretch of highway that was hardly used anymore. The glass sparkled off the pavement, bits of the metal and upholstery still burning with small flames. There were two cars, one a very large truck, still intact, sitting on the side of the road, the other was a smaller blue one, and it was everywhere. A man was standing by the car, face flushed and holding a phone to his ear and eyes scanning what he had done. The main body of the car had rolled into the middle of the road, and the glass was broken from the windshield. A few feet away was a body, small and crumpled with arms and legs sticking out at angles that weren't natural. His clothes were red, and the dark splotch around him was getting bigger. He was laying face up, dark hair singed although the color wasn't visible. His brown eyes were still open, dead and staring out into the distance. His arms and hands were scraped up from the fly from the window, but the ring on his finger still shone in the midday sun.
–
Today was a special day. Or rather, it would have been. That day would have been his 20th anniversary, twenty years happily married to the most lovely person he knew. For celebrating such an occasion, Alfred Jones was standing out in the cold afternoon breeze over a headstone in the cemetery, a large bouquet of cherry blossoms in his gloved hand. His face looked older than that of the thirty-something man he was, blue eyes heavy with bags from night spent awake and pacing his cold and empty apartment. His light brown hair was unkempt and messier than usual, and his clothes were worn and old. It had been a while since he'd gone out shopping, years. He never had the time to get out, nor the motivation.
"Hi Kiku," he said finally, dropping to his knees. "Happy anniversary." Alfred rested the flowers on the ground amongst the dead leaves. His hand touched the stone, feeling it's chill though his glove as he traced each letter lovingly. Despite only a few days having passed since he'd been there, he felt as though it were the first time he'd knelt over where Kiku lay, tears streaming down his face and staying for hours late in to the night. "I miss you." Alfred sat with his back against the headstone, hand rested over the ground where he knew his husband was sleeping peacefully. He began to talk, softly at first but eventually his voice grew to its normal strength and his demeanor became as casual as was possible when talking to a dead lover.
It was often he did this, at least three times a week if not every day. Alfred would fill Kiku on about what had been happening in the world, bringing flowers occasionally, and in the first few years, a bottle of whiskey. He would drink and cry until nightfall when the watchman would have a cab called to take him home. He hadn't done that for nine years, at least. Wallowing now tasted better sober. The sky began to grow dark, and soon the wind picked up and pushed the leaves about. It was Alfred's cue to leave, and as always he found it hard to stand and pull himself away. But he did, reluctantly enough, he had work to do back at home. He had let Kiku know what he intended to do, and hoped he would forgive him for leaving so early.
"Goodbye. I'll see you soon," he whispered, bending down and kissing the top of the headstone. As he walked down the row of graves to the gate, he turned every few steps to keep an eye on his Kiku until he passed over the hill and it was impossible to see the stone and pale pink flowers he had brought with him. Now there was only the hollow whistle of the wind and a lone man walking home.
–
It had been easy enough to dodge the glances on the way over, however the glances from those monsters inside of Alfred were impossible to ignore. All through the walk home, he kept his face down against the wind, hair and clothes whipped about yet he still kept his feet straight. He had the way from Kiku to home mapped out in his head so there was no need for surroundings. Even once he'd reached his building, a small red brick structure at the corner of two questionable streets, he didn't have to see to know how to maneuver through the lobby and up the stairs. It was the same old act, he was just going through the motions all over again.
Alfred lived on the topmost floor in a small corner apartment; a living room, a bedroom, small kitchen, and one bath. The linen closet had cost him extra. He also owned a basement under the building, one of the many that were there, and that was his most prized thing. Though not where he was heading yet, there were a few things he had to get from upstairs. Although the urgency of his task was pressuring him to hurry, he found himself pausing at his door, key an inch or so from the lock. This day had been looming in his sights for years, ever since Kiku passed, and now that he could make out every detail on the horizon, it seemed unrealistic, that he would just walk into his apartment to find empty pizza boxes and plastic bottles of cheap whiskey everywhere. But he knew that was only an ill fantasy, so he shook his head and opened the door.
