LOVE BINDS: PART FIVE. II: WHEN HELL FREEZES OVER.

“Don’t do it, Ish!”

Before I could turn to see who was talking to me, I was tackled and pinned to the cold hard floor of the Manda Hill parking lot. I was certain I was being mugged. So the horrible stories were true. I’d heard people had gotten their car windows smashed in and their handbags, laptops and other precious belongings stolen; some in broad daylight. But I never thought it could happen to me.

While I was trying to process all this, I was getting my skin bruised on the ground. My assailant’s vice grip on my wrists and full body weight would not let up. I was a goner. I wondered what items of value I had on me, involuntarily browsing through a mental inventory in a moment of peril. How much did I have in my wallet? Could I afford to lose my ID and have to go through the tedious process of replacing it at the monolithic National Registration Office? Was I really attached to the wristwatch what’s-her-name got me? Would this attacker at least leave me with my socks if he stole my sneakers so I wouldn’t have to walk on the cold ground? Speaking of socks why did this attacker smell like he padded his clothes with sweaty socks? And how did he know my name?! Nobody else called me, ‘Ish’ except for—

“SAMANTHA!?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out! Ha-ha… Yeah… That was meant to make this less awkward, but I don’t think it worked,” she said. “I’d pictured this reunion happening quite differently.”

“Wha—what are you doing here?! And would you get off me!”

As I dusted myself and soothed my wrists, I thought about how Sammie had gotten so strong; about why she smelled so awful and what the hell she was wearing. A dirty beige jacket covered her lean body. She looked like she’d been working out, but the stains on her clothes made it hard for her to look as attractive as she used to. Her hair was short now, no longer the long flowing blonde locks but a rough pixie cut.

“I know this is very weird, but if we can just sit down somewhere for coffee—I haven’t had one in years—I can try and make you understand it all,” she said running a grubby hand through her new haircut.

“Weird is an understatement,” I replied.

“Listen, you can’t come between Mwila-An and Chomba. It’ll cause a chain of events that’ll change everything.”

I couldn’t believe the nerve of her. Was she on drugs? How did she even know what I was about to do?

“Is this your attempt at getting us back together?” I snarled, “Because it won’t work.”

Sammie exhaled deeply, “Please just give me a chance to explain. If we ever meant anything, please, Ish…”

I told myself I wouldn’t let my guard down. She probably wanted money for drugs or something. But what was she doing here? Last I checked she was still in Kenya working for some big time corporate. I couldn’t shake the sincerity in her voice. We did mean something once upon a time. A conversation was all she wanted, I owed her that much. But why did she look older than I remembered?

******

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Are you on drugs?!”

“No. I know it sounds bat-shit crazy,” she said, “I know I look bat-shit crazy, but you have to believe me.”

Two cups of coffee were empty on her side and she asked for a third, aside from the crazy look, she was dead serious. She had to be smoking something. Maybe that’s why she looked older.

“So let me get this straight,” I said, “You’re from the future?”

“Yes.”

“And if I hook up with Bison, the entire world as we know it collapses?”

“Yes.”

“And you got here how?—Mystic Zambian black magic?”

“It’s not as stupid as you’re making it sound. I’m here, aren’t I?” Sammie asked with a straight face. She may have looked like a movie version of a hobo from the future, but I wasn’t about to believe she travelled through time to stop an apocalyptic event that revolved around who I hooked up with. I grabbed her wrist and pushed back her jacket sleeve.

“HEY!” she protested.

“No track marks there. Let me see your other arm. Or do you snort whatever it is you’re on?”

“That’s really hurtful, Ish,” she said, “You know me better than that. You just need to trust me on this one.”

It was preposterous. It sounded like something out of a low budget science fiction film. According to this Future Sammie, in her time, when I interrupted Bison and her new dude, Chomba, Bison was won over by my childish intervention. The gesture stuck with her. She felt I really cared for her and weeks later we hooked up. Sammie said I’d never been happier. But this happiness came at a cost. Chomba’s heart had imploded on itself and in its place was a soulless chasm.

As a liquidity manager, Sammie explained, Chomba had contacts with a number of people looking for capital and also those that had money out the ears. He’d come across a brilliant scientist that had made headway on stem cell research and even cloning. His intentions were to grow parts for people that had been victims of near-fatal accidents and possibly give them a new lease on life. Chomba moved around some money at his firm and funded the scientist’s research. His motives however, were not pure.

Long story short, Chomba found a way to clone himself and build a private army of heart broken douche bags bent on blood curdling revenge. But the scientist’s findings were flawed and Chomba’s clones became deranged killing machines. They tortured and killed Bison and I in ways Sammie didn’t want to explain. Then they continued to re-create themselves. Things got crazier when the United States dropped a nuke on Lusaka in an attempt to keep the world safe from Chomba’s doppelganger abominations.

“That was the start of World War Three,” said Sammie.

“What a load of bullshit,” I said, my voice was hoarse from laughing.

“It’s all true. I swear it.”

“Prove it then,” I replied.

“I can tell you something only future me would know about you.”

“Well Sammie,” I prompted, “let’s hear it.”