Paul Melko - The Walls of the Universe

“Why? It’s our machine.”

“Listen, we had a deal, you stupid fucks,” he said, trying to climb up onto the truck bed.

John grabbed his shoulder and set him back down on the sidewalk gently. “We know you tried to sell us out, Ray.”

His mouth slapped shut. “I was trying to make you guys a deal. Do you know how much money this thing is worth?”

“Make us a deal?” Henry cried. “That’s a load of bull.”

“Sorry, Ray. Our deal is finished,” John said.

Grace climbed into the front, while John steadied himself and the machine in back. Henry started the truck and drove away.

John Prime watched the late November snow fall from his corner office in the McClintock Building in downtown Toledo. The production reports were on his desk, above the sales projections, and he needed to review them before he went home to Casey. To their new house in Sandburr. In his new Unic XK.

Prime grinned at the partial reflection in the mirror. Everything he’d ever wanted he had now. Not exactly according to plan, but here he was, president of a corporation, marketing one of his “inventions.” In just two months, he’d gone from murder suspect to corporate wheeler-dealer.

He should have been going over the reports, but he was still flying from the marketing meeting. They’d managed to get the kid on Late Night with Garofalo. That’s all they’d need. Just sixty seconds of the kid solving the Cube, a “wow” from Garofalo and her sidekick, Nealon, and every kid in the world would want a Cube. It was selling, sure, but it wasn’t the sure-fire hit he’d hoped. There were a dozen other toys kids in America were asking for instead of the Cube. But with a month until Christmas, they could still have the stores stocked nationwide. He hoped.

He turned back to the production reports.

Prime opened the first folder and his phone buzzed.

“Mr. Rayburn, a Mr. Ismail Corrundrum on line one,” Julie said.

“Who?”

“Mr. Corrundrum, sir. Says he knew you when you were a kid. Says it’s important.”

Prime rolled the name around on his tongue. It didn’t ring any bells, but who knew who Johnny Farm Boy had in his past? Prime glanced from the reports to the blinking light. He didn’t really want to go over the reports.

“Hello?” he said. “This is John Rayburn.”

“It’s not 1980,” a voice said.

“What?”

“It’s not 1980. The Cube is usually out by 1980. You are late by twenty-five years.”

“Who is this?”

“A fellow traveler,” the voice said. “Apparently.”

“What are you talking about?” Prime said, pretending to be as confused as possible. But inside he was cold. The man on the line was implying he knew the Cube was the result of cross-universe movement. He knew about traveling across universes.

“You’re going to attract a lot of attention,” the voice said. “Good thing I found you first.”

“I’m hanging up, you crackpot,” Prime said. He slammed down the phone. “Julie!” His assistant stuck her head in. “No more calls from Corrundrum!”

“Sure thing, boss.”

He glanced at the reports again. Now he was definitely in no mood for them. He pulled on his coat and gloves. It was late enough that the roads would be clear. The snow wasn’t sticking; it was still too warm, but Prime guessed that the thought of snow alone was enough to snarl all of rush hour.

He took the elevator down to the parking garage. The Unic beeped to life, its engine starting from afar as he stepped off the elevator.

A man leaned against the car. He hadn’t even bothered to move when Prime had unlocked it with the remote. For a moment Prime thought it was Corrundrum, but then he realized who it was: Vic Carson.

“I have a restraining order against you,” Prime said. He reached for his cell phone. “I’m calling security.”

“Sure, if you can get a signal down here.”

Carson pushed off heavily from the car with his buttocks. Prime saw he carried a crowbar in his left hand. It swung loosely from his ham fist.

“But I doubt you’ll get a signal, and if you do, I bet the call won’t go through.”

He whipped the crowbar through the air.

Behind Prime five meters, the elevator door slammed shut. Prime turned and lunged at the call button, but the elevator was already gone.

Carson slammed the crowbar against a concrete beam. It rang out.

“If the police aren’t going to do something, I will,” Carson said. He staggered, then took a step toward Prime. Carson was drunk, but even so, Prime was half his weight and unarmed. If the crowbar touched him, it would break a bone.

“Your son just ran off,” Prime cried. It was the story he’d been telling himself for so long, he almost believed it.

“He wouldn’t a done that.”

Carson lunged, and Prime jumped back.

“You’re a fool. If the police had evidence, they’d arrest me.”

“Police are the fools. They been bought off, with your fancy money.”

“That’s just your sorrow talking,” Prime said. “I know you feel like you lost a son. But don’t take your anger out on me.”

Carson stumbled to a stop, his shoulders stooped. He seemed to consider this. Then he grunted. “Ain’t coming back. Neither are you.”

Prime leaped back from the horizontal swing. He dropped his briefcase and the papers spilled out. Carson swung again, and the blow glanced off Prime’s forearm. He grunted and stumbled back. Carson was on him, trying to beat him down with the crowbar.

Prime kept going backward, away from the elevator and away from his car.

Prime ran up against something, a car. He tried to dodge to the left, toward his own car, but Carson blocked the way. Prime was forced right, deeper into the maze of cars and empty spots, away from the elevator.

Prime turned and ran, circling a car, putting it between him and Carson.

Carson leaped over the hood of the car, and Prime was again face-to-face with the man.

The blow caught Prime in his temple, and he staggered back, almost falling. The next swing caught his thigh. He cried out. His stomach erupted bile and acid. His thigh was jelly. Dizzily his body shuddered toward the wall. There was nowhere to go.

The elevator dinged.

Carson stared, expecting someone to come off the car, but it was empty.

Prime realized it was the car he’d called.

He took a step toward the elevator and Carson ran to intercept.

But Prime was feinting. He ran toward his car instead, to the opposite side.

Carson swung, but too late.

Prime’s dress shoes skidded on the concrete as he reached the Unic. Falling, he slammed his head against the car door. The concrete was icy cold; he clawed at the door handle, but his angle was off.

Prime pulled himself up, his shoulder blades itching. He yanked the door open and slid into the seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

The crowbar smashed into the car window. It starred, obscuring the image of Carson.

Prime dropped the car into gear and pulled through his spot, leaving Carson to swing wildly at his taillights. He ran over his own briefcase as he accelerated toward the gate. Curse words formed on Carson’s lips, but Prime couldn’t hear anything.

Shaking, exhilarated, he drove up the ramp, through the gate, and onto the downtown streets of Toledo.

He didn’t even remember his drive home, whether the streets were full of early evening commuters or clear. He didn’t remember if the snow was falling or not. He hadn’t bothered calling the police, so he was confused when he saw the cop prowler in his driveway.

Someone must have found my briefcase, Prime thought. The police were there to check up on him.