December 19, 2013 - First Choice Timeline
One moment, the mangled car surrounded her, the semi-truck impaling the hatchback as the two cars t-boned at the intersection; the next moment the semi-truck reversed, and Warren's car reformed rebuilding itself around Max, the glass of the windows solidifying into spider-webbed sheets until even those spider-webs vanished and the glass locked in whole; whole except for a few speckled absences — the missing glass pebbles that still found themselves embedded in Max's cheek.
She felt that pain pebbled across her face, a bloodied acne, tearing at her; yet it paled in comparison to the pain in her head and her broken arm. Still, that pain itself existed as a mere shadow of the emotional torment building within her. She had rewound. She was rewinding right now. Over two months she had lived with Chloe's death. She had grieved and she he had fought through her fears and just today she had felt the dam break and knew that healing, true healing had been on the way. She felt as though she had finally been given permission to live again. Now she had thrown all of that away; shattered and destroyed it with the collision slowly reversing around her; yet what choice did she have?
Even though she didn't watch it happen, she knew that Trevor, much like the car shifting around her, had also reformed, had coalesced into shape and flesh once more, but as the moment continued to rewind Max had noticed Warren's car reversing through her and she had closed her eyes as she passed through the passenger seat not then knowing what she would have seen of Trevor. Then it was all behind her, the car reversing back, leaving Max still suspended in the air, still caught in that previously frozen momentum hovering over the open asphalt, as Warren's hatchback wound back out of the intersection and down the main road towards the cemetery.
Guess rewinding in a moving vehicle isn't the best idea, she thought, noting it for future reference. If there is a future.
Her head throbbed, and she knew that the pain pulsing in her temples was no longer from that laceration alone, but also from the force of bending time to her will. She'd gone back, what, three, maybe five seconds. It wasn't enough. She held her grip, her fingers still flexed as she undid the weave, letting the stream reverse course. The knots untangled and time continued its backward advance.
Seven seconds.
I'm so sorry, Chloe. Tears wet her bloodied cheeks as she pictured the months of friendships now in jeopardy; the sacrifice potentially wasted.
Ten seconds.
She bit at her lip, forcing herself through the pain and the grief. I tried. I tried to keep my promise.
You did, Max. You did good.
She could almost hear Chloe soothing her; but that wasn't right. She didn't deserve Chloe's comfort. I abandoned her and then I broke her promise. I betrayed her.
No. I betrayed you. I should have listened to Rach. I should have forgiven you sooner.
Pfft. Max wouldn't stand for this false forgiveness. She pushed the false Chloe from her head as she returned to the present (increasing past).
The throbbing spread behind Max's eyes, an ocular migraine screaming for her attention, and still Max floated there, caught in the deconstructed impact, wondering if she could move, or if time would have to advance in order to extricate herself from the external momentum in which she had been caught. The fact that she had not fallen, that gravity had yet to enact its will upon her leaving her suspended in the air, led her to suspect that there would be no hope of landing on her feet – not until time resumed its normal flow.
She shut her eyes against the pain and the shimmering, ghost-like movement of the world around her, and continued to tug at those threads.
Fifteen seconds.
Please forgive me. She clenched her left hand, fighting the guilt and the anger over her actions, even as her right continued to manipulate those threads of time.
Sixteen.
There's nothing to forgive. Remember?
A pressure surged in her eyes as if the pain throbbing through them were filling them, expanding them, threatening to crowd in and burst them like over-inflated balloons. Max squeezed her eyes shut tighter, fighting the intransigence setting in.
Seventeen
It hurts so much, Chloe. She sobbed, and she could no longer tell if it was from the pain of her loss and guilt or from the physical pain flooding through her.
Let go.
She couldn't. She couldn't let go. She had to fix this. She pulled at the weave, but time refused to budge. It fought against her and her arm shook as her fingers strained to flex against that building resistance. Her bones popped and Max knew, she knew that arm had broken again and anew, and she screamed once more.
Eighteen.
She couldn't stop screaming, the pain searing through her, and, at last, she lost focus, that grip on time slipping. She couldn't hold it any longer. Her fingers relaxed and time resumed. She could feel the wind rushing over her as she spun through the open air, and smell the salt carried on the sea breeze. As she turned, catapulting over towards the far side of the road, that scream still echoing out as she followed the trajectory of the now erased roll of Warren's car, she spotted the semi-truck gunning forward at full speed. The vehicle didn't even attempt to slow for the intersection; didn't even try to stop, despite the stop sign plain as day at that junction.
Why hadn't it tried to stop?
Max's back contorted as she continued to twist through the air. Only a fraction of a second had passed; not that time had slowed, but everything revealed itself so clearly in those split second moments, and behind her she heard Warren's car, its brakes squealing, the car jerking to the side as Warren spun the wheel.
Then the asphalt rose up to meet her, and Max flexed her fingers again.
Agony erupted through her, her arm howling as she continued to force time to listen to her demands, and it stopped once more. She dangled inches above that road, motes of dust and moisture suspended in the moment all around her.
Rolling her left arm down, she managed to find purchase on the road. Slowly she unfurled, easing her legs until they too grounded against the asphalt. A sigh of relief escaped her, the impact of that collision avoided, and, with great force, she willed herself down until she could scramble over that road, to the pebbled curb, then sat herself in the grass edge before the ditch that ran along the shoulder.
