Writing

Time Traveller by AJ Millard

Smoked George was a familiar sight propped up against the low wall outside the municipal building. Or rather he should have been, if any of the passers-by had actually stopped to acknowledge his noxious presence. The aged tramp rose unsteadily to his feet and placed the bottle wrapped in brown crinkled paper into his patchwork trenchcoat. He expertly gathered his world around him; the scraggy wiry mongrel, his only constant companion, stretched and shook itself. The action caused a pollen heavy shower of particles to be expelled from its dusty coat. A deepening twilight gloom was gradually banished into dull orange pools, the starker sodium lights not yet installed into this old municipal district.

George glanced each way habitually before he crossed the busy road, away from the crowd gathered outside the tube station. The shuffling figure appeared not to notice the occasional hurtful remarks, which accompanied his passage as he stepped off the high kerb onto the still warm tarmac. The road's tacky grip pulled at his threadbare shoes, drawing the paper liner out through a rent in the sole.

The mongrel sniffed at the matted paper residue and then licked the small clean spot on the back of George's liver spotted hand. The hand trembled with the effort as he reached to retrieve the offending object.

Smoked George stopped and removed his shoe, despite the vocalised dismay from the crowd gathered at the bus stop. He held up both items for closer inspection.
The mongrel skittered across the road and disappeared into the dwindling pedestrian stream on the far side. If George had noticed the disappearance of the mongrel, he gave no indication to any of the observers. A grime streaked red bus clattered into the stop and the crowd surged forward. The would-be passengers flowed around the immovable object of their brief attention. A few distorted faces pressed against the condensation streaked windows, giving George a final, dismissive, stare. While the few who dared to pity him remained shamefully silent. Quickly they returned to their former spite-driven conversations, ready to include another apparently less fortunate individual into their growing list of the detested and the dammed.

George jammed the wadding back into his shoe and replaced the offending article. He gave the lingering spectators on the bus a purposeful stare, and then he turned and ambled across the road. With a rumble and belch of diesel fumes, the bus pulled noisily away from the stop; it swayed precariously with the added load. The opaque windows now completely steamed over, effectively hid its cocooned occupants from his sight.

Not one of the dwindling columns of pedestrians on the far side met his bloodshot gaze as he stepped onto the chequered pavement, where the steady stream of people turned into a torrent. The warped and splintered hoarding, clad in multiple peeling layers of innuendo and emblazoned with 'slag' in red paint. Funnelled the flow of pedestrians, between its long tortured façade and the galvanised railings, where the raised footpath crossed the disused canal, into the less affluent district of the city. The attentive gaze of a few, was as determined as any stalking predator, their thousand-yard stares expertly weighed up the crowd. The social antagonists ignored the ascending tramp, instinctively they dismissed his lack of considered worth. Then barged and shoved their way through those less fortunate or able, looking to feed on the unwary.

Few noticed that George no longer accompanied the throng, too intent on avoiding attention; they hurried to get home without incident. Startled eyes squinted against the strobe effect of the passing traffic. A few dared to leave the safety of the crowd and venture towards the neon lure where a few establishments offered nourishment of dubious origin to the wasted and the weary.
Behind the tortured hoarding, night had arrived in orange and white streaked intermittence. Across the disused wasteground, a solitary windswept sign denoted a long overdue development; the paint flaked from the element's overlong onslaught, another forgotten architectural epitaph. The ground long ago claimed by vermin was punctuated with the skeletal remains of non-cost-effective transport, which succumbed to the encroaching brambles thorny embrace. A brief arc of blue flashed into the night sky, to an observer perhaps the portent of a far off storm or the reflection of a distant train.

The mongrel had struggled with its burden; the newspaper was tattered and ragged along the edges, the centre sodden, dripping with saliva. The dog slowed its pursuit, the chance of reward looking slimmer. Opening its mouth the dog dropped the newspaper into the hardened circular depression, where a wisp of smoke gently rose and turned back towards the lure of distant scents. The mongrel emerged from behind the hoarding and skittered across the road, before it settled into a well-practised limp towards the waiting neon glow: his friend would be back tomorrow.

"Any luck George?"
The acrid tang of ozone was extracted with a gentle whirr from the chamber. The metallic sphere popped and cooled as the unit settled into automatic cleaning cycle, shortly after the hunched figure emerged from its smooth interior.

"Won't know till they check the swabs, but nothing apparent, sorry." George removed the grimy trenchcoat and placed it into the tray offered by his white clad attendant. With the utmost care, the absorbent wads are extracted from the ruined shoes, placed into a flask of clear solution and sealed before transport. The sphere retreated to its niche in the floor of the domed room.
"First back?" George peered around the dimly lit dome.

One by one, his outer garments are carefully placed into individual transparent trays, and whisked away to the waiting technicians.

Eight identical spheres were arranged at equal intervals around the dome, each with white attendants poised to act. Several of them gave George a brief nod, no sign of enmity at being idle, no competitive streak between each team.

The attendant's reply is preceded by a brilliant flash from the azure spark, which arced to the next waiting sphere in line, quickly followed by another.

"Right on schedule, as always," replied Dimitri, smugly. In the centre of the dome, a large crystal focused the energies of the Timespark into the awaiting spheres. The brilliant spark arced from sphere to sphere, until each one revealed a shadowy embryonic occupant. George ignored the technician's inaccurate but good-humoured comment, content to watch his fellow travellers emerge.

It never ceased to amaze him the industrious lengths that his race would consider to delve into the secrets of the past. George would love to bring the hairy and attentive creature back with him, but it was strictly against the rules. Besides, the creature could not live outside the unnatural environment of the air filled dome. Gladly George removed the burden of his hostile environment suit, camouflaged to pass as a resident of the past. A pair of large black eyes accentuated his grey, small, yet lithe frame; his ears were little more than slits. The stub of a tail protruded from the base of his crenulated spine, the flower slits of gills blossomed from his thin neck.

Gratefully he dived into the invigorating energy bath that awaited him and his fellow travellers at the end of a hard days work. He glanced up as the shadow of a harvester passed over the dome; a flotilla of smaller vessels accompanied the large deepwater craft. As always, the inquisitive stares of hatchlings peered through the transparent dome.

Beyond the air filled dome, helixes of egg clusters were carefully guarded where they eddied in the nutrient rich current. Firmly attached to the encrusted skeletal remains of a pre deluge tower, a traditional spawning ground. A curtain of bubbles kept the less aware at bay, from the long deadly cable that snaked to the surface and harnessed the energy from the continual storms above. Maybe tomorrow he would find out why someone would drown their home, when they could only breathe air…