Chapter 1

“Wake up, wanker.” That, and an elbow in the side were my rude awakening. More rude than normal, that is.

I sat up, my neck stiff and sore, and looked around. I was in the cabin of an aircraft, but not a new one. This one looked old and dated. Clean, but not current style by any means.

I had been sleeping with my head against the porthole window and I could see lights beneath us, but I didn’t have the first clue where we were. In fact, when I went to sleep, I was ... wait.

HOLY SHIT!

I looked around in a panic, seeing faces that I shouldn’t be seeing, people that were dead and gone! The teen sitting next to me was sneering at me and I turned my head to the window, hiding my confusion and my fright, but what I saw there made it even worse and I guess I fainted out.

“Wake up!” the stinging pain on my cheek made my eyes fly open and, standing over me with an annoyed expression on his face, was my step-father. Only, it wasn’t him, not really. It was a thin, full head of hair that wasn’t gray, unlined face version of him.

“Hit him again!” The teen next to me, my dead older brother Martin, was urging my step-father to slap me across the face again.

“I am awake.” I croaked, rubbing my cheek.

My sister Jane, about thirty plus years too young and 200lbs too light, was sitting on the other side of the walkway, looking at the excitement while my mother Mary, also way too young, and also inexplicably alive, was sitting next to her with my youngest half-brother Jacob sitting next to the window on that side.

The face I had seen reflected in the window had been my own, about 35 years ago. I wracked my brain, trying to make sense of what I was seeing and I remembered where I had been before I fell asleep.

Except I hadn’t. Fallen asleep, I mean, I had passed out. I had been riding my motorcycle down Bird Road in Miami, Florida. I was out for a spin, heading down to La Careta for a cup of Cuban coffee, something I did at least once a week. There had been a horn, the screeching of tires and something that felt like the fist of an angry god had swatted me from the seat of my motorcycle. I remember seeing a phone pole in my flight path, then it was dark until I woke up, wiping blood from my eyes.

My left hand still moved, but my right wouldn’t answer my call. I couldn’t feel anything below my chest and everything above my chest hurt like a sonofabitch. I remember some old Cuban man leaning over me, shaking his head. His eyes were strangely bright and he had a sad smile on his face.

“Demasiado pronto, hijo, intentarlo de nuevo?” he asked. Then the world went dark.

Here I was ... flying somewhere, the whole family except for my step-father’s two kids with us. I was about thirteen or fourteen ... we were on our way back from England! That had to be it!

My father was in the Air Force and we had been stationed at an Air base in the UK. We were supposed to be there at least four years, but my sister, who was a huge slut, had managed to trip some Royal Air Force Squadron Leader, who was married with kids, and beat him to the ground. They had sent my step-father, and his trouble-making family, back to the states. No clue what, if anything, the British officer got out of it other than some 16-year-old American pussy.

I looked around at my family again, suddenly depressed. I fucking hated these people. My brother, a year and ten months older than me, was a sadistic fuck who got off on torturing small animals and any person smaller than him that he could get his hands on. My sister, two years and nine months older, had been a huge slut who would sleep with anyone that could get her booze or drugs.

She once blamed it all on my step-father, saying he sexually abused her, and I can’t say if it was true or not, but she was seriously messed up. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past him, but he was a pretty fucked up individual with major anger issues so it wasn’t like I didn’t have my own problems with the man. Still, she was a back-stabbing, vicious, conniving cunt in her own right, even without the slut part.

My mother, who once tried to smother me in my crib but was stopped by a neighbor; who let me believe for most of my life that her drunken, wife-beating ex-husband had been my father, instead of the construction worker she fucked at a party.

My step-father was a huge proponent of corporal punishment and contributed at least an inch worth of injury reports in my dependent medical file, all conveniently labeled as accidents. Last, and probably least, was my half-brother who, as the baby of the family and the ‘love child’ of this marriage, could do no wrong. My step-father’s kids were treated the same way though, so I wasn’t surprised. His kids were angels, her kids were monsters, see how that works?