As she sat, comforted by the cool caress of the grass beneath her, she turned her attention back to Warren and her friends. The car had turned too quickly, had slammed its brakes with too much force, and again it had begun to tilt, preparing to roll through that intersection, towards the oncoming semi-truck. She could see the shock on those faces through the windows, stunned to find that their friend had suddenly vanished from the interior and was now hurtling through the air ahead of their car and equally stunned by the inevitability of the crash to come. The two vehicles wouldn't t-bone in that junction, but Warren's car would inevitably smash into the trailer of the truck as it sped past the stop sign. Her friends would be lucky to survive.
Why was this happening? Max had barely survived the loss of Chloe, but to lose Dana and Warren and Trevor as well, that was too much. She could see the horror on their faces, she could imagine the pain and shock of the impending accident, and it crushed her. She hurt, her heart hurt, everything hurt.
Each in their own way, she loved them, flaws and all. Warren's obliviousness and nerdy joy, despite his insecurity and alpha posturing. Dana's protective streak and genuine kindness, despite her over extroverted tendencies and her habit of holding a grudge. Trevor and his absolute chill, even if he rarely approached Max, keeping more to his skater boys, if not attached at the hip with Dana. They were her friends and Chloe had died just so that they could still be ripped away from her. No. More, beyond Max's own self-interest, Chloe had died so that these friends could still suffer, still be destroyed by a different storm. Absolutely not.
No.
Max rose to her feet and raised her hand once more. Slowly time began to reverse again, and that pounding in her head intensified. Warren's car rolled back, even as Max stepped along the shoulder walking towards it on the edge of the road. She had to remove herself from the trajectory of the semi-truck. She had to alert Warren in time for him to slow to an eased stop and avoid the collision. She had to set things right.
She could do this.
Five seconds back and already the car resumed its reverse course on all four tires and the shock of seeing their friend vanish before their eyes suddenly disappeared from the faces within. They were before her disappearance now. A vessel burst somewhere within Max and that familiar warm, wet trickle of blood from her nose greeted her, again.
Hello, old friend.
Seven seconds back now, but how far before the accident had they come? Time had only resumed its normal function for a second at best as she had hurtled through the air or surely she would have been splattered across the road herself. Max tried to force that image down, but suddenly visions of Chloe on the tracks surged in to replace it and she found herself faltering. Time didn't resume, but it stopped momentarily in her shock.
I can't do this right now, she thought. I can't think about her, about that week. I have to keep going.
And she knew this to be true. If she allowed that trauma to bubble up, even for a second, if she gave in to that grief and anguish of which she had been battling for so long, then she would fail them.
She would fail her friends.
She would fail Chloe.
She would fail Arcadia Bay.
I'm so, so sorry, Chloe. I'm so sorry…
Don't be, that Chloe voice told her; yet still she denied it.
She grabbed her right arm with her left, holding to that cracking forearm, fighting against the boiling pain and forced those fingers and that hand to extend and tug once more upon the strings of time.
Another second back. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Between the multiple rewinds, she had to be approaching nearly a minute before the accident now, Warren's car receding into the distance. That pressure kept building inside her, pushing out against her skull. This had to be enough. She couldn't take the pain much longer.
Sixteen seconds. Seventeen.
Still the tears flowed, the anguish over what she was doing, of the months of promises now broken tearing at her, even as Max knew the alternative to be unacceptable.
Please, please forgive me.
Already told you, dumbass. No need.
She let go and, with a pop, sound and movement returned to the world. Time resumed and Max jolted in surprise.
Although in those frozen moments and the reversed momentum of the timestream, she had eased herself down and removed herself from her mid-air hurtle, the kinetic energy of that impact had not finished playing out. As the normal flow of time kicked back in, so too did that kinetic force against her.
Instantly, she lurched aside thrust against the pebbled shoulder and tumbled down into the ditch, slamming into the far side with a loud snap. As the pain burst through her, she expected to hear a scream, yet it didn't come. Her side exploded and she couldn't breathe. She couldn't gasp; she couldn't scream; she couldn't make a single sound. She curled there, rolling down into the bottom of that ditch, certain that a rib had broken upon impact. Maybe more than one.
Be strong.
Easy for you to say, Chloe, she thought, then wondered about that phrasing.
Be strong. Those familiar words had pierced through her pain, but not in William's voice – in Chloe's voice now. Max could feel a warmth flood through her as her friend's words blanketed over her with a much needed sense of comfort. She had to get up. She had to make this right.
Her vision blurred and she gulped, a fish out of water, trying to breathe until at last she gasped and forced air down into her lungs. It burned and ached. Everything ached. Her whole body screamed for rest or death, but she couldn't stop, not yet.
How long had she been in that ditch? Five seconds, maybe? However long it had been, it was too long.
But it's not too late. I should have spoken sooner. I hate it when Rachel's right.
That Chloe voice was getting away from Max. She couldn't quite follow it's train of thought anymore. Was she having a conversation with herself? Was she getting lost in a conversation with herself? She supposed she couldn't really fault herself a break in sanity given the circumstances.
You're sane, Max. I should have come. I shouldn't have sent Rachel or dad.
