2,209

A flash fiction piece about a man with some unfortunate timing…

I open the door to an approaching tsunami. Water hurls a tree trunk against the side of the time machine. The control panel reads 2:00. This isn’t right, the Wikipedia page said the dam didn’t break until 2:50.

I’d come to prevent this. The whole family knew of the Johnstown flood that orphaned my great-grandfather, caused Grandpa’s suicide, and drove Mom to drinking.

That morning’s Uber ride had started normal enough, picking up two eggheads from O’Hare, spouting nonsense about Einstein-Rosen bridges and whatnot.

Mom’s last words played like a recording. “You’re never going to amount to anything.” I turned on my blinker, grateful my passengers were too lost in conversation to see I’d missed the turn. Maybe if I hadn’t dropped out, I could have been an egghead. Or a doctor who would do more than read from his clipboard pronouncing her dead.

“The test was positive, time travel is possible,” the egghead with the glasses said as we arrived. I nearly forgot to unload their bags when I heard that.

Passengers never realized what we drivers could hear. Their loose lips were my opportunity, and I found the machine unguarded that night. I never became a doctor, but it was time to save lives.

I punched the controls. The capsule spun as I ran through my plan. The routine warnings had been taken for false alarms. I’d telegraph EVACUATE NOW, a message sure to clear the valley and restore the family tree.

An oak branch flies through the door, smashing the controls.

I should have known better than to trust an experimental machine. I was doing those eggheads a favor.

A wave floods the capsule.

History recorded 2,208 victims. Make that 2,209. I realize my programming error. Johnstown is on Eastern time.

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