Knot in Time, Tales of Uncertainty #1

Chapter 1

Knot in Time, Tales of Uncertainty #1

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright

©2012 by Alan Tucker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address MAD Design, Inc., 212 Fair Park Drive, Billings, Montana 59102.

ISBN: 978-0-9885047-1-4 eBook Edition

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1

I had no idea what was chasing me, but I did not like the look of its tentacles.

Okay, it wasn’t just the tentacles, but the whole four-foot amorphous mass that glided effortlessly two or three inches above the ground that really creeped me out.

And the tentacles.

It was late and I had just stopped at Jerry’s Cafe, looking for work, or maybe a meal.

Jerry himself had answered my knock at the service door. “Hey, Dare,” he said with a tired smile, wiping his hands on his apron-covered belly. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you tonight. Been kinda slow lately.”

I sighed, but put on a smile for him. “It’s okay, thanks.” Pickings had been slim recently. Everyone had felt the pinch from a bad economy.

Jerry nodded and closed the door. A chill breeze blew down the alley, taking an old flyer from a local band for a short ride through the light shining from the cafe’s back entrance. I wrapped my overshirt tighter around my lean frame and shivered. Autumn nights were often cold in Colorado.

I had walked away from the light, thinking of somewhere else I might try when I saw what I thought was the end of a wet rope, lying near a mound of trash.

The rope moved and I froze.

When the whole trash pile had begun to shake, I yelled and sprinted away into the dark, deserted street.

Somehow, the hideous thing had kept pace.

I turned a corner and jogged down another littered alley, my lungs heaving. Streetlights struggled to penetrate the gloom the farther I went. My foot hit an empty beer bottle, sending it skittering loudly across the pavement. I cursed and looked back at the mouth of the alley. Sure enough, my gelatinous stalker had noted the sound and turned to follow.

Heart pounding and out of breath, I continued blindly onward. I was familiar with many of the back streets in downtown Denver, but darkness and fear had caused confusion. After a sharp turn to the right, I found myself in a dead end with a row of imposing metal dumpsters. I spotted a door to my left, but a sign read, “Exit Only,” and I saw no handle.

In the movies, back alleys are usually filled with metal fire escapes and other stuff to climb so the hero can escape danger. My life had never been Hollywood material and modern buildings don’t generally come with handy getaway equipment.

I grimaced and contemplated hiding in one of the dumpsters, but then the blob silently slipped into view. Considering the smell emanating from the closest bin, I actually felt some relief my pursuer had found me before I’d mustered up the courage to dive in.