Ascending through darkness brought suffering enough to cause Ripley Walker to beg for everything just to stop, please, but his painful return to consciousness was a powerful current. Another heartbeat. Light pierced his eyeballs and seared his brain. Ragged coughs pushed past his swollen tongue. The coughing turned to gagging. Shards of electric pain split his skull. This was easily the worst hangover in human history.
The room spun forward and back. Bile pushed into Ripley’s throat. He clamped, sweating palms to his skull, not sure his aching melon would stay attached if he let go. Then, his eyes began to focus. Ripley did not like what he saw. He lay sprawled on a lumpy sofa in a room he did not recognize. Ripley blinked. This did not help.
C’mon, brain, a little help. Damage report: this is not your apartment. Right. Where am I? Shit.
Ripley peeled back a none-too-clean Avengers blanket, very relieved to find himself fully clothed. Bonus points: no one else on the sofa. No need to guess a naked stranger’s name while enduring a monster hangover.
He was alone, apparently unmolested, but where the fuck was he? He blinked again, trying to believe his bleary eyes. The room appeared to be a low-rent office.
Weak daylight leaked through a single window. A cubby-hole kitchen made up the left third of the room. A crippled desk guarded a steel door. A pair of mangy easy chairs facing the sofa. Another steel door in the wall behind the sofa. An open hallway crooked off into shadows. Ripley hoped like hell that it led to a toilet.
He closed his aching eyes, offered a silent prayer, and then squinted into the light. If anything, the room looked worse. Everything looks filthy, old, or broken. The place reminded Ripley of an abandoned biker clubhouse. Not far wrong, as he would later learn.
An ice pick stabbed Ripley’s brain. A tiny woodpecker had built a nest in his skull, and now it wanted to batter its way out.
Ripley moaned. This wasn’t fair. He was a distiller by trade, the only skill he possessed. Distillers aren’t laid low by the grog they brew. Yeah, whatever. Boutique distiller, meet hungover bum on a strange couch. Then, a pulsing urge in his bladder put an end to inner dialogues.
He pushed himself upright, wavered, and almost fell. The stench assaulted him like a blow to the head. Ripley possessed a distiller’s fine-tuned sense of smell. This stinking shithole bludgeoned his nose into submission.
Gritting his teeth against the stench, he forced himself to take a step. The impending flood of piss propelled him down the short hall and into a cramped, filthy bathroom. Luckily, there was a toilet. He yanked open his fly before the flood commenced, but only just. He peed like a man who had not passed water in years.
Pecker in hand, Ripley Walker glanced into a cracked mirror. What he saw caused him to pee on the floor. The face in the mirror wore a thick beard. Not the stubble of a three-day-bender. No, this was a mountain man beard, whiskers to be proud of. His stared. Those were his eyes and nose, but someone else’s huge beard. He screamed and ran.
Water, he needed water. He staggered into the kitchen, turned on the tap, let the water run, and grabbed a stray glass. Rinsed the glass halfway clean, filled it, sniffed it, then bolted it down. The water hit bottom and threatened to return the way it came. Ripley braced himself against the counter. He looked down and saw his pecker hanging out.
Ripley groaned. No one deserved this. He tucked himself back into his pants, zipped up, and refilled the crusty glass. His hands shook. Water ran down his chin into a forest of facial hair. He slammed the glass to the counter and smacked himself in the forehead.
Ow! Shit. Think, goddamn it. What the hell happened to you? You left the apartment yesterday evening to go… somewhere. Money in your pocket, showered and shaved. And then?
His mind went blank. Then he heard a muffled noise through the back wall. Without thinking, Ripley bolted to the steel door, yanked, fumbled with the lock, then yanked again.
The door flew open. In the second it took to scream, Ripley very much wished the door had stayed shut.
He stared into a darkened room hung with weird shadows. One of those shadows blocked the doorway, waving an evil-looking club. The shadow screeched at him.
“Who do you think you are, fuck-face? Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll smash your skull! I will beat your ass ragged, you filthy rapist bastard…”
Ripley slammed the door and twisted the lock. Heavy blows rained down on the locked door. He retreated to the far side of the room, his heart pounding.
Fuck this place, and fuck the neighbors. Whatever happened, it’s time to move.
He found his jacket draped over a chair. Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Phone? Nope, no cell. He pawed between the couch cushions and almost heaved. Nope, no way, we can buy a new phone. Then the pounding started up again, accompanied by more curses.
Fuck this, we are outta here.
Passing the desk, Ripley spotted a bottle-opener keyring and a single key. He snatched it up and slid the key into the bolt on the exterior door. Perfect fit. He stepped outside, pulled the door closed, and locked it.
Ripley blinked at an overcast sky. Where the hell was he? An empty parking lot except for two hulks perched on cinder blocks and stripped clean. Grass and weeds grew through cracks in the asphalt. Tall grass.
His eyes searched the unfamiliar surroundings. A shitty industrial strip mall, where cheap offices fronted chop-shops, fly-by-night windshield repair, or cut-rate gutter services. The place looked like it had died years ago. Same for the neighborhood. Not a car on the street. He wracked his aching brain. What day was it? Sunday morning?
Ripley walked to the curb. Nothing in either direction. Then, his eyes caught a glimpse of something red and blue. It seemed to rotate. A barbershop. And some guy out front wearing a smock.
Okay, barbershop open. Can’t be Sunday or Monday. Whatever, go with Tuesday as a guess.
The barber was sweeping the sidewalk as Ripley drew near. A tall Black man, maybe sixty, grey-white at the temples. The barber turned to eyeball Ripley, then leaned on his broom.
“Morning, Sir. This your place?”
The older man gave Ripley a once-up-and-down before answering.
“That’s right. Wilkes’ Barbering. I’m Wilkes. Don’t believe I seen you before.”
