Taylor landed on top of a table causing all four legs to buckle under his weight.
"Where am I?” he hissed, hot light sparking out of the torch.
Taylor rubbed his temples and brushed off the remnants of a broken table, fighting off a headache as he stood. His body was no longer glowing but he felt like his nerves were on fire. Tapping the torch display, his gauge read 70%. He had come a long way.
Mid-afternoon sun streamed in through closed blinds, revealing a romance novel near Taylor's leg. He was in an expansive penthouse apartment, a time and place he recognized.
"Lanza!” he yelled, voice hoarse. “Lanza? Where are you Karl?"
Taylor's heart was beating at a dangerous pace and he feared that he would disappear at any moment. He had to hold on, had to make this time count.
He stumbled into the adjoining kitchen, turned on the tap and shoved his head under the water. He drank and drank, cooling his fillings and wetting his sizzling hair.
His legs buckled underneath him and he cracked a floor tile with the torch. Laying there, his back against the cupboard and the tap spewing water, Taylor remembered the original mission - warn Lanza and save mankind.
He saw a white board in the living room. Standing and swaying towards the board, he grabbed the nearest black marker and wrote in large letters:
'It's not a comet! Ham fucking Taylor!'
Taylor didn't know what it meant or why he was writing it, but hoped Lanza would. He dropped the pen and took a step back. Spotting a bottle of scotch near the fridge, Taylor greedily moved for it. He popped the cork and took a swig, then another.
"Oh my God,” he spat, the alcohol dribbling down his chin.
His arm went limp and the bottle dropped from his hand, whisky oozing over the tiles. As Taylor bent to save the remains, he noticed the calendar attached to the fridge. Today was November 5th 2041 - the day of Penelope's disappearance.
His light returned and Taylor hugged himself, trying desperately to control his breathing and slow down his heart.
"You can do it! Keep it together! Stay here!”
His eye was suddenly drawn to the open door leading to Lanza's lab.
"Karl?”
Taylor felt fragile, like a feather could knock him over. Shaking and occasionally flashing with light, he pushed the door open and gripped his cramping guts. Penelope Taylor lay asleep on an operating table, her arm hooked up to Hippocrates. His wife was in the middle of a procedure Taylor was familiar with, a procedure he himself underwent. A silver torch was being surgically attached to Penelope's right forearm. Unsure if he was dreaming or lost in madness, Taylor hurried to her bedside, touched her hand and put it to his lips. There could be no doubt. It was Penelope, as perfect as the day she left him.
Taylor sobbed into Penelope's hair and wrapped his arms around her. “Penelope, it's Ham! Wake up. Wake up for me!”
He kissed, caressed and begged his wife to see him. “I'm sorry! I am so sorry!”
Suddenly and amazingly, Penelope stirred and Taylor gasped.
"Open your eyes! Wake up!”
Penelope groaned, her head turning, blue eyes squirming.
"Wake up!” Taylor pleaded, kissing her lips and pressing against his face against hers. “Please, see me!”
Penelope opened her eyes as she woke from a deep sleep. Taylor's tears dripped onto her cheeks when he met her warm gaze.
"Ham?” she whispered, smiling. “Is...that you?”
Taylor screamed as a painful bolt of sunlight flashed up his right arm and pierced his chest, throwing him, once more and violently through time.
— CHAPTER FIFTEEN —
Taylor dreamed of Penelope and the golden jump room. He saw his wife inspect her silver torch as she took her position over the red circle. She looked scared, yet determined as she wrapped her arms around the harnesses. Once secured, she glanced at Lanza in the janitor’s office and gave him the thumbs up. Behind the glass, Lanza and three assistants worked over the console, starting the generators and powering up the time machine.