Bridgevine

By John Feldman

Mike Price's world is shattered when his sister is gunned down in a school shooting. As a fourteen-year-old, he vows to find a way to avenge her death.

Thirteen years later, Mike has found a way not only to avenge her death, but to erase it. He's never wavered from his promise to his slain sister, but in the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Worn Key Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311985699

Book preview

Bridgevine

John Feldman

Copyright 2014

Book also available in print

CHAPTER ONE

Streaming bursts of white smoke blow past his lips and into the frigid winter air as Mike Price runs through the black tar parking lot of Sherman Hills Junior High. Sweat joins the growing condensation on his upper lip and causes the beads of liquid that would bother Mike on any other day, but not today.

Mike raises his arms and squeezes the triggers of the weapons he holds in each hand: in his right hand a Glock 19, in his left a Colt 1911. He can hear the shells drop behind him as they dispense from each weapon’s chamber, the small golden cylinders erratically flailing around like fish out of water. He continues to run until he hits the end of the pavement, then he leaps over the curb and into the soft grass that adversely affects his running speed.

He stops once he makes his way around the corner of the building. A hollow thud echoes through Mike's lungs as his back slams into the brick wall, his sweatshirt being the only protection between his skin and the rough texture. His upper body slides down the wall and he sits. After several deep breaths, he peeks his head around the corner. A lone police officer has taken cover behind his opened driver’s side door. Faded and in the distance, the officer's voice can be heard calling for backup. Mike waits.

It takes only a matter of seconds for the reporting police cars to come swerving down the curved road leading to the school, sirens ablaze. The weight of each vehicle leans against the turn and pushes the limits of the car’s suspension. Mike smiles and takes off running in the direction of the woods that sit cater-cornered to the back of the school.

As he closes in on the tree line, he can hear shots being fired from the officers’ weapons. The bullets explode from their chambers and soar past Mike, connecting with the tree trunks ahead – echoes of splitting wood shout through the forest. Mike takes one quick glance back to see a select few officers making their way toward him on foot. Behind them, two patrol cars have driven up the curb and are accelerating through the open field.

Mike breaks the wood line and continues running with his arms out in front of him, shielding his face from stray branches. The rustling of leaves can be heard behind him as the officers gain ground.

The padding in the soles of his running shoes usually supports a sufficient amount of shock absorbance, but the sub-freezing temperatures have caused the compacted dirt beneath him to harden, making it feel as if Mike is running barefoot on concrete. Trying to ignore the slamming of his heels into what feels like an aged sidewalk, Mike continues to run as fast as his body will allow.

Ahead in the distance through obstructing branches and leaves, Mike can see more police cars, stationary and set at the exiting tree line of the woods. That panicked feeling is back, the one he sometimes gets on these missions. That core sensation of fear where his body wants to freeze, he wants to vomit. He wants to quit. He wants to rip off his bracelet and go back home, back to safety. But he can’t. And before he can put himself in any further danger, Mike abruptly snaps out of his distressed daze.

He cuts left and continues to run, weaving his way between obstacles until he sees two more officers no more than fifty yards in front of him.

They’re closing in.

Mike has no choice but to take another turn and this turn leads him to a random opening in the woods. Through the gap in the circle of trees that act as perimeters, the sun shines brightly down onto a patch of browned-green grass that struggles to survive in this changing climate. Mike slowly and calmly comes to a halt in the center of the grass patch, looking at his surroundings and taking in the beauty with no worries. Right now, in his mind, no one is chasing him. No one else exists.

The weather is cold, but the sun is warm on Mike's already steaming head. He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and looks down to examine the beads of perspiration now running across his hand and down the side before falling off and plummeting to the ground. The warmth of the sun and the tickling sensation of the sweat running across his skin allow him to know that this place is real. He sometimes mistakes these travels with his dreams and they both feel the same. The level of anxiousness is always there and the threat of death never fades, but in moments like these, where his senses are able to feel the realness surrounding him, he knows exactly what he's been able to accomplish.

Shots are fired and the thought of death is brought back to the forefront of his mind. The heat from the sun is no longer comforting, but now feels like a spotlight shining down on him in a dark room, leaving him nowhere to hide. 

