Out of Time. by J Morris (best fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

“You know who I am, right, professor?”
“Yes. You’re that guy on the news. Tom Simms. The killer,” answered James T. Jordan of
TimeCo Technologies.
“That’s right. The killer. Remember that and you won’t get hurt.”
Sirens howled in the far distance. The 2 men faced off. Simms, a 37 year-old loner with long
brown, unkempt hair was dressed in jeans and white T-shirt. His 75 kg 5’11” frame was dwarfed
by the balding 6ft 2” scientist. The gun in Simms’s hand gave him the distinct advantage.
“The police are on the way,” said Jordan. “There’s no way out. They’ll be here in a few
minutes.”
“I’ll be long gone by then, provided you do as you’re told,” said Simms. “And I won’t be back.”
“What is it you want, anyway?”
Simms pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket with his free hand, his other hand still
holding the gun to Jordan’s head. He shook the paper to unfold it and held it out to the professor.
Jordan hesitated, and then took the paper and read the words that Simms had scrawled.
“July 18th, 2012,” said Jordan. “What’s this?”
“That’s where I’m going, that’s what. I need to get there now. Tonight.”
“But the machine hasn’t been tested properly. It’s still in the early stages of evaluation. We
haven’t tried transporting living matter.”
“Well,” said Simms. “What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll be dead in 10 minutes anyway. I’m
not giving myself up to the cops.”
“We don’t know the worst that could happen. We don’t know how the process would affect a
living biological organism. We don’t know if it would be in the same form when it gets to the
destination. We’ve only sent inanimate objects back to a maximum of a month, and the study of
those objects is still in the early stages.”
“Well it’s a chance I’ll have to take. Now hurry up.”
“It’s not an exact science, you know,” said Jordan. “It’s not like in the movies where you just dial
up the destination date and ‘off you go’. Going back to an exact date 18 years ago would entail
intricate and complex calculations. And even then…”
“I don’t have time for that shit. How close can you get me?”
“Possibly a week, either side. But that’s only a guess.”
“Well, then send me back to the 10th July. I can’t be late. I can’t fuck this up.”
“But I…”
“Get started! And hurry the fuck up!”
The sirens grew closer as Jordan’s nervous fingers tapped the keyboard. He stopped several
times to operate another computer, check hand written notes, and to wipe the nervous sweat from
his brow.
Simms heard car doors slam as the sirens wound down. Floodlights shone through the slits
between the window blinds.
"We sent various materials back at increasing intervals.” said Jordan as he typed. “First, a day,
then a week, then a month, and returned them to the present. But we found they had changed
slightly at the molecular level. Corrupted, somehow. The further back we sent them, the greater
the change. The extent of the corruption varied according to the type of material. Industrial
diamonds and hard metals suffered the least. Sending a biological organ back 18 years is
extremely unpredic...."
"Look! I don’t want a fucking lesson in quantum physics! Just hurry up!”
A voice came over a loudhailer. “The building is surrounded Simms! We know you have a
weapon, drop it now. Come out with your hands up! The building is surrounded!”
Simms pushed the muzzle of the gun into the temple of Jordan.
“Come on! Come on! I have to go. Now!”
His hands shaking, a flustered Jordan hurriedly punched a few more keys.
“Ok, it’s the best I can do under this pressure. But there’s no guarantees.”
“Well, I aint got time to fill in no warranty card, anyway,” said Simms.
The voice continued over the loudhailer. Simms heard more sirens in the distance.
“Now!” said Simms. “It has to be now!”
Jordan rushed to the cube, which was completely and haphazardly wrapped in sheets of lead. The
prototype measured 1 metre by 1 metre by 1 metre deep. Heavy cables ran from a 60cm diameter
titanium coil on top of the cube to three other larger apparatuses standing side by side behind the
cube. He opened the small door and stood to the side.
“You’ll have to squeeze in. The machine wasn’t built for something of your size.”
Simms ran to the cube. He looked at Jordan for an extended moment. He held out his hand to
Jordan. “Thank you,” said Simms. “I pray this works. And I’m sorry, but this was the only way.”
Jordan hesitated at the sudden change in Simms’s demeanour, and then with a bewildered look,
shook Simms’s hand.
Simms squeezed through the tight opening, and sat inside the cube, his knees to his chest and
his head resting on his knees.
Jordan closed the door and turned the latch to secure it. With Simms secured inside the cube,
Jordan contemplated running from the room to the waiting arms of the police, allowing Simms to
be arrested, but there was something in Simms’s final words. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but
he felt he needed to let Simms go.
Glass shattered as a projectile flew through a window and landed on the floor, and then another
through an adjacent window. Smoke billowed from the projectiles. Jordan pulled his shirt over his
nose and mouth as he ran back to the computer and fed the final commands into the keyboard.
