Out of Time

Gideon Sisk is

Out of Time

Ben Patterson / Author

Out of Time Copyright 2013 Ben Patterson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-0-463-75922-6

Seduction

Without thinking, one man vaults;

Ignoring his baggage of mortal faults;

A clash of egos, a menacing gun;

Some ground gained, though peace undone.

In the shadows, Desire plots to snare,

To fleece, then devour those unaware;

A Seductive kiss designed to beguile;

Its allure is a cage wearing a phony smile.

Into the fray, good men advance,

While Evil twists in its ugly dance.

Press forward, though your sword is blunt;

Give no quarter to Evil’s want.

Running swift to hazard’s hold,

Race the watchmen and champions bold;

In this war between doves and snakes,

Cunning and courage the winner makes.

The spoils of war to the right belong,

But who first heard the Siren’s song?

Seduction can only trap the weak.

Simple is cherished by the meek.

To all good things there comes an end.

Fight on! Come evil’s day, do not bend.

Time is stubborn, days are short.

New game, new rules, a contact sport.

From the book, Pursuers;

Poems by J. B. Tenstead

April 6, 2146

Without thinking, one man vaults;

Gideon Ian Sisk was the lone Irishman in an otherwise purely Portuguese neighborhood. Back when he first arrived in this era, he realized he’d stand out no matter what. So he chose a place where he could capitalize on that fact. Here, in New York’s Little Portugal, his choice made perfect sense. That he knew nothing about the culture, language, or customs, may have drawn stares, but it certainly wasn’t crazy. No one here knew where he grew up, or how. Few even cared.

He was tall, and handsome, and charming, and to the delight of the local gossips, his past was a complete mystery. The chinwags found new purpose for their otherwise dull lives by spreading rumors about him. He didn’t mind. Symbiotically, the biddies added to his mystique, and he gave them someone interesting to talk about beyond old man DaCosta, the local butcher, and his exceedingly young, fresh off the boat, wife.

On any given morning, the gossips would gather on his veranda, though none of lived in his building. They’d come to fish for juicy tidbits and fantasize about what he was actually up to. The North Star Apartments—his pay-by-the-week Bed and Board—just to catch a glimpse of the Irishman, and exchange niceties with him. Just then, Sisk’s Dodge Challenger pulled up to the curb. He and his buddy, Dashiell Beckett, climbed from the car and stepped up to the porch. Hi, Ladies, Sisk said, not at all surprised to find them there. He put on his best smile.

The ladies giggled and greeted him with enthusiasm, that is, except for Mrs. Lassiter, who always wore a pickled scowl.

Ian stopped before taking that last step. Why, Mrs. Lassiter, aren’t you looking lovelier than ever.

She scoffed and scowled all the more. Freias says he saw something strange about you two, she said with a soured vinegary voice.

Old crazy Freitas, was a local drunk few people gave any mind to.

Strange? Us?

The way he tells it, she continued, the air itself ripped open and two men, you Ian Sisk and you Dash Beckett, simply stepped through from another world.

That was good for a chuckle, but no one ever took the old man seriously.

Ian’s cheeks rose. Don’t laugh, ladies. That’s true. Dash and I are from the future. We’ve come back to steal something valuable and take it back with us.

With a slight nod, Dash stood in agreement.

And just what would that be? Lassiter hissed.

Dash leaned in to whisper, Why, we want your pierogi recipe, Mrs. Lassiter. The future is a wreck without it.

You can’t keep it hidden forever, Lassiter, Ian said gruffly, and the others giggled. Even old Lassiter was hard pressed to hold back a smile. And so Ian’s secret was safe as the two men went inside.

Before long, Ian and Dash were back out the door, racing off to parts unknown.

Lovely boy, one lady said.

You know Sisk, the poor child, grew up on the bad side of town, another added.

Mrs. Lassiter scoffed. "The fact is, wherever he goes, Ian Sisk is the bad side of town." And the old biddies laughed the more.

***

Presently the bad side of town was behind the Mid-city A & E with and his partner, Dash Beckett, were dragging an unconscious body from the trunk of Sisk’s Dodge Challenger. Together, they muscled their latest victim up onto a dumpster’s edge, and rolled him in. Beckett locked the lid.

Ian remembered old Mrs. Lassiter wagging her boney finger skyward as her words echoed in his ears. You all laugh now, but mark my words. Wherever drugs flow; or pay-by-the-hour touch beckons with a wink and a smile; or there is a want for killing, you’d find Ian Sisk or his partner had something to do with it. Nasty old rumor monger spreading lies. It set most on edge that neither man denied it. However, having a bad-boy persona—‍even one contrived by the local gossips‍—had its perks. For Ian and Dash, it opened all the right doors. And on occasion … if either man got lucky, it opened a few of the wrong ones as well. And that’s what they needed. It’d keep nosey Nellies out of their real business here.

Some said they were attracted to mischief and intrigue, conning folk to get what they wanted, muscling others to get their way. Unlike most people, these two thrived in dangerous situations. But even Sisk and Beckett knew their luck wouldn’t last. One or both would die young. That seemed the only certainty in Sisk uncertain life. So … for now, they’d have fun while it lasted.

That was just the way it was with Sisk and his partner; their lives forever teetering on the brink of catastrophe. If something didn’t kill them, some folk thought, it’d make razor-sharp their survival instincts. At present, Ian’s instincts were as honed as the blade hidden in his boot. But unlike most of the human refuse lucky enough to leave the drift, for reasons known only to him, Ian planted roots here. He had skills‍—‍a fast gun, a slow temper, and an uncanny ability to make friends easily and quickly‍—‍and for this Irishman in this Portuguese neighborhood, that worked out pretty well … so far. Beckett was along just for the ride.

Ignoring his baggage of mortal faults;

But as for the poor slob who, against his want or will, woke up in the trash, life took a terrifying turn. Amid his new roommates of boxes of spoiling lettuce, useless packaging, and bags of rotting meat … he found rats.

Actually, the rats found him, and the nasty, germ-ridden vermin were bold.

He stiffened as one climbed up his arm, petrified the rat would bite if he moved. But as it neared his face, he managed, somehow, the courage to bat it away. Grabbing whatever was handy, he swung at the rodent again and again, but it disappeared unscathed into the trash beneath him. He shuddered. Nasty!

A sliver of light peeked in from under the dumpster’s closed lid. He gave it a push, but it refused to open. He tried again, but, no matter the force he plied to it, it wouldn’t budge.

Hey! He banged on the lid. Someone out there? Help! Get me outta here!

Chillax, Bobby. We’re right here.

Who’s there?

It’s Ian and Dash, Bobby.

Ian? Damn! Bobby thought. He’d rather have the rat. He swallowed before speaking. Buddy, pal, friend … Dash … what’s going on? How’d I get in here?

You’re in there because in this day and age, that’s where folks put trash.

We couldn’t very well dump you in the street, Dash added. The city has ordinances.

What? No, guys. Come on, stop funnin’.

Bobby?

Yeah?

You have something we want. And you won’t see the sun until you’ve coughed it up.

Something you want, Ian? Do I? There was a moment of silence as Bobby rifled through his pockets. Despite his mind still in a fog from boozing the night before, he tried to recall what, if anything, he’d taken. I got nothing on me, Ian, old pal. What is it you want?

Information.

Information? He sighed and sat back. The