Boom Time Read online

  The sky had turned grey by the time Njáll found the abandoned subway tunnel. The reason he’d chosen the underground was that he thought it best if Pierce gradually discovered where and when he was. Awakening in this new world somewhere out in the open might prompt him to go mad on the spot.

  Inside the tunnel hung old lanterns left behind by workers who had closed off the passageway during the turn of the century. They didn’t work until Njáll made them work. The first touch of light in years burned away the pitch-blackness, turning the room a honey color.

  He laid the boy down in the middle of old subway tracks. Another moan escaped Pierce. No doubt, the pain from his damaged ribs was helping him come around. Njáll thought about leaving him as he was. After all, it wasn’t as though he’d die from his injuries. Freya still needed to damage his fate thread and that would not happen until some seasons from now. Well, back in their era, anyway. Only after his thread was damaged could she kill him and prematurely remove him from the time the Fates had given him.

  Anyway, the trip through the mist had left Njáll drained, as it never failed to do. He had to recuperate before returning. He loathed time traveling. He turned to leave when another miserable groan nailed him in place. Njáll wanted to leave his descendant, but something about leaving him wounded in a strange new era tapped into a rare compassionate part of him. Also, Pierce reminded him of himself—a cocky, intelligent lad full of mischief. Blast it all, he actually liked the wiseass!

  Njáll touched Pierce’s injured left side and focused on the distressed bones within. The ribs were completely broken in two, and others badly fractured. He slid a hand underneath Pierce’s shirt and vest and rested the other upon the boy’s forehead to help soothe his thoughts and keep him under for just a little longer. Njáll sensed the youth’s restlessness. In his unconscious state, he was striving to awaken and find out what had happened to him.

  The shifting bones were a queer feeling. Njáll guided them back into place and fused them together. The Trickster had used the same kind of technique when he’d healed Pierce’s father, Jasper, of the blood clot trapped in his lungs when Jasper was a child. As the bones moved, Pierce’s moans grew louder and his eyelids began to flutter. Njáll worked quickly to repair the fractured bones, a much simpler task. Moments later, it was done. There would be a great amount of soreness, but that paled in comparison to what had been.

  Njáll removed his hand from under the boy’s clothing but kept the other upon his forehead.

  He leaned forward and spoke softly into Pierce’s ear, “I’ll return for you. Until then, stay out of trouble.”

  Two

  The New World

  I’ll return for you. Until then, stay out of trouble, the voice said as Pierce opened his eyes.

  He smacked his dry lips and tried to speak to the fading figure kneeling beside him.

  “Wait. Don’t go,” Pierce pleaded weakly.

  But the figure vanished. Damn Trickster. What the hell had he done to him? First, he felt an acute pain in his side stiffening the muscles around his ribs, and then, following that, he felt the frigid cold.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, sitting up, clutching his side.

  He sat there a moment and looked about. He was in some kind of cylindrical brick room. His initial thought was that he was inside an ancient prison cell, but then he spied the tracks.

  Are those train tracks? When did people start running trains underground?

  Or, was he in some blocked off aboveground train tunnel somewhere? There weren’t many trains traveling through Europe, even in England. Did the bastard take him to some other country? Only one way to find out.

  It was a strain, but Pierce managed to climb to his feet. He staggered over to one of the lanterns and plucked it from the wall. The lantern only lit up the spot where he stood. Beyond him was pure darkness. He reckoned the Trickster had had a hand in the lights. A brick wall nearby marked the end of the tunnel, so Pierce left down the other way. It was extremely cold. Once he’d left the lighted section, the fog of his breath pumped out into the glow of the lantern he held—that was just about all he saw. Soon, the lanterns behind him went out completely, leaving him with only the single light.

  “Blimey,” he said. “Hope this bloody one stays on.”

  He pushed on, trying to ignore the sharp soreness in his side. He wondered if the Trickster had literally dropped him in the tunnel before kindly fucking off.