He runs.

Once again zigzagging through tree trunks, he can hear the whistling of bullets as they scream past him on either side. The weapons in his hands have ammunition in them, but he refuses to shoot back at the authorities who are trying to apprehend him.

He glances around, looking for the widest tree base, and hides behind the first one he sees. His shoulders stand wider than the tree and are still somewhat exposed, but it's the best he can hope for right now. Trying to catch his breath, but still hearing the rounds coming from the officers' guns, he presses his body as close to the tree as possible. He pulls up his shoulders into his neck in an attempt to thin himself to the circumference of a pencil.

During a pause in firing that seemed like it would never come, Mike lifts his left forearm to his face exposing a silver bracelet wrapped tightly around his wrist. The bracelet has a small face with a digital timer on it which counts down...09:09:14...09:09:13...09:09:12…

Plenty of time.

A bullet hits the shielding tree sending splinters of bark jumping from the trunk. He knows he must move.

A large, fallen tree lies on the ground to his right and out of the line of fire. Mike takes a deep breath and runs for the horizontal trunk, ducking and taking cover behind it. The crunching of dead leaves once again warns Mike that the officers are closing in on their pursuit. Mike lay on his back, pushing himself closer to the ground, wiggling his arms and hips and trying to bury himself under the solid dirt in an effort to remain invisible.

The crunching under their boots gets louder by the second as the cops near. Mike's breathing intensifies and becomes more rapid. The footsteps are right next to him now and all he can do is shut his eyes and hold his breath. The heart that he swore would jump out of his chest now calms and lowers back to a normal rate as the cops continue to move, running past Mike’s hideout. But he still doesn't feel safe. Officers have entered the woods at all points and are closing in on him from every angle. 

With his back still pressed against the ground, he lifts his head and looks at the weapons in his hands. He would love to set them on the ground and leave, allowing the police officers to find the guns and link them back to the perpetrators who first had their hands on them, intending to do much more harm. But by now Mike's fingerprints blanket them, and any links back to him could be detrimental to the future.

Mike stands and runs, harder than ever. The cold air now feels colder against the sweat left on his skin. He runs in the direction he came, back toward the school, not turning his head once. He escapes the woods without being seen and hits the large, grassy field on the side of the school. Two police cars, sirens still spinning, remain parked and vacant in the field.

The curb leading back onto the black top gives Mike trouble and he stumbles, but manages to stay on his feet.

Some faculty members and students have made their way outside and they watch as Mike runs through the parking lot. They take cover behind the concrete support pillars when they notice the shiny metal weapons in his hands.

Mike makes his way to the middle of the parking lot where a large fountain sits, shooting water up and out in all directions, the forming shape resembling a mushroom.

Letting go of the guns for the first time, Mike, as gingerly as he can while still having a sense of urgency, wipes the handles of the weapons on his sweat shirt and then drops them into the base of the fountain, being sure they completely submerge in the shallow, icy water. Mike turns to look behind him and finds multiple officers running in his direction, guns drawn. If not for the innocent bystanders now surrounding the scene, they'd be firing. No more than twenty feet from the fountain, a lone car occupies a parking space. Mike runs behind the isolated car, dropping to his knees beside the back tire.

He takes a look to the left and to the right to make sure no one can see him and then takes a peek over the trunk of the car only to find the bystanders looking curiously in his direction. The cops are approaching quickly. Mike looks down at his wrist: 08:47:48...08:47:47... He disconnects the bracelet. The numbers on the digital timer fade as the silver strip falls to the ground.

Several officers come to a halt as they reach the car. Three of them walk slowly toward the stationary sedan as others stand behind the open doors of their troop cars, providing cover.

Come out with your hands up! one officer yells.

No response.

The three approaching officers signal to each other their intended paths and then look to their associates behind them, still shielded by their troop car doors, for confirmed cover. Two of the officers slowly make their way around opposite sides of the vehicle, while the third boosts himself up on the hood of the car. Each has their weapon drawn with a white-knuckle grip. 

Last chance! Come out now!

They wait, but hear silence once again. They break their suspended state and move in.