The small light above the cube door illuminated green, and one of the apparatuses emitted a low
whirring sound, which gradually increased in pitch and volume, like a jet engine. Jordan ran
toward the door, coughing, his shirt still covering his nose and mouth. As he stumbled down the
hallway toward the front entrance, he heard the agonising scream of Simms. It stopped abruptly,
and Jordan knew Simms was either dead, or was somewhere else in time.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Screaming, Simms’s entire body felt as though it had been hit with millions of high voltage
electric shocks. He fell 3 metres, still with his knees to his chest, and landed in a sitting position
on a pile of loose soil. After regaining his composure he rose to his feet and looked at his
surroundings. He was on a large vacant lot in the old industrial part of the city. Stacks of steel
mesh and pallets of concrete blocks littered the area. Silent digging machines and cranes lay in
wait for their early morning masters to fire them up and continue where they left off the day
before.
Simms shook his head violently, banging the palm of his right hand against his temple to try
and clear his head. He looked down and retrieved his gun from the loose dirt, and slipped it into
the waistband at the back of his jeans. He walked out to the sidewalk. A large sign on the front
boundary advised that it was the site of the ‘Future headquarters of TimeCo Technologies’. He
looked left and right, and then headed right - toward the city centre, about ½ mile away.
A lot had changed in 18 years, he noted. There was no sign of the ‘Skyneedle’ that had been so
prominent in the city skyline. He had walked past it only 30 minutes prior; or 18 years in the
future, he mused. He remembered the big fanfare at the Skyneedle’s official opening. Every
politician in the county tried to get their picture taken, claiming the project was directly attributed
to their hard work and vision for the city. Big things were predicted for the city in the way of
tourism, and theme parks were also in the planning stages.
Simms picked up the pace. He needed to find a newspaper stand. He needed to know the date,
and he prayed he had gotten there in time.
The chiming of the town hall clock informed him that it was 8.00 PM. Empire Street – the
main street of the city- at 8.00PM is a bustling area, full of cinemas, restaurants and cafes. Up
ahead he heard the chanting of a newspaper vendor over the beeping of car horns. His pace
increased to a jog. He picked up a newspaper from the stack and checked the date. July 17th 2012.
“Thank God”, he said aloud. “You did good, Professor.”
“Hey! You gunna buy that or what?” asked the vendor.
Without a word, Simms replaced it on the stack and walked off, heading for the river, and the
quiet and safety that it provides.
He found a vacant bench and sat facing the river, the muffled sounds of the city now distant.
Simms gazed across the calm water at the lights of the office buildings on the far side, his face
frozen in a blank stare. He looked through an imaginary tunnel into the past, except he had just
travelled through some kind of tunnel and he was really looking into the future.
He cast his mind back to the very first time.
It was as clear in his mind as it was 18 years ago. Simms was 19 at the time. An assembly
worker at a nearby car manufacturer, Simms lived alone in a one-room apartment in one of the
lowest socio-economic areas of the city. Slim, blonde haired Sally Morgan was 17 years old with
her life ahead of her. Simms saw her working at a milk bar and recognised her from his old
school. She was 2 years behind him. He sat inconspicuously in a corner booth, and she came over
to take his order. He easily struck up a conversation, and she agreed to take a stroll through
Central Park at the end of her shift. It was a warm, summer night. The sky was clear, revealing
the canopy of twinkling stars. As they walked, Simms pointed to the sky and told her the names
of the constellations, making up the names of the ones that he didn’t know. He pointed to the
satellites as they wandered across the sky. Sally was impressed and starry eyed, not only from the
view above but by the charms of the handsome young man who seemed to know all the right
words to say.
They came to a darkened area where there was no one in sight. Simms pulled her in and kissed
her lips. Sally tried to push him away but Simms was too strong. He slapped her, put his hand
over her mouth and dragged her into the bushes. He pulled out his gun from his waistband and put
it to her forehead.
“One fucking word and I’ll kill you. Nod your head if you understand.”
Sally’s wide, terrified eyes looked over the top of Simms’s hand and she nodded.
The next 2 hrs were just a blur of adrenaline, morbid curiosity, and depravity. The tools of his
trade included cable ties, duct tape and a box cutter. He never figured out what those symbols on
her body and forehead represented. And finally there was his finishing up tool, his Glock 17, the
same gun he kept for all of these 18 years. Sally was the 1st of many. There were 21 victims in
all, the last being a pregnant mother of 2. But it was Sally who caused him more pain and remorse
than the rest of his victims put together.
Time.. How it flies. He had controlled it. He decided how much time he would give them.
Time...so much time he spent between kills, suffering in his own personal hell, haunted by the
images of their pleading eyes in that instant when they realised their time had run out.
Time...those long intervals before the demon inside him emerged to again command his mind and
his will. Time now presented him with an opportunity for redemption.
Simms stood and strolled along the path; the same path he had taken with Sally Morgan. He
came to the spot, the small dark section adjacent to a thick hedge, and he slipped through the
same small gap where he had forced Sally to her ultimate demise. He looked down at the ground
and her image flashed through his mind. The zip ties. The duct tape over her mouth. The crazy
crimson drawings of pentagrams, inverted crosses, numbers and abstract shapes. Simms dropped
to his knees and wept. He fell forward, lying on the same spot where Sally Morgan took her last
laboured breath. He cried until fatigue overtook him.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Something prodded Simms’s arm. He