Writer's Wednesday || Chris Mess - A Short Story

So, how do y'all feel about celebrating Christmas really, really early? Or really late? 

The story I posted below I started writing the week before Christmas. I meant to finish it by Christmas Eve and post it on Christmas, but other stuff got in the way. You know how that is, right?

Anyways, I never actually finished it until a few weeks ago. It was meant to be a short story, but ended up being around 7,000 words. So...sorry if it seems a little long. What can I say? I like details. 

I hope y'all like it. I wrote it with absolutely no idea where it was going or what was going to happen next. Actually, it was a lot of fun. 

Chris Mess

It’s a scary thought, to think that if I had gone to bed even just a second sooner than I did Christmas Eve, I wouldn’t be telling this story. See, I’m a heavy sleeper, and if I had fallen asleep at 11:00:59 instead of laying down at 11:02, I never would have heard the sound of feet on the roof, or the quiet yelp as someone tumbled down the chimney.

But, since I went to bed just a few seconds later than I had planned to, I did hear it all.

My name is Whitney Ratt (...an unfortunate last name, I know).

At the time this story starts, I was staying with my Uncle Fellig and four obnoxious cousins, all of which I held little love for and they held little back for me. Like the good caring and sharing family they were, they’d gone to bed early, and let me clean up dinner and take care of wrapping all of the gifts and arranging them under the tree for Christmas.

I had just finished stacking the last present beside the tree (which was the size of a baby elephant, and I wouldn't have been surprised if it was. Fellig spoiled his kids) and flopped down on the couch, my designated bed whenever I came to stay, when the noises started.

There was a thump on the roof.

My eyes flew open. I listened, breathless. All the possibilities ran through my head.

By the time I had come up with four different plans of action if it was a burglar (one of which involved toilet paper and a screwdriver), there came a sound of grunting down the chimney.

He’s not seriously re… I thought, but never finished, for just then, there was a weak yelp, and the sound of a body plummeting down the chimney.

A soot-covered figure dropped into the fireplace with a poof not five feet away from where I lay on the couch. I grabbed my Uncle’s favorite flower vase from the coffee table and the turkey baster he used to administer water to his hydrangeas, and slowly approached the fireplace. The figure, having fell on his head, was trying to maneuver around to get his feet below him. I watched blankly for a moment as he righted himself, squirmed out of the tiny firepit, and rolled onto the white living room carpet. A trail of black soot stained the floor behind him.

“Who are you?” I demanded severely, raising the glass vase high.

Now that the figure was out of the fireplace, I got a better look at him. He was tall and lanky, and seemed to be dressed in what used to be a red velvet suit. There was no way he could have been older than twenty-five.

“I said,” I repeated, “Tell me who you are!”

The young man coughed the ashes from his lungs. I believe he was about to say something, when I took advantage of his distraction to wonk him over the head with Uncle Fellig’s priceless vase. It didn’t shatter.

“OY!” the young man yelled, “What was that for?” With everything else going on, I wasn’t surprised to find he was british.

“Get out of here!” I yelled back, “Get out of here, you thief!”

Thankfully, my uncle and cousins were even heavier sleepers than me. They could sleep through a hurricane.

“Thief?” cried the young man, “What are you talking about? I’m Sant-i-Claus.”

“Oh, sure,” I retorted, “And I’m The Fairy God-Mother.”

“Ah,” the man smiled, and stuck out his hand to shake, “Nice to meet you.”

I stared at him, completely at a loss of what to say.

“What? It’s the Twenty-First Century, right? People have started shaking hands now, haven’t they?”

I kept staring. All I managed was, “Santa Claus isn’t real.”

“...Seriously?” asked the skinny man, “But I thought… The data-base was certain you all held him in the highest respect. He was a primary figure in your Christmas celebrations.”

“Data-base? Twenty-First Century?” I snarled, cranky now. My evening had been a Cinderella nightmare, and now it was past eleven o’clock and I was tired. I wanted to curl up and forget about my stupid cousins and lazy uncle and especially about this coo-coo-burglar. “What’s your deal? Did you escape from the mental-ward?”

“Um…”

“Look, either you get out of here in ten seconds or I’ll crack you over the head again and call the police. Now--GET!”

The young man scrambled past me like a startled deer. I shooed him through the house to the front door, and literally booted him outside.

“And don’t come back!” I shrilled.

I closed the door then watched him walk away through the snow from behind the window curtains. The snowfall was working it’s way up to a rough storm. I could only see the snow falling below the yellow street lamps, like flies swarming to the light, but just from that I could tell it wouldn’t be long before the roads were blocked.

