Shake Read online

  Shake

  In Real Time, Book 2

  Chris Mandeville

  for my parents: Judy, Bill, and Nan

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Chris Mandeville

  Copyright © 2019 by Chris Mandeville

  ISBN: 978-1950349-15-9

  Parker Hayden Media

  5740 N. Carefree Circle, Ste 120-1

  Colorado Springs, CO 80917

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Art credits:

  Cover design: LB Hayden

  Cover graphic: © Rashed AlAkroka

  Chapter One

  My sister’s arms are wrapped tightly around me as we fly through the wormhole toward the future—her real time. It’s not a loving embrace, to say the least. I struggle to break free, but Bel’s stronger than I am, her strength probably fueled by the fact we just found out we’re half sisters, which she doesn’t like one bit.

  The panels of the wormhole show image after image of San Francisco in ruins. Buildings blackened by age or fire or both. Where—I mean when—is she taking me? And what the heck’s happened to my city in the future?

  “We have to go back,” I plead. “We can save them. I know we can.” We have to. My mom, our dad, the crew—they’re all dead because of me. I have to go back. I have to fix this.

  “Get ready,” Bel says.

  “For what?”

  “The end.”

  What?

  The panels encircling us darken. I wrench my head around to look forward—it’s pitch-black.

  “Bel…?”

  There’s a jolt and we jerk to a stop. Bel’s arms fall open, freeing me, and I tumble to the floor, my legs tangling in my Victorian skirt. Light floods my vision and I blink against the brightness, focusing on Bel. She’s standing, hands raised. I roll to my back and see what she’s looking at—two armed men pointing guns at us.

  I gulp and raise my hands, my heart pummeling my chest.

  One of the men is huge with tribal tattoos covering his face and bald head. The other is skinny with freckles and a blue afro. Both look equally terrifying behind their guns.

  “Null it, you guys, it’s me,” Bel says, lowering her hands.

  Null it?

  “I don’t cog you,” the bigger one replies. “Hands high.”

  “Spires, it’s me, Bel.”

  Spires, the tribal hulk, shakes his head and gestures upward with the muzzle of the large handgun.

  “Bel,” I say. “Put your hands up.” I can’t fathom why she’s not as scared as I am—she’s the one who told me people are killing time travelers.

  She rolls her eyes and returns her hands to shoulder height.

  “Daum?” she says to the skinny guy. “Don’t play with me. Come on.”

  I stare at the freckles under his eyes. They’re lighter than his brown skin. Light blue—so weird.

  “Sorry, I don’t cog you either,” he tells Bel in a gentle voice, and he does seem sorry.

  “Seriously?” Bel says. “How do you think I know your names? This is my real time. I can prove it—tag my mom.”

  “Shut it!” Spires barks.

  Daum turns to me. “Can you stand?”

  “Not with my hands raised,” I say.

  He nods. “Go ahead, do it graddie.”

  “Graddie?” I look at Bel, no idea what that means.

  Bel rolls her eyes again. “Go slow.” I think she called me a nafe under her breath.

  I roll to my knees and push myself to standing, but the room spins and I lose my balance. Daum grabs my elbow. I wonder if the time-travel woozy feeling ever goes away. Bel looks fine, so maybe I’ll eventually get used to it.

  I steady myself. “Thanks, I’m okay,” I tell Daum. I’m far from okay, but I don’t think I’m going to fall over.

  Daum’s mouth quirks in an almost-smile as he lets go of my arm. He doesn’t seem scary anymore, especially now that I see he’s my height and age. Plus it doesn’t hurt that his gun’s pointed at the floor.

  I glance around the room to get my bearings, but there’s nothing to see—we’re in a cement box with one lone, gray door.

  “Move on,” Spires, says, motioning toward the door with his gun. He’s just as scary, if not scarier, now. He’s a foot taller than Daum, built to carry boulders. He probably eats boulders for breakfast. His eyebrows are inked in a permanent scowl, along with his black mouth. The dark-and-scary look is completed by a skin-tight black bodysuit, black combat boots, black utility belt with holster, and the black gun in his meaty hand.

  Daum’s dressed in the same get-up, but it doesn’t look quite as sinister on him. Maybe it’s the blue hair and freckles.

  “Don’t get carried,” Bel says. “It would save trouble if you’d just tag my mom.”

  “We’ll see after you’re in lock-up,” Spires says. “Now bust it.”

  “Sluff this,” Bel growls, stomping through the door with Spires on her heels.

  She doesn’t seem scared at all, so I try to convince myself I’m not either as Daum ushers me though the doorway.