  The tunnel kept going for a little while longer until he came to a pile of rubble at the end. Pierce thought he was truly buggered until his light revealed an old wooden door on one side. Pierce hoped it wasn’t locked or stuck. He tried the handle but the door wouldn’t move.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed, putting down the lantern and taking hold of the handle in both hands and yanking it back and forth.

  His soreness exploded into a stabbing pain that plunged deep into his body and spread out all over. He didn’t let it deter him. He wanted out and was prepared to bash his body to bits to do so. Mounds of dust floated away and made his eyes burn as he viciously pushed and pulled. The door finally gave a tad, and Pierce took advantage and slammed his right side into it as hard as he could. The blasted door surrendered and Pierce flew forward when it popped away from the doorframe. He nearly lost his footing but held tight to the handle.

  Once he’d found his balance again, he retrieved the lantern and headed out. There was a staircase leading up into a cellar that didn’t contain much more than another second flight of stairs. Pierce hoped he wouldn’t run into another stubborn door. Now that the adrenaline had passed, the pain increased, burning him from within.

  I’ll return for you.

  That’s what the Trickster had told him, though Pierce was unclear of exactly what it meant. Maybe he planned to move him around, preventing that blasted mare from locating him. He sorely wished he knew why she wanted him dead. After their strange encounter at the archeologist, Abbott Brice’s, house, Pierce had spent some time trying to figure it out. He mentally traced his steps to see where they might have possibly crossed paths. Pierce had a supreme memory, so looking back on moments of his life was almost like reliving them all over again. He honestly could not pinpoint a time he’d ever met the likes of her before. However, that didn’t mean he hadn’t somehow affected her in some other way. Being an outlaw, he’d done many things that put thorns in peoples’ sides.

  Whatever the reason, it didn’t quite matter at that moment. He needed to find out where he was and determine what his next move would be.

  The stabbing twinge made him grit his teeth and the cold cut through his clothes and bit into his skin.

  Christ, why couldn’t the bugger have taken him somewhere warmer?

  He reached the top of the stairs and found another door. Fortunately, that one opened easily. He stepped into what looked to be an abandoned kitchen that led out into a pub. There were booths, tables, and chairs, as well as an old dusty bar off to the side on the way out the door. Rubbish was strewn all around the place, and every window was imprisoned by frost. There were also people inside.

  “Wahoo, fellas,” one gent with a chipped front tooth said. “Look at this, then.”

  The tosspot, as well as a few others, stood around a barrel filled with flickering flames. Light from the fire twinkled through burned-out holes of the metal drum. The men were dressed in layers of rags. When they gave Pierce their attention, it sent an uneasy wave of icy shudders racing up his spine.

  “Ooh, don’t he look outta place?” another of them remarked.

  “Weez been ’ear all night,” a young homeless man with bad skin joined in. “Ain’t no way he’d mosey on through without us noticing. Where did he come from? Through that door down below? Weez never been able to open it.”

  They spoke in a dialect Pierce had never heard before. Clearly, they weren’t British or from anywhere else in Europe that he recognized. Each of them, including a very old man sitting up on one of the booths, had hard l
iving carved into his ugly face.

  “By the way he’s dressed, I bet youze dat he’s some queer who’d got on da stuff and got ’imself lost,” the old cocker remarked.

  “Yeah,” said another. “Just some actor in costume who wandered in from Broadway Theater or somethin’.”

  Broadway Theater?

  He glanced down at his duds. He wore the velvet green tailcoat, what used to be a well-pressed checkered pair of britches and the black vest. Clothes he had “worked” to save for so he could hustle the wealthy. It was typical attire as far as aristocrats went. Why were they thinking that he wore a costume?

  “He does look a little queer,” the young-looking tosser remarked. “A pretty one, too.”

  They began to approach. Pierce didn’t care for the kind of looks they were giving him, the sort of lustful leers that meant he wasn’t in for such a lovely time. The front door was behind them, but there was also a side door several paces away. Pierce quickly made his way toward it. He would have run if not for the throbbing pain in his side, made worse by forcing the blasted door open. The shabby buggers quickly advanced, blocking his escape route. Pierce stopped short, his heart swelling with fear, making his chest ache.

