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Brock Ali woke up to the sound of nothing. Like, actually nothing. No birds, or the whirring of the broken air conditioner, or quiet footsteps from outside. It was nice, though he did miss the bird songs.
He got out of bed and stretched. It was still quiet.
Brock absentmindedly thought about what he had planned for the day as he brushed his teeth. He thought his mother said something about an event this weekend that the whole town was going to. The morning light shined in through the window above the shower. He probably slept in late. Normally his mother would wake him up, or his sister would come running in the room to bother him. They were probably at the store; they were out of eggs.
Still in pajamas, Brock opened the door and walked out into the hallway. The screech of the slightly rusted hinges was deafening in the silence. He frowned a little bit, because normally the birds were up by now, and Brock really missed them; but he must have slept in later than he thought because he couldn’t hear them. He decided to try and enjoy it, however, because usually he woke up to screaming children or barking dogs. He walked down the hallway, still with no noise. His socked feet padded softly on the carpet as he walked.
Turning the corner around the stairs, he saw something in the reflection of a glass vase for a moment and paused. He stared at the vase for a moment before dismissing it as the sunlight filtering through the hand-me-down wooden blinds.
He walked up the stairs, hand brushing along the railing as it curved upwards. The bottom two steps made a creak as he stepped on them. He froze, before relaxing, because it was just stairs. It was a silly thing to worry about someone hearing, because nobody was around.
Brock bounded up the rest of the staircase, smiling. The wind was whistling in the fireplace. Outside the glass of the front door, he could see that nobody was walking around. Maybe that fancy event was today. He racked his brain to try and remember anything his mother had told him about yesterday, but oddly enough, he couldn’t remember much of anything from the night before. Just that there was the event. Not where it was, what it was, or when it was, anything. There was nothing. He had been so tired that he went to bed earlier than usual, so that was probably it. It made sense, so he dismissed it easily.
Walking to the kitchen, he grabbed his phone off the charger and clicked it on. The time read: 0:00.
Brock paused.
He hadn’t remembered switching it to military time. Brock stood there confused, glancing up at the windows and the soft sunlight; it obviously wasn’t midnight. He’d read about the midnight sun in his seventh-grade science class, but he was pretty sure they weren’t far north enough for that. Somebody was probably messing with him. He chalked it up to his sister trying to make him late by changing the timezone and the formatting. She did things like that all the time, like the time she set all his alarms to three in the morning, or the time she hid his toothbrush and he had to go buy a new one. Speaking of the little monster, he walked across the hall to her bedroom to see if she was home or at the store with his mother. He giggled a little bit as he thought about what antics he could get up to to annoy her.
He pushed the door open and it didn’t make a sound. Unlike his bedroom door, the hinges in the upstairs were all new. His mom had promised to fix them eventually, but she hadn’t gotten around to it. He was so close to just replacing them himself. Looking inside, he scowled at the mess of odd bits and pieces from different Lego sets on the ground and random toys. He definitely saw multiple nice pens and mini figurines that he’d been looking for. Those would’ve been helpful last week when he needed them for his science project. Brock was going to push her down the stairs the next time he saw her, as revenge. He smiled, satisfied with his plan.
He looked around for a bit more this time. She wasn’t asleep, or in the room at all, but it didn’t surprise him because his mother was at the store and probably brought her with. She always tried to convince their mom to buy treats and candy, it rarely worked but she still tried anyway. He walked into the room, the sunlight shining through the sliding doors. He looked at the different crayon doodles on the wall, all signed the same. But they weren’t signed, because he couldn’t see any name at all, it was all just smudges of crayon. But crayon was easy to smudge, and he would know from all those kindergarten art projects.
Brock left and shut the door behind him, still with no noise from the clean, shining hinges.
He idly wandered back over to the kitchen for breakfast—or maybe it was lunch. He hadn’t fixed his phone’s time yet. Brock opened the fridge, but it was barren and empty. Maybe they were missing more than eggs. Of the two things left in the fridge, there was leftover Chinese take-out and molding lettuce from a leftover salad night. He threw the vegetables out and grabbed the take-out then shuffled over to the microwave. The beeps of the buttons were almost startling in the silence of the empty house, but Brock had grown used to it. He absentmindedly wondered when the birds would come back. He was sure he had heard them yesterday morning, but he couldn’t remember much of yesterday so he supposed he could be wrong. It was almost April, but it was still a little chilly so they might not’ve migrated back yet. He was just remembering things wrong. It wouldn’t be unusual, he forgot school assignments all the time.
The microwave beeped and he took it out and sat down at the table. He grabbed his fork and began twirling it in the lo mein noodles. The grass outside was still a little bit brown from the winter, and the trees only had a couple of leaves and some empty bird nests in the upper branches. Normally he’d see deer or coyotes in the yard but they weren’t there. Eyebrows furrowing, Brock went back to his noodles.
The doorbell rang. It was a long, low chime that grated on his ears through the crackling speakers. Brock slowly pushed out of his chair and stood up. He took a moment, just standing. His mother and sister shouldn’t be back yet, right? How long could it have been? Slowly walking over and peeking around the corner, he saw the man. Out of the window, he could see him standing there with straight posture and a suit. His dark hands crossed behind his back where he couldn’t see them and he had a short buzz cut. Brock slowly came into view and he could see the moment that the man saw him from the expression that grazed his face for only a short second. He couldn’t decipher it.