Well, that sounded oddly lucid. She'd have to puzzle that out more when the world wasn't crashing and burning around her.
Max shifted to her knees, then rocked herself to her feet, gasping as the pain rolled over her with each movement. Standing, she could see Warren's car already slowing. They must have noticed her vanish. Of course they did. Clutching her shattered right arm to her broken side, Max hobbled out into the street, then waved her good arm to catch their attention.
Thank Dog.
The car slowed, pulling to the side of the road and easing to a stop just as the semi-truck blasted through the intersection behind Max. They'd be okay. She'd saved them, and relief flooded into her system. She'd saved her friends.
That satisfaction taking hold, her body relaxed, but only for an instant. Brakes screeched as the semi-truck slammed into the ditch behind her and a horn blared until cutting off abruptly with the sudden crumpling of metal. Max turned to see the trailer twisting, its kingpin bending and the whole back swinging and rolling right towards her.
Shit! Come on, already!
For a moment, she had wondered if this is what it would have been like for Chloe that week, constantly finding herself in the crosshairs of death, …
(don't know; only experienced the one)
…then the adrenaline kicked back in and she pushed the thought aside, forcing herself to act.
Still holding that injured arm to her side, she eased her fingers and hand back into that familiar pose. Unfortunately time didn't rewind, nor did it stop; but it did slow. Briefly Max wondered as to why she could no longer push it back, force time upriver, and yet, hadn't this happened before, when Kate tried to jump? Perhaps, she thought, I'm reaching my limit.
Much as that thought plagued her, she had no time to ponder it further. Max ran forward as best as she could, limping towards Warren's car, the trailer swinging ever slowly towards her in the thick of the slowed time. She cleared its path just as that kingpin snapped and the entire rig tilted over and rolled half into the ditch itself. A moment's hesitation more and she'd be in that ditch, too.
Clear of the disaster, Max let go of time and collapsed to her knees. She needed to rest; she needed this to be over.
Sound resumed at its normal speed, the cacophony of the crash landing in a chaotic din upon her ears. She covered them, less to shield from the volume of the aural assault and more to drown out the confusion of so much happening at once, sounds speeding up to normal after their previously softened and slowed state, and their complete absence before that in the frozen morass of paused time. The world existed in a chaotic din of sensory overload. Even the sight of motion resuming at normal speed sent her head reeling, and Max shut her eyes against the vision before her.
She had done it. She had saved them. She had broken her promise, but she had prevented the crash. Her friends were alive.
That's what you wanted, right? You died, so they could live.
A different me, I suppose.
The rapid, pained throb of her frantic breathing eased as slowly a calm began to settle back in. This time it came tempered with a hint of underlying tension, that nagging worry that this too was a false alarm; a peace that would surely be sundered. If it was, Max had no time for it. Not now. She let herself fall to the curb. She could rest now; she could rest. She had to.
Right, Chloe?
Not yet.
That mental Chloe came through pained; choked as if holding back her own tears, and that growing independence in that internal voice scared Max. Was she losing her mind?
"Max!"
A voice echoed somewhere out in that black void, as a car door slammed. Other noises echoed out. Doors opening. Feet hitting pavement. More shouting.
"Max, holy shit! What happened?"
"How? It doesn't… I don't understand."
She couldn't distinguish the voices. That didn't matter right now. They were alive. That's all that mattered… and the storm. Was the storm coming now? It would be, wouldn't it?
That urge to apologize bubbled back up. She had ruined it. She had ruined everything. What would Chloe think of her? Would she hate her for failing like this? No… no, she wouldn't, would she?
No. Never.
Warren was the first at her side, reaching down towards her battered face. She could feel the cuts and bruises on her cheeks scream as his fingers brushed back towards her ear. She let out a low moan, and Warren's hand paused, pulling blissfully away.
"Maximus, can you hear me?"
She blinked, her vision slowly easing back into focus. Warren knelt above her, running a trembling hand back through his hair. A small trail of blood ran down his forehead from that scruff in the wake of his hand.
"You're bleeding…" she said, her voice trailing off.
"No… No, not mine." They were the only words he could get out, his eyes darting over her. Did she look that bad?
Pushing forward, Max tried to prop herself up on her good elbow. Her whole body screamed for her to stop, but she had to see. As she leaned forward, she felt the blood from her head wound slowly running down her scalp, a stray stream easing down into her vision. She tried to lift her right arm to wipe it away, but the whole world washed over in white with the agony of that movement.
"Fuck!" She bit down on her lip, and fell back down to the asphalt, Warren just managing to slip a hand beneath her head before it would have crashed into the road. He grunted as, instead, her head crushed his own hand into the asphalt.
"You okay?" she managed.
Warren laughed. It didn't feel very genuine. "Yeah, Maximus. Fuck. I'm good."
Suddenly another voice shouted over her and Max pried her eyes back open: Dana. She was shouting, but Max's ears rang, drowning out her initial words until that high-pitched screech siphoned away, allowing those words to once more drift down to her.
"...move her," she said. "It could just make things worse. We have to call 911. Trevor!"
"Yeah, I'm on it," he shouted back, already dialing on his cellphone.
Max blinked a few more times, that blood from her scalp still falling into her right eye, blotting out her vision.