The skinny man disappeared quietly into the darkness of the neighborhood street.

I was still holding the turkey baster. Wearily, I stuffed it in my pajamas pocket and threaded through the house, once more collapsing on the couch.

No more than fifteen seconds later, I heard a slight grunt. Blearily, I opened my eyes.

And screamed.

A man the size of a large buffalo towered on me, dark cape swooshing in the non-existent wind. A halo of green light surrounded him, like a heavenly aura from teletubby paradise.   

The man’s face split into a chilling smile, “‘Ello, deary. You wouldn’t have happened to see a little wisp of a man come through here?”

I did what every girl had been taught to do if confronted by a stranger. I kicked him in the leg and ran.

Within seconds I was out the front door and galloping through the snow. My lungs burned from the frigid air. I stumbled to Uncle Fellig’s camaro in the driveway, climbed inside and locked the doors. My heart pumped at the speed of train engine.

The giant man in the cape had followed me, taking his time. I must have kicked him pretty good. He was limping, if only slightly, when he emerged from the front door of the house and stomped down the porch steps. His dark eyes followed my footprints in the deep snow, all the way to the car.

His lips spread in a sinister smile again. He took a step towards me.

Suddenly, a streaming jet of red and green light like a million stars slammed into the enormous man, throwing him against the side of the house. Smoke billowed into clouds. Crimson starlight flew. Then dissolved. When everything cleared, I saw him slumped over, unmoving.

Out of the stream of steam left by the red and green light stepped the skinny man who fell down the chimney. In his hands he held a thin barreled gun, the tip fumigating. He was still covered in soot, but he had managed to wipe it off his face. He wasn’t half-bad looking.

With shaking hands I opened the car door and stepped out, glaring at the chimney-man.

“Are you mad?” I cried.

He looked at me, aghast, “What’s the matter now?”

“You probably just woke the whole neighborhood with your blow-torch gizmo! I have enough to worry about without my Uncle booting me out for giving him a bad name in the community!”

The skinny man threw his arms in the air, “I just saved your life and you’re angry at me for waking the neighbors?!” He took deep breaths to calm himself and pocketed his weapon. “Look, more blokes like that one are on the way, and they’ll know I’m armed now, which means I won’t have much advantage over them next time they attack us.”

“Us?” I asked, “Why us in the first place? You’re the one they want. Why do I have to be involved? Who are you anyway? What’s going on here in the first place?”

The young man ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flickering around the snow-covered neighborhood, searching. For what, I don’t know, but I could see the desperation written on his face.

“Look,” I said finally, trying to be reasonable, despite the fact that I was standing in my socks in a snowstorm, at eleven at night, beside a dead body. “Is there something I can do to get you out of my hair?”

This made the lanky man raise his eyebrows high, “Is there a Riesbeck's nearby?”

And that made me raise my eyebrows, “What’s Riesbeck's got to do with this?”

“I’m looking for someone who works there--so long as this is Braidwood County?”

“Oh this is Braidwood county,” I informed him, “But you’re not going to find anyone at Riesbeck’s at this hour. For Pete’s sake, it’s less than an hour till midnight.”

“Really?” asked the young man, scrunching up his face and looking at the sky, like he hadn’t noticed it was night time till just now.

“Really,” I rolled my eyes.

“Can you give me a ride there anyways? Then I promise I’ll get out of your hair or whatever it was you said. Blimey, you guys have some weird expressions.”

“What? Like the Brits don’t?”

“No--I didn’t mean.. not us. I mean everyone. In this time period.”

“Time period? Are you kidding me? You from the future or something, Chimney-Boy?”

“Yes.”

He kept such a straight, serious face, I didn’t bother to argue. Instead, I waved him to the car, “Whatever. Get in the car. I just have to get the keys.”

When I swung into the car, the young man was already seated on the passenger side and grinning from ear to ear, gazing around like a cow who had just learned to use an iPhone.

“I can’t believe it!” he breathed, “I’m actually in this. I’m actually in a car.”

“What else did you want? A horse and buggy?” I mumbled.

“They still have those?” cried the man, even more excited.

I shoved the keys into the ignition and the camaro purred to life. I turned to the young man. “Okay, buddy. You should probably tell me your name now.”

“Chris Scyter, pleased to meet you,” he said.

“Oh-ho, there! I caught you. You aren’t Santa-Claus,” I pulled out of the driveway and into the road, heading west toward the shopping-complex.

“I was under the impression he was a greatly respected man in this time,” said Chris.

I rolled my eyes again, “He’s a historical character turned into a figurehead for Christmas brands by a bunch of greedy men in suits. Where have you been? Under a rock?”

