Chapter 29, everybody! Yes! I LIVE!
So terribly sorry for dropping off the face of the earth with this story, but this one chapter…was surprisingly hard to write for reasons I cannot fully fathom. On the plus side, I have a lot of the stuff that happens after this chapter written out, so we should be getting back on track in short order. In the meantime, yes, I stink, and I should really have critical chapters written out before I start posting and not hope that I'll have it done when I get to it. In the meantime, have an extra-long chapter to make up for it. :)
For those who wonder: yes, the FBI was up and running by the 1950s; it got its start in the 1930s to deal with gangsters and bank robbers crossing state lines (a la Public Enemies) and grew from there.
Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment
Back to the Future © 1985 Robert Zemeckis
Sabrina the Teenage Witch (series) © 1996 Jonathan Schmock & Nell Scovell ("That was their mistake. Now back to yours")
Con Air © 1997 Simon West ("No, that's funny")
Wilson thought he was going to throw up.
This was not good. This was so not good.
He kept trying to get his brain to work, to focus on getting out of this rather than having his mind run around in circles trying to puzzle out this paradox—assess the situation. That'd be a good starting point.
Except the situation wasn't all that hot. He was currently sandwiched between two thugs, with a third driving the car and apparently heading for the docks. Charlie and Professor Carter were both in other cars, probably separated from each other—his stomach flopped again, and he was forced to press his lips together and grit his teeth and focus on his breathing to keep from losing…breakfast. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. And if he threw up in here they'd shoot him and he'd never get back and the space time continuum would go on without him and oh Charlie….
He'd never see Willow again. Charlie would be dead and buried, Wilson would be a no-name corpse….Maybe he'd be lucky and they'd donate his body to science.
Charlie….
He wondered how Professor Carter had thought he'd undo what had been done. Walk into his own house and walk out with Charlie? Drop a line to himself telling him to get out of town? Blow up these goons' hideout? Call in an air strike?
Stop—stop. Focus, Dr. Higgsbury—yes, you are a doctor, he reminded himself. You are a brilliant scientist, you have a canny mind, and you are quite capable of making connections and figuring things out on a dime. Focus. How are you going to get yourself and the Carters out of this?
Good question, he thought. When you figure it out, let me know.
He scowled, clenched his fists, concentrated on not looking at any of the goons and giving them a reason to shoot him before they reached their destination, wherever that was. He risked a glance out the windows—waterfront area, but he didn't recognize any of it….Of course he didn't recognize any of it! He had never been to the waterfront, had never had reason to go to the waterfront, would never be caught dead near it because it was where—
Oh no.
It suddenly occurred to him just who those goons worked for.
The Shadow Man.
It also occurred to him how he must have gotten that moniker—Wilson had been within a foot of the man, and yet he hadn't heard him approach, hadn't seen him standing there until he spoke, hadn't seen any detail to his face…if he didn't know any better, he'd have thought the man was…magic.
No. Magic wasn't science. There was a perfectly good explanation for all this, for why he couldn't discern the man's face, for why his very presence had made Wilson want to run away and hide and yet simultaneously freeze in place—there had to be a reason. He was a ruthless gangster with a predatory aura—there. That was a good reason.
And yet Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that wasn't the whole of it. There was something about the man, something beyond humanity's normal capability for sinister—
"Oi," the thug to his left said. "We're here. Out."
Wilson looked—saw the interior of a warehouse before he was dragged unceremoniously out by the scruff of his neck.
Wilson felt even worse when he realized this looked like a processing warehouse. There were much too many machines that could become very, very painful in a very, very short amount of time.
"So," the Shadow Man said, sitting on the hood of a sedan before him—again, no lights were on, and Wilson couldn't shake the phrase night monster out of his head. "Here's how this works. I am going to kill you. But I'll let you talk first, and if I like the answer, I won't kill you as painfully."
Wilson glanced around—saw the Carters—maybe this was the real reason Professor Carter befriended him: he was brutally murdered in front of him and perhaps….
Wilson's world suddenly sharpened into clarity.
