Darren Johnson - Arnesto Modesto - The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler

After a few blocks, he again turned to look at the factory. Shouldn’t he have heard something by now? What if the flame went out? Should he go back? He still had some hours of nighttime left, though he hadn’t propped the doors open, so he’d have to risk breaking a window—

BOOM!

The explosion was so loud that it scared him half to death even from three blocks away. The explosion had not only sent the burning wreckage of the generator into the floor below, it had also blasted a hole in the floor above, causing that generator to fall through as well. With so much heavy machinery tumbling through substandard building materials barely strong enough to hold the weight to begin with, the whole building collapsed in on itself into a massive pile of burning debris and sewing machines.

It didn’t hurt that the gas canisters had been nearly empty because they had been used to fill the generator after repeated power outages.

Arnesto made it back to his hotel to gather his belongings, then took a cab to the airport to get the earliest flight home. A day-and-a-half later, he walked into his apartment, dropped his bag, and fell exhausted onto his couch. His phone buzzed, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He only decided to answer it when he saw it was Pete. Good, Arnesto wanted to ask him about any fallout from the Boston bombings.

“Pete,” Arnesto said as he answered the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Modesto,” said a pleasant but firm female voice. “I’m sorry we had to approach you like this.”

The hairs on the back of Arnesto’s neck stood on end. “Who is this? Where’s Pete?” he asked.

“Mr. Modesto, we have Peter Morgan in custody, and we’d like you to come in as well.”

Arnesto’s Apartment

Silicon Valley, California

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Afternoon

Arnesto froze. This was it. He always knew this day would come, but that didn’t make it any easier. He covered the mouthpiece and took a deep breath.

“Mr. Modesto? I know you can hear me.”

“Who is this?” he asked. He looked out a side window and noticed a sturdy-looking man in a suit standing across the street. He looked out another window and saw another suit standing by a tree.

“We’re not hiding from you, Mr. Modesto. We want to do this the easy way, and we know you do, too. In thirty seconds, you’re going to hear a knock on your door, or you can come out on your own.” The female voice was starting to sound more firm and less pleasant.

Arnesto looked around the apartment for answers, but his possessions seemed inconsequential all of a sudden. He went to the door and looked out the peephole. He saw another suit standing by one of the cars in the parking lot. After a quick sigh, he opened the door and locked it from the outside before walking down the stairs.

“Thank you, Mr. Modesto,” said the woman on the phone. Please walk over to the street. We have a limo waiting for you.”

Arnesto looked at his car and saw another suit standing next to it and still another walking toward him on the sidewalk.

“There’s even more of them that you don’t see,” the woman said. “I suggest you not make them pursue you.” He agreed; escape was not a viable option. “We appreciate your cooperation. I’ll see you in the limo.” She hung up.

As he approached the road and the suits closed around him, a limo pulled up alongside them. One of the three suits opened the passenger door for him, and Arnesto got in. There were four more suits inside, one in each corner, and Arnesto had no choice but to sit between two of them in the back seat.

Arnesto tried to figure out who they were. They weren’t the police or FBI; they hadn’t shown him any identification. CIA? They looked American, at least. He probably wasn’t being kidnapped by the KGB, and they definitely weren’t ISIS or members of the Yakuza. But they were all stocky men. How dangerous did they think he was, and where was the woman from the phone?

The man on his immediate left said, “Thank you for not kicking and screaming.”

As Arnesto turned to face him, he felt a prick on the right side of his neck and fell unconscious.

When he awoke, he was in a cell. He felt disoriented and a little nauseous, more from whatever they had given him than the anxiety. He tried to take note of his surroundings. There was nothing in his cell except for himself, his cot, and a small, metal toilet. His clothes were different now: he was in a gray t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and white boxers, but nothing else. None of the clothes were his. This made him shudder. He had neither socks nor shoes nor any other possessions.

His cell looked out at a wall. Pushing his face into the bars, he could tell by looking left his cell was at the end of a hall, but looking right, he could only see more wall. There was also a camera in a protective bubble in the ceiling just outside his cell; they could see everything.

As he walked around his cell barefoot, he became acutely aware of his footsteps. He realized they were the only thing he heard. He coughed and snapped his fingers to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. He heard these fine, but otherwise, the hallway was perfectly quiet. Perhaps he was alone in this hall.

“Hello?” he asked. “Hello?! Is anyone there?”

There was no reply. Maybe an apocalypse had happened, leaving him the only survivor. Nah, he would’ve remembered that. Where was he anyway? Was he even in the United States?

He sat down on his cot and waited.

While he still wasn’t feeling well physically, he was surprised he felt as well as he did psychologically. As he reflected on this, it occurred to him that a huge source of his stress was gone. No more would he spend his days wondering if he was being watched or when he would be captured. It had happened. He had sacrificed himself in order to save many lives, and now it was over.

It had taken a cell to make him feel free.

He lay down with his head toward the camera — so as to give them less to look at — and waited some more.

After what felt like an hour, he heard a door open and footsteps come his way, so he sat up. His cell door opened and two guards appeared.

“This way, please,” the female guard said.

They were wearing suits, which didn’t give Arnesto much information about where he was, only that it probably wasn’t the kind of place that had visiting hours. The guards didn’t even put handcuffs on him, which meant they didn’t consider him a physical threat.

They led him to an interrogation room where he sat down behind a table in an uncomfortable chair. Soon after, a man came in and sat in the chair opposite.

He wore a suit that looked brand new and custom-fit to his athletic build. His hair had a fresh ivy-league cut with a seamless part on one side, not a single hair out of place. Arnesto noted it was a shade lighter than black, as if the gray was just beginning to appear while still blending in perfectly with the existing color. The man looked to be of Hispanic descent.

“Mr. Modesto, hello. Do you know who I am?” the man asked, staring intently at Arnesto.

Say nothing except to ask for a lawyer. No, too soon. Your only chance is to act like any other suspect. Play the game, but only as much as necessary.

“I’m sorry,” Arnesto said, shaking his head.

“You don’t know who I am. Come on, take a guess.”

This is odd. What is he doing? Arnesto squinted his eyes a little and tried to remember, but came up empty.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know who you are,” Arnesto said.

The man relaxed a little and looked away. Arnesto thought he seemed disappointed. “Let me paint you a picture. A cashier approaches a table full of agents, tells them there’s a phone call. A young agent walks over, picks up the receiver and has a very interesting conversation. He hears a hesitant voice tell him to listen to a tape he left behind at the Dr Pepper museum.”