His apartment was that of an obsessed man, and looked the part too. Every surface available was covered in blueprints and papers and books of all sizes. Charts and bits of scrap metal and circuit board were piled in boxes stacked one on top of the other, and the walls were plastered with drawings and diagrams of strange machines and science things, the constant C, the speed of light, stuff ordinary people would not understand. Alfred was not ordinary. He was mad and haunted like none other that walked the earth. He could see easily in the dim light, the only artificial source came from a lamp on the desk he'd accidentally left on while he's been out but that didn't matter. Literally and metaphorically he had been living in darkness for fifteen years, and now groping in the blackness seemed a second easy notion that didn't bother him. He knew it would bother Kiku.
He shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the edge of the desk chair and dropping into it. It squeaked under the sudden application of weight, shuddering a moment before adjusting and falling quiet. The slow and steady tocking of the clock on the wall fell into step with Alfred's heart, until the latter picked up the pace and the sight of the first paper on his desk. A booklet actually, handmade and covered in his own handwriting that had become dull over the years; a straight, single flowing line without the quirks its owner used to possess. It was the reflection of the dead carcass in which a lively spirit was hiding. Alfred grabbed that, stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans and scanning the desk for any other papers he would need. Finding none, he then moved though the ocean of work and papers to the other desk.
This one looked less like an editor's desk and more like that of a mechanic. There were small screws and fuses scattered over the work space, the place for pencils had screwdrivers and wire cutters, and there was even a soldering iron by the outlet in the wall. In the center of the desk was a circuit board, bits and pieces of silver and copper about the place, along with new spots of tin that's hadn't been there originally; part of Alfred's own genius. On the center of that was a button, a maze of wires branching out from under it and disappearing into the board. The all mighty and powerful "On" switch. The very last thing he needed. He knew, once that part was added to his machine, he would have Kiku again, and they would be happy.
Without a single moments hesitation, he grabbed that along with seven screws and a means to have them fixated, and once again headed towards the door. There was another pause, however, as he passed the papers desk, sentimentalism if one would. All this time he had been telling himself that this was his invention, but most of the blueprints on his walls were those of someone else. He had found them, late one night, in a box under he and Kiku's bed, behind whatever else they had stuffed under there. It had been Kiku, not completely his death but partially what he had left behind, that prompted him to learn all this and to finish such a feat. So he took to the other desk, ignore all the other things about it since they had no point now, and took what he had been looking at before heading out the door.
Alfred locked it securely behind him, glancing about the hall as he did so almost expecting to see some suspicious passersby staring at him. However there were none; no one ever walked the corridors this late at night aside from himself. He'd found that out from years of pacing in the halls in the nighttime. Back down the stairwell with its flickering and dying fluorescent lights, Alfred went down past the lobby landing and into another set of steps. These ones were darker, the air chilled and dank. However as the stairs flattened into a hall, the small noise of the generators brought to life a certain flame in Alfred and he ran the rest of the way down the hallway to the very last door. Alfred unlocked the three bolts he had placed on the door, flung it open and stepped into the dark.
At one point in time it had been a normal basement. The walls and floor were made of concrete and there was a small squat generator in the corner. The shelves had been taken down, and after Alfred had done his work, it looked to be like a store that sold machinery. The floor was as littered as that of his apartment, with spare parts and tools that were probably illegal in most states. There were scorch marks on most everything from the many accidents that had taken place every so often. In the middle of the room was it; the very thing he had been working on. His time machine.
It was a great big thing, made all of metal and mechanical parts, however the appearance was not what needed attending to. Alfred popped open the door carefully, stepping inside. Though it was dark there, he used his hand to find the square indent in the wall where the plate belonged. He found it, and held the panel to it. It fit perfectly into place, and carefully placed each screw in their respective holes before going at them with a screwdriver. He was delicate in his motions, careful not to over-tighten any one in case something broke. After the last one was done, he backed against the other wall.
He stared at it a moment. It was in the wall, the last piece to his grand puzzle. With eyes darting over to the door, Alfred slowly began to back up, watching that last panel as if, as soon as his back was turned, it would pop out again and the whole thing would short-circuit and be lost in a cloud of smoke and failure. Only after Alfred had left and closed the door was he sure of himself and his deed. Following the many cables that ran along the floor, he hurried across the room to what was supposed to be a small generator for the non-existent light bulb in the middle of the basement ceiling. There he reached out, wrapping his fingers around a cold lever, and pulled it down. It wasn't in a dramatic fashion like one would expect, rather it was done quickly and anxiously, to get the job over with.