He had an idea. A crazy, stupid, insane idea, but he had an idea.
Now here was hoping it worked.
"What do you want to know?" Wilson asked.
Maxwell stared at the kid.
What was he doing? A minute ago he looked like Maxwell felt—scared out of his mind.
Bluffing occurred to him—the kid was trying to bluff his way out of this.
Maxwell quickly discarded that notion—the kid didn't have nearly enough street-savvy to bluff his way out of a situation like this. There had to be something else—
And then the kid looked at him—only a second, but in that second, he saw something that turned his stomach.
The kid's expression—it was the sort reserved for those who are about to die and know it.
And then the kid's attention was riveted back on the Shadow Man as he made his demands.
"Why don't we start from the top?" the Shadow Man demanded in a predatory purr.
"That might be a lot to ask for," the kid said. "But I can give it a shot—my name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury, born April thirteenth, nineteen-fifty-eight. I came here in a time machine to ensure a stable time loop—we can't have any paradoxes, now can we?"
Yup, definitely cracked—which was what the Shadow Man's body language said he thought as well.
"Do I look like I was born yesterday?" the Shadow Man asked.
"Ah, but of course, you want proof—and not just that from my drivers' license either, as that can be easily faked. No, I see you'd want a demonstration, and I can give it to you—in the garage at 2013 Klei—I conned these good souls into harboring both myself and the machine—take the time machine out to an open stretch where it can get up to eighty-eight, and I guarantee you'll see some serious fireworks."
The hard swallow was obvious, but the kid managed to remain remarkably straight-faced as the Shadow Man pulled out a knife and laid it against his neck. Maxwell had barely seen him move.
"The only reason I didn't kill you in that house is because killing you there would be pointless," the Shadow Man hissed, before nodding at one of his underlings. "Killing you hear is not. Show him the door."
It was an innocuous enough statement, but the Shadow Man's delivery and his underlings' reactions told Maxwell that that was not a good thing, even beyond the imminent death it promised.
"Hold it!"
Everyone turned to look, the kid's face fell—oh wait, it had been Maxwell who said that. Now what?
Rule number one of being a magician: always be the smartest person in the room.
Rule number two: misdirection is key.
Rule number three: when in doubt, bluff as hard as you can.
And if there was one thing Maxwell was certain of, it was that he was an excellent magician.
Now here was hoping he could sell it.
"Don't tell me you're falling for that line of bull," Maxwell said, pointing at the kid—please, catch on, keep them looking in two different directions, please…."That kid lifted that from a Flash Gordon comic!"
"Really," the Shadow Man said blandly.
"Oh sure—we were planning on yanking the chains of the guys at the university—and then your two idiot pals there fell for it first. Honestly, they're as dumb as a bag of hammers, and that's with me being generous."
"Since when were you generous?" Charlie asked—ah, playing the lovely assistant. Here was hoping his move to better block her from view went unnoticed.
"I'd fire those two if I were you—they make your whole organization look bad."
"Hey!" the short one protested. "We do not!"
"You did have to explain the finer points of mugging to your partner there," the kid pointed out—yes, just what he needed.
"That is depressing," Maxwell rejoined.
"That is," the Shadow Man agreed.
And then bam bam! Two dead goons.
"See, that was their mistake," the Shadow Man said, turning back to a horrified Maxwell. "Now back to yours. Those two weren't remotely the smartest tacks in the box, but that shouldn't have mattered because they worked for me, and that should have been enough to dissuade errant stupidity from random smart mouths."
"Well," Maxwell tried—his mouth felt dry. "It's not like they were wearing name tags or something like that." Movement—the goons were distracted with getting rid of the bodies, and the kid—
The kid was actually taking the opportunity to move.
Maxwell grinned at the Shadow Man. "I don't know, maybe you ought to get into a different business, pal."
"Oh yes," the Shadow Man said. "Maybe I ought to get into the magic business—you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? The Amazing Maxwell. All smoke and mirrors and parlor tricks. You're not trying for that now, are you? It would really be a pity if you tried to pull a fast one on me."