“As I answered you before, I’m from the future. Apparently, some cultural documents on this era were distorted, and I was mis-informed about Sant-i-Claus. I thought if people believed I was him, it would give me certain political and legal advantages, perhaps get me some help.”

“Oh, you need some help, bud,” I said sarcastically. “Time traveler comes back in time, and decides to assume the identity of Jolly Old Saint Nicholas because he thinks it’ll get him an audience with the President… Just one question: What exactly is this all for?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Chris said quietly.

“No, I probably wouldn’t, which is why I wanna know.”

“I have a mission,” he said, his voice blunt now. “An extremely important one. One that with my victory or failure will decide the fate of Earth in my time. That man who followed me to your house, he was trying to stop me from completing my mission.”

“Mm-hm… And this mission would be…?”

Chris took a deep breath. He had such bright blue eyes.

“I have to bring the King of the W.U. back. He was put into hiding during World War V, and now we need him to come back and end it.”

I laughed, “Hang on, is this the guy who works at Riesbeck’s you’re trying to find?”

Chris nodded.

“Okiedokie, then.”

“You mean I’ve convinced you?” asked Chris, sounding thrilled.

“Yeah,” I said, “You’ve totally convinced me--that you’re a complete nutcase. But whatever, we’re here.”

I pulled into the empty parking lot, one long field of snow, unbroken but by our car as I parked near the entrance to the store.

“Alright, my end of the deal is done,” I flicked a finger at skinny Chris, “I got you here.”

Chris dipped his head, “Thank you…?” He blinked at me, “I’m afraid I never caught your name.”

“Whitney,” I replied, “Just Whitney.”

“Thank you, Whitney,” smiled Chris. There was still a little soot stuck in the crinkle of his cheeks. He opened his door and lightly hopped out.

Sleep, I thought.

Then, Oh no, he is not!

I was just about to drive away, when I looked up and saw Chris picking at the lock on the Riesbeck’s Employee’s Entrance door. I rolled down my window and whispered loudly, “What the heck are you doing?”

Chris didn’t look back at me. “I need to find a list of employees.” The lock clicked and the door swung open. Chris disappeared inside.

I humphed and crossed my arms, glancing between my dashboard and the open Riesbeck’s door. It was like the skinny man had left it open just to taunt me, tempt me.

The urge was too strong. The intrigue too great. Grumbling against my own stupidity for following, I turned the car off, locked it, and slipped inside the shadows just beyond the Riesbeck doorway.

I shut the door, quiet as I could, certain one or both of us would trip some sort of alarm. I felt around and finally found the light switch. I clicked it on.

The room was some sort of storage facility. Chris was on the other side, plucking a clipboard off the wall.

“You can’t just break into a store,” I whispered loudly again, just to be on the safe side.

“It’s not like I’m stealing anything,” Chris called back, not taking his eyes off the clipboard. “I just need the King’s alias.”

I stomped over to him, “How are you even supposed to know which name is his? And why don’t you just have his name in the first place? If he’s such an important king, I would think you would keep track of him.”

“World War V made us many enemies inside our countries and out. We couldn’t risk anyone knowing who the king was when we hid him here in the past. So the only thing I have to go on is that he works at Riesbecks,” Chris flipped to the next page on the clipboard, reading down the list of scribbled names. He tapped one triumphantly.

“This is him. This is the King,” he grinned. “He was hired here the day after we sent him to the past. This name must be his. Edward Reacher.”

I studied Chris’s big blue eyes. “Either you’re the best method actor I’ve ever met--well, actually, you would be the only method actor I’ve ever met-- or you sincerely believe all this.”

Chris replaced the clipboard in its holder on the wall, “I do. Because it’s true.”

“Alright then,” I crossed my arms, “Tell me something only someone from the future would know.”

“I--” he began, but never finished, “GET DOWN!”

We barely ducked in time to miss a streaking blue and black jet of sparks. Rather than take off our heads, it billowed into the walls behind us, crashing straight through and into the store proper.

That got the alarms ringing.

But our escape route was blocked. In the doorway we had entered stood another one of the giant men, identical to the one who had been in my living room. In fact, I would have thought they were the same person if I hadn’t watched Chris kill the first.

“Get, get get!” yelled Chris, shoving me through the gap in the wall left by the missile. It was just large enough to squeeze through. He tumbled out behind me just as the giant man shot another smoke-missile-jet-thingy. It blew the hole even larger.

Chris grabbed me and together we ran.

I stopped as we fled through the frozen foods aisle, “My Uncle’s Car!”
Chris sneakers squeaked as he abruptly halted to look back at me, “Whitney, this is no time to worry about your vehicle!”

