Chapter 32: Max Takes on 1999

“So, what are we looking for?” Peter asks me.

“The school,” I reply, deadpan. I feel in my jacket pocket for my gun, solid. It’s in there. I’m wearing a jean jacket with a white shirt and jeans. My gun, a round of bullets and Cass’s gun are all tucked in on the inside. I look at Peter’s outfit. He wears a patterned button down with baggy jeans. I don’t see an outline of a gun in his pants. “You do have a gun, right?” I ask.

He shakes his head, “Nah, why, do you think I need one? I’m trained in Ju Jitsu!”

My jaw falls open, “Do you even know what we’re doing right now?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” Peter admits. I laugh, audibly. What the fuck? This guy is supposed to replace Elliot? I stop in my tracks as the yard of the school comes into sight. It hits me that I am the one who needs to figure this out. What would Cass and Elliot do? I have to stop these kids from dying. But, I also need to defy the mission. I glance around, as if something in the perpiphery will solve my problem.

If I stop the shooting, it will help the Congressionalists somehow. How though? And why did we just have to survive the plane crash? Something that once made perfect sense no longer does. Do the directions change with every jump?

“Peter, do the directions change every time we jump?” I ask.

He looks startled, “I- I wouldn’t know that. I was just randomly sent here.”

I roll my eyes, “Yeah, Cass and I aren’t stupid. We gathered that’s not true. The CIA trained you, what did they say?”

He clears his throat, “Uh, right, they do change. Why?”

I ignore his question. They do change. Maybe they couldn’t stop us from jumping to 1985. Maybe what they needed to happen already happened. Shit! I have to go tell Elliot and Cass.

I huff, “I need to go get you a gun. Stay here and monitor. Uhm…here’s mine, I will be right back.” he stares at me, blankly. I take that as a sign to leave. I run at my top possible speed. For a moment, with the cool breeze, and finally a pair of tennis shoes, I forget that I’m literally about to die.

Cass sleeps against Elliot, but his eyes are open.

“You good? Ditch that guy?” he asks.

Oxygen flows into my lungs. I put my hands on the top of my head to catch my breath. The cool breeze makes it harder to breathe.

“Peter,” I start, “Dumbass doesn’t have a gun to stop a fucking school shooter. But, I figured something out. I need to tell you,” I say in between heaving breaths.

“This is Columbine?” he questions. I nod. Elliot wakes up Cass, who bitches at him, quietly.

She squints, but looks at me, “This better be important.”

I ignore the scowl on her face, “The paper. It changes. 1985 didn’t used to say survive. Peter confirmed it.”

“Okay?” Cass rasps. Her hair blows in the wind. Elliot’s biting his lips.

“He saying that there’s someone watching us and changing the missions. We haven’t killed the last of the Congressionalists,” Elliot assists.

Cass licks her lips, “And we only have two missions left to do that.”

“Fuck!” I swear, probably loud enough for Peter to hear me, half a mile away. Cass presses on the bridge of her nose.

“Do you think they’re in Columbine high school?” Elliot asks.

I swallow, “Maybe, but is the death of all these kids worth the chance that they might die too?” The thought of this tragedy weighs on my chest. How can I let all these kids die? How can I allow a shooting that will inspire hundreds of other shooters?

Cass is crying. Not loudly, in fact I’m not even sure Elliot knows that she’s crying. I ask if she’s in pain.

“No! I mean, I am, and maybe that’s part of why I’m upset, but this is not fucking worth it. What kind of choice is that? We could stop the worst school shooting of history to now. Obviosuly, we should fucking do that. Or! Or, we return to the terrorist group taking over our world, meaning that we did all this shit for nothing. Elliot got shot for nothing. I’m in all this pain for nothing. And-” she sobs, between words, “And, Belle died for no reason!” We all sit in silence for a moment, remembering our friend.

Elliot glances up at me, “Max, can you and Peter alone reasonably stop two school shooters?”

“Without bodily harm to yourselves,” Cass adds.

I shake my head, “Peter told me he was trained in Ju Jitsu,” Cass laughs, then holds her forehead, in pain.

“Then, my opinion is- and you don’t have to take it,” Elliot says, “but, it think you shoud go in there, survive and leave. Let Peter think you’re trying. That’s all. Survive.”

His words run chills up my skin.

. If those are my instructions one more time I’m going to loose it. I agree with him, though. This makes Cass nod in silence. It pangs my heart to see her in pain. I miss the real Cass. Happy Cass. I wonder if she remembers our kiss. I hope she doesn’t hate me for it.

“Do you want my gun?” Elliot offers, interrupting my thoughts. I pat my pocket and still feel Cass’s gun.

“No,” I say, “I have Cass’s from the plane. The EMTs gave it to me, remember?”

He nods, whispers something to Cass before adjusting her to sit up on her own. He stands up. His head motions for me to follow him away from Cass. We walk for a minute or so before he stops.

“You fucking kissed her?” he spits through his teeth. I find myself taking a step back, my heart skipping a beat. How did he even find out about that? My anxiety soars through the roof, as if I wasn’t already freaking out about the mission. He cracks his knuckles. Oh, god. I cannot take him.

And, then, just like that, he laughs, “Ha! You were so scared!”

My muscles don’t yet relax. He pulls me into a hug, when I realize that he was joking.

He pats me on the back and I follow suit.

“Be safe out there. We need you. If anything happens, run to our clearing and I’ll back you up,” he says, making eye contract. I laugh a little, releasing that built up anxiety.

I thank him and he turns back towards Cass. I look towards the path that takes me to Peter and the school, before glancing back one last time. Elliot walks backwards.

