The Map of Chaos by Félix J. Palma

close his eyes, lower his head, or improvise some last words, he stared straight at the youth. And for a split second the two men looked at each other in silence. Wells’s bravery seemed to take the lad by surprise, or perhaps he was laughing to himself at this stupid display of courage, but in any event he delayed pulling the trigger. Wells guessed that, despite all his experience, the killer had never had to shoot someone who showed such dignity when helpless, moreover with the addition of a sobbing wife in his arms and a faithful hound at his feet. Realizing that the time it would take for the lad to pull the trigger was the only time he had in which to act, he wheeled round, grabbing Jane by the arm and pulling her toward the hole. If they were going to go through it, better alive than dead.
    â€œJump, Jane, jump!” he cried, shielding her body with his as they bridged the short distance between them and the hole Dodgson had managed to tunnel into the air.
    Wells feared he would receive a bullet in his back at any moment, but as he lunged forward and his body started to go through the hole, he knew the killer would not have time to shoot. Newton followed them, leaping through just as the orifice folded in on itself with a deafening roar. Then what could have been a gust of cosmic wind swept through the room, accompanied by a flash of white light that blinded the three men left behind.
    After the thunderous explosion, a heavy silence fell. Murray blinked a few times and finally saw that the hole had vanished. All that was left of it were a few strands of mist hovering above the metal stand. It took several moments for him to realize he no longer had anything to trade in, and that he would never be the savior of mankind.
    It seemed History wasn’t going to happen the way he had imagined either.
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    â€œI T SEEMED H ISTORY WASN’T going to happen the way he had imagined either,” Jane read. It was a good way to end a chapter, she reflected with a satisfied smile before blowing on the paper to dry the ink. Leaning back in her chair, she observed with delight the freshly cut roses on her desk. She had picked them from the rosebush that very morning as the sky chose the colors of dawn and the cold night air still lingered on their petals.
    At that moment, Wells tiptoed into her study with his habitual reverence, as though afraid his manly presence might disrupt the delicate feminine atmosphere floating in the room. He spent a few moments contemplating the charming orderliness around him, whose enchantment was so alien to him, and his eyes flashed as he caught sight of the scribbled pages on his wife’s desk.
    â€œWhat are you writing, my dear?” he asked with feigned nonchalance.
    Ever since his wife had told him she wanted to turn one of their unoccupied rooms into a study, Wells had resolved to spend part of his extremely limited and valuable time trying to find out what his wife was doing in there. Direct questioning had failed, because she merely replied with a shrug. Joshing hadn’t worked either. “Are you drawing pictures of animals in there?” he had once asked, but Jane hadn’t laughed the way she usually did when he said such things. Her silence was tomb-like, and since torture was not an option, Wells had been forced to resort to surprise incursions. Thus he had discovered that Jane went into her study to write, which wasn’t much of a discovery, as he could almost have worked it out without having to go in there. She was hardly likely to use the room for breeding rabbits, practicing devil worship, or dancing naked. Besides, she had half jokingly threatened him with it. Now all he had to do was find out what she was writing.
    â€œOh, nothing of any interest,” Jane replied, quickly hiding the sheets of paper in her desk drawer, the lock of which Wells had unsuccessfully tried to force open. “I’ll let you read it once