“No, you moron,” I said, digging the camaro keys out of my pocket, “We need to get to it. Drive away. Just--c’mon!”

We sped to the main entrance, where Chris began picking the lock. The alarms were still blaring. My limbs were shaking from excitement and shock. I couldn’t stand still. Anyone moment the giant man might come round an aisle and blow us to smithereens.

“Don’t you people in the future have an automatic-door-opener or something?” I asked.

Chris shook his head, “If we had automatic-door-openers in the future, there would be no need for locks in the first place, would there? And then how would crime flourish?”

A shadow emerged from between the checkout stands. Suddenly, the whole store was lit up as the giant man shot another spark-missile.

I screamed and ducked. Glass shattered above me where the missile had gone through the front window.

“Got it!” cried Chris, and the door slid open. We scrambled out and to the car, the giant man quick on our heels. I shoved the key into the ignition and floored it the second the engine was running. We squealed across the quiet parking lot, leaving the evil giant far behind us.

“Now do you believe me?” panted Chris as I turned onto the main road, driving like a maniac.

“Yeah,” I panted back, my heart still thrumming, “Yeah maybe a little bit more. At least we got away from the maniac.”

“Only problem,” said Chris, “Is that I left that employee list. They’ll be able to figure out which worker is the King. It’s a race now.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” I replied, turning into my Uncle’s neighborhood, “But this is where I kick you out again.”

Chris looked at me, alarmed, “You can’t leave now! You’ve become too involved. The Clones will find you and hurt you.”

“I don’t even have shoes on!”

“Please, I’m begging you not to walk away. I’m the only one who can protect you until this is all over.”

I rolled my eyes at him, “A bit self-important, are we? Or is that a pick-up line you men in the future use?”

“Pickup line?” asked Chris, genuinely confused.

“Nevermind,” I sighed, giving in, “What do we do now?”

Chris grinned when he realized I’d given up arguing with him. “We need a phone book.”

Five miles away from Riesbecks, I finally found a payphone. Together, Chris and I squeezed inside and looked through the yellow pages for one Edward Reacher. Chris looked excited, as if he’d never seen a book.

“In my time--your future, whatever you want to call it--all our phone books are computerized. The phone too, actually.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have time to grab my iPhone before that clone guy chased me out, so we’re sort of stuck doing it the old-fashioned way--Ha! The old fashioned way, do you get it?” I laughed at my own joke, then abruptly stopped when I saw Chris wasn’t laughing with me.

I sniffed and flipped to another page.

“There!” said Chris, pointing to a name, “Edward Reacher, 137 Castle Avenue…Knotwood County.”

“Castle Avenue?” I snorted, “Bet he did that on purpose.”

Chris narrowed his eyes at me, trying to understand what I was getting at, but obviously failing. Apparently, castles were extinct in his time. Maybe the King lived in a blimp.

“Uh, Knotwood County is the next county over,” I got back on track. “It’ll take fifteen minutes or so to get there.”

Needless to say, the first five minutes of the car trip were the most awkward five minutes of my life. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and neither could Chris, it became apparent.

Finally, I broke the ice, “What year are you from, exactly? Theoretically speaking, I mean. Because, I still don’t believe you all the way.”

“5173,” answered Chris. “It’s...so different from all of this. Now.”

“You have a girl?”

“What, you mean, like a wife?”

“Girlfriend’ll do.”

“I’m…” Chris coughed uncomfortably, “I’m, sort of...you could say… I, well… I am sort of betrothed to the Princess Remma of the W.U.”

I laughed out loud, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you like a prince or a lord or something?”

Chris’s cheeks had turned beet red, “My father saved the King’s life. In return, the King had my father knighted and me and...and Remma betrothed.”

“Wow,” I said, looking at his face which had gone from red to ashen,“You seem so excited.”

“I would be, but…”

“What? You don’t want to marry a princess? It’s like a fairytale… in the future.”

Chris coughed again, “Remma isn’t...well, she isn’t… she’s beautiful, but she isn’t… my type...” He mumbled the last part.

“I thought a princess was every man’s type,” I shrugged. “Can’t you just tell her you don’t want to marry her?”

“That would be too harsh. Her reputation would be ruined. No, the only way I can get out of it is if I fall in love with someone else.”

My head was spinning in circles. It was a good thing I was born into this era, because the politics and policy of the court Chris was describing made less sense to me than chess to a monkey.

“And you?” asked Chris, taking me by surprise, “Do you have a bloke?”