“You’d be right. I don’t remember seeing your shop before today.”
Boston Wilkes nodded and spun his broom.
“Thought not. But I know a man needs a trim when I see one, and I’m looking at that fella right now.”
Ripley pushed his fingers through the strange beard.
“Bit more than a trim. Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yessir, just put on the first pot. What you say your name was?”
“Walker, Ripley Walker.”
“Well, step inside Ripley Walker, ‘fore the morning crowd shows up.”
Wilkes held open the door. Ripley crossed the threshold. The place was a two-chair time capsule. A collage of sports memorabilia covered everything except the mirrors. The barber stepped to a burbling coffeemaker.
“I hope you like it black ‘cause that’s all we got.”
“Suits me, Mister Wilkes.”
“Call me Boston. You got money? Coffee’s free, but not the barbering. I hate to ask, but times are hard.”
Ripley fished out his wallet, peeked inside, and smiled. Two twenties, a ten, and a few singles. Whatever else happened last night, he still had cash.
“How much for a haircut and taming this beard?”
Boston Wilkes scowled at the proffered wallet.
“Nothing those antique greenbacks can buy. The haircut is four units, and the beard is two. I’ll go five even, but only cause you’re my first customer. That’s five monetary units. In advance.”
“Okay, I got fifty-three units here, so we’re good.”
“Son, you missed the deadline for turning in those greenbacks by ten years. Twelve, now that I’m remembering. Nossir, you got nothing but worthless paper. Alright, I understand. You my charity case for the day. Get your ass in the chair, ‘fore I change my mind. But not a word to anyone, you hear me? I don’t want to be up to my ass in freeloaders.”
“But Mister Wilkes…”
“Call me Boston or get out.”
“But Boston, I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand what? Pretty simple, son. Get in the chair or get out the door. Choose.”
Ripley slipped into the barber chair, carefully not to spill the precious coffee. Boston swirled a chair cloth through the air with the practiced motion of a matador. The cloth settled over Ripley’s lap and shoulders.
“You gonna have to keep some of that beard. I ain’t got time to shave you ‘fore the boys show up.”
“You’re the boss.”
“First thing you right about so far. Lean forward.”
The clippers buzzed. Hair fell in clumps. After the initial shearing, Boston paused to change clipper heads.
“You go on and drink your coffee now.”
Ripley pulled the mug from beneath the lapcloth. The caffeine woke his brain, and his brain had questions.
“Boston, mind if I ask you something?”
The man harrumphed. He swung around, clippers held at the ready.
“Best cover your mug. One question, no more.”
“What’s a monetary unit?”
“Mmmh, you do push your luck. I’ll humor you this one time just to see what you do.”
The clippers buzzed as Boston pushed Ripley’s head forward.
“Units are the government money, as every child knows. New Monetary Units, legal tender, like your antique greenbacks used to be, ‘cept units are electronic money. It’s dole money is what it is. Good for the crap at the government store and not much else. Most folks use barter amongst themselves.”
Ripley’s mind reeled. Boston switched to scissors, but Ripley barely noticed. Something was very, very wrong.
What the fuck happened to me, and where in hell am I?
The scissors stopped.
“Ripley, imma ask you a question without permission, this being my shop.”
Ripley gulped a breath and tried not to scream.
“Fair enough.”
“What is wrong with you? You don’t strike me as the average crazy person I get now and then. I help them fellas out when I can. Clean ‘em up and whatnot. But you don’t seem crazy. More like confused or lost.”
Ripley looked in the mirror and saw Boston standing behind him, holding sharp scissors.
“I don’t know. Confused, man, that’s an understatement. I woke up this morning in a strange room just up the road. No one else there, no idea how I got there, no clue what happened last night. Well, drinking for sure because I’ve got a pitbull hangover. Strange shit is happening to me, and now you’re telling me my money’s no good. I just want to go home and sleep this off. And I know you don’t believe me, but I’ll try to find some way to pay you back.”
“Alright, take it easy. Let me even up this beard a bit and you be done.”
Boston leaned in with a small trimmer.
“Close your eyes now.”
The whisk danced over Ripley’s face and flicked across the nape of his neck. He felt the neckband loosen. Then, the lapcloth swept aside. Loose hair cascaded to the floor. He pushed himself from the chair.
“There you go, Ripley Walker. I hope your day gets better; maybe you get some answers. Don’t know what else I can do to help you.”
“You’ve done plenty, Boston. I owe you.”
“Yeah, but not a word to anyone, hear? You got a way home?”
“I’m hoofing it. Can’t be too far.”
“Where you stay at?”
“Over on Alton.”
The older man’s expression sharpened.
“Alton and what?”
“The Beauregard, Alton and Fifth.”
Wilkes stepped back and shook his head.
“Now why you want to do that? You come in my place, all down on your luck. Do I disrespect you? No, I don’t. I give you coffee, cut your hair, treat you decent. Then you lie to my face.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the Beauregard Apartments. The cops burnt it to the ground during the Urban Wars, along with that whole neighborhood. Killed many folks. Said they was terrorists. That was fourteen, fifteen years ago. Don’t nobody live there now ‘cept rats and pigeons.”
Ripley felt the floor shifting under his feet. He fell into one of the empty chairs that lined the wall.
“No, you don’t. You get out of here, or I’ll run this broom across your shoes. Serve you right, you liar.”
A bony hand snaked under Ripley’s armpit and yanked him to his feet. Another hand snatched away the coffee mug. The world spun and before Ripley had time to think, he found himself on the empty sidewalk. A bell jangled as the door slammed shut behind him.
Not knowing what to do or where to go, Ripley retraced his steps. He hated the idea of returning to the derelict office, but something told him it was better than searching out his old apartment.