Freeze!

Hands up!

Don't move!

Instinctively scared, they begin to yell these demands as they make their final turns, closing in on Mike.

Yelling stops and two officers on the ground immediately lower their weapons once they've noticed they're aiming at one another. After several motionless seconds of disbelief, the third officer — now standing on the roof of the car — lowers his pistol to his side. The ground officers look into the windows of the car, but see nothing. One of them pulls on the door handles on his side of the sedan, but they are locked. They continue to look in the windows and underneath the vehicle, certain he couldn't be anywhere else. They would have seen him running if he had taken off – there isn't another car within fifty feet.

One of the ground officers leans down and carefully examines a silver metal strip lying on the ground before he picks it up. He stands and holds it in the air to display it to the rest of the force:

It's just his watch.

CHAPTER TWO

The temperature in the room seems unbearably hot, but Mike chose to leave his suit jacket on his back to keep a professional look. As he looks around, observing the room of faces, the symptoms of his nervousness become visible. Certain members of the committee notice that his head of dark brown hair, which was neatly parted to the side when he first entered the room, is now oddly messy, and his normally tanned skin is now clammy and looks as white as a fresh snowfall. They give solicitous stares. He ignores his dry mouth and hoarse voice and begins his presentation.

Mike thought he was prepared. The car ride from his current home town of Greensport, Maryland to the Worldwide Headquarters main office in Washington D.C is a little under an hour; plenty of time to think, relax, and plan out the details of the meeting. Everything seemed perfect in his head: he would introduce himself and his design in the most confident of manners, fly through the presentation without a hiccup, and end the meeting on a positive note, leaving the board members impressed and wanting more. But that was in his head.

Reality kicked in when he arrived.

Mike was led by a young female assistant down a long corridor and brought into an excessively large meeting room — the one he stands in now. A mahogany table the size of a strip mall takes up close to three-quarters of the room, and was the first thing he noticed. Each exquisite seat around the table is occupied by a business professional, both male and female, dressed in their best three-piece suit. In front of each member sits a printed portfolio with a color-copy of the original hand drawn design of Mike's machine on the cover. In the front of the room stands a large projection screen running parallel to the drywall. To the left of that screen, a small desk set up with another portfolio. To the right of the projection screen, Mike's machine.

Its physical appearance resembles that of a phone booth, with three-foot-wide panels of glass on all four sides and an eight-foot-tall metal frame structure holding the clear glass in its place. Mounted around the bottom of the booth, multiple air tanks are held tight against the machine with galvanized metal straps. The door is on the front of the machine and is equipped with an air-tight seal, and attached to the glass on the left side of the machine is a twelve-inch LCD display screen with what seems to be three hundred wires exiting the top and running up to the highest point of the booth. Attached horizontally to the back of the screen is a cylindrical object with what looks like a large coin slot on each end.

The walk to the presenter's area of the room is a long one, or at least it seemed to be. Aside from a few lingering side conversations, all eyes were on Mike as he walked through the entry door on the side of the room, past the massive conference table, and to the front of the room. Judgments were being made. He could feel it. And he understood it. Anyone who claims to have built a time traveling machine is looked at in one of two ways: a genius or an idiot. It's asinine for someone to believe they can make a human being travel through time. The concept itself sounds absurd. But Mike is here to prove he's done it. He's here to prove himself to be a genius; not a idiot.

Here he stands, sweating profusely. He can do nothing to hide the beads of sweat building up on his forehead and sliding down his skin, leaving a tickling sensation he doesn't want to attend to while in the spotlight. Sweat begins to pool in his armpits and on his back, and although he still has his jacket on, which will hide any evidence, it still distracts his attention from his presentation. 

Good morning, everyone. He's never been so timid.

A few responses, but not many. This doesn't help his uneasiness, but the show must go on. He continues.