Fifteen years of work was closed with a hum. And then a whir that got louder and louder. The machine sparked to life, colors flashing and a white glow erupting from the interior in a single flash of brilliance. The small glass dome at the stop shot light up and painted the ceiling. The noise was unbelievable yet Alfred did not cover his ears. He did not flinch away, nor did he cover his eyes to block the glorious spectacle. It was his creation, his life and body put into an animate object. It was built to work for Alfred, to bring him what he wanted most, yet now, standing below it, he felt to be the slave of this master, and that his time machine could not be controlled by anyone other than itself. This is what he'd wanted.
"Finally..." he breathed, taking a step back to look at his work. It was an impressive thing, easily a foot and a half taller than he was, and wide enough to fit five people comfortably. The whole thing was made from bits of light metal, welded and braced together with whatever odds and ends he could scrounge up. For decorative purposes, he'd gathered colored glass from here, there, and everywhere and fashioned a kind of covering for the roof. Although the application was a little sloppy, the planning had been masterful and thought out. On the inside, as Alfred slipped open the door, were circuit boards, hundreds of them, all hand picked from different machinery and fixed up to do their exact purpose. From the ceiling hung cords and cables, some thick and white, others small and covered in rubber, all connecting the machine to itself. There were buttons and switches, none labeled, but they didn't have to be. Alfred had this thing, this behemoth, seared in his brain like the manual operation of breathing.
There was no doubt in his mind that this thing would run perfectly. Everything was in its place, everything was pristine and immaculate in the queerest of senses. Alfred stepped back out again, shutting the door. He... he just had to-to look at it. It and all the promises it held and everything it could fix. He could finally go back and be happy again, undo what time had done to Kiku and to himself. Alfred looked down to the photo in his hands. He'd slipped it from it's frame on the desk, and now it was going to go with him, back in time to when the man in that picture was living and breathing and warm and his. All his.
It had taken him fifteen long years to create this masterpiece, however he didn't feel he had the strength to last the journey just yet. He was dying to use it, to finally set things right. He was exhausted though, more so than usual and he felt very weak. He couldn't eat; he knew it was never good to time travel on a full stomach. There wasn't any more whiskey in the house, but there was sleep. He hadn't done that in at least a week, and for good reason. Maybe that was what he needed though, just once. Alfred would need every wit about him. It would be a dangerous journey if something went wrong. Back to the switch, he pulled it up again, and the crackling and whizzing noises died back down, and he wanted until the only thing left there was a faint heat in the air.
Walking back up the steps almost felt like treachery, but he knew he wasn't leaving Kiku behind. He was only postponing their date just a few hours longer. He reached his room, but opening the door he did not leaving the door open for light as he stepped inside. He heard papers crunch beneath his steps, stacks of books clatter when his leg brushed them. Normally this would have bothered him, however now that his masterpiece was finished, nothing mattered. He could lose all his research, all his work, because now all he needed was that time machine and the small instruction booklet he'd made in case of emergencies. That was all that mattered. That was his way to get Kiku back. It was all he had been hoping for ever since the day of the accident, and now that he could finally see it in front of him, his answer, he almost didn't believe it. He had to believe it; it was the only thing he had to hold on to now that his dear was gone.
Alfred pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, standing in the door-frame and watching as the black inside the room leeched out to grab him. Reaching one hand out, he flicked the switch on the wall and lit the room. It was spotless, a small bed in the corner with green sheets, an empty dresser with a lamp on it, and the walls were plain white, but not entirely empty. Over his bed and covering most of the rest of the room, were photographs. Over the past fifteen years, Alfred had gathered pictures of Kiku, some by himself, other with Alfred, and even other with friends he had never met before.
He carefully walked across the room, eyes scanning the many glossy pages on the wall. A dull ache throbbed in his chest, somewhere deep inside. Kiku looked so happy, smiling and laughing in the photos, his lively brown eyes bright and lips smiling. They were all his favorites, every one of them, whether he was grinning, playing, or even reading in the pictures Alfred took whist the other was oblivious to his presence. No matter how many times he would sit and gaze at them, long into the night, the fifteen years felt like an eternity. Alfred tore himself away, looking at the carpet as he walked up to the bed. The sheets were cold and clean, not having been slept on in such a long while.