"Here," Warren said, slipping off his jacket. First he took the sleeve, wiping the blood from Max's eyes, then laid it over her, blocking out the cold. It really was so cold, wasn't it? Dog.
"I'm okay," she said, but she didn't feel it. Her head still throbbed, pulsing with that headache that always accompanied her pushing her limits. She had almost forgotten how bad these felt; how often they led to her collapsing in Chloe's arms. She couldn't do that now. She needed to make sure everyone was okay. She needed…
I need Chloe…
I'm here…
"The driver…" she started.
Warren understood instantly. "I got ya, Max. Dana?" He rose and tapped the tall girl's shoulder. "Watch out for Max, alright?"
"Wait? What, where are you going? I still don't understand – "
"– I don't either," he interrupted. "But first we make sure everyone's okay." With that, he turned and ran towards the cab lying crashed into the ditch just beyond the overturned trailer.
Dana eased down beside Max.
"How?" she asked. "I don't… you were there and then… I don't understand what happened."
Max smiled. There'd be time for that now. Later. Despite everything time had thrown at her, she'd made it. They'd made it. She bit down on her lip again, and tried to lean up on that elbow.
"Hell, Max, no," Dana said, pressing gently against her shoulder, begging Max to lay back down. Yet her adrenaline still surged through her. Max could still hear the rapid fire movements of catastrophe all around: Warren's footfalls as he ran, Trevor shouting at his phone, the engine of Warren's car still humming from the curb, a car door opening, the approach of yet another car from out towards the cemetery.
Beyond Dana she could see a familiar BMW on the horizon speeding their way. The others would be here soon. Good. Maybe they have a blanket, she thought. It's so damn cold.
"Please, Max, just lay down," Dana started, and then a new sound cut the girl off.
A loud pop rang out, a bang from off behind, Max, and Dana's eyes widened in shock. Tilting back, Max caught sight of Warren falling back as a bullet exited his head.
What the actual fuck!
Max couldn't even finish the thought before another bang pierced the air, and Dana jerked back, a crimson spray showering over Max. She didn't even wait for Dana's body to hit the road. She flexed those fingers again, stretched out that hand as she braced her shattered arm. It didn't want to move. Nothing wanted to move, but it had to.
I'm sorry… I have to keep going, Chloe. I have to.
It's okay. Not much further, Max. You're almost there.
She bit down, straining against her broken body, straining against the lethargy of time, and finally she felt that barrier break, that viscous weave bowed to her will and the stream moved back once more.
Dana rose, the bullet reversing from her chest and the blood soaking back in as the wound sealed with that exit. Warren rose, a slow motion Nosferatu rising up from that road, another bullet reversing into the back of his head with a similarly vanishing spray of blood, the puddle beneath him suctioning back as well, as his skull and scalp mended together, a macabre puzzle of gore locking into place. Then that bullet backed out from his forehead, tracking all the way to the gun from which it had been fired.
A stout man, broad-shouldered with a stubbly face half-concealed by his broken shades and his trucker's cap, lowered the gun to the holster at his side, as he walked backwards around the bend of the trailer, reversing towards that cab.
What in the holy fuck just happened?
Max had to be about ten seconds back now, the pain escalating once more. It wasn't enough.
Twelve seconds. Backwards gibberish could be heard above her as Warren spoke with Dana in a hurry, then he was down at her side once more.
Fifteen seconds.
I promise Choe, once I fix this, we're done. I'll fix this and then…
Sixteen.
Then what? Max thought.
Then we'll be together again.
No, that couldn't be. It never would be, again. Hell, could she ever be done? This man just shot her friends in cold blood. This wasn't a random accident. Even if she fixed it, would he keep coming? And why?
Above her, Warren removed his jacket from Max's body letting the cold flood over her again. In reverse, he wiped that jacket's bloody sleeve over her eye, blotting out her vision.
Seventeen seconds.
A fresh river of blood made itself known, pouring from her nose. Max had to lean forward as it tried to flow back down her nasal passages and into her throat. She could feel herself choking on it and rolled over as best as she could to spit it out. Specks of blood froze mid air, wavering, caught in a paradox, leaving Max, and no longer free of the restraints of time, yet not of the time being reversed. The shimmered between existence and non-existence, a puzzle about which Max, in that moment, couldn't care less.
Eighteen seconds.
This was as far as she had ever gone. Her eyes wanted to explode. Her head pounded and pulsed to a shocking beat, as if in rhythm with the frantic pumping of her blood.
Nineteen.
I'm almost done, Chloe.
Almost, Mad Max.
She so hoped that was true.
Twenty.
She had to keep going.
A ghost echo of Max lifted her head up off of Warren's hand, then that hand paused before brushing back against her cheek.
Twenty-three.
Warren rose and backtracked towards his car as her other friends eased back into their seats slamming their doors shut behind them.
Twenty-seven.
She stopped. She couldn't do it anymore. Time resumed, and with it, Max hit her knees, straining to get to her feet. Behind her those doors opened once more and suddenly Warren had his hand to her back.
"Whoa there, Maximus. Don't think standing up is a good –"
"– Shutup," she snapped. "Help me up."
His hand paused on her back. Had she ever truly snapped at Warren before? Whatever. "Now," she said with too much bite, and suddenly that hand was under her good arm and pulling her to her feet.
