Dying in the Past

By Mike Manolakes

Dying in the Past is the fourth book in The Traveler Series, which began with Variation Seven and continued in Strange Times and Living in the Future. Travelers are the men and women who possess timebands -- cybernetic devices that allow the wearer to travel in time and change history. There are only twelve timebands and twelve Travelers, and those individuals have divided themselves into two rival factions, each with a different view of what the destiny of mankind should be. One group is attempting to steer humanity toward a bright future where it colonizes the stars, and the other is determined to work toward the extinction of the human race before it can infest the galaxy like spreading plague.

A desperate act by a rogue time traveler has rewritten the history of North America, and now Ruthie Terwilliger and her fellow Travelers find themselves in a vastly different America, a land where Native American culture still dominates, and most traces of British influence have been wiped away. Ruthie finds herself in an uneasy alliance with her worst enemy, Sarah Rickert, as she tries to locate her scattered teammates and find her way through a strange and altered nation. But she and her husband Miles have become the targets of two unknown Travelers, a pair of psychopathic twins want their timebands and will kill to get them.

Dying in the Past is the fourth book from author Mike Manolakes in the Traveler Series, the story of Ruthie, her friends and foes, and the alternate histories they create. The Traveler Series will take readers on a trip through worlds that never were: a modern industrialized America where Native American culture remained dominant, or a secret city of religious cultists built on the ruins of Manhattan. For readers who enjoy exploring the various “what ifs” of history, Dying in the Past and the Traveler Series will provide unexpected twists and turns as Ruthie discovers the unexpected potential in the power that the timeband gives her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Manolakes
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311222565

Mike Manolakes

Mike Manolakes is an author of science fiction, alternate history, and historical fiction. He is also an American Civil War reenactor, actor, director, and retired classroom teacher. He lives in Arizona with his wife Rae and their dogs and cats.

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Dying in the Past

by Mike Manolakes

Copyright 2016 Mike Manolakes

Smashwords Edition

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE KINGSTON, NEW JERSEY: 1739

CHAPTER TWO COHONGAROOTON PROVINCE: 1862

CHAPTER THREE POTOMAC RIVER VALLEY: 17,812 B.C.

CHAPTER FOUR CITY OF WYANDOT: 1964

CHAPTER FIVE MANHATTAN ISLAND: 1608

CHAPTER SIX MANNAHATTA: 1859

CHAPTER SEVEN COHONGAROOTON PROVINCE: 1862

CHAPTER EIGHT COHONGAROOTON CITY: 1862

CHAPTER NINE FORT DETROIT: 1763

CHAPTER TEN COHONGAROOTON PROVINCE: 1862

CHAPTER ELEVEN MANHATTAN ISLAND: 1608

CHAPTER TWELVE PHILADELPHIA: 2064

CHAPTER THIRTEEN CITY OF WYANDOT: 1964

CHAPTER FOURTEEN PHILADELPHIA: 2064

CHAPTER FIFTEEN CITY OF WYANDOT: 2112

CHAPTER SIXTEEN PHILADELPHIA: 2064

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CITY OF WYANDOT: 2112

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN PETAPSQUI: 1865

CHAPTER NINETEEN LA POINTE, NEW FRANCE: 1670

About the Author

Other books by Mike Manolakes

CHAPTER ONE

KINGSTON, NEW JERSEY: 1739

The little house at the edge of the woods, they said, was haunted, but that didn’t keep the occasional visitor away. During the twilight hours, when the moon was full, someone might slip out of town unnoticed and come to the little house with the broken shutters and cracked windows, step over the rotting and broken floor boards in the porch, and tentatively knock on the front door.

The door would creak open, and there would stand a woman of indeterminate age, black hair streaked with white, in a long black dress with a white shawl around her shoulders, a lit candle in a brass holder in her hand. Come in, do come in.

Mistress Rebecca. I hope I’m not bothering you.

Not at all. Come in and have a seat.

The young woman from the town hesitated, then entered the small front parlor. I’m Catherine Harpers, Mistress Rebecca, and I...

I know who you are. Please have a seat, Catherine, and tell me what’s distressing you.

Catherine Harpers sat down in the large armchair that was offered to her. She had never been in this room before, and did not know quite what to expect. The room had the look of a place that had been lived in a long, long time. The furniture, which might have once been beautiful generations ago, now appeared worn and faded from years of use. Shelves along the walls held small items of glass and porcelain that might have been collected over decades. All of this confused Catherine greatly. She knew the first settlers came to this part of the colony of New Jersey only in the last twenty years, when the church was first built and the town of Kingston was founded. How long had this house been here, and why was it built?

Catherine didn’t know where to begin. Mistress Rebecca, the stories they say about you. Are they true?

The older woman smiled. It depends, dearie. What do they say?