He walked over and started unlocking the door. It clicked twice before he swung it open. It was cold outside. The man was gone. Almost frantically, Brock looked to the left and the right of the step but the man wasn’t there. Brock even looked behind him into the house and he was still nowhere to be found. He found himself standing a bit in shock because it had felt real. It looked real. But there’s no way it could’ve been real, because if it had then there would be a tall man standing in front of him. And there’s not. There’s nobody on the road, not even an idle car parked on the driveway or up the street. Brock doesn’t think that you’re supposed to hallucinate entire people, and on top of that, the doorbell rang! He’d heard it, so now he had auditory hallucinations to add to the mix. He dragged his hands down his face with a groan, taking them away when he saw a flash of white on the concrete.
As Brock’s gaze fell, it lingered on a crisp, white envelope. Brock leaned down and grabbed it with shaking hands. He slowly ripped it open, trying to keep from tearing the note. Inside was a small piece of paper folded in half. Brock's eyes glanced around his front yard, still paranoid from the sighting of the man. He tried to ignore it. Before unfolding it, he backed inside and shut the door, making sure to lock it. The minute he’d reached the confines of the kitchen, he opened it. At first glance, he almost thought it was blank, but upon closer inspection, there were three small words: Don’t come looking.
Brock could feel his heartbeat quickening, and he squinted at the message to make sure he read it correctly. The slightly threatening words still sat there innocently: “Don’t come looking.” Don’t come looking. Don’t come looking for what? Trying to find anything in the room to help him, his eyes caught on the blinking light of the microwave; it'd have been another hour if the “1:00” glaring on the screen was to be trusted. Brock didn’t know if he should trust it, after all the “0:00” from before wasn’t very trustworthy. He didn’t even know if the clock was working in hours or was just randomly changing!
Since this was the only thing he knew, even if doubtful, Brock had to hold on to it. He had to know something. If it had been an hour, then his mother and sister should’ve been back bearing plastic white bags filled with groceries. But they weren’t. Nobody was here. The birds were still silent. The words don’t come looking echoed in his mind. The weight of the situation dawned upon him. There was someone out there who cared so much about something that he might find that he felt the need to threaten him. Brock didn’t know what they might do, but he didn’t want to find out. But he couldn’t just not look; what if somebody needed his help? Brock had never been the hero-saving type before, but he found the idea settling comfortably in his mind.
Brock ripped the note in half, one with the message and the other with the blank paper. He pocketed the note as he grabbed a pen off the counter and quickly scribbled a quick note for his mother if she came home while he was gone. Grabbing his school bag off one of the dining chairs, he dumped it out and replaced notebooks with granola bars and water. Brock didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but it couldn’t hurt to have extra supplies, right?
Brock walked out the front door, slipping the spare key into his pocket. He didn’t know where he was going, or what he should be looking for. He supposed he was just kind of winging it, which may or may not have been the best idea but he didn’t have any other ones. He started walking down the driveway and onto the street. There weren’t any sidewalks in his neighborhood, so he just wandered down the road. The wind whipped around him, blowing his hair into his eyes. He kept walking.
Eventually, after about 15 minutes of walking, Brock exited the neighborhood and onto Main Street. There was a gas station up ahead, and he thought it probably couldn’t hurt to get some more supplies. Granola bars couldn’t last him forever. As he got closer, he noticed how decrepit the building looked. The inside was dim and he didn’t see any car parked nearby, despite it being daytime.
The door chimed when he walked in, but the hinges were rusty and unused. Stepping in carefully, he glanced around the small shop. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary yet, except for the lack of people or employees. He walked towards the canned food and snack aisle, and that was when he saw the girl. Before he had even fully turned the corner, he saw her tense up.
“Кто там?” She said in a distinctly Russian accent, without ever turning around. She still sat hunched over near the bags of chips. Brock didn’t know how to respond.
“Uhm,” He said eloquently, with as much confidence as he could muster. The girl shoved some off-brand Lays chips into her small backpack, before throwing it over her shoulder and turning around. She was shorter than him, but definitely stronger, though that wasn’t very hard as Brock had always been a little scrawny. He stood there awkwardly as she pulled her blonde hair back. “Uh,” He tried again, before being interrupted.
“Кто ты,” The girl narrowed her eyes at him.
“I, uh, I only speak English,” After a moment of silence he continued, “Sorry,” He winced.
She muttered under her breath in what was probably Russian again. “Who are you?” She said, in English. Her speech was a little bit stilted, but Brock could understand it much better than he could understand Russian, and she was a bit scary, so he didn’t comment. She probably hadn’t spoken English in a while.
“I’m Brock,” When she didn’t move to say anything, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Bea,” She responded, still staring flatly at him. Brock decided then that he could probably use someone to help him, and Bea looked smart enough. Probably smarter than him, and he was in AP engineering and coding classes.
“Do you want to help me bring all the others back?” Brock blurted.
If possible, Bea narrowed her eyes even more. “What do you mean?”
“You, know, all the people that are gone?” She continued to glare at him. “I have this letter as proof if you don’t believe me!” He rummaged around in his pocket before pulling out the crumpled thing and holding it out to her. Bea looked at it suspiciously before taking it and reading it. Brock had it memorized. The words don’t come looking played endlessly inside his head.
“What does this mean?” She asked, staring at him again.
Brock shuffled around nervously. “Um, I don’t really know? But we have to figure it out! I haven’t seen anybody except for you, not even the robins. And they’re always out, pooping on cars and stuff. There’s one that repeatedly crashes into my window,” He cut himself off from his rambling about birds.
“Hm. The last thing I remember, I was still in Омск, Россия. Yesterday,” Bea responded, mixing the two languages together in some sort of language soup.
“You were where? Is that where you lived?”
Bea grumbled again. “I was in Russia last night,” Brock frowned at her.
“I was here last night. I woke up in the same spot,” He said.
“Odd,” Bea glanced back at the chip shelf, and grabbed some more horrible off-brand bags, shoving them into her bag. “We should investigate.”
