Crossover Earth '98

The stage is set, the players are in place. The action begins...

"Awouch!! Damn it, Fran! Do you always have to brew your coffee 'til it melts the cup?!?" Sheriff Peal complained, wiping at the fresh coffee spills on his shirt and tie.

"Wakes you up, don't it?" smiled the waitress as she continued wiping the counter.

Sheriff Joshua Peal was not a morning person as a rule. But with two of his deputies down with one of those stomach-emptying viruses, he was having to cover the extra shifts by himself.

He gingerly returned his scorched lips to his cup and painfully sipped the superheated brew, fervently wishing for a nice, uneventful day. So, of course, that's when the Traveller chose to walk into the diner.

The man the sheriff saw stepping through the door looked like the typical back-road hiker, normally of the hitch- variety. He wore a dusty denim jacket over a checkered flannel shirt, with patched jeans and worn hiking boots to complete the image. He was carrying a threadbare army-surplus duffel bag in one arm, probably containing all of his worldly possessions. He looked older than any college drop-out, and too fit for a wandering junkie. Peal classified him under "hobo/migrant worker" and continued sipping his coffee, keeping an alert eye and ear for any disturbance.

"Excuse me, Ma'am. Could I have change for a dollar, please?" The stranger's voice was open and friendly, but with an underlying deep tone which carried the words without increasing the volume.

"We don't make change except for customers." Fran's response was a few degrees warmer than the deep freezer in the back of the diner.

The stranger paused for a moment, then asked again without an apparent change in tone or expression. "May I have a cup of coffee, please? Black, no sugar." Peal's trained ear could detect a note of amusement in the man's voice.

A frown creased the waitress' face, as she mentally struggled with the conflict between her role as hostess and the strong dislike of strangers she shared with almost everybody in town.

After a second, she shrugged, disengaging herself off the horns of this particular dilemma, and turned to pour out another cup of coffee from the steaming urn. As she moved to place the full cup in front of the patiently waiting man, she speared the sheriff with a buck-passing stare which Peal was all too painfully familiar with.

Here we go again, thought Peal wearily. Every time some poor slob passes through, I'm expected to come out like the cop in that Stallone movie and run him out on a rail.

Peal's eyes followed the Traveller as he paid Fran with a much-wrinkled dollar bill, took the change after thanking her, and went to the newspaper dispenser by the door to get a copy of the local rag.

In a way, Peal sympathized with the drifter. Even after ten years as the law in the town, a welcome change from a career of walking a beat in the big city, he still had to cope once in a while with the communal cold shoulder the townspeople reserved for newcomers. He knew from long experience that most vagrants were just as harmless (and sometimes even more) than some of the neighbors he had to deal with day after day.

But the sheriff also knew of murderers and hardened criminals who looked as inoffensive as the man now settling on a stool, spreading the newspaper on the counter and ignoring Fran's dark looks. Besides, there was something about this one which was making his internal alarms tingle warningly.

Oh well, Peal mused, the least I can do is let the man finish his coffee.

As if on cue, the Traveller reached out for his cup. Peal noted that even though the stranger's eyes had never left the paper, the hand moved unerringly to the correct location and lifted the container without spilling a drop.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow when no cry of surprise or pain arose as the man drank half the cup in one sip. He saw Fran's face show a flash of what he could swear was disappointment as she glared.

Peal's mental itch grew stronger, and being one to trust his hunches, he let his curiosity drive him to his feet and lead him over to the stranger sitting quietly and reading his newspaper. Just a few friendly questions, that's all.

As he ambled up to the counter, the sheriff saw another emotion flicker on the waitress' face, this time of hungry expectation. Probably thinks I'm going to shove my revolver in the guy's face and frog-march him out of here, thought Peal wryly. These people just watched too much TV these days.

The Traveller seemed oblivious to the police officer's approach, leafing through the paper as if looking for some item of interest to catch his eye.

"Good morning," Peal said in his friendly-cop voice.

The drifter looked up, seeming to focus on the badge on Peal's shirt. "Morning, Sheriff."

"Just passin' through?"

"Yes, sir. I'm on my way to the East Coast."

Peal's trouble antenna was now broadcasting "Yellow Alert!" in his head. He frowned, trying to focus on exactly what it was that was setting him off.