My name is Mike Price. I'm here today to introduce you to my concept, the MO2Y time traveling device. Before I begin with the presentation of the machine itself, I'd like to give you a brief history of myself and my background. I am twenty-seven years old and I am originally from Bridgevine, New Jersey, but currently reside in Greensport, Maryland. After attaining my bachelor's degree in civil engineering from Rutgers University, I attended University of Maryland, where I earned my graduate degree in engineering. The idea of creating a time travel machine came to me fourteen years ago, but it wasn't until five years ago that I felt I had the knowledge to pursue the MO2Y. I have been working on its perfection ever since. I know this machine better than I know myself. I've been forced to sleep on the couch on many occasions while building the MO2Y because I've forgotten about special occasions: anniversaries, birthdays,...

Laughter. Small laughter, but still laughter. That helps. The stress level has now diminished significantly, for both parties.

If none of you have any questions for me, I'll hurry up and begin. I'll try not to take too much of your time.

No questions. That could mean one of two things. Optimistic thinking could lead him to believe they're excited to learn about his creation. Pessimistic thinking could lead him to believe he hasn't caught anyone's interest. For the sake of his sanity, and for the success of the proposal, Mike assumes the silence is in anticipation for his introduction to Molly.

Molly was what he named the machine. The name had no sentimental meaning, but it was the first name that came to his mind. It's like when a man works on his car. He addresses his car, and it always ends up being a female name. This was how Mike treated Molly; like his baby. But to make it sound professional, Mike had to come up with a new name. With the originality and creativity drained out of him and poured into the actual machine, he made it simple and viewed the two lower-case L's as the tally marks they resembled and came up with MO2Y. Simple. Easy to remember. Not creative.

The gross amount of perspiration coming from his pores begins to decrease as the tension in the room eases, deeper into the presentation. Mike is no longer as nervous as he was at the start and many of the members sitting around the table are captivated with his invention. Executives are leaning up in their seats now, entranced by the idea and the details that brought about its development.

The initial introduction concludes. Mike has spewed every ounce of information from his mouth, but he isn't going to stop there. That wasn't his plan. Though he knows he has some interested spectators, he continues further, making his determined push to astonish the panel.

Now that you've all been introduced to how the MO2Y works, would anyone like to volunteer to see it for themselves?

A buzz goes through the crowd. People shift in their seats and look around, unsure. Is he serious? Everyone wants to know, but no one wants to be the one to find out.

I just need one person. One person who wants to travel back in time today. You will be able to do something no one you know has ever done.

Uneasiness. It's too risky to volunteer for this.

No one? No one had a fight with their significant other this morning that they'd like to go back and change?

Small laughter.

"Men, you can go back and physically shut your own mouth. You can prevent a fight after it happened."

Laughter, again. Shyness is starting to leave the room.

Ok. What about the single people? Any regrets when you woke up Sunday morning? You can fix any promiscuous mistakes.

There it is. A volunteer. James Scully, a young, handsome politician, stands up and proudly says I'll do it. He flashes an arrogant smile.

James makes his way to the machine and stands by, awaiting further instruction on exactly what to do. While Mike briefs the rest of the room on what is about to happen, James examines the MO2Y. While addressing the crowd, Mike keeps an eye on James. He can see the intimidation in his eyes as he examines the gas cylinders, tubes, and wires surrounding the structure.

Are you ready? asks Mike, when done speaking to the room.

James swallows and nods, becoming noticeably uneasy. 

Mike reaches out and grabs a handle hanging from the front panel, turning it and opening the door — which is the entire, front, eight-by-three wall connected to the machine. The MO2Y releases a hissing sound from the airtight seal as the metal-glass combination slowly swings open on its hinges. He directs James into the booth of the machine. James walks in, stepping up onto a low platform.

Mike leans his torso into the machine to speak with James. Behind him, the sound in the room begins to grow as chatter ensues. The onlookers now become both excited and anxious at what they are about to witness.

What's going to happen, Mike says to James, is I'm going to shut this door and punch a time and date into the computer screen, he points to his left to show James the positioning of the screen, which James will be able to see through the glass panel to his right. Then this whole booth is going to fill with white smoke. You may hear crackling sounds, or what seem like sparks, but that's normal. That's just the energy transferring throughout the machine.

Ok, James manages to say, his eyes now wide and full of fear.

Are you sure you want to go through with this? Mike asks with a smirk, noticing James' reaction.

James nods, fearful that he