Ripley recrossed the cracked asphalt. He hesitated, then slipped the key into the lock. The door opened a crack. He peeked inside. Everything seemed the same. He stepped inside and closed the door. Before he could lock it, a banging filled the room.
“Hello in there.”
A woman’s voice. The voice that wielded an evil club.
Ripley froze, not knowing whether to run or hide.
“Look, I saw you come in.”
“Wait, how could you see me?”
The words jumped out of Ripley’s mouth before he could bite them off.
“Duh, scope on the roof. Look, I’m your neighbor, right?”
“Yeah, the spooky neighbor with the club.”
There was a snort from beyond the door.
“Right, that’s me. Very spooky. Four years I’ve been living here thinking that room’s abandoned. Suddenly, some hairy guy busts into my space. By the way, Boston did a nice job. That caveman look didn’t work for you.”
“Wait a minute, okay? I don’t understand any of this, not a single thing.”
“How about you start by unlocking the door? My name’s Jasmine if that helps. Jasmine James.”
Ripley slumped onto the sofa and stared at his shoes.
“Hello?”
Fuck it. Getting hit with a club might help.
He pushed himself up and unlocked the inner door. Then he flopped back onto the sofa. A few seconds passed, then the door eased open. A head of wild hair appeared around the jamb.
“Hey. Wow, you look like your dog got run over by a train.”
Ripley nodded.
“Yeah. You might as well come in.”
The rest of Jasmine James slid into the room, closed the door, and leaned against it. She was tall and thin, maybe twenty-five, her skin the bronze of faraway islands. Ms. James wore welder chic. Faded overalls, a denim shirt, and heavy boots. Her hair gathered into a scrunchie atop her head and exploded upwards from there.
“So, umm, hi neighbor I didn’t know I had.”
“Hi.”
Jasmine folded her arms across the top of her overalls.
“And you are…?”
“Right, sorry. I’m Ripley, Ripley Walker.”
“Okay, Ripley. You can call me Jazz. I’m guessing you already met Boston, so now you know half the folks in the neighborhood. You wanna tell me what you’re doing here?”
Ripley shook his head and stared at his shoes.
“I wish I could, but I have no idea. None.”
Jazz circled the sofa and perched in the nearest armchair.
She lowered her head and tried to look into Ripley’s eyes. He gave up and raised his head. Jazz gave him an assessing look and frowned. Whatever she saw did not meet with her approval.
“When was the last time you ate anything? You’re looking pretty peaked.”
“Don’t know. I had a cuppa coffee at the barbershop.”
“I thought so. You better come next door. I’ll cook you breakfast, make amends for scaring you. It’s just dole food, but I trick it out special. You get some food in you; then you tell me what’s eating you, cause something is damn sure chewing on your ass. What do you think, new neighbor Ripley?”
“I think it’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time.”
Jazz’s laughter filled the nasty office. Ripley liked the sound of it, even though it hurt his head.
“Well, the day’s young. C’mon, let’s get you fed. Then you can tell me your tale of woe.”
~~~
Over the next half hour, Jasmine employed spicing tricks and subterfuge to render dole food edible. Ripley took a stab at sorting out his jumbled memories. Both failed, although Jasmine had better luck with the government-issue protein patties.
While Jazz cooked, Ripley surveyed the warehouse. Looms filled one wall. Fabric, yarns, and all manner of textiles spilled from shelves. The weird shadows that had spooked him turned out to be woven garments hanging from overhead rafters.
Jazz served the food, and they dug in. Ripley contemplated the food dangling from his fork.
“What exactly is this stuff?”
Jazz chewed and swallowed before answering.
“Best not to know. It won’t kill you, at least in the short run, but it will keep you thin. Shit’s too nasty to get fat on.”
“And everyone eats it?”
“Mostly. Can’t hardly touch meat anymore. I’ve forgotten what fish tastes like. We barter for eggs in summer, chicken too, but winter is hard. Rabbit and deer show up now and then, but hunters pop them right quick.”
Ripley forked more mystery patty into his mouth. Jasmine’s spice helped, but it was like chewing spicy styrofoam. While he ate, Jazz asked questions.
“Let me get this straight. All you remember is walking down the street, some guys hanging out front, and they invite you for a quick drink. That’s it?”
“Yeah, but bits are coming back to me. They all looked alike. Maybe brothers or something.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. You said four of them, right? Four brothers?”
“Maybe it was five. And not brothers, but family or something. I remember they all had beards.”
“Maybe that’s why they offered you a drink. Saw your beard and figured you for a long-lost cousin.”
“Except I didn’t have a beard last night. I already told you that.”
Jazz gave him a raised eyebrow.
“This is some crazy shit you’re telling me. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Okay then.”
“It’s weird, but I can see it more than remember it, if that makes any sense. Five of them, short guys with beards and dark hair. They were hanging out on the sidewalk.”
“And they offer you a drink. What were they drinking?”
“It was beer, or ale, something dark. I think they poured it out of a growler, like home-brew. Oh shit!”
“What is it?”
“I remember something else. Later, after a few brews, one of the little dudes asked me if I wanted to try something special. I said, sure, why not? I remember he asked twice, or maybe three times.”
“Then what?”
“He broke out some grappa, homemade firewater. Dude had some nice shot glasses. I remember that. Too fancy for a sidewalk drink. Anyway, I guess we did some shots. And that’s the last thing I remember.”
Ripley chewed his last reluctant bite, laid down his fork, and looked across the makeshift table. Jasmine stared into his face.
“Ripley, I’m gonna ask you a question. I probably don’t want to know the answer, but you got to tell me the truth, okay?”
“Sure, I promise.”
“What year is it, for you, I mean?”
“Jazz, you’re freaking me out a little.”
“Year? Please?”
Ripley felt the shadow of doubt even as he opened his mouth.
“Twenty-twenty-three.”
Jasmine James reached across the table and laid her bronze hand over his arm.