Then two thoughts cleared in his mind and he realized the cause of his uneasiness.

The man's voice held no trace of guilt or fear, not even the small amount any normal citizen usually displays when dealing with a police officer.

And something about his appearance didn't match. Here was an individual who looked like he hadn't taken a bath in days, yet, he didn't smell. There was no body odor at all, just the slight whiff of musty, worn clothes.

Peal switched to his official voice. "Can I see some identification?"

Still not looking at the sheriff in the eyes, the stranger patted his pockets demonstratively as he said, "I'm sorry to say I don't have any on me."

"Right. Come along. I'll give you a ride to the edge of town." It was not a request.

Peal firmly grabbed the drifter by the upper arm, intending to lead him to the cruiser parked outside. He moved towards the door and was surprised to find himself unable to budge the arm or the body attached to it.

The Traveller stood up, disregarding the sheriff's grip as if it wasn't there, and turned his face up to look Peal directly in the eyes. Peal felt an ice cube travel its leisurely way up his spine and raise the hairs at the back of his neck.

The Traveller's face gave no indication of his age, the skin sun-browned with slight wrinkles softening up its sharp contours. But the blue-gray eyes gave off an energy which made Peal jerk back as if he'd been touched by a cattle prod. In that moment, the sheriff knew that the stranger was fully capable of taking him without any trouble, that neither his years of experience or the service revolver on his hip which his hand instinctively reached for would be able to stop this man from doing whatever he wanted.

The Traveller blinked and shifted his gaze slightly, breaking the spell. "OK, Sheriff. I don't want to cause any trouble." He turned to the counter, picked up the unfinished newspaper and bent down to stuff it in his duffel bag. He straightened with the bag in hand and stood at ease, waiting.

Peal relaxed the grip on his sidearm with an effort, but kept his hand near the holster. He'd understood the message that the stranger had so clearly communicated to him without saying a word: I'm doing what you say because I choose to. There had been no threat in the statement, just a plain declaration of their relative status in this tableau. He had no problem giving the stranger the respect he seemed to require.

The sheriff nodded silently, gesturing towards the door. The Traveller thanked the white-faced waitress and exited the diner unhurriedly. Peal followed behind, trying to maintain his composure in front of Fran.

Once outside, the sheriff opened the back door of his cruiser to let the stranger in. The Traveller cast his bag in and bent down to clamber in.

Peal stood for a moment, then made his way around to the driver's door. A sense of unreality washed at his awareness. He felt like he should be panicking, but at the same time he was sure the stranger truly meant no harm to him. He got in, started the car, and made his way down the street, heading east towards the Interstate. He usually started his rounds in that area, and he planned to drop off his passenger once he reached the exit.

"Why are you doing this?" From anybody else, the question would have sounded like a complaint, the voice a whining protest of the unfairness of the situation. From the Traveller's lips. the question was just that, an inquiry based in curiosity, free of accusation.

As Peal drove on, he found himself going into a long explanation on the local folks' attitude toward outsiders, and their view of his job as the guardian of their safety. In the past, there had been a number of incidents involving visitors who had stayed long enough to make trouble and then disappeared, leaving the townspeople distrustful of those they did not know. Just last week, four young hoods had roared into town in a souped-up sports car and had been well on their way to causing a ruckus at the diner when Peal came in and gave them a little lesson on civil conduct, sending them packing with their tails between their legs.

This sort of thing didn't do anything to assuage the town's paranoid tendencies, and while he didn't share them, the sheriff saw the value in defusing any possible conflicts as opposed to dealing with the aftermath. An ounce of prevention and all that. Nothing personal, you see.

By this time, the cruiser was winding through an empty stretch of road, bordered on both sides by heavy woods.

Peal wound down, surprised at how much he'd rambled to this stranger. He finished lamely with, "Anyway, what's your story?"

Instead of replying, the Traveller leaned forward. "What's that on the road ahead?"

The sheriff peered through the morning fog. Now that he was looking, he noticed an unnatural sheen on the section of road they were approaching. He began slowing the car down cautiously.

Suddenly, the left front tire disappeared in a burst of shredded rubber. Peal wrestled with the steering wheel as all traction vanished and the cruiser spun out onto the shoulder, finally smashing to a stop against a tree.