  The next room is bigger and less cement-y. There are a couple of easy chairs, an overflowing bookcase, and a card table with a chessboard mid-game. At the end of the room—where we’re headed—is a jail cell, complete with iron bars. I look back and spot a cluttered desk below a window with a view of the cement room. How is that possible? There were no windows in there.

  Spires stops in front of the cell, holsters his gun, and takes a stick off the wall. “Arms out,” he tells Bel.

  “Good.” Bel extends her arms. “Now you’ll see I have a tat and I’m telling the truth—I’m from this time.”

  A tat? Like a tattoo? How would that prove anything?

  Spires waves the stick down each of Bel’s arms, spending a long time on her wrists.

  “You’re wasting your time. I’m not wearing one,” Bel says.

  One what?

  Spires snorts and continues scanning, moving to her neck and head. The wand makes a beep when it reaches her left ear.

  “Told you I had a tat,” Bel says.

&nbs
p; I know she doesn’t have a tattoo behind her ear. And why would a tattoo make the wand beep anyway?

  “Proves nothing,” Spires says, moving the wand down the bodice of Bel’s Victorian dress, and all around the full skirt. When it gets to her ankle, it beeps again.

  “What’ve you got?” he asks.

  “Standard issue detector,” Bel says. “I’ll get it.”

  “Negative,” Spires says. “Keep static. I’ll get it.” He looks to Daum. “Got her covered?”

  Daum nods, raising his gun to point it at Bel. “Don’t try anything.”

  “I’m not a nafe,” Bel says.

  Spires lifts Bel’s dress to her knees. There’s something strapped to her ankle that looks an awful lot like a smart phone. I bet it’s the detector she used to pinpoint where the wormhole appears.

  Spires removes it, then opens the door to the cell.

  Bel looks like she’s about to say something, but then seems to think better of it and stomps through the doorway.

  “Now you.” Spires sweeps the wand over my arms, back, bodice, and legs. It doesn’t beep even once. “Clear. Go on.”

  I step inside and before I can turn around I hear the door clang shut.

  “Okay,” Bel says. “You said you’d contact my mom now.”

  “I said we’d see. Not the same thing.” Spires walks to the desk and lowers himself into the chair with his back to us.

  “Come on, Spires. Don’t make this worse for yourself.” Bel says. “You’re already flicked for locking me up. Once my mom finds out you made her wait?” She laughs, and it’s not nice. “Pal, you’re vanked.”

  “Who’s your mom?” Daum asks.

  “Piers Dietrich.”

  “Rake me,” Spires says, looking at us over his shoulder.

  “Uh, Dr. Dietrich has a daughter,” Daum tells Bel. “But it’s not you.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course it’s me.” Bel’s agitated, face flushed.

  “What’s your name?” Spires barks.

  “Raskin. Bel Raskin,” Bel says.

  “Running it.” Spires keys something into a laptop. “Not in the sys.”

  “That can’t be,” Bel says. “Try my dad. Steinbeck Raskin. Or Beck. Beck Raskin.”

  Spires types some more. “Neg. Not here.”

  “You must be doing it wrong. Try again.” Bel’s voice has climbed an octave. She’s afraid now, which makes me very, very afraid.

  Spires swivels to face us. “There are no Raskins.”

  “Oh my gods, I don’t exist,” Bel says, turning to me. “What have you done?”

  Chapter Two

  What have I done? She’s blaming me?

  Bel’s sitting on a bench attached to the back wall of the cell, leaning over with her hands cradling her head. Her fingers are twined in her long red hair so tight I’m afraid she might pull out clumps.

  I guess now’s not the time to point out it’s her fault she doesn’t exist in this time. That she’s the one who killed her own father. Technically, I killed him, too, but she doesn’t know that. Plus I killed the older one, the one who raised Bel—that wouldn’t have affected her existence. She’s the one who killed Maxen, the younger version of Beck, I’m betting before she was conceived.

  She’s the reason no one knows who she is, not me.

  Wait—oh God, I’m in the same boat! In this timeline, my parents died when my mom was pregnant with me. My life’s been erased, too.

  No one on the planet—at any time in history—knows Bel or me.

  Wait, that’s not entirely true—we have each other.

  So now is definitely not the time for me to cast blame and make Bel feel worse. Plus, even if her life’s been erased, she’s got to know more about this place and time than I do. I’m going to need her.

  The idea of making nice with Bel is hard to stomach. But I’ve done harder things. I can do this.

  I crouch beside her, touching her shoulder. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Don’t!” She shrugs off my hand. “We’re only in this mess because you vanked my past. I don’t want you anywhere near my future. It’s bad enough being a time orphan without you effing up the life I’ve got left.” She turns her back on me.

