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Part 14: Timekeeper
By 9:30AM, her breathing was more laboured. He knew hydration was only going to get her so far. He was either going to convince her to stop or she would literally crash, and he did not want to see how that would play out.
He trotted in front of her and walked backwards so he could face her.
“Is Gabby in there?” asked Barton.
“She’s fine.”
“Can I call you Starlight?”
She grimaced. “That’s what he calls me.”
“Okay, not that. What can I call you?”
“I don’t know. We’re making good time.”
“Can I call you Timekeeper?”
She squinted, then said, “If you want.”
“Okay, oh, oh good good good," Barton didn't bother hiding his relief. "We have to keep the schedule. You need maintenance. Timekeeper, you can feel it. We’ve got a lot of track to cover and if you do not let me help you then we will be late.”
She avoided his eyes. He stole a glance over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t anything ahead that would trip him up. Just two silver lines. When he looked back, she was staring hard at him. Anger, frustration, dismay… he couldn’t tell. The sensation of being watched came back, like there was some sort of audience, like the trees surrounding them were lined with a stadium crowd, waiting to see what would happen next.
And there was that other presence. The one on the tracks.
“What’s back there?” he asked. It felt important.
“You know.”
He did. The shadow man might not be visible, but he was there. He would burn them all.
“Timekeeper, I know what happened the last time you stopped. I know you’re afraid. But we must keep the schedule. And if you do not stop and rest and put fuel in Gabby you will break her and you will not make it. I won’t let him catch us.”
“How won’t you? How?”
“I don’t have any other choice. Please, you have to trust me.”
He watched her face, watching for a crack, watching for something to relent. He was watching so close that he missed his step and caught the back of his foot on a plank. Barton went pinwheeling backwards and—with luck—came down on his butt between two planks. She swerved around him and kept going. He made to get up, but now that he was sitting his body decided it had had quite enough for the time being. He sat, panting, listening to her whuff-whuff-ing away behind him.
Then the invisible audience gasped. A wave of ambiguous terror plunged into him—like witnessing a crowd fleeing but not understanding why.
He spun around, expecting the worst. But instead, he saw her standing still, Gabby’s body shaking and heaving.
Her head turned. “She says to trust you.”
Barton got to all fours, only half believing.
She turned fully, and half fell into an awkward seat. “How long?”
He crawled towards her, and touched her cheek, trying not to burst into tears. “Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes Timekeeper, then we roll again.”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
She ate and drank, and he massaged her legs and reapplied the sunblock. The GPS told him that they had covered nearly a quarter of the distance already. He explained that they were well ahead of schedule and encouraged her to take the next leg of the journey a little easier, lest they arrive too early.
At 10AM sharp, they set off again, moving a lot slower. The heat of the day was ramping up, and Barton gave a silent thanks that this was not happening in the deep summer.
They kept a healthy maintenance schedule—stopping for 15 minutes every hour to rest and nibble. Every time she stopped, there was a residual swell of terror from all around, but it lessened with each break. Barton was coming to terms with the idea that these were the spectres of some two dozen murdered souls, riding along with him on this final trip.
The sun arced up, and they got lucky when the tracks barreled through a lush part of the forest. The tree canopy gave them shade, and the riders were calm, and maybe even enjoying the ride. The woods were certainly beautiful. He kept pace beside and just behind her (providing a physical presence between her and what followed), and once he thought he saw a little smile play on her lips as the spotted shadows painted a dry, sea-top pattern all around them.
Around 2PM, he heard a growing roar from behind. It was a solid sound, from the real world, like the prop plane. As it grew, he recognized the purr of a four-wheeler.
“Someone’s coming up from behind,” he announced, coming up beside her and breaking a three-hour silence.
“Keep the schedule,” she said.
Something told him they shouldn’t be seen. What if these riders killed whatever spell they had going on here? The roar grew, and soon he would be able to see it. The invisible passengers didn’t seem to be reacting. Timekeeper strolled on.
“We can’t leave the tracks, can we?” He knew it was true.
She smirked at him, not unkindly.
Barton nodded, and looked back again. The four-wheeler was a dot on the horizon. Hard to tell at this distance, but it was probably straddling one of the tracks. The cut was too narrow to ride comfortably on the shoulder, and the tracks themselves were set too narrow to ride between them. As it came closer, he saw he was right. Barton got as close to the right rail as he could.
Closer and closer, louder and louder. He saw with growing concern that it was a wide sonofabitch, with two white-helmeted riders. It was straddling the left rail alright, but its big frame was not going be avoiding anything standing inside the tracks. He stopped and began to wave and shout. They had to see them.
“No good,” said Timekeeper.
“Huh?” he said. He started flapping his arms harder. It was really barreling down now. Ten seconds away. The men on the vehicle both sported big, mirrored sunglasses. He thought he saw a familiar word printed backwards on their helmets.
“Do not leave the track!” she shouted.
“Gabby they’re going to hit us!”
The girl stopped and whirled around. “You trust me now!”
Barton spun and rushed at her, meaning to tackle her off the tracks. She stood there, bracing, as the four wheeler engine drowned out everything. Her eyes froze him. They glared with such intent—twin white lights, no shadows possible, commanding the tracks, the path, the world.
It was so complete and overwhelming that he didn’t even react when the four-wheeler blew through him, blew right through her and continued uninterrupted down the tracks. His lagging, disjointed thoughts unscrambled the backwards word he thought he saw earlier: POLICE. Then his brain reminded him to freak out because he was about to get run over.
But the danger had clearly passed, so his adrenaline had no other choice but to give him a terrible stomach cramp. He doubled over and sat down on the tracks, tried to regain his composure, and failed entirely with a loud, reedy fart.
Timekeeper sauntered over and sat beside him, eyes wide and dancing.
“Unscheduled maintenance break; excess engine pressure,” said the ghost.
For the first time in weeks, Barton laughed loud and long.
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