“So you’ll help me?” Brock could feel himself getting giddy at the thought of not being alone anymore.
“Да,” She said, “It looks like you need it.” Brock couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad at the poorly disguised insult, because he actually got her to help him. But, the more he thought about it, the less he knew of where to start.
He frowned. “Um, do you have any great ideas of where to start?” Brock looked away sheepishly.
“You hadn’t thought about that before?” Bea asked incredulously. “Isn’t that the first step to doing anything?”
“I was a little bit preoccupied at the moment,” He glanced off nervously.
Bea narrowed her eyes again. If she did it anymore Brock was sure they were going to be permanently stuck. “Too preoccupied to use your brain?”
“I just thought I could, y’know, wing it!” He cried defensively, waving his arms around. Bea started muttering again under her breath, and Brock decided that she was probably cussing him out in Russian. “So, um, did you have any great ideas? Because I’m kind of out of those. Y’know, used them all out coming out here and all,” He probably would’ve continued rambling if Bea hadn’t started talking then.
“I, unlike you, plan things out. So yes, I do have many ideas,”
“Care to share with the class?” He snickered a little bit.
“What?” Bea stared blankly at him.
“Never mind,” Brock muttered, “What do you have planned?”
“We should search for a government facility so we can look at their documents,”
“Um, not that I don’t trust you, but why would we do that?”
“To see if the government knew about this ‘disappearing’ you speak of.”
“Okay,” Brock said, drawing out the A, “And, how exactly, are we going to get to these government offices? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re in the middle of rural New England. There’s nothing out here but wheat fields and gravel roads!”
“We can grab a car,” Bea said with an air of finality.
“A car?” Brock parroted, “Where are we going to get a car? Can you even drive?” He asked incredulously.
“Of course I can drive, dimwit.”
“That only answered one of my questions.” Bea just stared at him. “Okay, fine. Let’s go steal a car then.” Brock rolled his eyes.
“That’s the first good idea you’ve had today,”
“I was joking!”
“I wasn’t.”
And so they set off to steal a car. Brock really wondered about the morals of this situation. On one hand, they would bring everyone back from wherever they were, but on the other, they were stealing a car. Brock dragged his hands down his face in mock anguish.
“Don’t complain, солдат.” Brock thinks that she might’ve smiled a little bit before she glared at him again.
“I don’t know what you just called me, but I don’t like it.”
“Ha, okay.”
“What does it mean?”
“I’m not telling you.” Brock tried to put on his best puppy eyes, but Bea must’ve been immune. His mother would’ve fallen immediately.
After walking for a while, they had reached the small town and were currently searching around for any cars to steal. Brock preferred the term borrow, but he knew they probably wouldn’t give it back. They rounded another corner and came to a small parking lot in front of an abandoned restaurant. There was one beat-up red truck sitting in the middle, paint peeling off the sides. Brock thinks he might’ve cried with joy.
“Oh my god, finally!”
“Come on,” Bea trudged onwards.
“Wait, how are we going to start it? We don’t have the keys,” Bea just laughed at him. Brock did not like those implications.
It turned out Bea knew how to hotwire a car. He was probably lucky she did, but Brock felt even more intimidated by her.
They were currently cruising south along a freeway, to the capital. It’d been thirty minutes since they left the small town. Fifteen since they’d seen a building that didn’t look like it was going to fall over. Brock just watched outside the window, trying not to scream every time Bea turned a corner twenty miles above the speed limit. He didn’t know why he got into this car with someone he didn’t know, but in the time since he woke up, he hadn’t seen a single other person. He hadn’t even seen wildlife. There was only the sound of the old engine and the broken heater and the wind passing by them. Brock wanted to hear the annoying birds.
The truck made a concerning groan as they sped on, the landscape switching from tall greening trees to flat wheat fields. Occasionally, they saw a little barn or a sinking home. They passed by another little house, this one painted baby pink. The door looked one breeze away from falling in on its hinges. As they got closer, Brock caught a glimpse through the second-floor window, where he saw a new computer playing a screensaver.
A screensaver. On a new computer that was on, in this old, abandoned building.
“Pull over,” He said. Bea frowned at him but pulled over next to the house’s driveway. The little mailbox had fallen over. He almost broke the seatbelt in his hasty attempt to get out of the car and landed harshly on the dirt. The air was dry but still cold.
Bea slammed the car door shut and walked up next to him. “What did we find, detective?” She glanced at him, then back at the pink siding of the house.
“The computer’s on,”
“Elaborate?” Brock pointed to the second-story window, with the faint blue glow lighting the room. You couldn’t see the computer from this angle, but he knew it was still there. “Hm. Good eyes. Come on,” She waved at him and started forward. The dirt created small dust clouds where they stepped. He wondered if this was what it was like in the deserts.
They stepped up onto the porch. The door’s white paint was peeling and the doorknob looked rusted.
“So, how are we getting in?” He almost took it back after the massive side-eye Bea gave him. She then proceeded to push the door with one finger, swinging it inward. “Um, well that works, then.” He awkwardly followed her inside.
“Well, Sherlock, which room was it?”
“What?” Brock stared at her confused.
“God, everything goes over your head, doesn’t it?” She rolled her eyes at him and gestured to the staircase in front of them. “Up.”
Brock took the lead, the stairs creaking under their weight. Once at the top, Brock started opening doors to try and find the one with the computer. He was about three doors in when Bea called to him.
“This one’s locked.” Brock frowned and walked over to her. He tried the doorknob, and unsurprisingly, it was still locked. Bea gave him an unimpressed look before taking out a paper clip from God knows where and sticking it in the keyhole. It made a few clicks before Bea tried the knob again and cautiously opened it, peering in.