“No,” I said, trying to look distracted with driving to hide the tumult of feelings that erupted in my chest. “No, I never’ve really had the chance. Been busy. Very...very busy.”

“Can I ask with what?”

“You can, but it’s not very interesting,” I replied. “My parents died about two years ago, when I turned nineteen. So I went out, tried to make a life for myself. But a paycheck from McDonald’s doesn’t exactly cut the bills, so I finally went broke, and crawled back here to my Uncle Fellig about two weeks ago. He’s the only family I’ve got left--well, even calling him family anymore is pushing it.”

“You have been busy. You’ve done far more than I ever have in my life,” said Chris, in a sort of tone like he was trying to comfort me.

I snorted, “Says the time traveler dressed as Santa Claus, betrothed to a princess and on his way to save the king while being chased by clones of giant men with oversized firecrackers.”

137 Castle Avenue would have been much easier to find if it hadn’t been snowing whole mountains of flakes. I could barely see enough to drive on the road, let alone navigate to a remote street in a county I’d never been in. There was no way we would be able to make it back to Braidwood. The roads would be completely blocked.

Between arguing, yelling, throwing ours arms in the air and threatening each other, Chris and I finally managed to locate 137 Castle Avenue and trudge up to the front door.

“The honor is yours,” I said, motioning to the doorbell.

Chris looked confused. “Am I supposed to…?”

“Are you serious?” I groaned, reaching over and pressing the bell for him, “You guys don’t have doorbells in the future?”

“Well, yes...but they’re--”

“Computerized. What a surprise.”

“Yes. The computer have sensors that can tell when someone steps up to the door and then informs the owners that they are there.”

“You sound like a dictionary,” I muttered, just as the porch light clicked on above us.

137’s door swung open. In the doorway stood six feet eight inches of muscle, with a cape thrown over one shoulder.

Chris had just enough to yell “JUMP!” before the sound of a spark-missile cracked the air, and I threw myself to the side. I could feel my hair curling as the explosion singed it. The fire blistered my skin instantly. One moment all I knew was blinding heat, and the next, burning cold as I plunged into a pile of snow. The missile exploded onto the side of Uncle Fellig’s camaro. In less than two seconds, the entire left side had been blown open.

There was no way he was ever going to let me inside his house again.

My jostled brain had just enough sense left in it to command my body to get up and run. Chris was doing the same, charging to join me as I skittered down the road.

The lights were clicking on in the houses around the rest of the neighborhood. One man was already stepping out onto his porch to watch the commotion.

“What do we do?” I yelled at Chris.

He didn’t answer. Rather, he pulled me in a long loop across the road, hiding us behind a car. Directly on the other side of the road was 137, the clone still in the doorway, gun smoking.

Chris flattened himself against the side of the minivan we were concealed behind, drawing his own weapon from his pocket. He twisted around the corner and fired a shot. It wasn’t very accurate. The clone didn’t even bother to move. He stood still in the doorway, while Chris’s red and green missile shattered the front window to the left.

With one oily swift move, the giant clone raised his gun and shot again. I screamed as the glass shattered in the minivan windows. Smoke burned in the dark sky.

Chris let off another shot. The air cracked. The snow kept falling. House siding from 137 splintered on impact from the spark explosions.

More lights were flickering on along the neighborhood. Dogs were barking and a few kids were screaming. Suddenly, police sirens wailed in the distance.

“Just shoot him already!” I yelled at Chris.

He yelled back as he fired off again, “I’m trying!”

“Then try HARDER!”

“I AAAMM!!!!!” roared Chris. He somersaulted from cover, landing on his knees, straightened his arms, and pulled the trigger.

His aim was true this time. The clone had no tricks left. The red and green stream of smoke billowed into him, knocking him back into the shadows of the house.   

The night went silent.

Chris was panting. I crawled over through the snow, panting too. I patted him on the back, “Told you.”

“Told me what?” cried Chris, looking at me exasperatedly. “Next time our lives are on the line you might try helping a little!”

“You sound like you’re blaming me!”

“Maybe I am!”
“How is any of this my fault?!” I yelled, getting to my feet.

Chris jumped up, too, “You should have driven faster! Or argued less! That would have saved a lot of time!”

“Well, excuse me for arguing with a strange man who falls through my chimney and asks for a ride to Riesbecks to save a King from the future! Who wouldn’t argue about that, I wonder?”

“Ahem,” came an awkward cough, “Hate to interrupt, but I believe we’re still all in terrible danger.”

Chris and I spun around to find a well built man of about forty, dressed in a nice suit, with dark hair and dark eyes glancing between us with no small amount of amusement.