Catherine hesitated, then said, They say you’re a witch woman. They say you’re in league with the Devil and have the power of black magic. I’m sorry, I’m just repeating what I’ve heard in town.

Rebecca chuckled softly. People say many things. Not all of them are true. What do you believe?

I— I don’t know. I believe... I’m hoping that you’re just a kindly woman who knows ways to help people who need help. Whom no one else can help.

Do you need help, my dear?

Yes. Catherine’s voice was barely a whisper when she began her tale. "My husband Winton and I have a small farm, to the south of town. It’s not particularly good ground, but it’s all we’ve got, and with hard work we’ve been able to bring in enough crops to keep us fed through the winter. We have some goats and sheep, too, and some chickens. Last summer my husband got in an argument with the man who owns the land next to ours. His name is Tyman Jones. He wanted Winton to sell his land to him, and we refused. I don’t know how, but Mister Jones placed a curse on our land. Now nothing grows, and the livestock all took sick and are dying. Now we’re in danger of losing all we have, and we don’t know what we can do. Can you help us?

Rebecca was silent for a moment. It depends, dearie. What can you do for me?

I don’t know, she said, confused. Anything you want. Just help us.

All right. I can restore your farm to the way it once was. Even better. But there will be a price. One day each week for the next year, you come to this house. Come before the sun in up, and stay until the sun is set. Tell no one where you are going, and let no one see you come here. Tell no one, not even your husband. One day a week, you will be my servant, and you will follow my orders for that day. Do we have an agreement?

Catherine was wide-eyed. You can truly help us? If you can do this, I will gladly be your servant. She suddenly looked worried. Do I need to swear an oath? Sign a document?

Of course not, my dear. You’ve given your word. I know you’ll keep it. Now return to your husband. I’ll do what I have to do, and one week from today, come here as you promised. Trust me, all will be well.

Catherine stood up and made a little curtsy. Thank you, thank you, she said, and quickly turned and exited the house. Rebecca stood in the doorway and watched her go.

Minutes later, Rebecca was walking down the steps that led to what ought to have been the cellar of the small house. It appeared to be a dark, damp root cellar, but Rebecca walked swiftly by candlelight across the dirt floor to a set of shelves by the back wall. She pulled on the shelves and the entire false wall swung toward her, revealing a door. She punched a series of numbers into a keypad, the door lock clicked open, and she entered through the door.

Rebecca walked into a brightly-lit room that belonged more to the twenty-first century than the eighteenth. Fluorescent lights behind ceiling panels illuminated the large carpeted room, which featured overstuffed couches and chairs around a flat-screen television with attached video players. There was a mahogany bar in one corner of the room, with many bottles, glassware, and an electric refrigerator. Along another wall were bookcases filled with books, most of which had not been written by 1739. Artwork adorned other walls, paintings by artists who hadn’t even been born yet, including several original Picassos. There was music playing softly in the background, a jazz tune by Charlie Parker.

Sprawled out on one of the couches was a man, short and stocky, but his weight was mostly muscle, not fat. He wore a pinstriped suit, but his jacket was thrown onto a nearby chair with his necktie, and his collar was open. There was a volume of Hemingway short stories next to him on the small table, left open and face down, next to an empty martini glass.

Get up, Simon, Rebecca said as she walked to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine. We’ve got something to do.

You do it, Becky, Simon said, his eyes still closed. I’m taking the rest of the week off.

You’ll like this one. It’s right up your alley. Jones double-crossed us.

Simon opened his eyes and sat up. Did he, now?

Those poisons we obtained for him? The ones he swore would only be used against the crooked lawyer that cheated him out of his inheritance? The lawyer got what was coming to him, all right, but now I hear that Tyman Jones has also poisoned the farm of a young couple who owns the land next to his. The wife was just upstairs, promising she would do anything for anyone who can help her.

Oh, we can help her, all right. What did you get her to promise?

Rebecca smiled. One day a week, for the next year, she has to come here. And do anything I say.

Simon laughed with delight. Well, well. The possibilities are endless. Just don’t wear her out too soon, sister. I want to have my fun, too. So I get to take care of Jones?

Of course. Do whatever you want with him. He’s a vile son of a bitch; it will only be just what he deserves. Just make sure you tell me all the details afterwards.

Naturally. Simon stood up and turned to go. If you’ll excuse me, Becky, I need to change into my work clothes. He took a step toward one of the doors in the rear of the room.

Wait, Simon, Rebecca said. I’m got something to show you. She reached under the bar and brought out a bundle wrapped in cloths. This is what I found on my trip to New York yesterday.

Some hot dogs from Coney Island?

No jokes, brother. Wait until you see this. She placed the bundle on the bar, untied the knot that was holding the cloth around it, and swiftly unwrapped it. Inside was a tube of some fine mesh material, about eight inches long, split open on one side. The item was just the right size and shape to fit around someone’s lower arm, which was just what it was designed to do.