  “C’mon, pretty boy,” the homeless wanker with the chipped tooth said while taking out a small black object and pulling a knife blade from it. “Let’s see what you have under those fancy clothes.”

  “Before you boys go at ’im, see if he has any money or booze, eh?” the old man at the booth said. “And give me a take so I can get gone. Don’t want to stick around and see dat shit.”

  Pierce couldn’t let them get their hands on him. If they did, it would be all over. His wounded side would work against him in a fight. He thought about escaping back downstairs, but there was no way out down there. The creatures would only corner him and then proceed taking turns. There might’ve been an exit in the kitchen, but by the time he found it, the wolves would most likely have caught up to him and dragged him back inside. His only chance was the side door.

  While inside Conall Nass’s mansion, the aristocrats considered it uncouth to openly carry pistols, so Pierce had hidden his. He reached behind him and pulled his flintlock out from under his belt.

  “Don’t you bloody well come any closer, you fuckin’ knobheads,” he exclaimed, aiming the weapon at the three blocking his way.

  Everyone stopped. The old man in the booth stood up, alerted.

  “Back off,” Pierce demanded, advancing while pointing the gun at each of their faces.

  They did so.

  Pierce was almost to the door when the old geezer said, “Is that a flintlock? Holy shit, my great-grandfather had flintlocks. I haven’t seen dem since I was a kid.”

  Hadn’t seen flintlocks since he was a child? What was this ancient cocker talking about?

  “I bet it ain’t even real,” the younger man challenged.

  “The gun is plenty real, chum,” Pierce promised, heading for the door again.

  The man with the knife decided not to take heed and began his approach again. A sharp panic sliced through Pierce, driving him to act. He pulled the trigger, sending a lead ball into the man’s gut. Blood burst from him and he fell backward. Through a haze of gunpowder smoke, Pierce seized his window of opportunity. While everyone stood stunned, he bolted for the door. For a split second, he feared the door was locked, shaving precious moments off his escape. He turned the latch and was able to fling the door open, to his utter delight. Pierce spotted a wall and a cluster of rubbish bins in one direction, so he hurried down the other way. He ran through an alleyway with his empty gun outstretched behind him. A couple of the creatures stepped out but did not give chase. Before Pierce knew it, he’d reached the end of the alley.

  Fearing one of them might leave through the front door and try catching him on the sidewalk, Pierce decided to rush across the street. He ran off the walkway and fell completely backward when a machine of black metal sped past him. He landed hard on his arse and his aches lit up. He hardly noticed, though, for his surroundings had stolen away all his focus.

  More of those machines with rubber wheels and no horses pulling them were moving down the road. In fact, there were no horses in sight. Tall buildings Pierce didn’t recognize rose up in the distance. Overhead, several strange, cigar-shaped airships glided in the grey, misty sky. People bustled about on the sidewalks, darting across the street and dodging the machines. Piles of dirty snow were clumped on the side of the road where they had been pushed aside. The people’s clothing, especially the women, was nothing Pierce had ever seen before. The men all had short hair, with some strands peeking out from behind their ears and underneath their hats and caps. Pierce got to his feet just as a woman, wearing a fox fur boa and a bell-shaped hat, approached. She spotted the pistol in his hand and let out a startled shout.

  “Vagrant!” she exclaimed, pointing at him. “You stay away, you ruffian! Help! Police!”

  More eyes turned to him, looking on him with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Before trouble came his way, he tucked his flintlock into his waistband and darted down the sidewalk. He hurried down a couple of blocks before his wounded side stole away his breath. He rounded a corner, went into another alleyway, and then collapsed against the wall. The air was frigid, but that didn’t keep the sweat from dewing upon his skin. He stood there with a hand over his pounding chest, trying to steady his rapid breathing before he blacked out. He turned his eyes up and watched as another flying machine drifted overhead.