Chris bowed hurriedly, “Your majesty, I...didn’t...you weren’t...Are you alright?”

“Quite, thank you, Christopher,” said the King, or Edward Reacher. Whichever you would have. “But I meant what I said. That can’t have been the only clone Lord Danetar sent. We are all still in danger.”

“My car’s blown up,” I said, “We don’t have a ride.”

The King gave a little laugh, “I’m a king, for goodness sake. I have a car, Miss…?”

“Whitney,” I said quickly, “Just Whitney.”

“Whitney,” said the King (who, in case you didn’t guess, was also british). He led us to his Buick in front of his now demolished house, and unlocked it. We pulled out of Castle Avenue just as the police arrived in flashes of blue and red.

“Christopher,” the King said as he drove--where to, I didn’t know-- “I take it you did not come back here for a visit. How fares the War?”

“It’s over,” said Chris, a little sadly, a little quietly. “We need you back now.”

“You needed me for the War,” said the King, his deep voice rolling like an ocean, “I should have been there to see it through.”

“Your people needed you safe.”

“My people needed to be safe. A king shouldn’t hide. I can’t believe they talked me into it.”

We were all quiet then. The only sound for a few minutes was that of the car slushing through snow.

“Who’s Lord Danetar?” I finally asked, overcome with curiosity, “Is he, like, the main bad guy, the ringleader of those evil clone dudes?”

“You are correct, Miss Whitney,” said King Edward, “Danetar is the worst scum of the earth, but has managed his whole life to stay in the good graces of the court and its regents. I have tried unsuccessfully for years to put him away, and now that his clones have attacked me outrightly, I have all the proof I need to convince the others of his treachery.”

Our conversation ended abruptly as King Edward’s car skidded dangerously, throwing us off the road. The snow was too deep now. We were stuck.

“This is not good,” Chris ran his sweaty hands through his hair. “We need to make it back up on top of Whitney’s roof in thirty minutes, or we’ll miss the pickup. The Crafters are expecting me to be there with you. They can’t hold the portal open any longer.”

Something snagged my attention as he spoke. Something yellow, behind a mountain of snow, pushed off on the other side of the road.

“Hey,” I tapped Chris and pointed him to what I saw, “I think I know how we can get there. Can’t promise it will be warm.”

I hopped out of the car before either Chris or the King could ask what I was planning. Slushing my way across the wide, snowy road (my socked feet frozen to the bone by now), I approached the mustard-colored snow-plow. It looked fine, and I wondered why it was abandoned. The King and Chris had come across the road after me, and watched silently as I tore open the dashboard and hotwired the engine to life. Being from the future and all, they probably didn’t even realize this was illegal.

Once the plow was on, a quick check revealed the only reason it had been abandoned was because it was out of gas.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a spare gallon of fuel in your car?” I asked the king. Edward shook his head.

Something pressed into my hip from my pocket. Slowly, I pulled it out and grinned. I had forgotten about my Uncle’s turkey baster.

Shaking like a leaf in the zero-degrees weather, running back and forth and back and forth across the icy, dark road, my feet becoming frozen solid by the moment, I administered gas to the snow plow one turkey baster-full at a time from King Edward’s car tank. It took at least ten minutes, but I finally pumped enough into the bad boy to get it working.

This whole time, the King and Chris watched in stupid silence. Either they didn’t get the idea of gentlemen helping the ladies in the future, or they genuinely didn’t know what I was doing, and therefore didn’t offer their services.

I revved the engine. “Climb in,” I said tiredly. That was just before King Edward’s car exploded.

Shrapnel blasted in all direction. Fire shot into the sky. The roar was deafening. Smoke was everywhere. Out of the shadows surrounding the flames, stepped three figures. Only two of them were clones. The third and front one was--

“Lord Danetar?” gasped Chris.

“Lord Danetar!” hissed Edward.

“Your Majesty,” grinned the evil, clone-making psychopath, “How good it is to see you.”

Danetar looked like every malicious villain should. Dark, tall, built like an athlete, and devilishly handsome. He was wearing a cape like the clones on either side of him, and a wide-brimmed hat like a pirate’s. Had they gone back to colonial fashions in the 52nd century?

King Edward held his chin high, staring down his nemesis, “Danetar, you do not want to do this.”

“I’m afraid I very much do, Eddie.” Danetar flicked his hand, and the clones on either side of him lumbered forward on giant feet. Their missile-guns were out. And they were pointed at Chris and the King.

They fired.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Chris dived out of the way, pulling the king with him. The heavy columns of smoke left by the flying sparks sailed over their heads and disappeared into the night.

“I’ve got this,” I heard Chris say to his King.