“Вот оно,” She said, before pushing the door open. Lo and behold, there was the glowing blue screen. He flipped on a light switch and the bulb overhead flickered before turning on, albeit still dimly. Brock stepped in after Bea, snorting at the faded action movie posters covering the entire back wall, with not an inch of plaster showing through. He looked back to Bea, who was typing away at the computer.
“Did you find anything?” He said, coming to look over her shoulder.
“This definitely has something on it,” She said, not looking away from the screen, “There are many backup security checks in place.”
“Can you get through it?”
She laughed at him. “Of course I can, who do you think I am?”
“I dunno,” He muttered, “I don’t really know you at all.” The air tensed before Bea spoke up again.
“There,” She nodded at him, “Government files, the nice confidential ones too.”
Brock frowned. “Why are there government files on this computer? We’re in the middle of nowhere. Still over an hour from Washington.”
“Must’ve been a temporary base,” She typed some more.
“Can you figure out where all the people went?” He asked.
“Already started,” Bea said, scrolling through the database. The date in the corner caught Brock’s eye, and he stared at it in shock.
“Bea, is the date on this computer correct?”
“I’d assume so, why?” She continued scrolling and clicking through different files.
“Because it says it’s April third, and yesterday was March twenty-fifth.” Bea looked up at him. “We couldn’t have been asleep for over a week.”
“My yesterday was February sixteenth.” She clicked on the date in the bottom right corner and pulled up the calendar. What was even more surprising was the year. He voiced this and Bea hummed.
“That’s seven whole years,” He said, “It’s supposed to be 2029, but it’s 2036.” Bea started typing at the computer again. “How much could’ve possibly happened in seven years?” He asked, bordering on hysterics. Brock didn’t know where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, or why he was here and not his family. He felt like curling up on the floor and staying there forever. Bea’s typing droned on as he racked his brain for anything that could’ve happened before he fell asleep, for seven years.
“I found some records of suspicious activity in late 2028,” Bea said suddenly, stopping his spiral. Brock wiped at his eyes even though they were dry.
“Yeah?” He managed to say after a while.
“Records of more missing cases showing up around the world, they get closer together the longer it goes on,” Bea said. Brock looked at the document pulled up on the screen.
“Is there a pattern?”
“It starts erratically, people from countries all over the world,” She says, “But around January 2029, it starts getting targeted. Starting in China, and moving west until late April, when no more records of anything else show up.”
“Was the government going to do anything about it?” Bea hummed again.
“By the time they thought about it, it was probably too late. There are reports detailing a mass serial killer, but I don’t think that’s the case.”
“How would a serial killer keep us all asleep for years anyway?” Brock asked. “And are there more of us? People still here?” Bea continued scrolling on the screen.
“I’d assume so, there’s not nearly enough missing cases to account for all the people on Earth. There’s probably hundreds still out there, and that’s a minimum.” She clicked a couple more buttons before pulling up another document. “As for the sleeping, there was an increase in medically-induced comas in hospitals,” She paused, “Or at least they’re recorded as medically induced.”
“Is there anything from before it started, about anyone suspicious?” He asked, “What could have the power to do all of this in a couple of months?”
“The last report of anything dangerous was in late 2027,” Bea reported, “The government refused to give funding for a new way of solar energy, with directed sunbeams. They deemed it too hazardous and unreliable,”
“So, lasers?” Brock giggled at the thought of laser-powered cities. It sounded like something out of a futuristic science fiction movie.
“In layman's terms, I suppose,” Bea said, looking up from the screen for a moment, “His name was Artie Chok,” She pulled up a photo of him on the computer, a middle-aged man with deep eye bags. “He tried to publish the discovery anyway, and they put him on house arrest. They lost contact with him before any of the missing person reports.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Do you think he did it?” Brock asked, “I mean, maybe he used the sun lasers,” He said, laughing a little bit.
“It’s possible, and it’s the only lead we have,” Bea replied, “He had motive and means.”
“So, let’s say crazy laser man disintegrated everyone with his sunbeams,”
“Artie,” Bea corrected.
“So, why’d he leave us alive?”
“Probably to repopulate. He most likely didn’t realize we’d figure it out. Sent the letter as an extra deterrent, too.”
“Ha, Dr. Lasers didn’t want to be alone,” Brock grinned, “He just wants to have friends, Bea,” Brock laughed again and he even caught Bea smiling for a moment.
“Sure, okay,” She said, “The unstable scientist just wants friends,”
“Stop putting him in a box!” He cried, trying not to smile, “Mad scientists can have friends too.”
“Okay, we’re done here,” Bea rolled her eyes, “Hurry up, солдат.”
“Tell me what it means!” Brock pouted.
“Never,” Brock could still hear her laughing softly as she left the room.
After they got back in the car, they started off again. They still had an hour left until reaching D.C., and Brock was bored out of his mind. There were only so many times he could play eye spy with himself or try and find an old house of every color before his brain leaked out of his ears. How do you even play eye spy without a second person, anyway? Point-blank, Brock needed something to do. Bea’s horrible driving wasn’t enough to distract him, even if it made his heart beat faster every time she turned a corner and accelerated. He was going to have an early death if she gave him a heart attack.
“So, about that weather,” Brock starts and then immediately stops as Bea side-eyes him hard enough that he manages to shut up for a whole thirty seconds. “Do you like dogs?” He starts again, “Or maybe cats? I personally like dogs but—”
“Shut. Up.” Bea glared at him.
“I’m just trying to make conversation!” He puts his hands up in mock defense. It does not shield him from Bea’s glare. “C’mon, I’m bored!”
“So?”