That was the worst part about sleeping now a days; he was always alone. He would never get used to that. Before there had always been someone to snuggle with, to kiss, to talk to, someone to play silly nighttime games with when sleep became impossible to manage. That was gone. Alfred sunk into the mattress slowly, embracing the cold and empty feeling that made him hurt. All he could think about was Kiku, and how full of life he had been, their month long trip to Vancouver where Alfred popped the question and the look in his eyes, how beautiful he had looked up on that altar in Florence. It was all too overwhelming. He rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow and closing his eyes. No matter how hard he tried though, the memories kept reaching the front of his mind, and as soon as he fell into unconsciousness, they took over, and Alfred dreamed of the day he found his beloved Kiku was dead.
–
"Mr. Jones?"
"Yes this is he," Alfred replied, tuning and resting against the counter. The voice at the other end coughed.
"My name is Zidler, and I work at the Red Swan Morgue." His heart jumped in his chest, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone tighter.
"Yes?" he prompted. There was more coughing, nervous this time.
"We need you to come downtown whenever would be most convenient for you. There's a body that needs identified." Alfred jumped from where he was leaning, eyes popping from his head.
"A body? Whose?"
"Why, your husband's, of course." Zidler sounded confused. "I thought the police told you that still needed to be cleared up. And while you're down here, there's of course going to be the choice of burial or cremation. Since you're the only family listed in your husband's records, you'll..." But the rest of his words were completely drowned out as the phone slipped from Alfred's hand. It crashed on the floor, and Zidler began to ask what on earth was going on. Alfred didn't hear him. The blood was rushing in his ears and his heart was racing so fast it felt like it wasn't beating at all. That was impossible! There was no way his Kiku could be dead. He wouldn't let that happen. And although self-will was nice, he had to see for himself.
It was hard to drive out into town in the state he was in. His driving was always a little erratic, but it was ten times worse. He ran several red lights and every stop sign. All that was going through his mind was thoughts about Kiku, worry, fear. There was no way he could be dead. No, he had himself convinced, Kiku was fine. He was at his meeting like he was supposed to be, and it was only another man that looked like his husband. However as he pulled into the parking lot, a sudden shot of fear filled him. Kiku had said he would call from the road. He said he would call, and he always did! Maybe there were traffic delays, or his phone had no battery.
Those two small thoughts were the only thing that he could cling to has he tried parking the car straight, but his hands were shaking too badly to make the wheel turn properly. That however didn't matter. He left the car where it was, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and bolted inside. The bell above the glass door clinked, and he entered a smallish room that appeared to be a waiting room. On the other side was a hall behind a long wooden desk where stood a man, looking at a stack of papers. He was middle-sized with a clean-shaved face and lively green eyes. There was a name tag on his white office gown that read "H. Zidler: Red Swan Coroner." Alfred hurried over, glancing at those in the chairs, waiting for some reason or another. They were staring at him, however he paid them no mind and instead walked straight up to the man.
"Where is Kiku?" Alfred's voice was distraught and frantic, and it showed in his wide eyes as well.
"Ah! Mr. Jones, I take it?" Zidler asked.
"Where is my Kiku?" he repeated more frenzied than before.
"Room thirty-seven, down the hall on th-" But he was already long gone at a full sprint. He had never felt more scared in his life, except for maybe when he was down on one knee years ago, for Kiku. He was too rushed to apologize when he ran into an assistant, brushing by and flying around the corner. His sneakers made a squeaking noise as he skidded to a stop at the door labeled 37. It was closed, and there was a single light on inside. Alfred turned the handle and flung open the door, staring wildly around the room, until his eyes rested on the table at the middle, and he stopped.
–
Alfred woke in a cold sweat, bolting up and staring into the darkness around him. It was thick and suffocating, and for a moment he felt the constricting fear that had been ever present in his dream and the time when that had happened. He grabbed onto the thin and scratchy sheets and yanked them around himself tightly. Tears gathered into his eyes and they tumbled over his cheeks. But no, he had to pull himself together. Now he had the power to change that, now he could go back and fix everything. And it was then he decided that he had to go right then, or else he would completely lose his mind. There was no way he could sleep, not with those thoughts battling his sanity in his brain. Yes, now was the right moment to save Kiku.