Now I was back, somehow. I was going to have to live this all over again? I had a sudden urge to dive for the emergency exit and pop the door. No chute like all the other times I jumped from aircraft, but hell, it would only hurt for a second, right?

I sat back and took a deep breath. And another. I wanted to close my eyes, shut this nightmare out, but I didn’t want to get smacked again. Evidently, we were on final approach to JFK. I assume we would catch a connecting flight to Texas, our destination the first time around.

Getting through customs was a separate nightmare, just adding to the hellish situation I found myself in. We were shuffled through eventually and our parents made us all sit down on the concourse while good old dad went to get some cheap burgers to pass out from the McD’s there.

Then they pushed us towards the bathroom, dad taking Jacob’s hand. Martin took a second to push me, face first, into the wall before following and leaving me to trail the bunch, rubbing my sore nose. That kind of casual violence came as easy as breathing to the fucker, though he specialized in more painful punishments when adults were not around.

The first time around I avoided him at all costs, made sure to never be alone with him if I could avoid it and never, never, egged him on. I carried physical scars my entire life that were the results of his tormenting me. Only, this time? This time I was fucking pissed. I had lived fifty-four years before I woke up to this horror, and in those years, I had done a lot of things.

One thing I had never done, once I was big enough to fight back, was to knuckle under to another bully. I was god-damned if I was going to go through two more years of torment until he enlisted.

I was steaming, but I was scheming too. Inside the restroom there were two of those yellow signs that warned the floor was wet, and under a sink near the end of the row was a bucket on wheels, catching water that dripped from a leak.

I made my way down the row of sinks until I was next to the bucket and rested my hand on the folding plastic sign.,

“Hey Martin, you sorry cock-sucker! You want to try that again?” I called out, my hands shaking with adrenaline. He turned, his eyes wide for a moment, then his acne-pocked face turned bright red, his eyes narrowing and his lips pulling back in a snarl. He ran right for me, his fists clenched and didn’t even see the bucket I kicked in his path until it was too late.

He went asshole over elbows, smacking his jaw on one of the sinks with a loud crack as the bucket hit his shins, tipping over and spilling dirty water all over the floor. I heard dear old dad yell something from the stall where he had taken Jacob, but I wasn’t listening.

I grabbed the folding yellow sign and let the two legs collapse, raising it above my head and when Martin looked up, blood streaming from his mouth, I hit him as hard as I could, swinging for the bleachers.

The hard edge of the doubled sign hit him square on the cheekbone, snapping his head around and dropping him to the floor again, out like a light.

I dropped the sign and stood there, staring down at him. The toilet stall door slammed open and dad stormed out, Jacob standing there behind him with his drawers around his ankles, still trying to pee in the toilet.

Dad stared down at Martin, his eyes wide, then looked at me. “What the hell is going on?”

“He slipped on the wet floor.” I said calmly.

He narrowed his eyes, his fists bunching, but didn’t swing like I expected. He knelt down instead, checking to see if Martin was breathing.

“Go and get your mother, now!” he yelled at me.

I circled wide around him and beat feet for the exit, almost running into my mother as she exited the women’s bathroom.

“Martin fell and hurt himself, dad sent me to get you.” I blurted.

She looked annoyed more than anything and pushed me out of the way to go into the men’s room. I heard a short scream, but I was already walking over to our carry-ons were waiting, Jane with them.

“What happened?” she asked, looking excited.

“Martin fell down, I think he lost a tooth or something.” I said, making myself sound bored.

Jane hopped up, scurrying over to stand in the doorway to the men’s room, peeking around the corner.

My mother ran out, waving her arms, and almost tackled the first airport employee she found.

“My baby! My baby fell on the wet floor, he’s bleeding! Call an ambulance!” she said, screaming and crying.

I just rolled my eyes. This should be good for some drama. Most days, she couldn’t give two shits but if it was good for some drama, she was right in the middle of it all.

