30
William lay unconscious in a fetal position. Most of his body was on the grassy banks of a stream, his feet in the water’s edge. Directly above William was a natural span of land from one elevated bank to another.
This time, unlike the last, William knew where he was; he just didn’t know when he was. He tried to grasp what was happening. He knew he had passed through some sort of phenomenon, which caused his body to completely liquefy, and that the liquid that used to be his body completely collapsed onto the ground. William had felt the speed of the liquid falling from the underside of the bridge above him. He had felt the sensation of his body recomposing. What was missing was knowledge of how this could happen or how to control it. He had hoped to return to his own time, to his own world his own life and, most of all, his own family.
William knew he was not back to his world. He knew before he even lifted his head that he was neither with his family of 1892 nor with his loved ones of 2002. The ground below him was still soft, not the asphalt he had hoped for. He wanted to have found himself surrounded by countless strangers. He wanted to hear the noise of cell phones ringing. He wanted to open his eyes to see a pair of Nike or Adidas athletic shoes walking past him.
Instead he heard men shouting and firecrackers or, no… guns! Guns, shooting! Still crouching, William opened his eyes and saw a scene from his high school history class. He’d never paid much attention to details like dates and battle sites but he recognized the uniforms. Red coats! He’d landed himself right in the middle of…
The whistle of a bullet rushing past his ear convinced William he didn’t want to stick around long enough to test his memory. He’d barely escaped the angry gunfire of Matthew Bulow in his last transformation. He wasn’t about to introduce himself to soldiers in the middle of a war zone and attempt to explain his bizarre time-travel story. He’d be dead from either a stray or intended bullet before he spoke a single sentence.
William dropped to the ground, hoping he would stay alive long enough to plan his escape, praying he’d figure out a way to see his wife and daughters again.
William felt the earth tremble beneath him as bullets flying in all directions landed in the grass surrounding him and splashed in the river below his feet. His only hope was to flee to another time.
William ignored the noise of gunfire and fallen men, shut out visions of flags hoisted high above horses’ heads. He forced his attention to the center of the bridge. His eyes locked in a frozen stare at the underside of the bridge. William was focusing on the droplets of water forming on the underside of the bridge and falling to grass below. He was vaguely aware of more bullets flying around him, some so close they created a chill breeze around William. William now was focusing on the origin of the droplets bombarding his shoulders, hair, forehead, cheeks and chin. His eyes closed momentarily, and as a droplet hit the bridge of his nose, his left eye opened to see a droplet just leaving the underside of the bridge. His eye followed the individual droplet downward, catching it head on. William let out a scream heard only for a split second. As the water droplet hit the surface of his open eye, a second droplet directly behind it found his open mouth and entered the center of his throat.
A soldier, seeking cover beneath the bridge, had heard William’s scream and started toward the sound, rifle at the ready. He was less than five feet from William, debating whether to shoot or offer assistance, when a downpour of water met his feet and splashed up onto his legs.
The soldier looked up to the ceiling of the bridge and was shaking like a leaf, his complexion pale, and he appeared to be chilled solid. The soldier’s vision and hearing were blurred. He fainted. His rifle discharged as he fell.