"Thanks," she said. The meek emotionless offering was all she had to soften the blow of her earlier haste. He could take it or leave it. Max didn't have time to care, immediately taking off towards the overturned trailer. She could hear the shouting rising behind her and Warren's footsteps keeping pace with her own. That wouldn't work; it was too dangerous.
She flexed those fingers again; seized time again; flinched in pain again as the excruciating force of time fought against her. Blood drenched her lips and chin, and the world kept shifting in and out of focus, but she could do this. She would make this right.
She had to stop promising Chloe. She kept breaking that promise over and over. She didn't know where the end was anymore, although she had the sneaking suspicion that it would be at her physical breaking point, and no sooner.
As the stream reversed once more, time flowing upriver, Warren retreated behind her all the way back to the car.
That should do it, she thought, and hurried towards the truck's cab. The door was just opening as she approached, the trucker (who I doubt is actually a trucker) jumping down to the grass of the ditch. He flung a backhand of blood away from his forehead, having apparently collided with his own steering wheel upon impact (good. You deserve worse), then spotted Max and grabbed for his gun.
A twist of that broken wrist and time stood still. She was upon his frozen form in an instant, unbuckling the holster strap and pulling out his pistol. Taking five steps back she aimed and released time, the trucker now staring down the barrel of his own gun.
"Who are you?" she asked, her hand trembling, but he had already turned, grabbing an automatic (I guess) off the seat of the cab. She had no choice.
Max pulled the trigger.
The man snorted, turning back, rifle in hand. "Safety," he managed to say, before time rewound once more. Only a couple seconds this time – long enough for Max to find the switch and release the safety.
As time resumed, she fired, the bang of the gun reverberating through her ears. A light mist sprayed across her face (not mist). The shock of the sound and mist (not mist) recoiled through her and Max dropped the gun to the ground. It clanged against the pavement, the high pitched keening of so much strain once more rising and blotting out all other sounds.
No matter, Max thought. Mission accomplished.
Bile rose up in her throat. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to collapse. She wanted the past few minutes erased.
Badass, Max.
As she resisted the rising urge to vomit, the man collapsed to the ground in front of her. She knew that she had shot him in the face, but she couldn't look at him. She couldn't see that. The ringing in her ears slowly faded and gradually the sound of yelling filled in the vacuum of that ringing's absence. It sounded off behind her, somewhere towards the overturned rig.
"Was that a gunshot?"
"Max!" Warren yelled. "Where are you?"
"Call 911!" Dana again.
"I'm on it." Good ol' reliable Trevor.
Max knelt by the trucker's body, adrenaline pulsing through her; her body practically shaking from the heightened energy. Rummaging through his pockets she pulled out his phone, only as she did, she caught sight of his ruined face. Her stomach twisted, it lurched, and immediately she lost her battle against that rising bile. She collapsed, retching up her meager ACFC breakfast.
Chloe collapsed in that junkyard, the cloying smell of rot overpowering her and Max, Rachel's body unearthed mere feet away from where she lay sprawled in the dirt.
Footsteps slowed to a halt behind Max and she twisted back spotting Warren, his face a shade too pale, his eyes wide and unblinking. They focused on that man, on him, on what she had done to him.
I'm sorry, she thought. I had to do it… I had to… Oh God, what have I done… what… No, this isn't me.
And it wasn't. She wasn't a murderer, was she? She couldn't just kill someone.
You killed Chloe. You killed this man.
No, Max. You never —
She had to undo it.
"Max?" Warren's voice caught in his throat, her name barely more than a raspy whisper. Even Warren couldn't look at her now.
Grabbing the pistol and slipping it in her waistband (that's stupid dangerous), Max scoured the ground for the man's automatic (automatic, semi-automatic, assault rifle, fuck, I don't know squat about guns), then as she found it pressed beneath him, she grabbed it, and rewound time once more. The shimmer images of time's ghost-like figures advanced back second by second, until the man had just landed on his feet in the grass beneath his cab. Her head spun, the pounding intensifying to an excruciating degree.
Max stopped the rewind, but she did not let time flow again; not yet. She held it, that temporal migraine ripping at her head. She could feel the strain taxing at every inch of her, her muscles taut and weary as that ache took over. The familiar trickle of blood flowed again from her nose and suddenly Max became aware of just how unsteady she was.
Holding reality paused, fighting against the growing intensity of her struggle with the reigns of time, she walked up, slamming the butt of the gun into the trucker's face; it felt like hitting a brick wall. The man didn't budge an inch. That's weird, she thought, but she didn't stop to ponder it for long.
Max brought that same butt down on the man's right knee, and again up into his stomach. Each time the gun met as if hitting a solid, unyielding barrier, not even a bruise beginning to form. Yet, when Warren's car had been hit and time had paused with Max caught mid-air, once time resumed she had continued her trajectory. The force of the previous blow had needed the proper flow of time in order to have any effect. Hopefully the same principle applied here. Just to be safe, Max slammed the butt into the man's face once more.
With each blow she wavered, unsteady on her feet as both the strain and the guilt cut into her. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to hurt this man (yes, you do). Tears ran down her cheeks as with each blow she could feel that much more of herself dying. Jefferson prided himself on shattering innocence. Max had thought her innocence completely stripped away, removed in that Dark Room. Now she felt its fragile remains breaking; breaking with the shot of that pistol; breaking with every hit into the frozen man before her; breaking as she staggered on her feet, throwing every ounce of energy she had left behind each blow.