“And I’ve got Danetar,” I heard the King say to Chris.

Chris pulled out his own weapon, letting off two shots at the clones to distract them while he dove for the cover of the snowbank behind my snowplow.

The King pulled out what looked like a fat pen from his pocket. He clicked a button on the side and--

No. I thought, No way!

A long, thick, white laser beam shot out of the metal cylinder, growing to sword length.

A light-saber.

Danetar drew something similar from his robes, unleashing his own blinding white laser.

They faced off like two knights from long ago.

I glanced behind me to see a blast of sparks fly for Chris’s makeshift fortress of snow. Chris ducked out of sight, missing the brunt of the explosion. The clones were walking closer. They lumbered like two creepy Frankenstein monsters, arms outstretched with their weapons, faces emotionless.

I waited patiently for them to step behind my snowplow on their way to Chris. Then I slammed on Reverse.

The snowplow slammed into the clones, knocking them down. It bounced over a few of their limbs with a sickening snap! I grimaced, switched back to Drive, and pulled up off of them.

Chris scrambled out from his snowdrift, staring at the mulled bodies of his enemies. He nudged one with his toe. The clones were out cold.

“Get in!” I yelled, and he obeyed. We turned our attention to King Edward.

While I had been grinding the evil clones to dust, the King and his rival had engaged their swords. Light flashed around the abandoned snowy road, lost in the pitch black of the sky above. Their lasers whirred in seamless motion, blocking, thrusting, parrying, jamming. As they locked in deadly combat, the noise of their bashing swords reverberated everywhere, like the drone of a jet plane taking off.

Lord Danetar parried Edward’s strike. With the momentum, he swung the kings sword downward, and pulled it right out of his hand. The white laser fell to the snow covered road with a sizzle. Then the laser blinked out.

All the light left was that of Danetar’s weapon, pointed at the King’s throat.

“Goodbye, Your Majesty. The W.U. will thank me in years to come.”

“No,” said the King, his eyes riveted on something behind Danetar, “I think I should be the one telling you goodbye.”

Suddenly, a hundred pounds of snow came pouring down. The onslaught buried Danetar, pushing him to the ground. The king grabbed back his light-saber from the ground and unleashed it once more. It was Danetar’s turn to have a sword at his throat.

Then the king smiled at me and nodded. I smiled back.

During the battle, I had scooped up Chris’s snowdrift in the bucket of the snowplow and driven the lot over towards Danetar. Then--well, you know the rest.

Chris and I laughed in triumph, pounding each other on the back. I threw my arms around him in a victory hug. We stayed like that, giggling and laughing, for a moment. I pulled away and Chris and I stared at each other awkwardly for a minute. I cleared my throat and looked away. He coughed and climbed out of the snowplow, to see to the King.

“Are you alright, My Lord?”

King Edward nodded, then looked down at Danetar, who was glaring darkly. He bent over and clubbed his old nemesis over the head with the butt of his laser-sword. Danetar was unconscious before his head hit the ground.

“Don’t suppose you brought any rope, Christopher?”

“Don’t need any,” I said, jumping out of the snow plow and plodding over to them. I couldn’t even feel my feet now. I handed the king a bunch of zip-ties I’d found in a cubby of the plow. “Please tell me you know what these are?”

The king laughed, “Yes, yes.” Then he laid a hand on my shoulder, “Thank you, Whitney, for saving my life.”

I smiled, “Don’t mention it.”

“We’ll have to leave Danetar here until I can send a proper team through the portal to retrieve him,” the king began securing the traitor regent’s hands and feet with the zip-ties.

Chris looked at his watch, “We have maybe twenty minutes to get back to Whitney’s Uncle’s. We have to go right now!”
I hopped into the seat of the snowplow, “All aboard.”

“Do you really think we can get back to your house in this thing?” Chris asked as he and the King climbed in.

“No idea,” I said. Then I gunned it.

Fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds later, we were standing on the doorstep of my Uncle’s house.

I pointed at the roof. “The portal’s up there, right?”

“Yeah,” said Chris. His voice was a little quiet.

With a pang I realized this was goodbye. For some reason, my stomach twisted into a painful knot. I couldn’t guess why. In a few minutes Chris and Edward would be out of my hair for good. No more clones or evil regents or midnight escapades at Riesbeck's.

The King put a two strong hands on my shoulders, “How can I ever repay you for saving my life?”

“Yes, and mine,” put in Chris.

“Is there anything I can give you? Anything at all?”

I stared at the ground for a minute. Then laughed a little, “Well, since it’s not every day I save the king of the future and get told I can have anything, I wouldn’t mind a Knighthood..”