We ended up missing our connecting flight, taking a cab to the hospital following the ambulance. We spent four and half hours in the ER waiting room before he was put in a room. They were concerned about a concussion and he had a broken cheek bone, a broken jaw and three missing teeth.

I watched with amusement as two lawyers trailed my folks until the hospital finally corralled them and kicked them out. One was a lawyer for the airport, I guess, since he was trying to get them to sign paperwork saying that they would take care of medical expenses and a replacement flight, but only if they agreed not to sue. The other was an ambulance chaser, telling my parents not to sign the other guy’s paper, but to sign with him and he would make them all pay.

We had landed at four in the morning at JFK, and it was almost three in the afternoon before Jane, Jacob and I were herded into the hospital room. Mom fussed with Martin’s pillow and blankets, dad sat down, Jacob in his lap and fell asleep in the only chair in the room. Jane and I were supposed to be sitting on the floor, not touching anything.

When Mom left to get something or other, I walked over to the bed. Martin was awake, mostly, and he looked scared and I stuck my face close to his.

“You slipped on the wet floor. One word about anything else and I will cut your balls off while you sleep. Just blink twice if you understand. If you tell anyone about this, I will cut your balls off and then really hurt you.”

He blinked twice, real fear in his eyes and tears leaking down his cheeks. I stared for a moment longer, wondering why I didn’t feel sick to my stomach. I had never deliberately tortured someone, but I felt no guilt about this. He had tormented me for fourteen years at this point, then for another two until he enlisted. When he managed to get himself killed at nineteen, in a vehicle crash caused by the drugs he was taking, he became a saint in my mother’s eyes. In his own way, he continued to torment me until I enlisted too, just to escape my family.

I wandered back over to the corner, slid down to the floor and curled up, my head on my arm and closed my eyes. I thought for sure I would never be able to sleep, but I must have.

I woke again, my dad kicking me in the shins.

“Get up.” he growled.

We were taken by a cab to a motel near the hospital. We spent Christmas eve watching television while my parents argued. We stayed there four long and painful days before Martin could be safely discharged. He was not allowed to fly though, his jaw was wired shut and he was eating through a straw, but my step-dad’s brother drove up from Stamford, Connecticut. Uncle Bill was taking him back to stay with him for another couple of weeks until the doctor cleared him to fly, then would put him on a plane.

We, on the other hand, were flying to Texas so my dad could check in off of travel leave and into his new unit. So, it was back to JFK again for us.

We spent three days in transient housing on Lackland Air Force Base before we were assigned to enlisted dependent housing. We got a four-bedroom place in a building that held five, two-story apartments. The entire neighborhood was all the same, a couple hundred of these buildings, all with four or five apartments, and all right on the edge of Kelly AFB.

Our furniture and belongings arrived the day after we moved in, having been shipped by the Air Force aboard a big transport jet as part of our transfer back to the US.

My room wasn’t big, but it had a door I could close and some privacy, something I had missed dearly in the tiny house we had in England. There I had lived in an alcove off the upstairs hallway and had a curtain for a door.

Now that I had some time alone, some time to actually think, I began to shake off the funk I had been in and examine my situation.

I was thirteen, just three months shy of fourteen. I was in the eighth grade and I was shocked at how little I actually remembered about that year. About a lot of years back then. The one thing I had in my favor, was that we were newly arrived in Texas. There were no friends I had to know, no schedules I had forgotten and no classes I had to remember. I was already an outcast in my own family, and the last week of silence on my part had gone mostly unnoticed.

But what the fuck was I going to do now? Would Martin come back, convinced he had to get revenge? Was school going to be ... shit, it was going to be torture. I had hated school the first time around, and now I was a fifty-fucking-four-year-old man in the body of a pimply-faced teen. I had some serious issues. Mentally and emotionally, I was not ready for this.

I don’t think I had ever felt this low, not that I could remember. No internet, no flat-screen televisions, no tablet computers, no PC games ... hell, no PCs! I had made a living, for the last twenty years, as a geek. The last ten, as a SQL developer. SQL didn’t fucking exist now!