Fuck that, Super Max. Lay this fucker out.
Huh.
She snickered. She knew she was hallucinating, but at the same time, it felt good to have Chloe there supporting her, comforting her, even if it was only a disembodied, hallucinated voice.
Partners in crime and all that shit, right?
"Right," Max said, smashing the butt of the automatic one final time into the man's ribs. She tumbled to the ground with the force of the blow, but that was okay. The ground was stable. The ground wasn't moving beneath her. She needed that — stability.
Finally, she released her hold on temporal reality, on the stream and the strands of that weave, and instantly the man before her convulsed, his knee buckling and his head snapping back from the multiple blows to his face, even as he bowled over from the blow to his stomach and the slam to his ribs. He crumpled and fell, then lay still in front of her. Not bothering to stand, Max nudged him with her toe, decided he was well and truly unconscious, then froze time once more.
She screamed as the pain seared through her, digging into her brain, clawing at her insides; she was pushing herself too far. That's okay. She only had to go a little further now. She breathed through the agony, washing it away little by little until she was left with simply her own breathing and the quiet of the stillness.
Good. Good. This I can handle.
In that frozen moment, the pain not so much numbed as it was buried, Max crawled to her feet, then waded through the thick air towards the front of the cab. A moment later (that same moment), she eased herself down the slope of the ditch, then cast the "trucker's" guns beneath the cab, far enough under that they'd be completely hidden unless one knew they were there. In her experience, keeping guns around never led anywhere pleasant.
Case in point, you just shot a man in the face.
Again she collapsed, dry heaving the remains of her stomach contents into the grass. The bile froze mid-air and Max's stomach roiled and emptied itself once more.
He would have killed you, Maxi-taxi. You did what you had to.
No, she thought. No… too far. I won't become a killer. I won't.
She hauled herself up and back against the cab of the truck, slipping down and wrapping herself around her knees into a tight huddle and taking a moment to catch her breath. As her breathing eased, she slipped the man's phone from her pocket and tried to flip through it. The screen didn't even light up.
Fuck.
Nothing's instantaneous, Max. Everything takes time.
Chloe was right.
Max released her grip on time and the screen booted to life and her floating bile fell with a splash into the grass and dirt. Max flipped through the screens as fast as she could, biting back the still pulsing pain splitting through her head. No favorites. No saved numbers. All the texts had been deleted. She tapped onto recent calls.
One number was all that remained in the list: a number only — no name. The call had been received only a minute prior. Max pressed 'call' and let the phone ring.
"Max!" Warren sped around the rig. She must have been some sight, because he froze instantly. She guessed the "trucker" laid out at her feet could have contributed to his shock.
Or the spray of (mist, mist, let it be mist) not mist across your face? Or the mangled mess of your arm? The blood from your scalp? The glass shrapnel in your cheeks? Maybe that bloodstain over your ribs? Oh shit, when'd you get that? Oh yeah, the ditch… that's right.
The first ring sounded on the other end of the line.
"Max?" Warren inched closer. Somewhere in the distance Max could hear Dana shouting for Trevor to call 911. That didn't matter right now.
It would be nice, however, if everyone could stop being so loud.
The second ring sounded, then cut off. Max tried to hold up her hand to silence Warren, but she couldn't bring herself to lift it. Not again.
"Max!"
Damn, he needed to stop shouting.
"Thompson?" That voice, a man's voice, shook as it sounded over the open line. It seemed familiar somehow. "Is it done?"
Is what done? Is this other man for cereal asking if the trucker had just killed her? Her friends? What had he been after?
"Thompson," the man asked again. "Shall I call it in?"
"Who…" Max started, but she couldn't finish.
"Fuck!" The line went dead.
Okay… that could have gone better. Max flexed her fingers, screaming as the pain shot through her arm once more. Oh man, that hurt. The explosion now bursting in her head rang out far worse than before. She tried to push through, grabbing out for those strands, to pull time to her bidding.
She found no purchase.
That errant keening returned, her head spinning and her ears ringing. She could feel herself falling, sliding over, and then arms wrapped around her, catching her.
Chloe?
I'm here, Max.
The ringing eased, the pain softened, and the world unblurred. Warren sat there cradling her in his arms.
You're not Chloe.
"Max, I'm here. Trevor's calling for help. It's going to be okay."
"No…"
Something wasn't right. She couldn't rewind; she was tapped out… but this man, he wasn't alone. They weren't safe. She had to get to the car.
She couldn't reverse time. Fuck.
Gripping Warren's shoulder with her left hand, Max pushed herself from his arms rocking back to her feet.
"Max… I don't think you should be standing."
"Just… help me to the car."
"What?"
"Now." She'd snapped, again. She couldn't help it. That sense of dread kept building, and she had to do it. She had to keep moving. She had to make sure they were safe.
Warren didn't question her further. He eased his right arm under her left and around her waist, acting as a human crutch, and helped her towards his car. As they rounded the overturned trailer rig, Max spotted her friends. Dana stood in the middle of the road, her eyes darting from Warren's car to Victoria's BMW pulling off onto the shoulder behind it to the downed trailer and finally to Max and Warren hobbling around the rig.