King Edward smiled fondly at me, “That, I can do.”

I wanted to laugh out loud again, but did as I was told and knelt on the ground. The King drew out his light-sword and touched me lightly on either shoulder.

“Rise, Lady Whitney, Knight of the W.U.”

I bit my lip to keep the smirk off my face, and curtsied clumsily, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“No, Whitney, thank you.”

I turned to Chris. He turned to me.

“So…” I sighed.

“...So,” sighed Chris.

“Guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah.”

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware that I was in my pajamas and socks and must look like a mess. I didn’t know why that should bother me. It was just Chris. The annoying, most pathetic version of Santa Claus I had ever met.

“Back to the future with you now,” I said, “Back to Princess Remma.”

“...Yeah,” Chris’s shoulders heaved as he said that simple word, like he had to force it out.

I looked at King Edward, “Don’t suppose I could get a trip to the future or anything, you know, as another reward? It’s hard not to be curious.”

The King shook his head, “I’m afraid our time travel laws forbid it… The only exception to the rule is marriage. If one of the travelers ends up falling in love and getting married, the guidelines no longer apply.”

My cheeks flushed at that. I shrugged to hide it, “Oh well. It’s probably not that interesting anyways.” My eyes flickered to Chris, then to the ground.

Chris swallowed, his features tight. I wondered if he had the same sharp feeling in his stomach as I did.

“We must go now, Chris,” King Edward started toward the trellis on the side of the house. It was covered in dead vines, but would make for a decent ladder up to the roof. Chris followed him, and I couldn’t help but go up too. If they were going to get zapped back to the future, I wasn’t not going watch.

There was nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, a green light seemed to burst from nowhere, growing larger and brighter, into the shape of a door. The time portal.

They were five steps away from it.

Two.

One.

Suddenly, Chris stopped. He looked back at me over his shoulder. Ahead of him, the King stopped too. I watched, confused but strangely elated, as Chris stumbled back across the eves of the roof, back toward me.

He grabbed my hand and then--

No. I thought, No way.

Chris knelt down on one knee. He looked up at me with his bright blue eyes, a awkward smile twitching on the edges of his lips.

“Whitney, will you marry me?”

I stared at him.

“...But...We’ve only known each other for forty-five minutes.”

“Whitney, I don’t want to say goodbye forever. I don’t care how long we’ve known each other. Forty-five days or forty-five minutes. You’re the one I want.”
In one instant, my stomach flipped and my heart rate accelerated to train-engine speed. The heat rushed to my head. My hand shook in Chris’s.

“Well,” I gulped. I couldn’t seem to say anything. I hadn’t felt this level of happiness in...so long. Not since my parents were still alive. Not since I had moved in with my obnoxious relatives. Not until...now.

“Well,” I said again, and this time added, “Beats staying with Uncle Fellig the the Cousins.”

Chris looked at me incredulously, “I bend down on one knee, pop the big question and all you say is it beats living with your lazy uncle and obnoxious cousins?”

I laughed, so happy it hurt. “Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah, I’ll marry you.”

Chris jumped up and hugged me, grinning like the idiot he was.

“You know we’ll have to do the vows right now if we want to go through the portal before it closes. We don’t have long.”

“The King can officiate, right?”

The king was smiling, “That I can.”

I stopped on our way to meet him, “But, what about Remma?”

“I told you, she’s not my type.”

“And I’m afraid you were never hers,” said the King. He sighed, “I suppose I did badly in betrothing you.”

We approached the king, hand in hand. Then, we proceeded to be married in the falling snow, on the roof of my Uncle’s house, with me still in my socks and nightclothes.

Edward began, “Do you, Christopher Hitherto Scyter take Whitney to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,”

“You’re middle name is Hitherto?” I asked.

“It’s a very popular name in the fifty-second century,” Chris explained.

“Oh yeah? And what do they call the girls? Therefore?”

The king cleared his throat loudly.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“And do you, Whitney, take Chris Scyter to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

My hand tightened on his. “I do.”

“Then you may kiss the bride. But make it quick, because we’ve got to go.”

As our lips touched, the bells rang midnight.

Christmas Day.

We kissed for a little longer than was probably smart in that situation. Finally, we turned to the portal. The green light was fading. We stepped inside.

As the light encased me and a warm tingling flashed over my body, Chris, his voice watery in the portal like he was talking through a fan, said, “You know, you never told me your last name.”

I grinned one last time before the green light blinded me and we fell through darkness, “Ratt.”

"Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans."

~John Lennon

Messily, 

~The Scribbler in the Attic