Okay, deep breath. What did I remember? I dug through the boxes of my stuff, most of it ringing absolutely no bells at all, and found a notebook with just a few pages full of notes from my school in the UK. I tore out the used sheets, setting them aside to read over later, and started making a list.

It was December 30th, 1980. The latest Tandy TRS-80, the Model III, I think, was going to come out next year, and pretty affordable. IBM puts out its first PC running Microsoft MS DOS in 1981. Basic sucked major ass though, and I didn’t know any real programming languages. The Iran hostages get released, Reagan is president. Poland would have massive strikes and the Air Traffic Controllers would test Reagan with their own strike.

Great. Nothing that can help me, at least in the short term. There was always sports though. That thought cheered me greatly. I had been a sports stats junkie for a large part of my life. I used to win bar bets on stats, when some loudmouth thought he knew his team and everyone else was full of shit, I would walk away with a hundred bucks and leave behind a pissed off, but humbled braggart.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. I had a fresh start, right? I could do things differently; I had proved that already by taking on Martin. Maybe I could get my step-dad to stop using me as a punching bag. Maybe, this time, I could convince them to listen to the teachers who wanted me to skip grades. The first two attempts were already old news, refused years ago, but the next attempt came my freshman year before I gave up on school totally.

If I could stick it out, get good grades, maybe a scholarship instead of having to enlist to escape? Nah, better to avoid the military all together. I hadn’t been a great sailor, or soldier when I switched services. I had loved deployments and actually going into combat but hated garrison duty with a passion.

This time I could stick with computers, actually do something with what I learned. Ride that massive technology wave that was about to hit this country.

For the first time since I woke up on the plane, I was feeling a bit hopeful.

“Wayne, get down here! And you better be dressed and ready.” Mom yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

We were going to register for school today. Yay!

Brentwood Middle School was a bit run down. It had three two-story buildings, one holding the majority of the classrooms, one for overflow and the third was a combination gymnasium and cafeteria along with special purpose rooms.

The office was on the first floor through the main doors and that is where my mom took me to register.

School was in session, this being a Monday, and we arrived during class changes, so the halls were full of students laughing and talking, banging lockers and generally being kids.

I kept my eyes open and, for the first time, I actually smiled at the thought of being fourteen again. There were some cute girls here and it wasn’t being a dirty old man if I was fourteen too!

Registration didn’t take long. Military families learn to travel with everything they need to start over again, and school transcripts were in a flex file my mother was carrying. We sat down with a counselor, Mr. Evers, and ran into a snag. I had attended a Brit school and the way they run schools wasn’t the same as we ran schools in the states.

“Mrs. Moore, I am afraid we are going to have to have your son take some tests to determine where to place him. We don’t have any way of determining equivalency with the British school system.”

“Just put him in a class. He’s smart, he’ll figure it out.” Mom told the counselor, sounding huffy. “I don’t have time to wait for this, I have three other children to register at two other schools this morning.”

“No to worry, Ma’am. Leave young Wayne here with us and by the end of the day, we will have it all straightened out.” Mr. Evers told her with a strained smile.

Mom grimaced, looking over at me, then spat out, “Fine. What time does school let out?”

Mr. Evers, once my mother was out the door, smiled at me and shrugged. “Moving can be tough, and we have a lot of military families so we understand how it is. We had two students transfer in from Japan a couple of months ago, but they went to school on the American base there, so it was easier. Anyway, we need to figure out where you are in your education so we know which classes are best for you.”

“She’s ... not the most supportive and nurturing of parents, but she is leagues ahead of my step-father. As for testing, assuming I do well, could the results be used to let me move ahead? There were a couple of opportunities in the past that my parents shot down, but I am not quite willing to give up yet.” I replied, watching his face. This could very well be a stepping stone for me, if I did well.

Mr. Evers looked surprised, then thoughtful. “I suppose an argument could be made, if the results warrant it. Why don’t we wait and see how it goes, then we can discuss it further?”

