: Prompting Needed_

Chronologically Ordered

From Daily Quordle 339 (12/29/2022) - TABBY, NERVE, NORTH, SIXTY

It was the burning that surprised her more. They had told her before closing the door behind her that there was going to me a moment of pure, unadulterated vertigo. In Dr. Stein's words, the capsule would "feel like the entire thing's gone tits up. We installed bar rails." And so, they had. It was those rails that now dug painfully into Tabby's palms as she tried to hold herself up against not only the head-spinning, gut-tossing vertigo but also an acute sensation of acidic burns spreading evenly across her whole body. She quavered, stomped her feet on the grating below her, and spat obscenities that would have made her grandfather blush. Perhaps it would have been easier to handle if the capsule would have been fitted with speakers that piped in distracting music or whale sounds. That would have been nice. But no. Instead, Tabby was stuck hurtling through an artificial wormhole and feeling like she was tumbling willy-nilly through a vat of acid.

She wasn't sure exactly when she had thrown up, but suddenly she became aware of the putrid smell of bile and the warmth of her stomach's contents on her legs. The form-fitting leggings hadn't done much to soak up the mess before slopping down to the bilge area below, but they were doing a bang-up job of retaining the smell. She heaved again, letting go of the rails. It was on her hands and knees that Tabby realized the burning sensation had abated and now she was shivering. All round her was a light that seemed to come from overhead and filtered through a thick canopy of green plastic or leaves. It was hard for her to tell through the tears that were rimming her eyelids. She wiped her face with her hand and sputtered at the dirt that spread across her cheeks and lips. She blinked and examined the ground beneath her. Thick, loamy soil replaced the grating that had just been pressing into her flesh. Various green buds and grass blades dotted the patch of earth she knelt on. Around her, sounds starting to creep in. She became aware of that buzzing of cicadas and the cawing of birds she had grown up with in North Carolina. Somewhere, off in the distance, was the humming and droning of vehicles on a highway. Tree trunks and rays of dappling sunshine began to coalesce from the darkness of the fading capsule. The wormhole had delivered.

She was in the past.

Tabby checked her sleek chronometer and found the dual times to be still in sync from her briefing. Her journey through the L'Engle Singularity (as the lab boys were calling it) seemed to be a success. She tapped the screen on her wrist, and it beeped twice, then showed a readout that she was prepared to see. The year (nineteen sixty­-two) and time (1346 CST) both shone brilliantly despite the sunshine splashed against it. "Well, you guys did it." Something nearby in the taller brush scampered at the sound. Tabby stood and dusted her hands off, frowning at the lingering smell of vomit that wafted up. She continued to frown as she examined the state of her clothes. If she were going to make it to the Texas border without walking, she was going to have to do something about her appearance. She checked her chronometer, orientated herself, and strode to the closest town.

~~~

The town of Story, Oklahoma looked much smaller than the town of nearly four million she had left in the future. Luckily, she found there were homes that were still placing out laundry on lines instead of drying them in dryers. In moments after making it to the town, Tabby had found a long inconspicuous dress and leggings that might have just been pants for a young boy. She kept her sturdy travel boots – even though they did nothing for the outfit – and she found an abandoned cellar to store her jumpsuit. The lab guys had told her that the material wouldn't last long after being removed for continuity's sake, but that didn't mean that she was going to let the old duds stay out in the open to be found by some hick in the past.

Confidence renewed by the change in outfit, Tabby found the closest main road heading south. Soon, she was standing on the edge of Highway 27, and her thumb stuck out in the wind. It wasn't long before a guy who smelled of hay and drove a truck that rattled more than it rolled stopped to ask what "a pretty girl like yourself is hitchin' fer?"

Tabby stood on her toes and examined the inside of the cab before she replied as sweetly as she could, "I've gotta go to Texas. My cousin Harvey is graduatin', and I didn't have the money to drive myself. Besides, the road ain't no place for a woman to drive alone."

The sentence had the desired effect. Soon, Kerry (the kindest guy she had ever met in 1962) was shuttling them both southward at a comfortable forty-five miles per hour. The conversation was congenial enough, and Tabby found it no problem at all to lie to the sweet dolt. It wasn't like she was going to exist after she found her quarry. After an hour or so of traveling, she found herself pouring over the dossier in her mind. Lee was supposed to be in Dallas with his new Russian wife. It wouldn't be long after that that he would convince himself that he would have to shoot the president. Her being in the situation to stop him before that happened was the first of what Dr. Stein promised to be in a long running set of missions carefully designed to shape the future.

"I'm not getting' on yer last nerve, am I," Kerry asked. He was glancing back and forth between the lonely road and her. She smiled and leaned over to pat his hand.

"Sorry, no. Just thinkin' of home."

Kerry nodded slow and ponderously. "I kin understan' that." He gripped the steering wheel with wide, tight knuckles and laughed. "I ain't been to Dallas in a coon's age," he admitted "I'm glad I came along. Me and you," he said while sneaking another look to Tabby, "we's gonna have a road trip."

He flicked on the radio and began to croon along with Neil Sedaka. As he sung along about how 'Breaking Up is Hard to Do," Tabby leaned her head against the cool glass and hummed along.