“So?!” Brock cried incredulously, “How am I supposed to live like this!”
“I dunno, it doesn’t seem like my problem.”
“I asked you a simple question! It wasn’t even that hard.”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to answer you.”
“Well, maybe you’re just no fun.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bea muttered under her breath, “You are a child.”
“Under the government definition, yes.”
“You’re impossible,” Bea groaned. “I don’t have a preference.”
“What?” Brock paused.
“I don’t have a preference between cats and dogs,” She kept her eyes on the road, which did not help her drive better at all. “It was your question, you’d think you’d listen to the answer,”
“Hey! I was distracted,” Brock said.
“I noticed.”
They finally reached the outskirts of Washington thirty minutes later. As they weaved through the streets, Brock took notice of the lack of crowds that were there when he had taken a fifth-grade field trip to Capitol Hill.
“Where do you think we should go?” Brock asked.
“Hmm. I don’t know,” Bea hummed, “It’s your country, shouldn’t you know where they keep all their stuff?”
“No,” He said. Bea continued driving down the road. He watched her blow another red light. He guessed it didn’t really matter because there were no people around, but it was the principle of the matter. They drove past empty window after empty window, passing by stop signs that Bea completely ignored and a black SUV and tall office buildings—wait, a black SUV?
“Pull over, I saw a car,” Brock said.
“Impatient, much?” Bea pulled over anyway.
“Wait, park behind the building so they can’t see us, we don’t know them,” Brock said again, glancing up at the building the car was parked in front of.
Once they were successfully hidden, they both crept out of the truck and towards the front of the building. Bea peered around the corner.
“I don’t see anyone, but there’s food in the car. Someone is here,” She whispered.
“Who do you think it is?” Brock asked, stepping closer to look around the corner.
“Could be anybody,” She said, inching closer to the door.
Brock peeked up through the window. It was dark but there was light coming from further in the building. He said as much to Bea.
“Should we try and talk to them?” He asked.
“Slow down, солдат,” Bea looked at him, then through the window at the light. “We don’t know if he’s hostile or not.” Brock frowned.
“Should we assume he is?”
“Always.”
Suddenly there was the clinking of keys and they both quickly ducked under the window and crept back to the corner to not be seen. A man came walking briskly out, with dark hands, and a buzzcut. Brock’s eyes widened.
“Hey—” He started.
“Shh!” Bea hissed, glaring at him. He continued staring open-mouthed at the man as he got in his car. They continued sitting there as the man opened a bag of Ditos. Brock scowled at the horrible off-brand chips. How could someone eat those with the knowledge that they were knock-offs? It was horrifying.
Once the man finished his horrible chips he drove off in the opposite direction of where they were hiding. After they couldn’t hear the engine anymore, they snuck back over to the door. The light wasn’t on anymore.
“I’ve seen him before,” Brock tried opening the door, but it was locked.
“What?” Bea said as she pulled out her paperclip and started jamming it in the keyhole.
“That man, he’s the one who left the letter outside my door,” Brock said again, “But he disappeared before I could talk to him.”
“Just disappeared?” The lock clicked and Bea pushed open the door.
“I don’t know, he was there and then he wasn’t!”
“Definitely don’t want to talk to him then, if he’s working with Artie,” She moved through the doorway and into the dark hallway. Brock hummed in response. They walked until they came upon the door that had had the lights on. Brock tried opening it, finding it, unsurprisingly, locked.
“Oh, c’mon,” He whined, “Can’t they leave one door unlocked?!” He heard Bea snort as she clicked the lock open and walked into the room. Brock flipped the light on, squinting at the bright LEDs. It looked like a science lab from those old cartoons. The ones where they made crazy things to destroy the city, like shrink-rays or something. It was oddly fitting.
They meandered around the room for a while, lifting tarps and reading sticky notes.
“Hey, come look at this,” Bea called from across the room.
Brock set down the box of scraps he’d been rummaging through and walked over. “What is it?” He asked.
Bea pointed at a small capsule with wires running into the wall. “I don’t know, I just saw it,” She said, “It looked important.”
Brock leaned down to look at it closer, poking at the exposed electronics. His eyes caught on the document beside it, under a manilla folder. He held it up and squinted at the small font while Bea crowded over his shoulder to read. He started reading it, before realizing, hey! This important document is in Comic Sans font. And wasn’t that horrifying? Comic Sans was taking over the world.
“This is a time machine,” Bea said.
Brock’s mouth gaped. “What?” He said, in shock. He’d been so horrified by the travesty of Comic Sans that he hadn’t actually read the document. He held it closer to his face as if it would help him read it better. Spoiler: it didn’t.
Government Confiscation Report No. 307
Item: Time Machine
Date of Confiscation: 6.2.28
Previous Owner: Care Otts, PhD.
Reason: Machine fried the entire downtown electric
sector and turned off the power for weeks. Also set
fire to three city blocks. Deemed too hazardous to
society. Item confiscated with little force and further
project funding removed.
The document continued with measurements and more in-depth reports, but Brock stopped there. He couldn’t bear to read any more Comic Sans. It burned his eyes.
But, if they could fix the time machine, they could go back in time to stop Artie. This had to be his most genius masterpiece of a plan ever.
“We should fix the time machine,” Brock turned to Bea, “We could stop Artie from ever laser-ing all those people in the first place!”
Bea looked at him, bewildered. “And how do you think we’re going to fix a complex machine?” She said, “It hadn’t even been finished when it was set on fire.”
Brock frowned at that. He hadn’t thought about the logistics, just that he used to be on the school robotics team a couple of years ago and had an A in his AP engineering and coding class. He nodded to himself. He could probably make it work.
