Sam’s fingers brushed the pipes on
the big engine in the tavern. It was empty this time of morning, most
of the people still in their beds, nursing their hangovers from the
night before. The janitor was behind the bar, cleaning up the tiles
and emptying the trash bags to prepare for the next day of business.
Sam bolted upright, adjusting his jacket casually as he looked
around, making sure no one else was about to walk in on him fiddling
with the object like a curious child. He felt himself become a bit
more confident seeing that he had some sort of privacy and crouched
back down. The numbers were mismatched from the last time he looked,
now reading “8164.” He carefully snapped each number off and
replaced them in the order he once saw them in. As he pressed in the
6, he could hear something tick inside. His head snapped up, looking
at the bar, wondering if the janitor heard anything. He saw the top
of his head as the janitor bobbed up and down, cleaning out a shelf
by the sounds of the clang of empty glass bottles clanging in a bag.
He slowly poked the 6 again only to not
get the same effect as before. He poked each of the other numbers,
still not getting any reaction. Finally, he stood up, frustrated with
himself that he had believed that old man from the night before in
the first place. Sam kicked the engine, just below the digits. The
sound of one of the metal clips on his boots against the brass engine
rung through the tavern, causing the janitor to look up from his
work.
“You okay, kid? That thing don’t
work, it’s just art. Kickin’ it ain’t gonna do a damn thing,”
he let go a throaty chuckle.
Sam blushed, quickly looking away from
the man. “I’m fine,” he managed to get out.
“Watch your step on your way out,”
the janitor returned to work. Sam looked over at him then to the
floor at the exit, wondering what he meant. There was no liquid on
the floor; there was no shine, no sign, no wet marks before the
welcome mat. Sam let go a heavy breath and shoved his hands in his
pockets, both disappointed and embarrassed for himself. He took a
step to leave through the front door when his foot slipped on
something unseen. Sam fell backward, crashing onto his back.
Before he could open his eyes, he could
smell dirt. And manure. And something else, something that wasn’t
quite familiar to him. He took his hands out of his pockets and went
to feel the ground beneath him. Dirt. Dry dirt. He could feel the sun
on his eyes, the warmth covering his body. He sniffed the air once
more. It smelled burnt. Sam opened his right eye, just a small crack.
The sun wasn’t high in the sky, but it wasn’t setting, either,
which meant it was sometime in the morning still. Both eyes opened
and he looked around, still frozen on the ground in the dry heat
already forming on him.
To his right lie a pile of wood and he
could hear heavy breathing from several mouths behind him. His eyes
opened wide as he scrambled away from the noise and to his feet. To
his surprise, there were not one, but three horses behind him. Each
had old fashioned saddles on them, the leather very worn through use.
He looked down, and saw that they were tied to a wooden post, just
like how Sam remembered in old Western films. He poked the horse in
front of him, yanking his hand back as quickly as possible. It was
real. He placed a hand on the horse’s rear, it still didn’t move,
but the tail twitched a bit. He tucked his elbows into his sides and
began to tip-toe backwards, away from the creatures.
His back hit something, causing him to
freeze, all the color having gone from his face. He slowly turned his
head and looked behind him, out of the corner of his eye. Nothing. He
lowered his hands and relaxed, and took a step forward, swiveling on
his heel. In front of him, standing tall, is what looked to be a rugged soldier from the civil war
era. He had on a blue uniform with brass buttons down the front and a
white collar peeped out from underneath the tabs of the uniform on
his neck. He had an unshaven chin, but the sideburns were grown out
and long. A tuft of hair on his upper lip was scuffed up under his
nose. This tall man was looking down at him, his hat still level atop
his head. His scowering look made him look even more menacing to an
already frightened Sam.
The man harrumphed, clearing his
throat, causing Sam to jump a little. He was real, too. “H-Hello,”
he choked. The other man looked at him, his gaze moving up and down
Sam’s body, judging every little detail.
“You expect to go to war like this,
boy?” The man’s gaze was locked on Sam’s cleanly shaven jaw.
“War?” Sam’s mind was rattled as
he tried to remember details. Was he really in 1846 or did he wake up
in the midst of a reenactment?