“Kiss her again and I won’t be kidding!” he calls. He uses his fingers to make the ‘watching you’ symbol. I shake my head and slowly walk the path back to Columbine. The April air whistles in my ears. I breathe a sigh to try and relax before approaching Peter.

I show him Cass’s gun, as if I just picked it up and we head towards the school. The school day is just beginning. The first bell rings and we dash into the building with several other students, all also running late.

I explain the plot of the shootings to Peter. That it happened around lunch, outside, on the stairwells and in the library. We agree to split up.

He’s going to stay in the library today and I’m tasked with protecting the stairwells. I walk around the perimeter of the school, scoping things out. Suddenly, a tinge of guilt appears in my heart for Peter. He’s going to die, along with the rest of them. The ethical dillemma flows through my heart. We do need to get rid of him. Hm. I toy with the idea in my head. Our last mission could just be Elliot, Cass, and I. That would be a nice way to end it. No, who am I kidding? The dumbass probably has a family of his own waiting at home.

I pull open the doors to one of the hallways and make my way to the library. I pass an administrator, which doesn’t question my presence in the hallway. Can he not tell that I’m a grown ass man? I keep walking towards the library and swing open the doors. I glance at the clock, 10:30am. First shots were around lunchtime, but when is that? The librarian also does not question my presence in the library. I turn the corner and see Peter reading a book at the table. He doesn’t notice me approaching. He’s too interested in his book…. I squint my eyes to read the title.

, is he for real?

“Peter!” I whisper, harshly. He looks up, spooked. He sets the book down on the table. Standing now, I grab his elbow and haul him out of the library. He questions me, but I don’t say a word until we get outside.

I look directly into his eyes, “You’re a fucking idiot. I was going to just let you and your dumbass plan die, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. The best place to kill them is from outside. Let’s break into a car and hide out there. That way, we’ll be safe and get the mission done.”

He just blinks at me. Is he like mentally sound? I continue to pull his elbow into the front parking lot.

“What your deal, bud?” I ask, finally.

“Sorry, this is just like… a lot for me,” he mumbles. I roll my eyes, but then remember my own first day. Cass corrected me because I used our real names, instead of aliases. I almost messed everything up the second or third mission.

“It is a lot,” I mutter.

“Do you have any kids?” he asks me.

I raise my eyebrows, “No. Do you?”

He nods, “Three. Newborn twins and a 3-year-old. All I can think about is them. Sorry if I’ve been spacey. This is just not what I expected. Everything is so different.”

“You should talk to Elliot,” I say, “He has an 8-year old kid in his custody. He might have something better to say than I do.”

He waits a beat, then says, “I’m supposed to kill him.” I pretend to be surprised, but I already knew that. He looks awfully torn up over it.

“You really don’t have to. I mean, there’s one more mission after this. Let him live. You can kick him off the missions. But, with Cass in her condition, leave him to take care of her. The CIA can handle him when we get back,” I attempt to persuade.

He wets his lips, “You said he has custody?”

“Of his niece. An 8-year old. Her parents, Elliot’s brother, died. He’s all she’s got,” I appeal. I don’t actually know the story of the custody. Hope that was a close enough guess.

He looks at me, pitifully, “Oh my god. I can’t hurt him.”

I agree and refocus him on breaking into a car. He volunteers to stand watch while I break into the car. I shatter the glass window with the edge of my gun. The car alarm goes off. I hop into the driver seat and yank the plastic off the control panel.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Peter asks me.

I don’t reply and instead focus my efforts on the chords. Which one do they pull? I take a wild guess and the car alarm shuts off. Phew.

Peter continues to be inquisitive, “How did you learn to do that?”

“I’m a forensic scientist. I’ve studied hundreds of stolen cars for DNA. Seen a million hotwires,” I say, putting two random wires against each other. The car fires up. I smile, a little bit conceited.

Peter and I both get into the car, an old Volkswagen beetle. The clock on the car says 11:00am. My heart begins to beat faster. 19 painstaking minutes later, a bomb smokes only a few feet from the car we selected. I point out the boys in trenchcoats to Peter. He fiddles with this gun I gave him and rolls down the windows. I see him angle his weapon towards the boys.

One of the boys opens his trenchcoat to reveal a gun, just as Peter fires. My ear are ringing. I watch the boy fall to the ground. Screams erupt around us. Peter fires again at the second boy, but misses. His bullet whizzes past and into the side of the school. I realize that I should be stopping him. But, he fires another time and hits the boy this time. I put the car in reverse, back out of the parking space. I slam on the gas and fly down the road near the school.

“Oh, fuck, we just did that,” Peter says. I cringe and take the first left turn I can see. I follow it to the highway. I cut in and out of cars around me, careful to watch out for police. I take the third exit I see and pull into a random park. We both hop out of the car, which certainly has been reported stolen by now. I sprint down the park greenway, Peter just a pace behind me. I begin to fall into a rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement. I shed my jean jacket, tossing it on a random bench and allow the air to flow through my t-shirt. We hit the end of the greenway. I see an outhouse, across the field. I catch my breath and Peter catches up to me.

“We’re going to hide in that outhouse until the time jump,” I say, panting.

He holds up his recorder, “I can jump whenever you want.”

I nod, “Yes, you can, but we have to wait. Until some trigger or maybe a certain amount of time passes. Probably until the original shooting was supposed to be over. I’m going to hide in the outhouse, you do whatever the hell you want.”

I open the door to the outhouse. A steaming pile of poop, accomanied by a yield of flies awaits me. I lock the door and cover my nose with my arm.

Please. Please.

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