Trevor leaned against the driver-side door of Warren's ancient bluish-gray hatchback, a phone pressed to his ear. As Dana gasped, his eyes darted up catching on Max and Warren as well.
All eyes did.
Max could see Victoria hesitate as she pulled herself up out of her driver side. Taylor, too. Alyssa didn't even bother exiting the car. She just sat there transfixed. The whole scene played out so eerily silent, everyone transfixed as she limped closer to the point that Max actually wondered for a moment if she had stopped time. Then that passenger door opened on the BMW and Kate bound out from Victoria's car running straight towards Max.
As Kate rounded the hood of the BMW, Max noticed another movement, a beige van barreling towards them. That same, familiar beige van – and it was aimed direct center on her friend dashing across the road.
"Kate!" Max stretched out her right arm and staggered as the world flashed white, and that hot poker stabbed back into her brain. She screamed, stumbling out of Warren's grasp and down to her knees.
In that blinding white, the approaching engine sounded louder and louder, screams reverberating all around her, and then a sickening thud rang out, more screams echoing in its wake and those engine sounds roared past accompanied now by a screeching of brakes. Max's eyes blinked open, the blinding white fading back down until the world crystallized. Only this world wasn't the one she fought for; it was not the world for which Chloe sacrificed herself. This was a world of chaos and pain.
Hell. This looks horrible.
Victoria eased off on the gas, gently slowing her car as she approached the wreck ahead. From the look of things, a semi-truck had lost control and ran the stop sign, crashing into the ditch curbside, its trailer jackknifing and rolling at an angle towards the gravel shoulder as well. Luckily, best that Victoria could see, Warren's ancient hatchback had pulled off to the side of the road and apparently avoided the wreck. The annoying bit is that someone in the group (probably Max) had decided they needed to stop and play good samaritan. Sure, Victoria wasn't without a heart; she would have called 911, but stepping out and getting involved? Was it even safe? What if the rig caught fire? What if a driver wasn't paying attention and came speeding their way? Sure, it wasn't likely, but it still nagged at Victoria.
Yet, here were Max's friends in the thick of it. Dana, dumbass that she was, stood smack in the middle of the road. At least her stoner boyfriend had the good sense to be leaning against the hatchback off on the curb, nowhere near the street. Max and nerdboy Warren, however, were nowhere to be seen.
Fuck.
She didn't like the idea of Max and Warren alone together. Max insisted that he wasn't all that bad, but the boy gave Victoria the creeps. She'd rather take her chances with Logan or Zach. Sure, they could both be pretty shitty, but they were at least up front about it. Warren liked to play the nice guy, but it read a little too much surface level for her, and the way he stared at Max read a bit less like unrequited love and more like entitlement and lust.
"Shit, Vic, is that…"
Taylor's voice cutoff before finishing her question, but Victoria didn't need to ask what she wanted. Victoria knew instantly.
Rounding the rig, Warren held Max around her waist helping her back towards his car. Only, Max, Max was…
Max…
Victoria pulled in behind Warren's hatchback, easing the car to a stop. A shocked silence had settled over the front of the car. In back, neither Alyssa nor Kate seemed to have noticed yet. Perhaps that was for the best. Victoria didn't want Kate seeing this. Kate had been through enough and Victoria knew how much Max meant to her. Just to her?
Victoria ignored the question rising in her thoughts, which was easy to do as she found herself scrambling to make any sense of what she was seeing. The hatchback was fine, had obviously not been in the accident, yet, then why… why was Max…
Snap out of it, Victoria!
She had to move. She had to check on Max. She had to pull nerdboy off of her and get her some real help.
Victoria couldn't even recall opening her door. One second she had been shifting into park, and the next she had stepped out onto the curb ready to rush to her friend. And yeah, fuck, Max wasn't just a project anymore. Victoria didn't just want to make amends; she really, really liked the girl. Despite all her mousy, shy, hipster nonsense, the little waif had snuck through her barriers, and, much as she didn't want to admit, Max meant more to her than she would dare say out loud.
Later Victoria.
Ahead of her, Max limped forward, aided by Warren, but this, this Max came straight from a Stephen King movie: a modern day Carrie. A misty splatter of blood covered her from the waist up, dotting over her sweatshirt and her face. Yet more splatter covered her pants, an odd gap of bloodless cloth around her midriff seeming to indicate these came from two different sources. Fuck. What did Victoria know? There was blood everywhere. Max's entire right side looked as though it had been dipped in red. Her hair was matted and wet, blood pooling down her forehead and into her right eye. Her right cheek had been torn to shreds, pocked in lacerations. Blood flowed freely from her nose and over her gasping lips as Max appeared to struggle to catch her breath. A thick patch of red on her right side had bled through her sweatshirt, as well. Yet the worst of it was that arm. Max's cast appeared a bloody pulp, dented and shattered, cut through in multiple places as if an eggshell cracked open. Through those cracks, the blood streamed and dripped, leaving a splatter trail in her wake. Even the flesh of her fingers had been stained in that blood, hidden now in thick layers of red, dried and wet. Even with Warren's help, Victoria had no clue how the girl was still standing.
And why was she the only one hurt? How had she even been hurt? The hatchback seemed unscathed, yet Max, she looked as though she had been through hell and she hadn't made it back.
