SFSD-X Short Story Smackdown

2.1 What You Wish For

The Planter's electric sphere flickered and died in a last-ditch effort at radiance, leaving me blinded. Professor Hallard grunted.

"Did you get a good one?" he asked. Leaning on me in a far too drunken buddy way for comfort, he gave off a bark of laughter. Then he howled at the moon. "We did it! We saw him! You and me Scotty. You and—" He broke off in a hacking cough.

I prayed the old geezer wouldn't die of a heart attack in the middle of the park. Layers of sweat were starting to dry on my face and soak through my clothes. It was only then I saw how badly my hands were shaking. The adrenaline was wearing off and I was fucking freezing. Even if it was 40° warmer here than there. Or than it was....It had been before.

Shit. What the hell had just happened? "We were really there, weren't we?" I whispered.

"Show me," Professor Hallard ordered. He was grabbing me all over and breathing heavy. The thought that my genius mentor was going to molest me in the darkened park after completing the greatest scientific breakthrough since nuclear fission spurred me to find my phone. Surely he wanted the phone more than my young, skinny body.

He ripped it from my hands. "Where is it? Where..."

The picture appeared in phantom blues.

"George Washington," he whispered in tones that nuns reserved for sightings of the Virgin Mary on burned toast. "And me. He crossed the Delaware and I was there to witness it." He started gurgling and then fell over. I tried to catch my phone, but ended up with a handful of sticky, wet shirt.

"Damn Hessian shot me," the professor said.

More wet stickiness washed over my hand. The shot – a shot had been fired right when the professor had reactivated the Planter and we returned to our time. I fumbled with my phone to dial 9-1-1.How was I supposed to explain an 18th century gunshot wound to the doctors? A troupe of Revolutionary nuts were having a hay-day in the park?

"We're sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in use. Please disconnect and try again."

The British accent on the recorded message should have been my 1st clue that not all was right with the world. Dragging Professor Hallard to my car and finding the driver's seat had switched sides should have been my 2nd clue.

Shortly after the 3rd clue, I figured it out. Forehead on the front of the vending machine in the hospital waiting room, I tried in vain to order a 'Classic Meal Deal' of fish, chips (French Fries by the picture on the package) and a pint of pale ale. The machine didn't take dollar bills, and I sure as hell didn't have exact change in £'s.

"We're so screwed," I said to the glass panel.

"Scott Murphy?" a nurse asked.

"That's me."

"I'm sorry to have to inform you, but the man you brought it – Dr. Hallard – has succumbed to his wounds."

I nodded. The Hessian had blown a hole the size of a fist in the professor's stomach. There were blood and guts all over my car seat. But if he was dead...

"I'm so screwed."