“Ripley, I got some bad news for you. You’re two decades off. It’s twenty-forty-three.”
~~~
Ripley tossed and turned on the too-short couch. He had come close to a complete freakout in front of his new neighbor. Very close to the edge, indeed.
Jazz talked him back from the abyss, but only just. After Ripley calmed enough to maybe avoid a heart attack, Jazz gave him a mug of foul herbal tea that she claimed would help him sleep. When he finally choked down the nasty brew, Jazz led him back to the office, tucked him in, and promised to look in on him later.
Thrashing around on the sofa, Ripley wished Jazz would poke her pretty head through the door. Better yet, she might invite him to share her bed, where he could freak out naked and in good company. Before he could take that dream any further, a fresh mob of worries scrabbled into his brain. Any further thoughts of Jasmine were blotted out.
Twenty years gone—Poof! How was a guy supposed to reconcile that? Besides the enormous questions of how and why, there were so many other weird things.
Ripley couldn’t make sense of this crazy shit. Take the simple fact of his age. Twenty-eight or forty-eight? When he’d asked Jazz, she tried to make a joke of it. She said it meant she might be dating a younger and older man at the same time. Ripley failed to see the humor and the hopeful hint went right past him.
Then there was the state of the world. Society had gone to shit during his two-decade nap. Anarchy, civil war, the cops burning down his apartment building. He might have died along with all those other poor bastards.
Thoughts bombarded his addled brain, getting more and more jumbled. His head was going fuzzy, maybe from the tea, maybe from shock and a huge hangover. Despite the clamor of worry, darkness slipped over him. Ripley welcomed it.
Deep in the night, when all should have been dark, the room flickered. Images shifted like a badly spliced film. Ghostly images appeared. The briefest flash of a person sitting at the desk, then someone walking out the door, muffled snippets of conversation, daylight, darkness, and all of it moving too fast to see or hear.
Ripley swam out of the nightmare. He tried to move, but his body felt frozen. Was he still dreaming? Fear stabbed an icy finger through his guts. This was no dream, and he was not alone. He prayed it was Jasmine come to nurse him, and in the same moment, he knew it wasn’t.
Without opening his eyes, Ripley knew someone else was in the room with him, a mere arm’s reach from where he pretended to sleep. And somehow, the intruder’s presence felt familiar. It was a horrible way to wake up, and it only got worse.
“I see yer eyelids moving, ya daft human. Yer foolin’ no one.”
Ripley yanked the Avengers blanket over his head, forgetting how bad it smelled. He pulled it back down and saw someone grinning at him. It was not a nice smile.
The figure was bearded, muscular, and hard-looking. A short man dressed as a miner. Or maybe a blacksmith. A very small blacksmith. Even with his heavy boots, the grinning apparition wasn’t four feet head to toe. But hovering over the sofa, the little bastard looked twelve feet tall.
Ripley was already at the end of his tether, and now the tether broke.
“Who are you, and what the fuck do you want with me?”
The wee miner pulled a face of mock hurt.
“Oh, so that’s how it is, aye? Quick, you are to forget a friend, Ripley Walker. Bah, humans! All alike, ya louts. Ya weren’t so standoffish last night, that’s sure.”
“Last night. Wait, you were here? What happened? What did you do to me?”
“That’s a laugh. I, do something to you? That’s rich, that is. We invited you to share a drink with us. All too willing you were. Then we broke out the good stuff and warned ya off, but ya wanted a nip, ya greedy sod. Speaking of which, did youse check yer pockets this morning?”
“My pockets?”
“Aye, the sacks in yer britches where ya keeps yer whatnot, ya daft bugger.”
Ripley tangled himself trying to reach into the pockets of his jeans. When he untangled himself and opened his hand, five golden heads of grain cradled on his palm. It looked like rye or barley, but it was too dark to tell.
“Tis midnight on the last day of May, and here you be, sleeping through it. Tsk-tsk, lad.”
In a twinkling, the little man skipped to the window, yanked up the blinds, and was perched on the edge of the easy chair before Ripley could scream.
Beyond the window, the dark of midnight lay over the world, yet the room glowed. The eerie light did nothing to improve the situation nor the countenance of the wicked stranger. Ripley recognized wicked when he saw it.
“No, lad, I’m not wicked. No more than you are. We struck a bargain, plain and simple.”
Ripley sat up and swept off the blanket. It smelled awful, he hated having the little fucker staring down at him, and worse, the midget could read his thoughts.
“I see ya kept a bit of the beard. Suits ya, I must say.”
Ripley waved a finger.
“Who are you, and what did you do to me?”
The short man sat back, hands twined over his waistcoat, and twiddled his thumbs.
“Right, so that’s how ya wants it, straight and to the point. Very well. Stupid fucking humans, dense as logs. It’s a wonder how you lot managed to take over the entire world, but there it is. My name is Robert. I’ll not be telling ya my full name; goes without saying. I’m a kobold.”
Robert the kobold gave Ripley the human a wink. The human opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water and failed to notice.
“Sheesh, idiot humans. As I was saying, I’m a kobold, or puck if you prefer. Pixie, knocker, you big folk have plenty of names for us, all of them wrong. We used to live cheek-by-jowl, yer kind and mine, but then youse took to wheels and gears and machines. Next thing ya know—Presto!—the whole planet is fer humans and humans only. All the other creatures, furred, finned, or faeried, we’re left to hide where we can, in the deepest, darkest shadows.”
Ripley found his tongue, despite the insane shit the little man spouted.
“Okay, whatever you say. But what does that have to do with me?”
The kobold laughed, not a happy storybook laugh, but a creepy, sinister cackle.
“Bad luck, Ripley Walker. You were handy, that’s all. Now that you big folks are busy destroying yer own kind, there’s a chance fer the rest of us. But it’s a tickly business, very tricky to navigate. My kind needs to bounce safe through your last dying years. Probably take you humans half a century to finish the job. After that, it’s clear sailing for the Little Folk.”
