For not the first time, Logan felt strangely prisoner to his own choices. What he was about to do, he had also already done. And so, what if he chose not to do it? Could he?
He felt the reassuring weight of the gun tucked in his pants as he walked deeper in the woods. What if I took it and blew my own brains out, right here and now? He noticed with a muted fascination that the idea of suicide didn't even seem to repulse him much… there was no dread, no fear, no sense of guilt at the sadness it would cause those he knew. All that there was, the only safeguard against that fatal thought, was the handcuff of reason. I can't get what I want if I'm dead, he reasoned, and the fact that he was right was enough to push the idea away.
But we've gotten distracted, here, he thought. Could I if I wanted to? And then, in that moment, an idea took root. I survive today, he thought. I know this because I saw things I still haven't done. So I wonder…
He pulled the steel revolver from his belt and eyed it. He checked the chamber, and it matched his recollection: he'd fired two shots of six.
Am I really about to do this? he thought. Am I about to take such a stupid risk?
But then the voice of reason answered back. It's no risk. You already know the outcome.
He sighed and shook with a full-body sweep of rattling anticipation, resolve solidifying. He then looked away and spun the barrel of the gun wildly before sliding the cylinder back in place, not seeing whether a full chamber or an empty one was currently aligned with the hammer.
Ok, universe. If I die, this is me taking control… this is me breaking from the rails. This is my last act of protest, proof that I have a choice. That I can affect the outcome. If I live, then the rails can't be broken… and at that point, I'm rolling forwards, for better or worse.
He pressed the cold metal barrel to his temple and savored what might have been his final breath… the damp and earthy mountain air had never tasted sweeter. He then pulled the trigger.
Click.
He expelled a hot breath, face reddening. His mind cried out to lower the gun, that he'd proven his point, but a deeper, louder voice insisted. One more. One more shot. Try to break free. See if you've got a choice, kid. See if you can break the rules.
His finger tightened, and then pulled the trigger a second time.
Click.
He stood there in silent disbelief, the center of a rising tornado of dread, of helplessness, of anger. He shook with his fury, and he felt once again that rising tide of helplessness… but this was no mere tide. This was a tidal wave, and it swallowed him whole, soul and body. He despaired in it, and in its darkness, he raised the gun to his own head once again… there were only two empties. A loaded chamber was guaranteed ready to fire straight into his skull.
But he knew that he survived, and the universe had made it clear that today was not the day he died. At least, not this today. Not this Logan. He lowered the gun, submitting to it. A few uses of the Empathizer had him soon grounded once again. He opened the cylinder and saw the last two had been the only two empty chambers… he was prisoner, after all, and fate was the pair of biting metal shackles he could never break free of. And in that moment, he thought of the hole in the beach he'd told Skinny about. He saw that hole, then and there, and the hole in the beach yawned wider than ever before, a gaping chasm of wet sand tumbling down and collapsing in on itself. Water splashed its salty spray, and the sand bit sharply at tender skin… his mind was crumbling, and Logan knew he was helpless to stop it. He knew he had started down this path to take control, but Logan could momentarily see that he had never before had less control than he did now, in this moment. He no longer feared death, as he thought surely no torture could be greater than that which he felt right now in the waking world. But there was work yet to do. The rails yawned and extended before him. And so Logan set to it.
He wound the Time Watch back for the evening of July 12th, 1981. He then shattered the display against a rock and disappeared in a crackling flash, traveling to that night that was both in his past and had been his inevitable future.
When he arrived in the darkened woods, he set out for the light of town, walking along in the cover of woods towards the Coffee Street Warehouses. He soon arrived and assessed the building's perimeter, looking for guards. There was a guard booth near the only gate into the complex, but Logan knew that he wouldn't be taking the main entrance. He walked a fair distance down the fence near to the woods and found a suitable spot. It was out of obvious view of the guard booth, and though he knew that there were occasional guard patrols, this was no Fort Knox… he waited in the darkness for one to pass, and then he set to climbing the fence. The barbed wire that would ordinarily deter a climbing robber was no match for the Protectionizer gripped in his right hand. It snagged and snared at his clothing, but his skin remained unharmed. Once over the fence, he shuffled his way to the structure itself and found an important-looking doorway. After three minutes of fumbling with a makeshift lockpick—a skill he'd only learned in the past few days thanks to a library book and some trial and error in his home—he managed to slip his way inside.
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Much to his relief, no alarm rang. He walked through the darkened building and soon found his way to a massive room stacked high with boxes. Numbered signs pointed towards shelves and stacks of box after cardboard box, arranged in towering columns and expansive rows. He pulled the notebook from his jacket and looked for the entry about the box. He'd written down its tracking number from the label, a decision that now seemed vital. He looked at the signs on the wall indicating where the 0601 shelves were located. Once there, he traced his hand along the rows of boxes until he found the correct serial. Hello, there, he thought. He picked up the box and it gave the correct rattle. The thing was heavy, weighing maybe twenty pounds. He grabbed it and the one behind it, preparing them in a short stack. He pushed the stack towards the door he'd entered from, happy to discover they slid along the smooth floor without much issue. Once he had them near the door, he knew it was time for the second part of tonight's work. Break room, break room, he thought, making his way through the hallways of the building. The glowing light of a vending machine gleamed through the window on the door of one particular room. Drink Pepsi — A Refreshing Break! the machine's lit-up front panel declared.