I could have wished for more enthusiasm but didn’t really expect it. He didn’t know me and I am sure that he had a healthy dose of skepticism about the claims of a teen. I would just have to blow him away with the testing and hope for the best.

The first phase of testing lasted until lunch, when I was escorted to the cafeteria. I had a peanut butter sandwich and an apple in my book bag, so I sat back in a corner table and watched the other students.

There were the usual groupings of the various cliques. Some were easily identifiable and some were not. The jocks, for instance, all sat together and the popular, pretty kids had their own tables. There was a group who were all dressed in what we used to call grunge, camo pants or ripped jeans, boots and concert t-shirts. I am sure they were the druggies, or ‘heads’.

Other groups seemed to be an eclectic mix that were not as easily pigeonholed. Drama maybe, or some other school club. There were a few loners, or pairs and trios scattered around, but nothing really leapt out at me.

I have to admit that a lot of my attention was on the female students. So many young bodies just coming into young adulthood ... I felt like a total pervert, but I was enjoying the view. I was a dirty old man in a young body!

After lunch, testing resumed and I finished up about half past one. Mr. Evers took me down to the library and asked me to stay there until they sent for me.

The library was not huge, but it still contained my favorite scent in the universe, books! My whole life I had been a bibliophile, and an avid reader. I would, over the totality of my life, read thousands and thousands of books. I tended to go through two or three a week and had since I was old enough to read a book on my own.

I wandered through the stacks for a bit before I found a section containing science fiction and chose an old favorite. Podkayne of Mars by Robert Heinlein kept me company until about three when Mr. Evers returned for me.

Once we were settled in his office, along with the Principal, Mrs. Halligan and the Vice-Principle for male students, Mr. Williams; Mr. Evers waved a manila folder at me.

“Well, Wayne. I won’t say you didn’t prepare me for this. There is nothing in your transcript from the school in the UK that prepared me for your test results though, can you tell me why that is?” he asked, tapping the folder on the desk. The other two adults watched but didn’t speak.

“I am sure it is a combination of factors, Mr. Evers. Primarily, the British schools’ advance students on merit, not on an arbitrary grouping of like-aged students. Still, you couldn’t simply test and opt out of school, so there was no incentive to excel beyond that of relieving boredom and moving on to a more interesting subject. My parents would never have funded secondary schooling and the chances of a scholarship for an American military dependent to attend a British university were poor at best.” I said, shaking my head as if in deep regret.

He squinted at me and copied my head shake. “If I hadn’t scored your tests myself, I would say you were trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Still, you did unbelievably well on your tests. If it were up to me, I would move you over to the high school next door and let you test against them as well.”

“Wayne, Mr. Evers said that you told him about other opportunities to advance in grades? Can you tell us more about that?” Mrs. Halligan asked, leaning forward a bit.

“I had a teacher at the elementary school on Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico. I was bored in class and she told me to work ahead in our workbooks. I finished the years’ worth of work in a couple of weeks, so she had me sitting in the back of the class reading while she tried to convince the school and my parents to allow me to skip ahead to the next grade. From what I recall, my parents refused to allow it claiming they feared for my social growth but I am not convinced that was the real reason.”

“Oh? And what do you think was the reason?” Mr. Williams chipped in, his tone sarcastic. I didn’t miss the glare that Mrs. Halligan shot him, but I answered anyway.

“I have an extremely combative relationship with my older brother. If I had been allowed to skip ahead, to be placed in the same grade and possibly even classes with him, he would have been extremely unhappy. He would not take well to having to ‘compete’ with a younger brother.” I told the Vice-Principle honestly.

“And this has changed now? He wouldn’t be upset?” The Vice-Principal asked, his tone less sarcastic.

I thought for a moment, wondering if I dared. With a mental shrug, I told them the truth.

“I am only fourteen and my opinion carries no weight, I know, but I will tell you what I think. My brother is scholastically average at best, but socially retarded. He is a classic bully but I think I have managed to curb his desire to attack me directly. Time will tell, but I am no longer willing to walk on egg shells around him if it means sacrificing a quality education to satisfy his need to be the alpha sibling.” I told them.

