Twisted Time

1 - Night drive

Heading Home, 23:13

Dan takes a deep breath and wraps up her presentation with the last slide. "And this is the beauty of our project. Vastly enhanced performance at no additional cost."

The logo of her university turns slowly on the screen, mesmerising in its modern silver sleekness. With bated breath, she waits for a reaction of her audience. The silence drags on. Too long. Dan mentally prepares for another dismissal, unsure if she should add more information. Perhaps stress the positive impact her research will have on the environment? Emphasise her team is nearing a point where oil-based polymers become dispensable?

She still fumbles for the right words when the manger interlaces his fingers and cracks his knuckles. "Interesting, Miss Lender, and quite innovative. But while enhancing the durability of plastic surfaces may sound fascinating to a layman, I cannot see where our company could potentially benefit from your research." He leans back in his chair, hands flat on his desk now. "Our firm has the leading edge in household utensils, design is our forte, and we look back on decades of processing polymers. I suggest you try to peddle your esoteric approach to a less renowned company, Miss Lenting."

Dan fights to keep a straight face, not sure if it grates more on her nerves that he didn't get the gist of her presentation or the fact he got her name wrong twice in a row.

"Mister Bowler, I'm sure if you allow me to explain the potential of molecular animation in the context of polymer processing, you'll understand..."

He cuts her off with a raised hand. "Enough, Miss Lentil. We're not interested, we have our own research department, and it is renowned for its efficiency. You might even apply for a job there. Consider it. You would learn from the best."

Dan stands up and closes her laptop, trying to keep her hand from shaking. "Thanks for the offer, Mister Bowler. And for your precious time." Years of practice help her to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. But she is not prepared for his next words.

"Or, perhaps you'd care for a late dinner? There are so many more pleasant topics to chat about."

Humiliated, she drops her computer into her bag and turns on her heel. How dare he... While she slams the door and storms to her car, she curses herself. Another potential funder to cross from her list. It is getting shorter and shorter.

Dan fumbles for the keys, still fuming, throws her bag onto the passenger seat and drives off, a few unshed tears blurring her sight. When she almost runs a red light, she knows she must cool down. Can't let her frustration drive her into an accident. At least it isn't far to the motorway. Another crossing and she shifts gears to accelerate on the access ramp.

The speed helps her to get a grip on her emotions. Dan sighs and blows a wisp of auburn hair out of her eyes, contemplating the recent disaster. Not for the first time, she wonders where her life took an ugly twist to the worse—from complicated to outright frustrating. What happened to her youthful enthusiasm and limitless motivation? She studied natural sciences to make the world a better place. What became of her idealistic conviction?

Dan grips the steering wheel tighter and tries to laugh off the episode as just another experience. There is a pattern in her fruitless attempts to keep her pet project alive. These days, she either sits in her office to write reports, downcast by the latest dismissal, or travels the country to sell her team's efforts to bored concern bosses. She has become an expert in pointing out the ultimate value of their research in all the shiny colours of the rainbow.

She grits her teeth, reliving the recent dismissal with burning hot anger, the scene engraved into her mind. Disappointment hits her hard. The project started like a fairytale a few years ago. But a while back, her dream dissolved into a nightmare. She must deliver convincing results or acquire a new sponsor soon, or her brainchild is the next on the list to lose university fundings. In the name of economic optimisation measures, of course, nothing personal.

The radio plays one of her favourite rock songs, and she cranks up the volume. Her fingers drum the well-remembered rhythm on the steering wheel, anger and frustration pushing her to hit hard enough to hurt herself.

At least traffic is not dense this late in the day, or evening, to be exact. Another one and a half hours should bring her home, free to soak herself in a hot bath. Perhaps a drink and music will help to chase away the ghosts and the tension.

The last houses pass in a blur, and their lights recede into the darkness. Heavy clouds covered the sky all afternoon, and now a soft drizzle starts. Dan's headlights paint ghostly cones onto the wet tarmac. Silvery water droplets blink into existence for short moments in the glaring lances of light. Around her, the landscape has shrunk away into the night and rain.

A talk-show starts on the radio, and Dan searches for another station. At the end of the band, she locates a music channel. Not one she is familiar with, but they broadcast her style of music. She spent more than her share of time listening to pretentious speeches today.

A big truck roars past on the opposite lane. Otherwise, she has the road to herself. Wondering how late it is, she checks the display on her dashboard: a quarter past ten. This cannot be right—true, since daylight saving started a few weeks ago, she daily reminds herself to reset the clock. But she never finds the time, or the task slips her busy mind at a convenient moment.

Dan switches to cruise control and tries to relax. With her right hand, she massages her knotted neck muscles, with little success. Through the curtains of the increasing rain, her tired eyes catch a glimpse of the illuminated portal of the first tunnel. She adapts the speed, aware of the radar trap in the tube. The one thing she cannot afford is getting her licence suspended for speeding.

One moment the rain pelts her windscreen, then she is in the dry tunnel. The sudden lighting seems too bright. Blinded, Dan squints her eyes. Who decides to illuminate tunnels like Christmas trees while the rest of the highway doesn't qualify for such luxury? Dan is tempted to search for her sunglasses. They must be in her bag. But instead of taking the risk, she settles for blinking the tears out of her eyes.

Ahead lies the bend where the infamous speed trap lurks for unsuspecting victims. Dan knows this part of the motorway by heart and wonders for the umpteenth time why the two tunnel portals are not connected by a straight line. The wipers screech over her now-dry windscreen and disrupt her musings. Annoyed, she stops them and curses the broken automatic.

In the same instant, the tunnel lighting flickers once, twice, and dies in an orange glow. Dan's dipped headlights are thrown back by the lane markings and rows of tiny reflectors on the roadside in a spooky pattern.

Cursing, Dan switches to full headlights. But this moment, the lighting of her vehicle fails, the lights fade into obscurity, the dashboard illumination marking the finality of the process with an evil red glow. While Dan stomps the brake to the floor on pure instinct, stalling the engine, even the radio stutters to silence. The car comes to a stop with screeching tyres in complete darkness.

Dan struggles to breathe and pries her shaking hands from the steering wheel. Reaching out with trembling fingers, she turns the ignition several times—in vain. Not even a squealing of the starter tells her there is life left in her car.

The hairs in her neck raise, and she gulps dry air while she reaches for her bag. Amongst other bits and bobs, it holds a tiny flashlight, convenient when she returns late. Sightless, she sorts through her most treasured possessions. Before her numb fingers locate the mini-torch, she looks up in horror.

Through the maw of the tunnel, a bright white light approaches in eerie silence and engulfs her in a blinding explosion.