“I mean, I’d like to think I’m pretty good at this type of stuff,” He poked at the wires again, and they sparked. He stopped poking at the wires. “I’m good at coding and engineering, and I used to do robotics.”
“High school robotics is not going to help you fix a time machine.”
“Hey! It could,” Brock scowled indignantly, “You don’t know that. I could’ve been on the world championship team!”
Bea raised an eyebrow at him.
“Okay, maybe I wasn’t, but I can still figure it out,” He said.
Bea paused in thought for a moment. “Well, as long as you don’t blow it up, it couldn’t hurt,” She pulled off her bag and threw some knock-off chips at him. He scowled at them. He wasn’t going to eat these disgraceful chips. “Eat the chips,” Bea said, reading his mind. “I’m going to see if I can find anything more substantial for dinner. Don’t set the building on fire.” And with that lovely, heartfelt note, she threw her bag over her shoulder and waltzed out.
Brock held up the offending chips and begrudgingly opened the bag, then shoved a handful into his mouth. He chewed slowly with disgust and anguish on his face.
About five agonizing minutes later, Brock finishes the chips and gets to work on the time machine. After looking around the room, he had found a box full of screwdrivers and wiring scraps so he set them on the counter next to the capsule and the folder.
Brock opened the folder again and shielded his eyes from the Comic Sans for as long as he could before giving in and looking through the documents.
He flipped through multiple pages of the government confiscation report for anything that might help him. At the very bottom of the pile, he found the original blueprint. He grabbed it and started to read, before dropping it and crying out in anguish when he realized it was written in Comic Sans too.
Brock steeled himself to read the horrifying font and picked it back up. There was a bunch of scientific nonsense that Brock skipped over to the important stuff: the instructions. Okay, they weren’t really instructions, but it was how Dr. Otts had planned to continue it so it was pretty much an instruction manual.
Setting the blueprints down on the counter, he grabbed the screwdriver and spare wiring and got to work. He only electrocuted himself a couple hundred times, too!
Brock hummed to himself as he worked, reading the blueprints and copying them onto the capsule machine in front of him repeatedly. After around an hour, he heard the turning of locks and footsteps. It was about time too! Bea had been gone forever and that horrible bag of chips and the granola bar or two he’d eaten while working wasn’t enough to cave his hunger.
Brock set down the wires he was currently connecting and spun around, planting his hands on his hips. “Finally! You took forever—” Only to come face to face with the man from earlier, pointing a sleek black handgun at his face.
Brock froze. “Um, I think this may be a misunderstanding, sir,” He shuffled nervously, “I’m sure we can work this out, without the guns, maybe?”
“Shut up, kid,” The man said gruffly. There goes his attempt at peace. The man was standing about a foot from the door, so he had no chance of escaping without being grabbed or shot. “You’re not supposed to be here,” The man started, “And now you’ve seen too much.”
Brock’s eyes widened and he looked around frantically for anything to protect himself. “Are you sure we can’t talk this out?” He tried again, nervously.
“No,” The man said, unmoving. Brock’s eyes caught on a figure behind the man, as Bea struck him in the side and he crashed to the ground, gun sliding to Brock’s feet.
Brock looked up at where Bea stood, holding the small box-like object she used to strike the man. “Is he dead?” Brock asked, hesitantly.
“No,” Bea said simply, kicking at his ankle, “Just unconscious, it was only a taser.” She clicked the box object on and it glowed with blue electricity. Brock took an instinctive step back and she turned it off. “Are you done with the time machine?” She put the taser in her pocket, walking over to him, and grabbing the gun off the ground.
“Almost,” Brock said, “How long will he stay out?”
Bea put the gun in her other pocket, before turning to him. “Probably at least an hour,” She said.
“Did you find any food? I’ve been starving,” Brock smiled slightly, changing the subject.
Bea scoffed. “No you haven’t,” She said, already pulling two apples out of her bag and tossing one to him. “Get back to work, солдат.”
Brock smiled and bit into the apple before turning back to the counter and fiddling with the inside wiring. Ten minutes later, he finally clicked the final pieces into place and the screen lit up.
“Yes!” He shouted, pumping his arm.
Bea looked over his shoulder at the time machine. “Finish your food and we can go,” She tapped at the screen, “Is it safe?”
Brock just laughed. “If we’re lucky,” He said, “But we don’t have much else to do, do we?”
“I suppose not.” Bea tapped on the screen again. “How do we turn it on?”
“Um, let me look at the blueprints,” He smiled sheepishly and picked them up.
Bea looked at him. “You don’t know how it works?” She said incredulously, “How did you even fix it?”
“With the blueprints!” He cried indignantly.
“You are going to get us killed,” Bea scowled.
“Hopefully not?” Brock smiled hesitantly.
“That is not reassuring at all.”
After looking at the blueprints, Brock figured out how to turn the machine on. Tapping on a couple of buttons, then selecting the date in February 2028, before Artie had used his lasers.
“Is this good?” He asked.
“Looks good enough,” Bea said, shrugging, “If it doesn’t work we’ll just hang out for a couple years and try again.”
“That sounds horrible,” Brock said flatly.
“Do you have a better idea?” Bea raised an eyebrow.
“No.”
“Then let’s go,” She grinned, “Turn it on, солдат.”
Brock pressed the final button, and the room fell away in a blinding white light. It could’ve been seconds or days that they spent in the light, eyes closed and dizzy. When they finally stumbled out, it was dark. Brock blinked away the spots in his vision before looking around at the small suburban neighborhood, lampposts casting dim lights down on the sidewalk they were standing in.
“Did it work?” He asked, turning to Bea.
“I guess we’ll have to find out,” She replied, rolling her shoulders back, “Бог, that was horrible.”