Logan made his way into the room and immediately began rummaging through the cabinets. Come on, come on, tell me we've got more than a few smokers in this damn place… and then, bingo. He found a drawer that had small lighters and a large package of strike-on-box matches. He grabbed the lighters, the matches, and several rolls of paper towels from an adjacent cabinet. He returned to the room stacked high with boxes and walked to its opposite end, far and away from the exit he hoped to leave from. This needs to make a good distraction, he thought. But will it be enough?
He thought back to the revolver with its two empty chambers and shuddered. It'll be enough… it already had been.
He placed the paper towel rolls against a box at the bottom of a stack, surrounding the box like kindling. He then pried open the lighters and splashed their small reservoirs of lighter fluid against the box's cardboard and the rolls. He then removed a small handful of matches, leaving most in the box. One was lit by striking it against the box, and, while it burned, he stashed the box against the kindling paper towels. He then tossed the match.
Immediately, the lighter fluid caught, and it swiftly lit one of the rolls of paper towels. The heat set the large match box aflame, which burst with a miniature rush of power as the phosphorus match heads within caught. The fire that raced upwards along the lighter-fluid-splashed wet side of the cardboard boxes caught in earnest, and soon a flame was creeping up the stack. Logan set out racing across the room, barreling towards the opposite door.
As he stepped out into the night air, he hoisted one box in his arms and ran to the fence. He tossed it over, and then looped back for the second. At this point, he thought he heard a voice in the distance shout "Fire! Fire!" Time was running out.
He launched himself against the fence and scrambled his way up, once again relying on the Protectionizer's protection against the barbed wire. Once on the outside once again, he ran the boxes, one at a time, deeper into the woods, settling them in a small stack against a tree. He trembled with adrenaline, and felt another rising pang of frustration at his slavery to his path. He fumbled with the Empathizer, dropping a battery in the dark, before loading it with a second and managing to calm himself. Slow down. Breathe. Level-headedness will get you through this. Hide the stack for now, and save the rest for tomorrow in the light. He then grabbed some loose fronds and branches and began to cover the stack, doing his best to camouflage the boxes against prying eyes. He knew he had to move them to a very particular place, but he also knew that he wouldn't be able to find his way in these unfamiliar woods in the dark of night, and he also knew the vicinity would soon be crawling with police. He made a mental note of where the stack was hidden and then began to make his way back towards civilization, moving along the edge of the woods.
He watched from the malevolent dark as police set up their perimeter, and Parker's mother began to survey through the scene. Orange light rose to burn away the dark, so Logan slunk backwards to stay in its black embrace. He knew what would soon come, and so he positioned himself well to have a prime view. As he took cover beneath a twisting shrub, he watched as six boys on bikes rode up to the scene and surveyed it from a distance. At their head was that form he hadn't seen in days, but what had felt like years… Skinny. He watched the gregarious youth head out with Parker towards the police line, and then he watched as the two returned to speak with the rest of the group. Even the past version of he himself was there, though Logan couldn't bring himself to look at the boy. The group as a whole chatted excitedly, though Logan couldn't hear what they were speaking about. He felt a strange sense of jealousy looking at the six of them, as though they all had something Logan currently lacked. He withdrew a battery that held a deep, verdant green and one of a sickly black-blue… had those been envy? Guilt? He felt them no longer, and tucked them into the dark of his pocket. He then glanced back up, and made eye contact with Ronnie. Logan froze, uncertain if he'd been spotted. But then Ronnie's eyes turned onwards, scanning in the darkness of the woods, as though he felt Logan's voyeur gaze.
He was glad to watch the boys leave as they rode off into the night. Logan then opened his notebook, reading it by the green glow of the battery. He found the calendar he'd created, complete with days marked when past-Logan had visited the shack in the woods, even including approximate times. The days where past-Logan hadn't visited would be time spans where current-Logan could enjoy the structure's shelter. And whenever past-Logan approached the cabin, as indicated by his calendar, current-Logan would be sure to flee the space, avoiding those critical direct confrontations with his past self.
Tomorrow, he would move the stack of boxes over to the tree near his home. He could still picture the distinctively twisted tree: that place where, in the dark of night, he'd found that box of blessed empty vessels, something that had proven necessary to stabilize himself. And perhaps most importantly of all, there had been Dad's revolver placed gingerly on top… Indeed, he had been beneficiary of a strange gift that night. It was now time to be the benefactor.
Charity to the self… now that's rich, he thought, setting out for the shack in the dark woods. Now let's get some sleep… it'll be a tough few days ahead.