“Bounce, like, jump through time?”
“Look at ya, now, awake and smelling the midnight air! That’s exactly right. But the bouncing requires the drink, and the drink is tricky. Needs constant calibrating. So, we test it on humans, find a safe spot, then make another jump. Think of it as stations on an underground railway if that helps.”
“But what about me?”
Robert the kobold snorted.
“What about you, human? We struck a deal. Yer holding the payment in yer hand. Grain for the bargain, and our drink the privilege. Asked you three times, as required, and three times ya answered aye. Done is done.”
“Then I’m stuck here? Twenty years gone, just like that?”
“Twenty years and two days, to be exact. As I was saying, the drink needs constant tending. And them years ain’t gone. The clock is just reset, is all. Lucky you. You’d be dead otherwise.”
“But my life is ruined, you little bastard. You took everything from me. Give it back!”
The kobold waved his hand through the air. The anger Ripley clutched so tightly flew away from him like a sail cut loose in a raging tempest. He sagged onto the sofa.
“A civil tongue in yer head, if you please, Mister Walker. Now then, yer life wasn’t much. Be honest with yourself. No gal, hardly any mates, lonely most of the time. Add on the likelihood that the human police would have killed ya with them other poor sods. Not a terrorist amongst them, by the way. All of it just a sad circus. To my way of thinking, we did youse a favor.”
“And there’s no way to send me back?”
“None whatsoever. We can jump back and forth, but not you lot.”
“And it won’t matter, because all the humans are going to die, right?”
“I said no such thing, Ripley Walker. Humans are unpredictable ‘ceptin when it comes to making things worse. Some of yer kind might survive. Not many, but some.”
Anger swelled through Ripley and gave him strength. He lunged from the sofa, intent on strangling the smirking kobold. Before he was halfway to the creature’s throat, Robert the kobold flicked his hand and vanished. The last thing Ripley saw was a malicious grin. Then he crashed into an empty easy chair and the room went black.
The chair flipped backward, and Ripley went along for the ride. He landed flat on his back under an upside-down easy chair. Old pennies and mouse shit rained down from the loose cushions. Then a pool of light settled over the wreckage.
Jasmine James’ voice followed the sweep of the flashlight.
“You wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing? Middle of the goddamn night and you’re wrestling with furniture.”
Ripley yelled a muffled reply and got a mouthful of dust for his trouble.
“What?”
He flailed at the cushions, then squinted into the beam of the flashlight.
“I said, the goblins came back. One anyway. He sat right here in this chair.”
“A goblin, huh?”
Ripley scuttled out from under the chair until his back slammed into the wall. His legs splayed out across the floor.
Jasmine squatted beside him.
“So you attacked the chair?”
Ripley waved a weak hand.
“Give me a second, okay?”
“Sure, take your time. It’ll give me a chance to sort this shit out. Let’s see. A new neighbor appears out of nowhere. Says he’s from the past, but more likely he’s just some crazy homeless person.”
“I am homeless! The cops burned down my apartment building.”
“Right. So, back to my version of this weird story. I take pity on the guy because he’s kinda cute. Another bad move in my ongoing series of bad decisions about men. Now my neighbor is wrestling armchairs at midnight and telling me they’re demons.”
Ripley rubbed a hand across his forehead, then shook a finger at nothing.
“Wait. He told me his name. Robert. And he’s not a demon. He said he was a kobold, whatever that is.”
“Big difference between a goblin and a kobold.”
“Yeah? And how do you know that?”
Jasmine snorted.
“Kids books, that’s how. Your parents never read you fairytales?”
Ripley’s sagged forward and gripped his head. A few seconds passed in silence. Then he felt Jasmine’s hand on his shoulder.
“Okay, tough night. I get that. Look, I gotta leave early in the morning. There’s a barter fair outside the city. But I doubt either of us are getting back to sleep anytime soon. Why don’t I make some tea and you can tell me all about your pal the kobold.”
Her hand slid under his armpit and urged him up. Ripley gave in, pushed himself to his feet, and followed the beam of her flashlight.
~~~
In the days that followed, Ripley Walker slipped from despair into depression. The first week of June brought sunshine and warmth, but he ignored both and locked himself inside. The walls closed in, and the musty office became a prison cell.
Jasmine had disappeared to her mysterious barter fair. She’d said it might last four or five days. Midnights came and went with no sign of the horrible Robert. Ripley became a castaway stripped of everything, including his past.
Four mornings without caffeine drove Ripley to the edge of madness and forced him out the door. Once outside, guilt kept him moving. Dawn edged the eastern sky, but the sun had yet to show itself. He crossed the parking lot and headed up the sidewalk.
As he neared the barbershop, Ripley saw no sign of Boston Wilkes. He looked to the dawn light. Too early, even for barbers. But not too early for him to start paying off his debt.
Ripley wandered around back and found a battered trash can. Then he set himself to work. Starting with the gutter out front, he picked up every bit of litter he could find, right down to the cigarette butts. Then he policed the sidewalk. He worked around the building until the trash can stood half full. Then he heard a voice behind him.
“Might be misremembering, but I thought I done thrown you out.”
“G’morning, Mister Wilkes.”
“Don’t you be morning me. And it’s Boston. What’re you doing?”
Ripley straightened up and faced the barber.
“Paying off my debt.”
He held up the trash can as evidence. Boston harrumphed and shook his head.
“If you give me a broom, I’ll sweep the sidewalk. Hell, I’ll sweep the whole street for one cup of coffee. Wash the windows, run errands, anything you want.”
Boston scratched his chin and eyeballed the young man.