“You could say that again.” Brock scoffed. “Hopefully we won't have to do it again.” He glanced around again.
“How do we know where Artie lives?” He asked.
“I'm assuming it's the one with the giant laser gun sticking out of the roof,” Bea deadpanned.
Brock blushed. “It's dark!” He cried, “I hadn't noticed yet,” He mumbled, “Yet!”
“Sure,” Bea said, walking towards the house. It was a small two-story, with faint green siding. Brock sidled up to Bea as she knocked twice on the door. Brock caught sight of a sign that said trespassers will be prosecuted. He moved closer to Bea instinctively.
They stood silently for a couple of minutes but when nobody opened the door Bea pulled out her paperclip again.
Brock groaned. “Again?!” He whined, “How is that thing even still usable?”
“I only buy high-quality paperclips.”
“Where do you buy those things from?” Brock side-eyed the offending paperclip.
“Like I'd tell you my secrets,” Bea scoffed. The door clicked and she held it open, gesturing to him. “Ladies first.”
He mercifully didn't say any specific choice words to her and trudged through the doorway. It opened up a cramped entryway, with shoes kicked in the corner and junk mail piled on top of the table that shouldn’t have fit in the room. Brock squeezed past it and started up the stairs, each step creaking loudly. He looked back to see Bea closing the door and following him up. Once they arrived at the top of the staircase, they were met with a long, narrow hallway containing yet another table crammed into the space and three wooden doors.
“Which door is it?” Brock whispered.
“The last one,” Bea hummed softly, “That’s where the machine was.”
They made their way through the hallway before Brock’s eye caught on a paper on top of the table. A newspaper date: February 17th, 2028. Bea pushed past him and they continued walking on the creaky floors.
The door was extremely underwhelming. It didn’t look like something that was housing a weapon, or at this point, an energy source. Bea pushed it open and crept in quietly though it didn’t do much because of the loud floors. Brock followed her in and shut the door behind them.
At the edge of the room sat the glorified laser gun, looking out the window.
“How are we supposed to shut it off?” Brock looked towards Bea, frowning.
“You’re the engineer, you figure it out,” Bea stalked over to the other side of the room and started flipping through papers strewn about the room. Brock groaned. More work for him to figure out. He supposed he could just start tearing it apart, and that would be just as effective.
So that’s what he began doing. He hummed lightly as he worked, pulling out random cords and wires from their connectors and breaking metal plating off to expose more of the inside. It was calm work that he did absentmindedly, thinking about what he’d do after they were done saving the world and all. Maybe he’d get a soft-serve cone from the small ice cream shop near Walmart.
As he continued pulling out wires and cutting them for good measure, he heard the staircase creaking. He paused, hands still in the air where they were reaching inside the machine. He slowly turned his head glancing where Bea stood staring straight at him with a serious look on her face.
Brock’s eyes shot towards the door as he heard the doorknob turn and he dropped the pieces he was holding, clattering on the floor. When he looked back up the man Bea had pulled up on the computer in the sinking pink house was standing in the doorway, with deep trenches beneath his eyes and a bewildered look on his face. He looked to Bea for anything they could do to stop the man, Artie Chok, from kicking them out, but she was gone.
In seconds, Artie’s face had gone from confused to angry when he saw the condition of his solar machine. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?” Artie spat, furious.
“I can explain—I swear! Just—” Brock started anxiously.
“Cut the bull. You’re trespassing on private property, kid,” Artie scowled at him as he stood there frozen. “Were you sent here by the government? They tryin’ to get rid of my machine themselves now, eh?” Artie laughed without humor, though it sounded more like worn sandpaper.
“Um,” Brock tried again, still trying to stall and look for Bea, “No—”
“Don’t try lying, kid,” Artie interrupted, “They’ll be disappointed to know that I won’t hesitate to shoot just because they sent a child.”
Brock tensed, standing without movement, fear coursing through him. Now that he looked at him closely, he could see the outline of a pistol on his belt. How could he have missed that? He should’ve been more careful, he’d almost gotten shot not even an hour before! He’d probably only survived because Bea was there, but he couldn’t see her now.
He could see Artie’s hand snaking down to his belt, to his gun, to his weapon—“I won’t let them destroy my life’s work.” Artie brought up the gun, twisting it in his hand until it was level with Brock’s eyes. He’d never thought this would be the way he’d go, he’d never even thought that he’d see a gun pointed at him, and yet, just in the last day there’d been two instances. Brock shook, bringing his hands up to his chest like it might stop a bullet from piercing right through him.
“I’ve worked too hard on this, it has potential!” Artie said, venom dripping from his words. “If they can’t understand that, then I’ll just have to make them.” Brock saw Artie click off the safety and pull the trigger. The bang that sounded through the room was deafening and all his senses felt like they were on fire. His cheek was pressed to the cold, wooden floor and his ears rang.
Brock blinked the spots from his eyes for the second time that night and shakily got to his knees. His shoulder burst into agony as he put pressure on it and he crumpled right back onto the hardwood, face smushing awkwardly against the ground. He felt like he was burning, going to burst into flames any minute. Maybe Artie had finally laser-ed him. He could hear Bea and Artie shouting, and when had that happened? Bea had left him—left him here alone, locked in with the man with the crazed eyes and the gun.
Brock slowly reached his hand up to his shoulder, and when he pulled it away it was a deep red, like the paint used in elementary finger-painting projects. He found himself giggling at the thought of using his blood to fingerpaint and vaguely remembered how Bea had pulled him out of the way of the gun seconds too late, bullet grazing him as he crashed to the ground. He frowned. Then Bea had been there, somewhere.