  So much for trying to bond. I go to the other end of the cell.

  I’m on my own. So what. I’ve been on my own the past five years since my mom disappeared.

  Tears rush to my eyes as I think of my mom. I can’t believe I found her, only to lose her again. Twice.

  I clench my fists. I’m not going to cry. My mom may be dead, but she’s not gone forever. I need to focus on getting out of here so I can go back and change things. So I can save her. So I can save all of them—Maxen, the crew, my younger mom, and my older mom, too. If I travel back to before they died, I can change everything.

  I can even change that I killed Beck.

  But the truth is heavy in the pit of my stomach—even if I erase my crime from history, I’ll still know what I did, what I’m capable of. What I am.

  Somehow I’ll have to learn to live with the fact that I’m a killer. But first I need to get out of here.

  I lean against the wall and scope the situation. Daum is definitely a better mark than Spires. What angle do I go for?

  He seemed genuinely sorry for Bel. If I play it right, I can leverage that empathy and get him to help me.

  Spires is still at the desk with his back to us, doing something on the computer. Daum’s sitting at the card table, leaning back, legs splayed. His gun is holstered and his hands are on his thighs, fingers tapping away against his black pants like he’s playing a piano.

  Okay, here goes.

  I cross the cell and peek my face between the bars across from Daum.

  “Do you play?” I ask, my voice quiet so hopefully only he can hear.

  He looks at me, fingers motionless now. “What?” His voice is low, too.

  “I thought you might play piano, the way you were thrumming your fingers.”

  “Oh.” He looks at his hands as if he doesn’t know who they belong to.

  “So…do you play?”

  His brow furrows. “Used to.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  He shrugs.

  This may be harder than I thought.

  I search for another way to get him to engage. I can’t push too hard, or he’ll clam up even more.

  I spot the chessboard, the pieces spread in what looks to me like a random pattern. “We interrupted your game.”

  He glances at the board. “Affirm.”

  I pause, hoping he’ll continue. But he doesn’t. “I’ve always wanted to learn to play.” Not true. It looks boring as heck. “Maybe you could show me? I mean, if we’re going to be here awhile.”

  He squints and presses his lips together. I think maybe I crossed the line and he’s going to tell me to shut it. But before he can say anything, a woman enters.

  She’s tall and beautiful with flowing red hair, dark eyes, and full lips. She’s wearing black pants and boots, and a white blouse.

  “Dr. Dietrich,” Daum says, jerking to his feet.

  “Mom!” Bel rushes to the bars. “Thank gods.”

  “Hello,” Dr. Dietrich replies, looking at Bel, then at me.

  “Mom, get me out of here,” Bel pleads, her tone bordering on demand.

  I don’t like being petty, but I did notice she said “get me out of here” not “us.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you,” Dietrich replies, her voice kind.

  Bel looks like she’s in shock.

  Dietrich looks at me. She doesn’t seem like someone who kills time travelers, as much as you can tell that from a first impression.

  “I’m Allie,” I say, crossing to where Bel is standing at the bars. “Allison Bennett.”

  “Am I supposed to know you, too?” Dietrich asks.

  “No, we’ve never met.”

  “When are you from?” She looks me over. “1906? 19
11?”

  “We came from 1906,” I say, indicating my dress. “But I’m actually from 2018.”

  “And you?” she asks Bel.

  “I’m from this time,” Bel says. “I’m your daughter. You sent me back on an auth mission.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Dietrich says. “I stopped authorized missions when I took command.”

  “You’re wrong,” Bel says. “In 2152, you sent me on an auth mission to the past—multiple foci—with my father, Steinbeck Raskin.”

  “I don’t know any Steinbeck Raskin, I’ve never seen you before, and there have been no missions, authorized or otherwise, in the past six years.” Dietrich looks from Bel to me, then back to Bel. “So what exactly are you trying to pull?”

  “Do a DNA test,” Bel says, practically shouting. “Check my tat. You’ll see.”

  “That would prove nothing,” Dietrich says, so calm in contrast to Bel. “You could have faked—”

  “The hist-reports!” Bel blurts. “They’re in a time-vault so they can’t change. Check—they’ll tell you all about me. In the reports, you tell you that I’m your daughter. There’s no way we could fake that.”

  “I have no such report. And I have no time for this.” Dietrich turns and walks away from the cell.

  “Mom,” Bel shouts. “Please, you have to check!”

  At the door, Dietrich turns to Spires. “I’m locking you down. No shift changes, no one in or out, zero information exchange. Security Priority One until further notice. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Spires says.