“Needing a cuppa coffee, I spose that’s understandable. But you stay out of my way, hear? I don’t need no bother, and this ain’t no homeless shelter.”
Ripley swept the sidewalk like it had never been swept before. He swept the gutter. He would have kept sweeping, but Boston stuck his head out the door.
“Coffee’s ready.”
~~~
The morning sun warmed the bench in front of the barbershop. Ripley cradled the coffee mug close to his chin. He took small sips, savoring each one. A few of the regulars arrived. They greeted Ripley with an air of caution, the way one might speak to a dangerous child.
When he stepped inside, the room fell silent. He sidled over to the coffee station and stowed the dirty mug. Boston already had a regular in the chair. Two others sat along the wall. Every eye stared at him.
“You need anything else, Mister Wilkes?”
“Nope, that’ll do.”
“Right. I’ll be going. Thank you.”
Ripley got gone.
The sun warmed the street. No way he could face that shithole squat, not today. Ripley set out walking. The street seemed to be a border of a sort. A neighborhood of brick walkups and vacant lots rose on his left. Vague recollections tickled his brain. This had been a poor section of town back in what he now thought of as his own time. The passing of two decades had not been kind. It looked a lot poorer now.
South of the street, a crumbling industrial wasteland stretched to the horizon. Nature seemed intent on reclaiming the ruined warehouses and gravel lots. Saplings reached for the sky, the beginnings of a new forest. Weeds and brambles conquered the open spaces and climbed over tumbled-down fences.
Ripley crossed the street and found a faint path that led into the tangle. He hadn’t gone a hundred yards before he felt he’d entered another world. The signs were everywhere. Rabbit runs pierced the brambles. A pheasant shot into the sunlight.
He thought of his grandpa. Ripley was a city boy raised by parents who were unhappy with themselves and their son. Every summer, his parents shipped him upstate to live with his grandparents. His fondest memories were of long days with his grandpa.
Grandpa Walker rarely said two words, but he understood the world of critters, as he called them. Young Ripley learned to hunt, fish, and sometimes see the world through his grandpa’s eyes. Those skills had lain dormant from lack of need. Ripley needed them now.
A quarter mile on, the game trail ended at a canal. Cattails lined the banks. Clear water flowed past in no hurry to get anywhere. Ripley stood on the bank, alone with his thoughts. He watched, listened, and waited. Then he turned and hurried back the way he’d come.
He strode along, rolling ideas through his head. He needed tools. The only way to get them was to scavenge. Fortunately, there were piles of junk everywhere. Most had been picked over, but he had lots of time. The thought caused him to laugh out loud.
The first vacant lot yielded a stout rake handle minus the rake. After searching several other middens, he uncovered the head of a garden fork. In another, he found half a machinist’s file. Bits of wire proved easier. Not a scrap of copper, but plenty of old steel wire. He soon gathered a collection of tangled lengths in different gauges.
Clutching his treasures, Ripley headed back to the squat. He opened the door and window to air the fetid office. The broken desk became a worktable.
First, he filed the tines of the garden fork to dagger points. The file rasped his fingers raw, but he kept at it. Using the edge of the file, he cut grooves in the tines and fashioned crude barbs.
Next came the handle. Using the lightest wire, he wrapped the handle six inches from the end, coiling it tight until he’d created a steel band two inches wide.
He found an old knife blade in the makeshift kitchen. After sawing a groove in the end of the handle, he fitted the knife blade to the groove, braced the handle against the floor, and banged the blade with a piece of brick. A few blows split the handle to the band of wire. He used the edge of the desk to knock the blade free of the wood, then wiggled the sharpened garden fork into the split and forced it home. More wire wrapping bound the split end closed.
He hefted the final product and jabbed the air. A crude weapon, but it might work.
Ripley wanted to run back to the canal, but that would be pointless. He stepped outside. The sun rode high in the sky. Hours yet until nightfall. And what about the moon? Last he remembered, the moon waxed gibbous, heading to full. He had no flashlight, so the moon would have to do whatever phase it was in.
Time to do something about the stinking squat. He searched cupboards and dusty bins. A narrow door off the kitchen opened into a tiny utility closet. He found a bucket, the remains of a mop, and a box of solidified soap powder. He chipped away enough soap to pour into the bucket and set to work.
After two hours of scrubbing, the place was still a hovel but less nasty than it had been. While the sofa cushions aired in the sunshine, Ripley fried up two of the protein patties Jazz had left him. He took his dinner al fresco, sitting on the outside walk with his back against a wall. He choked down the patties and watched the sun slide into the west.
~~~
Boston Wilkes arrived at his barbershop to find Ripley waiting on the bench out front. A burlap bag rested on the sidewalk at his feet.
“Hmph. Morning, Ripley.”
“Good morning, Boston.”
The barber rattled his keys and unlocked the door.
“I spose you looking to cadge another coffee?”
“No sir. I’m looking to barter for a cup.”
“That right? What you got in that sack?”
Ripley grinned at him.
Fortune took a small turn for the better. Boston Wilkes happened to have a strong affinity for frog legs. The two men struck a quick deal that left Ripley with coffee credit, an upcoming haircut, and a dozen frog legs still in the bank.
When the first of the regulars showed up, another round of barter commenced. Ripley came out of the bargain with an empty sack and the promise of used but serviceable sheets, a pillow, and, best of all, an army blanket that did not stink to high heaven.
He left the barbershop dead tired but with his head held high. It had been a long night. He needed to rest up for the next one. Yesterday, he’d been a bum exiled from his own time. Tonight, he had frogs to gig and promises to keep.
That night, Ripley worked another section of the canal. The bullfrogs were in full voice. By midnight, the burlap bag bulged with dead frogs. Ripley washed the mud out of his pants as best he could. With only one set of clothes to his name, the problem of laundry reared its ugly head. But now he had goods to trade. With the wet pants and a sack of frogs slung over his shoulder, Ripley walked home in his underwear.