Is that what I think it is? Simon said, amazed. Is that really a timeband?

More than that, Rebecca said. I think it’s Father’s.

Late that night, Tyman Jones stood up from his desk in the large farmhouse he had built on the outskirts of Kingston. He had been writing letters all evening, and he was just about to put them aside and go to bed when he thought he heard a noise outside his front door. He looked through his front window, but no one was there. Then he stepped toward his door and reached for the doorknob –

In the next instant, Tyman Jones was suspended, upside down, a heavy chain wrapped tightly around his ankles and looped over the roof beam. Another chain was wrapped just as tightly around his wrists, the other end tied to the leg of the wood-burning stove. He had been stripped bare, and a gag made from his own shirt was stuffed into his mouth.

How had this happened? He couldn’t remember losing consciousness. This must be some sort of a dream, he concluded. But the blood rushing to his head, his difficulty swallowing and breathing, and the pain from the chains cutting into his ankles and wrists convinced him that this was no dream. This was reality. But what had just happened, and how did he suddenly find himself in this impossible position?

When his brain could make sense of the inverted room around him, he realized that someone was in the room watching him. He was a man wearing some sort of black garment with no visible buttons or laces, and his trousers were made of a blue-colored material that Jones did not recognize. The man held in his hands a strange mechanical device, shaped like an oversized pistol, orange in color, but with an odd rod-shaped attachment where the gun barrel should be.

Good evening, friend, the man spoke. He laid the orange gun-thing down and poured himself a glass of Jones’s best port wine. You can call me Simon – not that you’ll have the opportunity to do that at any time, of course. I’m Rebecca’s brother. You remember her – the witch woman you made a bargain with, and she supplied you with the poisons to murder the man who swindled you. Remember?

Jones, unable to answer, just looked at the intruder in disbelief.

Now what did we find out? You went and used those poisons against a young couple that never did you any harm. You shouldn’t have done that, Jones. That wasn’t part of the agreement you made.

Simon finished the glass of port and picked up the strange device again. Now this is the interesting part. Over two hundred years in the future, a company called Black & Decker is going to manufacture something called the cordless drill. Quite a handy little item. It drills holes in wood, or metal, or just about anything. Flesh and bone, too. I’ve attached the quarter-inch drill bit to it, and it makes nice little holes about so big. He held his finger and thumb about a fourth of an inch apart.

Now I’m wondering just how many holes I can put in your body before you bleed out entirely. I’m thinking about fifteen. I might be wrong; it’s been a while since I tried this little exercise. Last time I think I made it to twenty, but I was younger then and worked faster. So I think fifteen might be about right. Shall we get started?

Simon pressed the trigger of the drill, and the machine roared to life.

CHAPTER TWO

COHONGAROOTON PROVINCE: 1862

Ruthie McDonald Terwilliger watched with horrified fascination at the deadly rocket arcing through the air toward her. Only moments before, she had been in the camp of the Army of the Potomac, commanded by General McClellan, the new dictator of the United States of America. Suddenly all that had vanished, and now she, her friend Denise Han, and her enemy Sarah Rickert were on a hillside on the edge of a forest, watching a massive army march as if into battle. Strange wheeled contraptions were lumbering along behind the ranks of armed men, and several of them had just fired rockets from long rails attached to the tops of them. One of these rockets was speeding, with deadly accuracy, straight at the three of them.

They were seconds from certain death when Ruthie felt a tingling sensation in her left arm, just above the wrist. Instantly she commanded the timeband on her wrist to stop the flow of time for her, and at the same time sent out a general command for the two other timebands in range to do the same.

The rocket, with a trail of fire and smoke arching out behind it like the tail of some exotic bird, appeared to be suspended in midair, less than twenty yards above the three women. Ruthie looked at the other two. Sarah appeared frozen, locked in a single moment of time, but Denise turned toward Ruthie and smiled.

Good – I got your timeband linked to mine in time, Ruthie said. That was a narrow escape.

What about Sarah? Denise asked. Ruthie couldn’t hear her, since sound waves were frozen in time as well, but she could read Denise’s lips. Are we going to leave her there, to be blown up by whatever that thing is up there?

Ruthie studied the frozen figure of the older woman. I’d like to. If the tables were turned, I think she’d do the same to us.

Ruthie, no! Remember, she’s the only one who knows where my son is. You can’t let her die here.

I know. I know we have to save her if we can. But I’m not sure we can do it. Your timeband was programmed to recognize me as an ally, and I could link with it and take control. Sarah’s timeband is programmed to block mine, and there’s nothing I can do override that. Besides, her timeband will probably come out of sleep mode in the next few moments, and with luck, she’ll be able to avoid the rocket as well. In fact, she’s probably already here, a few seconds in our future, listening to this conversation.