Paul Jones - Towards Yesterday

A door opened somewhere and a commotion of people entered the room. A man walked toward the lectern, flanked by two big men in dark gray suits, their glances at the few members of the press crowded in front and behind the camera, along with their flat-line expressions, immediately betrayed the two men as members of the secret service.

The man at the lectern shuffled a few papers before pulling the microphone closer to his mouth and then looking directly into the camera.

A shock of black hair highlighted a narrow face watched over by carefully manicured eyebrows. Dressed in a black business suit with a blood-red tie, he looked to be in his fifties. A century before, he would have been described as dapper but tonight he looked drawn and gray: haggard. Pale puffed flesh under his eyes and pink tinged conjunctiva striated with blood.

A white caption appeared in bold letters at the bottom of the screen — VICE PRESIDENT NATHANIAL RODERICK.

“ My fellow Americans ,” Roderick began, staring deep into the lens of the camera. “I must first inform you that President Sarandon is incapacitated and, that I, as Vice President, have been appointed as President Pro-Tem until she is able to resume control .” Roderick’s voice carried a certain lofty tone, bordering on arrogant as he delivered the news of the President’s absence.

“ As you are all by now, no doubt aware, a catastrophic event occurred today. It appears that the United States and our allies, have suffered some form of terrorist attack. At this point in time, we cannot say with any certainty who the perpetrator of this cowardly attack is or why it was carried out, but you can rest assured we are already taking all of the necessary steps to ascertain the full implications of the situation.

“ We do not know if this is a temporary effect or whether it is permanent, but you should have the utmost confidence that the best American scientific minds are now applying themselves to understanding precisely what occurred today.

“ Just as you, the people of this great nation are experiencing a time of transition and confusion, so too are we, your elected leaders, and it is with that information in mind that — for your safety — I am imposing a state of martial law for the time being. As of today a curfew will remain in place between the hours of six p.m. and ten a.m., until further notice.

“ Please, for your own safety, stay in your homes. This situation will be resolved as quickly as possible. In the meantime, I ask that you all be patient.” He paused before adding, “And may God bless the United States of America.”

The broadcast from the White House faded, replaced once more with the image of Norm Jones, looking even more confused than he had before the broadcast. “ Well, ladies and gentlemen, ” he said to the camera. “ Make of that what you will. But it appears— ”

Thomas pressed the off button on the TV remote and the screen went dead cutting the commentary off in mid-sentence.

Jim, Thomas and Jessica discussed the Vice President’s speech into the small hours of the following morning. Truth be told, it was less of a discussion, and more a primer to bring Jessica up to speed on world events after her death.

Originally, 2017 had been presided over by the first female president. President Sarandon had run on a vehemently anti-war platform (the right painting her as anti-American). She had run for office in ’16 and had gone on to serve two full terms, a respected and strong president, helping to lift the country further out of the recession that had blighted it starting in ’07.

The President’s husband, a well-known actor at the time, had seemed bemused at being the United States first first-gentleman, but had taken it all in stride.

President Sarandon’s VP was a different kettle-of-fish altogether. It was well known that a wide political rift separated the President from her running mate, their two offices often finding themselves in conflict.

A graduate from the Bush school of diplomacy, Roderick allegedly opposed President Sarandon’s light-handed approach to politics and non-confrontational attitude to policing the world. Seen as a hardliner within the party, he had been seen as the perfect choice to balance out Sarandon’s perceived weaknesses. He was often portrayed as a closet megalomaniac who had surrounded himself with some of the best PR firms money could buy.

In an expose after his retirement, he was portrayed as a dangerous man with expansionist ideals, a potential warmonger who had only been kept in check by the powerful personality of President Sarandon. A biographer would later quote one unnamed source that had worked closely with him as saying… not since Machiavelli has the political sphere seen a more dangerous, cunning, and potentially disastrous politician .

“The man was… is crazy. I shudder to think what he has up his sleeve, given the current state of the world,” said Thomas.

In 2042, the President had been — Would be? Could be? — Jerome Faulkner, the country’s second African American to hold the seat of power. He was a well-liked man, with nothing to mark or mar his Presidency, other than how truly unremarkable it had been to the date of the event.

He was the duly elected president, but of course, he was not going to actually be elected for many years yet.

“How the hell will they deal with that situation,” Jim asked.

“It’s beside the point,” Thomas said. “How old was he when he was elected? Forty? Forty-five?”

Jim nodded that the figure was close enough and after a pause while he digested what Thomas was getting at, realized his point. Somewhere out there, in Maine, if he remembered correctly, the man who would in the future history of the world, be elected president was now eighteen years old.

“Strange times,” said Thomas as he saw the realization spread over Jim’s face. “Strange times indeed.”

It had been a strange day that had now moved into a surreal night. Eventually, exhaustion and fatigue flowed over Jim’s body like a wave, and he excused himself.

“Goodnight James,” said Thomas, as Jessica hugged him and whispered in his ear, “In case all of this is gone in the morning.”

Rebecca was not surprised when her parents had explained to her in tones so hushed they were almost a whisper, that her nightmare had not been a dream. Just thinking about it, made her want to vomit, and it was all she could do to keep the urge under control.

Her mother and father sat across the breakfast table from her in the cramped kitchen of their doublewide trailer, an almost beatific look of wonder on both their faces. Rebecca’s mother must have realized her thoughts had strayed back to that moment again because she reached out and quickly took her daughter’s hand in her own, toppling the bottle of maple syrup they had just used with their pancake breakfast.

“Are you okay, Becky?” she asked, concern stitched across her face, ignoring the bottle and the pool of sticky syrup that had begun to leak onto the table top.

Rebecca swallowed hard and managed a weak smile. I probably look like a corpse grinning , she thought to herself. She forced the images of the glinting knife out of her head and asked her question again, “Please Dad, tell me what happened. I need to know.”

It had been three days since Becky had found herself so suddenly back in her childhood bedroom: three days of utter confusion, not only for her but also for the entire world. No one really seemed to know what had happened, what had caused billions of people to suddenly find themselves thrown so violently into the past. Even though the provisional government would have liked everybody to believe they had some idea, it had become patently obvious that they were as perplexed as the rest of the world.