There was still shouting above him as he slowly stood shakily upright, objects blurring and melting together. He brought up his good hand and wiped at his eyes, effectively smearing blood all over his face. Brock pouted at the thought of his upcoming shower and blinked the red from his eyelashes.
Bea was pointing her own gun at Artie, his discarded halfway across the room. Brock stumbled as he tried to walk closer to her.
“Stop moving, урод,” Bea frowned at him. Brock paused for a moment but afterward continued stumbling over. He almost tripped over his own feet in his attempt to walk over.
The floor creaked loudly as Artie attempted to turn and grab his fallen gun while Bea was distracted, but she was quicker. Eyes immediately darting over and refocusing the shining weapon at him.
“You don’t move either,” Bea spat, this time at Artie. Brock was glad she wasn’t using this tone with him, she was scary when she was mad. Artie paused before darting to the gun. The minute he grabbed it there was another loud bang and Brock covered his ears, expecting to fall again.
When he opened his eyes, it was Artie on the floor instead of him, curled around his leg. Bea walked over and picked up the gun, delicately placing it into her pocket but keeping the other one firmly pointed at Artie.
“Don’t try anything, выродок,” Bea lowered her gun but didn’t set it down. She turned to Brock and frowned at him. “I told you not to move.”
“I wanted to, though,” Brock pouted.
Bea sighed, rubbing her temple with her hand. “Come on, we have to call the police for him,” She pointed at Artie, “And the ambulance for you.”
Brock frowned. He didn’t need an ambulance. He was barely even bleeding. He said as much and Bea narrowed her eyes.
“Yeah, right,” She scoffed, “Come on.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the room, slamming the door behind them. She left him standing in the middle of the hallway as she grabbed the table and dragged it over, placing it in front of the door. Bea placed her hands on her hips, satisfied, and hummed.
“Okay, let’s go find a phone,” She grabbed his arm again and dragged him down the creaking stairs that sounded like they were going to collapse. They went the opposite way they entered and Bea left him sitting at the dining room table, leaving him with a “Good work, солдат.” Before stalking off to the kitchen to dial 911. Brock could hear her talking to the dispatchers but he didn’t listen to any of their words. He was so tired, he’d just take a quick nap, and then he could help Bea again. Just a couple of minutes, he told himself as he leaned over on the table.
He woke to Bea shaking him harshly and the sounds of sirens in the distance. “What is wrong with you, man?” He groaned, putting his head back on the table.
“You’re not allowed to sleep, get up.”
“But I’m tired!” He whined, going limp.
“Get up, I can’t have you dying before paramedics get here,” She pulled at him again and he rolled his head to the back of the chair, glaring at her. She snorted at him.
“It’s not funny!” He cried, “I’m very intimidating.” Bea laughed even harder at him, bringing her hand up to muffle the sounds. “I am!” He cried again, “Say it.”
“You’re very intimidating,” She grinned, “I’m so scared right now. Shaking in my boots.”
“Good,” Brock huffed. The sounds of the sirens got closer. His arm burned like fire. Then came the knocking, and Bea left to answer the door. Seconds later he heard people rushing up the stairs, creaking and groaning at every step, and then paramedics ran at him, grabbing his arm and looking at it. He closed his eyes, Bea could survive for five minutes.
When Brock came to again, his arm was bandaged heavily and there was an IV sticking out of his arm, but it didn’t feel like fire anymore, so improvements. He looked around the small white room, spotting Bea in the corner with a small book and pencil.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
Bea looked up. “Sudoku,” She said simply, continuing scratching at the paper.
“You mean the math game?” He scowled.
“I thought you’d like math games, Mr. Robotics,” Bea raised an eyebrow. Brock huffed at her and looked away.
“What happened to Artie?” He said, still looking out the window. It was daytime now.
“Jail,” Bea hummed, “The solar machine has been confiscated, though.”
“Did they write it in Comic Sans again?” He groaned.
“Probably,” Bea smiled at his clear pain and agony, like the apathetic person she is. “So what now, солдат?”
“I dunno,” Brock frowned, “Do they know we’re from the future?”
“No,” Bea replied, scratching out another row in her Sudoku. “So I guess we just go from here, then.”
Brock nodded. “Can I get discharged yet?” He asked, poking at his IV.
“Don’t touch that, урод,” Bea frowned, “They were just waiting for you to wake up first,” She said, “I’ll go get them.” Bea handed him the half-done Sudoku and left the room. He frowned at it before begrudgingly picking up the pencil and starting to work through it because there was nothing else to do.
Ten minutes later, Bea came back in the room with a doctor who discharged him with only a couple thousand questions about how he felt.
As they walked out of the hospital, Brock watched people rushing out of their cars to the entrance and people getting back in them, crying or laughing. The birds sang so loud it made his ears ring again, but the whole scene was beautiful in a poetic, chaotic way. It was so much better than the emptiness that had occupied everything before. He found himself smiling as they continued walking.
“Come on, солдат, we got to get you back to your family,” Bea smiled.
Brock frowned. “What about you?” He asked, “Where will you go?”
“I’ll be fine,” Bea said like it was final, and one did not argue with Bea once she’d made up her mind, but Brock always liked to tempt fate.
“Are you sure?” He looked over at her, “You could come stay over for a while, my mother wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll be fine,” She said again, “Just going to catch a plane back to Moscow, then to Omsk. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay,” Brock let it go. Bea had already proven she could take care of herself multiple times over.
They continued walking down the path as the sun rose higher behind them. Brock found that he quite liked the noise following him, the crunch of the gravel beneath them, the chirping of the robins, the idle chatter of everyone around them. He let himself fall into the rhythm of walking down the small road, letting the victory wash over him.
After all, they had just saved the world, even if nobody would ever know it.