  He’d seen copies of Da Vinci’s sketches of flying contraptions, but he had never seen anything mechanical that actually flew before. He leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes. He could wish all he wanted, but the images would remain. When he opened them, the highly animated city continued to bustle around him.

  Where am I?

  He gathered his strength the best he could and headed back down the sidewalk. He ignored the people whose eyes judged him. Considering everything that had happened to him, he really could not give a toss. His side throbbed and he was still rattled from nearly being robbed and violated by those filthy beggars. Not to mention, he was cold and hungry. He was trapped and alone in some foreign city, apparently in some other era. When the Trickster said he needed to hide him away, Pierce never suspected he’d take him to another time! Clearly, he was in the future, but the when and where of it was still a mystery. The Age of the Machine, perhaps?

  He crossed the street, careful he wasn’t run down by any horseless carriages. He reached the sidewalk on the other side and went in search of information. There were many shops, small eateries, butcher stores, general markets, and places called Loan Offices on every street corner. There were makeshift signs in a few store windows that read No Booze Sold Here. Passing by a woman’s clothing store, he stopped and studied the garments dressed on the manikins. The dresses fell only halfway down their legs. Never had he seen this. In his time, women never even showed their ankles much less their entire calves! There were strings of pearls around the manikins’ necks, and each wore a differently styled hat over a shorthaired wig.

  The streets became more crowded with people the farther he went. Garland was wrapped around lampposts and a few men dressed in tacky red robes and fake white beards stood on sidewalks, ringing bells and asking for donations. Large banners, stretched across streets, read: Merry Christmas! People were exiting toy stores and other shops with bundles of packages cradled in their arms. Well, at least he knew the month. Now, he just needed to find out the year.

  He came to the corner of West Third and Sullivan Street, where a young boy was waving a newspaper in the air.

  “Get your morning paper right here, folks!”

  Pierce didn’t have but the pounds he had in his coat pocket. He didn’t reckon he could buy anything with his own currency. Even so, he reached for a couple of shillings and waited until the lad was distracted with another customer.

  “Here,” he said, handing the shillings
over to the boy just as the other customer was doing the same.

  The busy lad grabbed both of their loot and crammed it into his pouch. He handed them their papers and went back to waving his own newspaper about. Pierce headed down the sidewalk, opening the paper as he went.

  “The New York Journal. Right, so that’s where I am, eh?” His eyes searched for a date. “1925? Fuckin’ hell.”

  He found stairs leading up to an apartment building and sat down to read more. He read stories about current events in the city, along with articles about bootleggers being arrested for smuggling alcohol in from Canada. One word caught his attention.

  “Prohibition? That old law? This just gets bloody better.”

  Three

  Moving Picture Show

  Pierce journeyed on. Never had he been anywhere so busy and so loud. Tall smokestacks rose high from factories, billowing black smog into the sky. Trolleys rolled over tracks that crisscrossed over intersections. He nearly jumped out of his own skin when he walked under a bridge just as a train rumbled by overhead. There were countless signs advertising all sorts of things. I’d Walk a Mile for a Camel. Cut Your Cost. Buy a Ford.

  “Coca-Cola?” he asked himself, staring up at a large billboard of a glass bottle. “What sort of drink is that?”

  The streets were also odd. They were all perfectly straight, unlike London and other old cities where the roads confirmed to the land. The smell of this city was toxic. A stench poured from the fumes of the factories. The machine carriages made his ears hurt whenever they honked like angry geese when something got in their way. Not to mention that everyone smoked, which was unheard of in his time.

  Pierce spied a theater house and cautiously crossed the street over to it. He reckoned if he could store himself away at a matinee play, it would give him a chance to clear his head. He reached the posters in glass display cases mounted on the wall. A poster reading Coming Soon depicted a painting of a bloke with a sulky face wearing a snow-capped bowler hat. He had a small mustache, and he was sitting on a furnace inside some cabin.