"Oh yeah," Maxwell said, squashing the thrill of horror at the fact that this guy had known his stage name, when he hadn't made it well-known here, and practically guessed his entire scheme. "I'm rigging it up so a piano falls on your head. Funny, huh?"
Bam.
Maxwell went to the ground with a yell of agony as white-hot pain laced across his leg—shot—shot in the leg—blood seeping between fingers—
"No, that's funny," the Shadow Man said flatly. "As is this."
Even through the fog of pain, Maxwell could see the Shadow Man swing up the gun to point it at Charlie, who had fallen to her knees behind Maxwell, half-reaching for him—
"Say goodbye to your pretty wife," the Shadow Man sneered.
No—
A flood of bright light—a snarling roar—a loud squealing—
And then hot air, the sound of steel hitting a body—OW!
Maxwell barely registered the kid landing on him—all he had eyes for was the sedan slamming into the Shadow Man, driving him through the wooden wall and into the bay.
Silence reigned for a long time.
And then what had happened registered.
Guns clicked, pointed—
"I hear sirens!" the kid said loudly. "I think I heard the FBI was in town!"
The goons exchanged glances—
And apparently decided it wasn't worth the trouble of finding out. They fled as fast as they could, like shadows vanishing in daylight.
Maxwell let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in before sagging against the ground.
"All right, get off me," he said finally, shoving at the kid. "This is awkward."
"Sorry," the kid muttered, rolling off of him. Charlie was instantly patting him down once he was nerd-less.
"You'll live," Charlie said finally, poking at his gunshot wound. Ow. "It's just a graze. Your pants are the only fatality."
"That's good to know," Maxwell sighed. "You know, except for the fact that I liked this outfit."
"You'll survive, I'm sure."
The entirety of this was sinking in—he had vanished so quickly, but….
"Now I know why you limp sometimes," the kid said, prompting Charlie to look at him.
"About what you said," Charlie said. "About time travelling and stuff…."
"Uh…it's involved, and…stuff…."
"The kid's a yutz, Charlie, leave him be," Maxwell said to her, savoring the realization that the Shadow Man was either dead or not in a position to do anything, Charlie was alive….
And wonder of wonders, it was because of the kid.
Okay, that was enough.
"All right, I've had enough fun for one day," Maxwell said, struggling upright to a sitting position. "I'm ready to go home now."
"Me too," Charlie said as she helped him to a standing position, ducking under an arm to give him someone to rest his weight on as the kid simply opted to help haul him up.
"Um, sorry about your car," the kid said, glancing at the hole in the wall. "It was the first one I got to—"
"Wait, what?" Maxwell asked, glancing around. There were a bunch of black sedans…but there wasn't the black sedan, with the front tags he recognized.
"Well…I just went with the first one I got to, and it still had the keys in it—"
"My car," Maxwell said weakly, when what the kid said sank in. "Why—why my car? I was two months away from paying it off! And you sank it!"
"What he means to say is thank you, Will," Charlie said, managing to loosen one hand enough to reach over to pat the kid.
"That's not what I mean—my car!"
"Your money or your life, Max."
Maxwell was quiet for the longest time.
"That decision can't be that difficult," the kid said finally.
"That was a lot of money invested over a chunk of my life," Maxwell countered. "Yes, the decision is that difficult."
"Your money or your wife."
Maxwell glared at the kid, who shrugged blandly. He felt arms around his chest—
That was right—the kid had been willing to throw his life away to save theirs.
Not that Maxwell was going to give him any credit for that—that would just be against character, and they couldn't have that.
So instead, after giving Charlie a quick hug, he hobbled over to bend down next to the nearest unconscious goon and rifled through his pockets until he found a set of keys.
"It seems fair," he said, by way of explanation. "Now let's find out which of these cars this kook owns and go home—I've had enough excitement for one day."
"Me too," Charlie said, leaning heavily on him and still seeming remarkably sad for someone who had just cheated death. Cheated death….She was going to live. She had to. After all this, after—
Oh. Right.
The dog.
