Free Clock Work by Jameson Scott Blythe Page B

uncomfortably into her back, but she didn't have the strength to adjust her body.
    The door leading to the shop was held open by a stack of boxes. Through the doorway, Parker could see the three creature-men moving around.
    Her arm burned where the one had bitten her. Blisters had formed around the wound and it looked infected, like it had been festering for a week.
    Some kind of toxin in the bite , she thought. She could already feel it in her blood. She felt drunk and sick and feverish, like she was boiling from the inside out. Pain spread through her body as muscles tightened and cramped.
    The creature-men were searching the shop, aisle by aisle, shelf by shelf. They weren't paying any attention to her, at least for the moment. She could have snuck away if she'd been able to move.
    She saw movement in her peripheral vision, a shifting of shadows. Parker turned slowly, her neck stiff with pain.
    He knelt beside her, blue-green eyes level with hers, the lower-half of his face covered with a dark bandana, like a train robber in an old movie.
    He pulled down his mask to a reveal a handsome, unshaven face.
    A face Parker recognized.
     
    ***
     
    He'd been in the shop three or four days earlier. He wasn't the type of guy you forgot. Tall and broad-shouldered and athletic (even wearing a jacket, it was obvious he did some kind of physical training). It wouldn't have surprised her to learn he was a soccer player from one of the country's semi-pro teams. His green-blue eyes stood out in contrast to his dark hair and scruffy three-day beard. He was older than her and handsome in that universal kind of way that would have made him stand out in any city around the world.
    She'd given him a brief tour of the shop, and then he'd browsed for nearly three hours, looking at every item on display. Finally, he'd come over to ask for her help with something.
    The device was a wooden box with a clock face on the top. It reminded Parker of a piece of ancient navigational equipment—perhaps it had been salvaged from a ship and converted into a timepiece. The sides were embellished with ornate symbols burned into the wood, faded with time and obscured by polish. More symbols marked a series of dials set below the clock face, which seemed to be used for setting a date, or coordinates.
    It was unique, expensive, and unusual.
    "Does it work?" he asked.
    A tag with a number was attached. Parker stepped away to find the winding tool, a small crank that wore a tag with a matching number.
    He watched Parker wind the device, and they both watched the hands begin to tick.
    They ticked backwards.
    "That's odd," he said.
    "We see a few of these, actually. Some were built that way, novelty items. Others were rigged as practical jokes."
    "Can you fix it?"
    "We'll have to bill you for labor even if I can't. Store policy."
    "That's fine."
    "Let me talk to my boss, I'll get you an estimate."
    Something so old and in good condition did not come cheap, but the customer didn't bat an eye when she told him the price. She figured him for someone from the tech industry in Dublin, an investor or a very well-compensated developer. She'd seen the type during her time there—young, moneyed, and shabbily dressed (he wore boots, jeans, and a well-worn motorcycle-style jacket). He left a number where he could be contacted when the repairs were done.
    The device was far older than anything Parker had ever worked on. It took her two full days to rebuild it to tick clockwise. When she called to tell him it was ready he appeared ten minutes later. He'd been waiting someplace nearby.
    He thanked her, paid, and left. Later that night, when Parker found herself eating dinner alone, she'd fantasized about being on a date with him. Not a typical thing for her.
    Thinking of this as he knelt beside her now, Parker blushed and found it difficult to make eye contact.
    He isn't even real , she thought. You're dying. This is a fever dream. A fantasy in the last moments of life.
    Her own