Time on my Hands

“What was that?” My boss poked his head in the kitchen where I was washing dishes. “An earthquake?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “There was a flash of pink light through the window right when it rattled the dishes.”

“We’ve still got power, so it wasn’t a transformer blowing. Probably just thunder and lightning. Hey, take a quick break from the dishes to empty the trash in the dining room. It’s full.”

I dried off my hands and grabbed an empty trashbag. When I walked outside to throw out the full one, I saw a man in a tan jumpsuit next to the dumpster. He had his knees drawn up to his chest and he was shivering, even though the sky was clear and it was seventy degrees. He didn’t appear to be homeless. His garment was pristine.

“Hey, man, are you all right?” He blinked, then furrowed his brow as if sorting his thoughts.

“Legacy English talk like book,” he said with an accent I couldn’t discern through chattering teeth. “What date?”

“It’s May seventh. Do you need me to call someone to get you help?” His lips moved as if he was translating to himself.

“What annu… What year?”

“It’s 2026.” His face fell from a look of confusion to abject despair.

“Six moonths,” he muttered. “Hungry time arriva.”

“Are you hungry, man?” I asked. “I can hook you up with a cup of coffee, some fried rice, an eggroll and a bowl of hot soup. It’s all stuff we have to throw out at the end of the day, anyway.” The man’s eyes widened.

“Disposal food? Hungry time arriva!”

“No, man. Let me hook you up.” I tossed the trashbag in the dumpster, then offered him my hand to help him up. When I grasped it, I got a shock of static electricity so strong that a pink spark discharged between our hands. In that instant, a vision flashed before my eyes. Buildings were reduced to rubble, giving an unimpeded view all the way to the hills; scoured of trees, save a few jagged stumps. Then everything flashed back to normal.

“What was that?” I asked as I pulled him upright onto wobbly legs. “It was like a flashback. Are you tripping, bro?” 

“Wohnway trip. Trainsport sentence.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the letters “T-C-B” emblazoned on his back. Underneath, in smaller font, the phrase “Temporal Corrections Bureau” appeared. 

“What for?” I asked. “You didn’t hurt any kids, did you?” He shook his head.

“Take disposal food from TrumpTech.” The last two syllables made me shiver almost as much as him. I took him inside to the little table in the kitchen and had him eat while I finished the dishes.

“What’s going to happen in six months?” I asked him. “That would be November, right?”

“Country incorporated. Resistance nooked.”

“Who would be stupid enough to use nuclear weapons against their own country in prime food-producing areas?” But I knew the answer.