ARRIVAL (ERA 1)

2 | Unidentified

"Let's get you up." William props me against the sideof the wagon.

I stretch my legs in front of me and my eyes fall to my feet. I'm still wearing one boot, but my other foot is badly cut and bleeding. There's a pile of bloody gauze occupying the corner. My eyes shift up, over the edge of the wagon. I find the tops of trees towering on one side and a vast open sky on the other.

"We're here," he murmurs. "You made it back."

Back to where? Where is here?

My eyes explore the sights before me: On the left, intricately aligned buildings all face a quaint cobblestone square. A tall, sleek metal structure stands erect in the center. It's a sculpture constructed of thick steel beams and aluminum rods. A copper wheel churns a small pool of water in the basin, mimicking a waterwheel mill. It could be for show, but there's no way to know for sure.

It is picturesque to say the least.

One daunting thing: I know I've never seen this town before. Well, that's not entirely true. I've seen exact carbon copies hidden in the pages of history textbooks. It's the kind of town you always imagine yourself in, but never actually want to be in. It's familiar, reminiscent of the pre-Civil War era, but it's also foreign, like taking a step back in time without the certainty of knowing how to get back.

To the right stands a massive stone building with wooden beams supporting a sign: Hospital. A woman in a white dress stands outside the doors, holding a clipboard. She watches in our direction, waiting absentmindedly.

My best guess: nurse, or rather a nurse from a hospital station set just outside the battlegrounds. I'm still faithfully cupping the leak in my carotid, though no one else seems perturbed by my bleeding out. Instead they remain nonchalant as though the solution is as easy plugging the leak with a cork.

The two men who followed our wagon now unload three body bags from a cart –the very same cart that brought me here.

"Collect those, Fynn," the leader directs in a hoarse voice.

A young, handsome man with broad shoulders gathers up all three sacks in one swift motion. He places them in a tin box outside the hospital that reads deceased.

This boy, who now I know as Fynn, has the same deep tan skin as William and the same tattered jacket, paired perfectly with his rugged 5 o'clock shadow.

"Chief, I've contacted the committee in Sycoma. They'll be adding her to the list, pending she pulls through. They want an update by nightfall." Another man delivers the news.

What list?

"Excellent, Ethan. Thank you." The leader is pleased. "Let's get her inside, downstairs. William, if you don't min'."

William hoists me from the wagon and places me on the ground. I am thankful to leave the stretcher behind.

"Slow and steady, remember?" he says.

My legs wobble at first. My head spins and a searing pain rips through the side of my neck. The linen stopper plugging my wound drips with blood. Red snakes down my arm in a thin stream, the metallic odor repugnant.

"I can't–" My voice cracks. My arm is half-raised but unable to reach the blood.

"Don't worry." William restrains me from raising my hand. He presses on the wound but remains disinterested.