~~~
Clean bedding wrapped Ripley as he slept like the dead. The sun stood past noon and still he snored. He might have kept right on if not for the knocking. The persistent sound penetrated his dreamless sleep, deeper and deeper until his brain responded. His eyes blinked open. The knocking came from behind the back door. Jasmine was back!
He leaped from the sofa wearing only his skivvies. Pants, he needed pants. Except all his clothes were outside, drying in the sun. He snatched the lovely new army blanket from the bed, wrapped it around himself, and dashed to the door. The lock stuck. He cursed, yanked, and the door flew open.
“Hi. You’re back.”
“And you’re still here. Nice outfit.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m working nights. My clothes are wet.”
Jasmine leaned on the doorjamb and grinned.
“I see we’ve got stuff to talk about. Lucky for you, I scored at the barter fair. Here, I hope they fit.”
Jazz held out a small bundle. Ripley performed some sleight of hand to accept her gift without losing his blanket.
“Why don’t you get dressed while I rustle up some lunch.”
“Wait. How do you feel about frog legs?”
“Seriously? I could murder a mess of frog legs.”
“Give me two minutes.”
“You’re an odd man, Ripley. I’ll just go find the cornmeal.”
~~~
Ripley sat in Jasmine’s kitchen wearing clean canvas work pants and a denim shirt. Jazz fried up the frog legs while Ripley filled her in on his adventures. They tore into the fresh meat and chewed the bones clean. Jazz talked about the barter fair. She’d left with bundles of woven cloth and returned bearing hard goods. Ripley bragged a bit about the new hunting knife and headlamp he’d bartered for.
He hung around her place until late afternoon. Jazz gave Ripley a tour of her looms. She showed him samples of yarns and the finished products. They talked about barter, how to survive, where to get the fairest deals, and what tomorrow might bring. As if by mutual agreement, they avoided mentioning the past.
Jasmine begged off an invitation to go hunting with him. Stabbing amphibians wasn’t her thing, but she wished him luck.
That night, clouds obscured the moon. Ripley followed the beam of his new headlamp, confident that tonight would be a good hunt. He reached the canal and began working a new section, conscious of the need to preserve his stock of frogs.
An hour later, he saw a light bobbing in the darkness. Then he saw another, further down the canal. Word spreads quickly in a hungry community. He had competition.
~~~
Ripley lay on the sofa. His body felt dog-tired, but thoughts raced through his brain. He thought about bartering for material to build snares. Rabbit and pheasant would be valuable trading commodities. But if he could snare them, so could others, just like the frogs. It wouldn’t take long before the whole area was hunted out.
His thoughts turned to the creepy kobold and the strange things he’d said. Something about how humans were unpredictable except when it came to making things worse. The kobold was not far wrong there.
Ripley needed something that no one else had, a skill not easily duplicated. The germ of an idea began to form in his brain. The more he thought, the more he knew it could work. Unfortunately, bringing the plan to fruition involved the kobold.
The idea crystallized, details becoming sharper as he rolled each question around in his noggin. Humans needed solace. They needed barter. They needed booze. And that foul bastard Robert needed something as well. The time had come to strike a deal.
But how to summon a kobold? Ripley wracked his brain to recall every word the creature had said. Then it came to him as if the kobold had reappeared.
“T’is midnight on the last day of May, and here you be, sleeping through it.”
He counted off the days in his head and smiled. Come the last day of June, he’d be ready. In the meantime, he had work to do.
~~~
The last night of June found Ripley alone in the squat. The moon had waned to a sliver. A wooden crate sat on the floor between the sofa and an empty, easy chair. Atop the crate, a single candle illuminated the squat. Beside the candle stood two shot glasses and a bottle.
Midnight crept closer. Sleep tugged at his eyelids. His chin sagged to his chest. The room flickered. Images shifted and spun away. Ghosts appeared and vanished. Daylight flashed through the squat, then darkness, again and again.
Ripley’s eyes snapped open. Robert the kobold grinned at him from the easy chair. The kobold’s grin wasn’t as nasty as he’d remembered. Ripley blew out a long breath and shook his head to clear away the shock.
“Hello, Robert.”
“Hello yourself, Ripley Walker. This was well figured, lad. You’ve learned a bit.”
Ripley gathered his scattered thoughts.
“I wanted to apologize about the last time. Make amends to you.”
“Think nothing of it. Ya couldn’t have harmed me. It’s not in yer power to do so. But what’s this I see? A bit of the hospitality?”
“Only a bit. It’s poor whiskey, to be honest.”
“Ah, but what did the wise man say? Any port in a storm, and better bad whiskey than none.”
Ripley reached for the bottle, cracked the screw cap, and poured the shot glasses full. Human and kobold each lifted a dram.
“To what shall we drink, human?”
“To bargains.”
“Oh, aye? Tis a good toast. To bargains, then.”
Both whiskies disappeared in one go.
“Buggers. Yer not lying, Ripley Walker. That’s a foul spirit, no offense meant.”
“None taken. Another?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
The glasses were refilled, and the shots downed.
“Now then, what’s on yer mind? I can sense you’ve been cogitating.”
“You’re right. I’ve been thinking about something you said the first time. You called this place a station house, so I figured I’d be seeing you again. Now that you’re here, I want to ask you a question.”
Robert the kobold leaned forward, his eyes keen.
“You’ve captured my attention, lad. Ask away.”
Ripley marshaled his thoughts and pushed on.
“Can kobolds carry stuff when they slip back and forth? Baggage or gear, anything like that?”
“Aye, that we can. How do ya think we supply the next station? But there’s limits. We found that out the hard way, centuries ago. If a fella can hold it in his arms or strap it to his back, the gear jumps with the fella. But if the cargo is electronic, forget it. Phones, computers, that sort of garbage, it vanishes if youse try. Don’t know why, but that’s the way of it.”