There was silence for a couple of minutes while the adults exchanged looks, so I stepped in with a question of my own.

“What can you tell me about my scores?” I asked, flicking a forefinger towards the manila folder Mr. Evers still held.

“Well, not much, really. We generally don’t give the results of test like this to the students, it is against policy.” Mr. Evers said, looking uncomfortable.

“You did very well, Wayne. In fact, well enough that I am inclined to support you and Mr. Evers in this. I will meet with my counterpart at the high school and see what they think. There are precedents in place for advancing students, but none that are quite like this.”

“And while you explore the avenues available to you, do you have any ideas about bracing my parents with this issue?”

Mrs. Halligan smiled warmly. “I do. I am not just another pretty face, Wayne.” she said with a grin. “I am also the wife of retired General Wallace Halligan, previous base deputy commander for Lackland Air Force Base before he retired. While I don’t have any authority over the Air Force, I spent more than thirty years as a spouse and know how things work. I think, with the proper incentives, we could convince your father to agree. The question remains whether the move would be good for you or not.”

“And until a decision is reached? What do you have planned for me in the interim?” I asked, actually beginning to think that this might work.

“Oh, I think we can keep you out of trouble until then. If worse comes to worst, there are only four months left in the school year and changes of this type would be much easier when you are already starting high school anyway. For now, report to me in the morning for first period.” she said with a grin. “You can go wait out front for your parents to pick you up. I don’t think I need to tell you this, but I suggest you keep this under your hat until we know if it is even possible.”

“Yes Ma’am, mum’s the word. Thank you, Principal Halligan, Vice-Principal Williams and you too, Mr. Evers. I am feeling hopeful about this.”

Mom arrived about a half hour after school let out, having stopped to pick up Jacob at the elementary school, and Jane at the high school next door first.

There were no questions and we drove straight back to the apartment.

Up in my room, I let myself hope that I could get this worked out, but I had other things I needed to work on too. I had been in fair shape when I quit school and joined the military, excellent shape when I finished all my schooling and was assigned to a fleet unit. Then when I switched to the Army, I became seriously addicted to working out, just to keep up with the other guys in my unit.

After I had retired and found myself behind a desk, I let myself go. It wasn’t anything sudden, but I had no motivation to continue working out and running. I smoked too much, drank too much, exercised not at all, and at the time of my motorcycle accident, I was a good seventy-five pounds overweight. I weighed in at about 285lbs compared to the 210 I weighed when I got out of the military in the best shape of my life.

This time, I was determined to get in shape and stay in shape. I didn’t want to be that fat old guy I had become when I wrecked. My first step was to start doing some sit-ups, pushups and pull-ups (these I could do at the playground out back) and I wanted to start running. Swimming would be great, but there was no pool around that I could recall.

Changing into some shorts and a t-shirt, I got down on my bedroom floor and managed to complete a whopping eleven pushups. Eleven. Okay, okay, I can deal with this. I just have to be realistic.

I flipped over and did better on sit-ups, doing twenty-three before I couldn’t raise my body again. I took a moment to write down the date and the numbers, then headed downstairs and out the back door to the small playground out behind the apartments. On the monkey bars, I did a whopping two pull-ups and dropped to the ground, disgusted and discouraged, but not letting myself give up.

I stretched out and began to jog. I counted steps in groups of ten, heading around the three-building apartment structure. One lap was five hundred and forty-two steps. I jogged for three laps, then walked two more before going back to our apartment, exhausted and sweaty.

From my book bag, I took a ruler, and I went back out. I jogged a few steps, using cracks in the pavement, rocks, tufts of grass to mentally mark my footfalls and measured my jogging step at twenty-eight inches.

A mile is 63,360 inches, and one lap around the apartments had been 542 steps, or 542x28. A quarter of a mile would be 565.7 steps so four laps around the apartment complex was a little less than a mile. That gave me a decent rule of thumb to work with.