A/N: OMG, I'M BACK! Sorry, I died for a bit there. We moved back to the States, and I really ran out of time. Plus the fact that I didn't have the complete copy of this chapter. But anyway, we're spending Xmas with my dad, so I'm back in Ireland and finally have access to this document. So, I hope I still have readers out there! Without further ado, here's chapter 3!

The Cyclops kid – David thought he'd heard him called 'Blink' – dragged David roughly out a side door. He was then thrust into a cinderblock wall – since Blink still imprisoned his arms, he smacked his face painfully off the cement block.

"Don't move." Someone growled, and there was the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

Immediately, David froze. Getting shot in the back was definitely not on his to-do list. "What are you doing?"

"Shut up." The voice snapped.

Rough impersonal hands quickly patted him down, checking for weapons. Underarms, legs, ankles, the small of his back – they were all checked in a detached, formal way. Someone muttered, "Got his bag." And there was a shuffling behind him – they were searching his bag, he supposed.

"No weapons." Another voice called out.

"Awful hard to kill us without any weapons…" a voice drawled from somewhere on his right – sounded like Cowboy.

"Maybe he's one of those martial arts masters." This time David recognized Blink's voice. "Don't let him move."

Since David had no intention of doing anything remotely like that, he let out a shaky breath. "Wh-"

"Shut up." Another voice snapped right by his ear, and something eerily cold and metallic was jammed into his shoulder blades.

After a few more terse moments of shuffling and searching, David was commanded to clasp his hands behind his back. They were fit into some kind of plastic rope that bit at his skin. Whatever it was, it imprisoned his hands as surely as if it had been handcuffs.

"All right, let's get him over to the dogs."

David was again dragged roughly along – this time by two big guys with curly brown hair. Around the corner of the bar, there was a wire pen full of very large dogs, and this was what they approached. "G-guys…"

"What part of 'shut up' don't you understand? The 'shut' or the 'up'?"

Suppressing a whimper, David clamped his mouth shut, as a guy with a brown bowler jammed low over his eyes unlocked the massive padlock that kept the kennel door closed. A dog that looked rather like a Doberman like out a deep bark. Surely these guys won't feed me to the dogs. They aren't that psychopathic, are they? I mean threatening me with guns, beating me around a bit, I don't like, but I can deal with. Feeding me to dogs… That's different. I'm just a kid! I have to find Les! Who's going to find him if I don't?

Suddenly, he was angry. Who the hell are these kids, to kill off innocent bystanders? I haven't done anything! He had been stumbling along, trying to keep his feet and dignity, but now he lifted up his feet and let his captors take his full weight. It wasn't enough to make them let go, but they did lose a bit of their grip. Desperately, he kicked off the ground and jerked forward, and with a mighty wrench, had pulled himself free.

He made it three steps before a short kid with a cigar in his mouth clocked him over the head with the butt of his gun.

Before he'd even hit the ground, someone slammed on top of him, and he was pressed into the dust. There was a unified clicking as safeties were snapped off, shotguns were pumped, and hammers were pulled back.

"One move, fucker, and you're dead."

David was panting with rage and fear, and tears of frustration were threatening to well in his eyes. But he held himself still, and after a moment, the weight was lifted off him, and he was jerked to his feet.

Then, without so much as a warning, the kennel door was thrust open, he was tossed inside, and it slammed closed again.

The dogs slowly got to their feet.

David struggled to his knees (hard to do when your hands are tied behind your back), and looked around. There was a group of seven or eight boys behind him, all with guns trained on his back. In front of him were seven or eight dogs, all with very large teeth.

This was turning out to be A Downright Shitty Day.

A huge dog that looked like a cross between a Great Dane, German Shepherd, and various illegal steroids paced slowly forward, hackles raised. David backed away from the dog, until he was pressed against the wire of the cage, and still the dog came on.

"Nice doggy…" he murmured, as the huge muzzle extended towards his trembling body.

But the beast didn't bite him. It merely sniffed his shirt and whined.

Slowly, the other dogs came forward, all of them making confused noises and shuffling away. David blinked. What the hell? Finally the big mutt came forward again, and sniffed him thoroughly, from soles to crown. It was like the dog was looking for something. Confused, David looked back at the boys behind him – to see that they looked just as bewildered as he did.

He shifted his attention back to the dog, just in time to see its tail give one decisive wag.

Immediately, the kennel door opened, and hands jerked him back out. "Sorry, bud. Had to make sure."

Once again, David's brain failed to grasp whatever they were talking about. "What? Wait, what happened to being eaten by the dogs? Are you psychotic? What the hell is your problem? Where's my brother? " The questions all ran out of his mouth in a rush. "And will somebody tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Cowboy shoved his pistol into a shoulder-holster. "Slow down, kid. We were just checking to see if you were one of them."

"One of who?"

"You know, them. The Compound."

"What compound?"

The taller boy looked a little surprised. "Where you from, Mars?"

"No. I'm from NYC."

"NYC?"

David blinked. Was he in another country? "You know, New York City?"

Blink raised an eyebrow. "You wanna rethink that answer?"

"Uh…no? I live on Shank Street, in Crown Apartments."

The kid who had clocked David during the aborted escape attempt, removed his unlit cigar from his mouth. "Boy, you sure as hell ain't from around here."