Peal shook his head to clear it. The seat belt had protected him from serious harm, but pain was shooting through his right arm, and the steering wheel was pressing uncomfortably against his chest.

He heard a noise behind him and remembered his passenger. In a shaky, voice, he called out, "Hey, buddy, you all right?"

The only answer was the sound of tearing metal. Peal turned his head just in time to see the rear door on his side of the crumpled car fly away as if shot from a cannon.

"What the...?" He saw the figure of the Traveller climb out through the opening, the duffel bag perched incongruously on his back.

The Traveller bent down and looked in on the trapped sheriff. "Are you all right, Sheriff Peal?" he asked with concern.

"How did you...?" Peal gestured uselessly at the smashed door lying on the middle of the road.

The Traveller shook his head. "No time to explain." He pulled on the latch, found the door jammed, then, gripping the edge, quickly ripped it off his hinges.

Peal was numb with shock. This can't be happening, he thought dazedly.

The Traveller reached in and repeated, "Are you all right? Can you move?"

"My arm feels busted, and the wheel's got me pinned, but how come...?"

"Sorry. Normally, I wouldn't think of moving you, but considering the circumstances, staying here's not an option." Peal realized the stranger's meaning as he smelled the gasoline in the air.

He tried not to dwell on the images he'd seen of people trapped in burning cars as he yelled, "Don't mind me. Get the hell out of here! Get some help!"

The Traveller ignored the sheriff's pleas as he studied the protruding steering column with a slight frown. Without a word, he grasped the shaft with one hand.

Peal's eyes widened as the metal buckled under the tightening fingers. Slowly, the pressure on his chest eased as the Traveller carefully bent the column away.

The Traveller then snapped the sheriff's seat belt, pulled Peal out of the car, and carried the injured officer with frightening ease as he ran for the other side of the road.

Seconds after the two men had left it, the car exploded in a fireball that lit the early morning sky.

Debris flew around them as the Traveller shielded his burden from the explosion. Peal was too busy trying not to scream as the bones on his broken arm grated against each other to notice as pieces of his former cruiser bounced off his savior's back.

Reaching a safe spot on the opposite shoulder, the Traveller set the sheriff gently down on the ground, propping Peal's legs up and draping his jacket over the man to help against shock. Peal stared glassy-eyed at the large tears on the denim material before him without registering their existence.

The pain receded enough for Peal to focus back on his surroundings when he heard the screech of tires and saw a dark sports car come loudly to a stop within sight of the burning wreck.

The sheriff recognized the four youths emerging from the car as the punks he had previously kicked out of town. The high-powered rifle among the assorted weaponry in the hands of the group gave mute testimony as to the cause for the loss of his tire.

The four did not notice the prone officer as they stared at the flaming vehicle, looking like demonic Boy Scouts at some Dantean bonfire.

One of the youths looked worriedly at their erstwhile leader. "Geez, Neal. I thought we were just gonna ruin that pig's day. You didn't say anything about killing him."

"Shut up, Tony. Isn't our fault the old fart couldn't handle a little oil slick." The cause for the shiny patch of road was clear. Peal suddenly realized the danger he was in. He also noticed the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

As if on cue, the one called Neal continued, "Besides, I thought I saw someone running away from the car before it went. Spread out and look around."

It didn't take any time for one of them to notice Peal. "Well, lookee here. Seems Mr. High-and-Mighty made it out after all." The others moved menacingly towards the sheriff.

Peal scrambled wildly, trying to reach across to his revolver. The closest goon, brandishing a pump shotgun, pumped the handle and stammered in a screeching voice, "We're g-g-gonna teach you to treat us with respect!"

The sheriff cursed as his weapon tangled in the folds of the jacket covering him. He tried to get up and slipped on the wet grass. Hs weight came down on his damaged arm and the world faded behind a sheet of red pain.

A shadow covered him and he flinched, expecting the next thing he would hear to be the thunder of death spewing at him.

But the shadow spoke in a familiar voice which seemed to fill the air. "You're not going to hurt this man."

Peal looked up to see the Traveller interposing himself between him and the four thugs. Irrelevantly, he noticed that the stranger's shirt was also torn, but that the skin underneath was unmarked.