A car door opened, and Victoria noticed Taylor exiting from the passenger side, but her gaze never left Max. She and Warren continued their slow hobble towards them. Victoria knew that she should run to them; that she should do something, say something, just move, but she couldn't. From the look of things, no one could. Dana, Trevor, Taylor, they all seemed locked in place, all their eyes drawn to the baffling tableau before them.
Move Victoria. This is Max. Move. Do something!
Still, she stood, frozen. Behind her, voices drifted out from the backseat. Panicked voices.
"Don't look." Alyssa, that one sounded like Alyssa.
"What do you mean? Huh—" A breath hitched in and Victoria instantly knew that Kate had finally noticed Max's advance. She expected to hear a wracked sob follow behind that intake of breath, but it did not come. Instead, something else rose up: strength.
"We have to help." A car door opened right behind Victoria.
"Max!" Kate yelled, and then she was past Victoria and rounding the front of the BMW headed for the road and for Max and Warren beyond. Where Victoria froze, Kate hadn't even hesitated. For all the pain that girl had seen and endured, for all her own suffering, when her friend needed her, Kate was stronger than all of the rest of them combined. Victoria scoffed at herself. A moment ago she had wondered how to protect Kate from seeing Max like this; yet Kate seemed to be the only one that hadn't broken at the sight of their friend.
Kate's shoes smacked against the pavement, the footfalls mixing with the sound of an approaching engine — a loud engine growing louder by the second and much too fast. Victoria turned, spotting the beige van gunning their way, speeding towards them. Hadn't she just been worried about this exact scenario? But why, why was it speeding up?
Fuck! Can't the driver see them?
"Kate!" Max screamed and Victoria returned her attention to her bloodied friend. She reached out with that pulped arm (and how the fuck is she even doing that?), and she spread those bloodied fingers wide in a stop gesture, as if she could halt the car in that simple act. Immediately the girl staggered and fell from Warren's arms, still reaching out towards Kate and the van beyond.
Kate and the van beyond.
Kate and the van.
Kate!
Everything slowed.
Max falling to her knees.
Warren reaching towards her falling form.
Dana turning in the middle of the road.
Trevor yelling into his phone.
Alyssa, pressing towards the glass of the passenger-side window.
Taylor screaming!
Kate running towards Max, the van barreling towards her.
Kate running.
The van speeding up.
Speeding towards Kate.
Something broke inside Victoria and at last she could move again. She had to.
Victoria ran! She pushed over the hood of her car, sliding then rolling over the pavement and bounding to her feet, ignoring the pain of her skinned knees as the asphalt bit through her stupid designer pants.
She bolted for her friend. She bolted for Kate!
Behind her the screams rang out and Victoria couldn't distinguish one from the next. They bled together, a cacophony of fear and warning. They didn't matter. Max mattered. Kate mattered. They had been hurt too many times. She had hurt them too many times. She would not fail them again.
The van was almost there. So close.
Victoria had never run so fast. She had never tried so hard. She wasn't going to make it. Kate, Kate was going to be hit. That van was going to hit her, run her down.
It couldn't! She couldn't let it!
Victoria pushed harder.
Almost there.
She could almost reach her. She could see Kate turning back now, just noticing the van, as focused as she had been on reaching Max. Victoria could see the fear in those eyes, the recognition dawning in them as the van bore down on her.
Kate's eyes had seen too much fear. Too much pain.
Not again!
She pushed harder than ever before, and then —
— then there she was. She barreled into Kate, carried her and shoved her at once, propelling her forward even as she ran behind her, pushing her just that bit further. She pushed and Kate stumbled off, then rolled forward and out of the way.
She's safe, Victoria thought, just as the shock of impact jolted through her. She felt herself lifting into the air, and she heard the smashing and tinkling of glass as a softer sharper impact impaled her shoulder. She tumbled through the air, grabbing at the back of her neck. You're supposed to do that right? Shield the neck and the head? That sounded right. Didn't matter. She was doing it. She pulled into a pained ball, feeling oddly light as she somersaulted through the open air, then smacked into the asphalt, her whole body shuddering in the sudden and total pain.
Her world flashed red and white, and she could taste blood in her mouth. She coughed and gurgled and heard the screams still piercing around her as that engine sped off, then slowed. Who was screaming? Taylor? Kate? Max?
Was that her own voice?
No, Victoria thought. You never stop. It's just not safe. You know better. You knew better. But it doesn't matter. She's safe. She's safe. Kate's safe, right?
Victoria blinked and stared out through a veil of red over the puddled asphalt, and there was Kate, screaming and scrambling to her knees. Was she hurt? No, no… No, she was okay. She was okay. I did good, she thought, I did good.
She relaxed, and let the pain flood over her and the darkness settle down. The world was fading, but Kate was okay and Victoria couldn't ask for more. She'd done good, and that was all that mattered. The van careened somewhere off behind the rig, and Max, and Kate were both still there. Neither had been hit, and that was good. So good. That was what she wanted. Victoria could close her eyes now. It was too bright out, too, too bright. So bright.
She'd just close her eyes and she'd take a little nap.
Just a short little nap.
Just for a bit.
A little nap.
So good.
Good…
little..
nap…
…
.