"Obviously!" David snapped, throwing up his hands. "This is like New Mexico! I'm from New York! That's on the other side of the country!"

Cowboy stepped forward. "Kid, this is New York."

David found himself quickly – though much more gently – guided back into the bar and seated at the table Cowboy had been occupying before the fiasco with the dogs. He was too dazed to protest, only had enough mental drive to keep his feet moving and his head up. They're lying. There is nowhere – not even upstate – in New York that looks like this. "You're sure this is New York?"

Another boy – the one who'd gotten his car stolen – named Skittish or something, snorted. "You've only asked us this like four times. Yes, this is New York. We've all lived here our whole lives – we'd notice if it changed."

A dark green drink appeared in front of his nose, and he tossed it back without thinking. Just as quickly, he was bent over the table, coughing. "What the hell was that?" he gasped out, finally.

Blink plopped down beside him, grinning. "A Nosebleed."

"I'll say…" David muttered. When his eyes stopped watering, he sat back up and took a more cautious sip. The taste still made his face screw up, but he managed to choke it down. Everyone seemed to find his reaction hilarious, especially since they were all drinking the same drink, and it seemed about as potent to them as apple juice. "So if this is New York, how far away is the city?"

Blink peered oddly at him. "What city?"

"New York City, I keep telling you! How far was I transplanted?"

The table grew silent.

Cowboy leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. "Kid, there ain't no New York City, not since the War."

"The War?"

Raising his eyebrows, the other boy sent David and incredulous look. "You might as well be from Mars, stranger. You know, The Great War? World War III?"

"What great war? War isn't great – besides there's only been two World Wars. How drunk are you?"

"Not drunk at all. But what about you? Been living under the ground for the last thirty years? What's your name, anyway?"

"David Jacobs."

Again, the table fell silent, but this time it was a hostile silence.

"You wanna repeat that?" Cowboy asked, in a menacing voice."

"My name's David Jacobs…"

For what felt like the zillionth time in the last hour, David found a gun pointed at him. After so much repetition, it really loses its fear factor. With a sigh, he held up his hands. "Look, I have no idea who the hell you are, where the hell I am, or what the hell your problem is. I have never heard of this compound thing before, and I hardly think I can be one of them, if I have no idea who they are. But if someone gets me my backpack, I can prove who I am."

The gun didn't move, but Cowboy cut his eyes to Skittish and jerked his head. The other boy stood with a grunt and trudged off. He reappeared after a moment and dumped David's dusty bag in the middle of the table.

With the gun still pointed at his head, David slowly and carefully sorted through his things – which had been thrown every which way by the searchers. Eventually he found what he was looking for, and thrust it – in the most non-threatening way possible – at Cowboy. "There. My student ID."

After a moment, the other boy lowered the gun – though he didn't holster it – and took the laminated card from David. "Washington Irving High School." He read. "40 Irving Place, New York, New York."

The boys drew closer to listen as Cowboy continued. "David I. Jacobs. Yeah, he matches the picture here." There was a pause, as everyone waited for the boy to continue. But Cowboy's sharp eyes were flicking back and forth between the little card and David's face.

"Cowboy?" Blink asked, finally.

The tall boy shook his head slowly, but read out, "Date of birth. November 14, 1988."

David shrugged. "Yeah, so?" but his voice sounded unnaturally loud – because no one in the group was talking.

"That's not possible…" someone breathed.

Skittish snorted. "It's fake."

Incredulous, David threw up his hands. "You people are psychos! That's it, I'm out of here. I'll just steal back my brother and get out of here, okay?" he stood, but Cowboy's hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

"Hold up there, ki-David. What's this about your brother?"

"Oh, Les. He's been kidnapped."

For the fourth time in as many minutes, an ominous silence descended. "Your brother, this… Les Jacobs, right? How old is he?" Cowboy asked, staring intently across the table.

David sighed. "Almost ten."

The other boy leaned back, and ran a hand over his face. "Holy shit. David, what year is it?"

"Uh…2005. Are you all right?" David was severely creeped out by these kids who went from one extreme to the other in mere seconds. There was something wrong with their heads. Maybe it's something in the water. Uh-oh, I drank the water…Maybe it's me?

The silence around the table was decidedly shocked, and the boys were staring at him with really odd looks on their faces. Cowboy let out a sigh. "Yeah, I'm all right. But you ain't gonna be." He reached over and snagged a paper from the next table over, grimly handing it to David.

"Uh… thanks?"

"No stupid. Read it."

David scanned the paper – odd headlines, like 'New Radiation Break in Dallas Area', or 'War Remembrance Conference in Butte.' Why the hell are they holding a conference in Montana?

Seeing the incomprehension on David's face, Cowboy leaned forward and pointed to the top of the page.

The Journal, he read. Weekly Edition. May 4…he stared at the following four-digit number, but his brain stubbornly refused to compute it. "This is wrong. It's not May fourth, it's May twenty-third. This isn't right."

Cowboy leaned forward. "We only get the paper about once a month. This is a few weeks old, but only that."

David looked at the date again. May 4…May 4…May 4…20…20…2032. He looked up at Cowboy and the other boys, then back down at the paper. Will the last thought in the brain please turn out the lights…

A/N: Well? What did you think? Was it worth the wait? Hope people are still reading... Toss a hungry author a bone please...