The shotgun-wielding youth stood bewildered for the moment, trying to assimilate this latest change in the plan. He gestured with his weapon. "Get the #$%@ outa here, ya bum. This ain't none of yer business!"

"I'm making it my business." The Traveller's voice did not change in volume but still carried across the group. "You're in enough trouble as it is. Killing this man will just make it worse. Put down your weapons and no one will get hurt."

The punk snarled and aimed at the man in front of him. "Up yours, $%#@!" The shotgun roared as it fired.

The Traveller stood unmoved, taking the brunt of the shot on his chest. From behind, Peal saw the remains of the shirt scatter in the breeze and felt a wash of heat flow past his face.

The Traveller shrugged minutely. "Well, if that's the way you want it..." Before the astounded youth could react, he leaped forward, knocking the shotgun aside with a forearm as he struck out with a flat-palm blow.

The punk flew back a number of feet and landed in a crumpled heap. He did not get up afterwards.

"Get him!!!" shouted Neal as he pushed his two companions, armed with baseball bat and crowbar, at their attacker.

The first one swung his bat. The Traveller ducked below the swing, reached up to grab the punk by his leather jacket, then spun quickly around, propelling the hapless goon into his partner with sufficient force to knock them both out. He then turned towards the last youth.

Neal emptied his rifle at the approaching man, then threw the useless weapon wildly at his target and ran towards the waiting sports car.

The young thug jumped in, closed the door, and looked up in time to see the Traveller bend down to pick up the car by a corner and lift it up. Neal screamed as he and his car turned over and rolled down the steep ditch.

He crawled out of a broken window and looked up to see the Traveller leisurely making his way down towards him, a heat shimmer covering him and distorting his image into a red-eyed demon out of a nightmare. With a whimper, the tough fainted dead away.

Peal stared blankly at the scene unfolded before him. Three people, who minutes before had been ready to kill him, lay like tossed rag dolls on the pavement. A shimmering living statue effortlessly carried the limp form of the fourth and deposited him next to the others.

Absently, the Traveller picked up the fallen rifle as he slowly walked back to Peal and casually rolled it into a lump of metal and plastic.

As Peal felt himself slipping into blessed unconsciousness, he heard the Traveller muse, "Always wanted to do that..."

When Peal awoke, the day had fully arrived and the car fire had pretty much burned out. The Traveller was packing some things back into his duffel bag, wearing a new shirt and an army surplus jacket. Peal noticed a simple but efficient splint and bandage covering his injured arm.

The Traveller noticed the sheriff eyeing him and smiled. "Glad to see you're back among the living." He gestured at the bandage. "It's not a bad break. You should be able to drive the car back into town or wait for help if you want. I don't think they'll be any more trouble."

Peal looked over and saw the sports car back on the road, relatively undamaged, except...

The front fender had been removed and was now wrapped around the four punks, pinning them to a tree. The prisoners were awake and looking quietly and fearfully towards the two.

Peal looked back at the Traveller speculatively. "You're a paranormal." His tone was a mixture of awe and suspicion.

"Is that what they're called nowadays?"

"I don't get it. You come into town dressed like a bum. You went through those punks like a knife through butter." He paused. "You're running away, aren't you? From someone. Or something."

The Traveller's face twisted in a wry grimace. "You're a good detective, Sheriff. I'm actually in search of something, but I have the very strong feeling that if certain people know where I am, other people... innocent people will be hurt.

"That's why I'd appreciate it if you didn't make a big deal out of my involvement in this incident in your report. I won't ask you to lie for me, but there's no reason to say more than you need to."

The Traveller nodded as he saw his answer in the sheriff's eyes and stood up, shouldering his bag. "Thank you, Sheriff Peal. I wish you luck in gaining the trust of this community. Fare well."

Peal sat in silence, his brow frowned in thought as he absorbed what he had heard. A dozen questions burned through his mind, questions he was sure he would not get an answer to.

But he could not let this... paranormal? alien? hero?... man leave without at least asking one.

"Who are you? What are you?"

The cause of his frustration gave him a lopsided smile, tinged with a trace of sadness. "Those are good questions. Tell you what... when I find the answers, I'll come back and let you know."

And the Traveller started walking down the road.

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