That was the answer Ripley needed to hear. It could work. If he distilled booze in his old life, then why not here in the future? All he had to do was make it worth the kobold’s time.
“What would you say to a deal, Robert? An arrangement that would benefit both of us.”
“Benefit, now that’s a word of power. Does that mean no harm to either party, then?”
“None. My word of honor.”
The kobold leaned even closer. Ripley tried not to cringe away from the fierce glow in the creature’s eyes.
“Ah, now, Ripley Walker, you’re speaking my language. We love a good bargain, that’s sure. Tell me what you have in mind, and we’ll thrash it out.”
~~~
“It’s a good thing you don’t look as batshit as you sound.”
Jasmine set a mug of tea in front of Ripley, then slipped around the table and slid into a chair facing him.
“Jazz, is this the sleepy tea? Because I already slept away most of the day.”
“Naw, that’s feel-good tea. You’ll like it. But quit stalling. Tell me the rest of the story. What was your deal? Did little Robert go for it?”
The rest sounded unbelievable, but so far, Jazz had dealt with strange far better than Ripley. Across the table, Jazz was bouncing up and down like a twelve-year-old, and the ball of hair atop her head bounced as well.
“Okay, I’ll tell you. Stop bouncing. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Jazz stuck out her tongue and made fisheyes.
“Jeez. Okay, the first time Robert appeared, he made it clear I was never going back to my own time. Like, the deal is done.”
“How did he say it? Was he mean about it? Like, fuck you, you’re stuck here?”
“No, he just said it straight out. I asked him if there was any way to send me back. He said, ‘None whatsoever. We can jump back and forth, but not you lot.’ In a way, it was like getting a death sentence.”
“Does he have a gravelly voice like that, or is that just your bad impression?”
“No, that’s exactly how he sounds. It’s creepy and kind of cool at the same time. It’s like the voice of a giant stuck in a little body. You’ll hear it yourself when you meet him.”
Ripley looked across the table and saw Jazz smiling like a sunrise. He had just offered her the possibility of meeting an ancient being, and she was grinning like a kid at Christmas. He saw no trace of fear on her face. One, two heartbeats, and Ripley knew he was a goner for her.
Then he told her how he and Robert had worked out a deal. The kobolds would transport Ripley’s gear from his old shop. The little bastards would make a few trips between past and now, toting Ripley’s pot still and his column still. They’d fetch the condenser coils and carboys, the bags of grain and malt. Whatever they couldn’t transport, he could build or barter for. And he would have powerful trading goods. Whiskey futures would command attention.
Setting up a new distillery was only part of the deal. While Ripley’s mash bubbled away in the carboys, he’d get busy creating something special, a spirit no human distiller had ever crafted. He had in mind a special still, a miniature built of copper and distiller’s magic, a device to give the kobolds the one thing they truly desired.
That was the idea that had crystalized in Ripley’s brain. The kobold’s potion was tricky, needing constant calibration. Who better to deal with a tricky spirit than a man who distilled spirits? Robert agreed to show him the basic recipe, and Ripley promised to do everything in his power to improve and stabilize the potion.
The deal was struck. Ripley would help fine-tune their potion and act as a stationmaster on the underground railway of time. The kobolds would come and go as needed.
He told Jazz how wee Robert had spit on his palm and held it out.
“Ewww. Did you hesitate?”
Ripley laughed at the memory of the calloused hand cradling a pool of spittle.
“Nope. I hocked a loogie, gobbed it onto my palm, and grabbed the little bastard’s hand.”
“Jeez, men are so gross. So, what happens now?”
“Yeah, about that. I need space to set up the distillery.”
Jazz waved her mug of feel-good tea.
“Plenty of space around here. That’s one thing we got lots of. The warehouse next door is empty.”
Ripley swallowed the lump in his throat and went for broke.
“And I’m going to need a partner.”
Jazz set her mug on the table, leaned back, and folded her arms across her overalls.
“What sort of partner are we talking about, Mister Walker? Do you mean two people working together, bartering their respective goods, and sharing the profits?”
Ripley was at a loss for words. Jazz noted his silence and smiled.
“Oh, I see. I think you mean two people who do all the above while sharing a bed. And sharing all the joy and misery being a couple brings with it. Am I close?”
This time, Ripley found his words.
“You’re spot on with the second one, the bed, joy, and misery.”
Jazz cocked her head and gave him a long look. Then she smiled.
“I’ll tell you what, Ripley Walker. If you can make a deal with a supernatural munchkin who spits in his hand, you can damn sure make a deal with me. How long before your first batch of booze is ready?”
“Well, to get everything set up and then distill something drinkable, I’m guessing six months.”
“Mm-hmm, I think that might work. Okay, we work together for six months. I help you with the distillery; you help me with the weaving and whatnot. We pool our resources. Meanwhile, I make you up a pallet over there in the corner. Robert and his mates can have the front office.”
“So, I’m moving in with you.”
Jasmine’s eyebrows flashed and Ripley thought maybe he better change his tone.
“Roommates, you and me. Your pallet is way over there, and my bedroom is way over here. If we survive six months without killing each other, then we can discuss the next step. Deal?”
“Do we have to spit in our hands?”
Jazz laughed and Ripley knew he would always love that sound.
“Not necessary. When do I get to meet Robert and the boys?”
“He said he’d be back tomorrow with the first load. You better watch that little bastard; he’s a charmer.”
“Look at you, jealous already. I sorta like that, Ripley. Shows you care. But don’t let it run away with you. Now, why don’t you tell me all about the good old days before you started drinking with strangers.”
“Sure, but you need to school me up on this brave new world I’ve fallen into.”
“You first.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction.
When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.
Website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com
About the Author
