by Holly Hook
Of infection or bleeding or whatever. He could die.
“Come on!” I push on. There's a white tent up ahead. Its flap is open. It's empty. There's a crater next to it where a shell has barely missed. The men who were inside are lucky.
Unlike Simon.
He took Frank's shell for him.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
“It hurts,” Simon manages through clenched teeth. “It really, really hurts.”
“I know. We'll get you help.” There must be an army doctor here. What if they do take off Simon's leg? They're not going to put him under to do it—will they? They don't have operating rooms out in these battlefields. It's not like Nancy's time. They'll probably tell him to bite down on something.
I kiss Simon on the cheek. He smiles. “I feel better now.” Then he seethes again and goes down.
“Whoa!” Frank pulls him up. He faces me. “We should carry him. Get his legs off the ground. He's going to bleed more like this.”
I look down at his leg. His pant leg is even more red. Scarlet. Fresh blood is spreading around the older blood which is turning brown in the air. A metallic smell hits me, mixing in with acrid smoke. Frank's right.
“Simon, you're going to hate this,” I say over the sounds of the gunshots and the cannon blasts. “We have to carry you like you're a baby.” I laugh. I'm past nervous. I'm terrified.
He relents. “Fine.”
Frank grabs his legs and I keep my hands under his shoulders.
"I can carry his upper half," Fred offers. "Please. Let me help out a lady."
"I've got him." I know I should let Fred to the hard work, but I can't let go of Simon. My heart pounds. What if he dies out here in this battle and they bury him, just another body amongst thousands of others? Forgotten, forever?
“Don't give up, Julia,” he says. “Even if something happens to me, I'm still there in 1912. At least, I should be.”
“But you aren't,” I say. “You came out of 1912 with me. If you die here, you die.”
“Good point.” He manages not to grimace and that's good. I hate seeing him in pain.
We're almost up the hill now. My arms quiver with his load. Isabel waves us closer. “This tent,” she says. “There was a doctor in it earlier, but he's gone. Probably down to the battle. Get him in here.”
We have to hurry. The medical tent won't be free much longer.
We carry Simon in. There's already a cot set up in anticipation of wounded soldiers. And if Simon's not wounded, I don't know what he is.
"Set him down,” Frank says.
We do. Simon groans, seethes, and grasps his leg again.
“What's in here?” I ask, looking around. I dread the answer. There's a leather strap on a table along with a bullet. I remember reading something about doctors having soldiers bite that while they did their procedures in the field. There's also something that looks like garden shears and—I kid you not—a saw.
“No!” Simon yells when he sees it. “I do not want to be here. Take me to the Hub. We can find a time where this will be painless to heal. Like Arnelia's time. I'm sure they have something that would work.”
He seethes and grabs his leg again. There's blood on the cot.
“There's got to be something we can tie that with,” I say. "You're still bleeding. You might not make it through the Hub and to Arnelia's time."
“Then we'll need to pull this out now!” Simon grabs for the shrapnel. “It's not very big. I know you can do it, Julia. Then, you need to tie my calf with something tight to stop the bleeding. My blood isn't clotting around this. After that we need to go somewhere better to treat it."
The battle outside grows louder. Is it getting closer? Isabel waits at the mouth of the tent along with Fred.
My stomach turns at the thought. I've seen people dying in front of me, but I don't think I can pull that out and handle seeing all the blood.
"Julia, I trust you." Simon lets go of his leg.
“Simon's right. This needs to come out." Frank moves aside as Isabel crams in beside him. Outside, the sounds of the battle rage louder. “We need to hurry. The fighting is looking worse."
“I don't know if I can." Bile rises in my throat and I swallow it back down. This is my love lying here. I need to come through for him.
“This wound will become septic," Frank says. He positions himself at Simon's shoulders. “We have to pull it out, apply pressure, and pour some alcohol on it. There's some right over there.” He points at the table, to where several bottles of whisky wait. “It might anyway, since it's such a deep wound.”
My heart hammers. I search around for something to apply pressure with. I find a long, white cloth. “This will work. To stop the bleeding.”
“I'll hold him down.” Frank grabs onto his shoulders. "I'm the strongest."
“No!” Simon yells. “I mean—yes. Do what you have to do. I'm not going to go any farther like this. And if you can't get this out, leave me here. Go back to 1912 and see if you can fix things yourself.”
“No!” I plant another kiss on his lips. He melts into me, begging for the pain to stop. “Hang in there.” I look at Isabel and she nods. She grabs the cloth from me and holds it ready. I have to do this without passing out. Without throwing up all over Simon. I'm not sure if I can.
I grab onto the edge of the shrapnel. It's warm. It might even be the heat from the shell itself. Has this burned Simon? Maybe it's helped cauterize the wound on the inside.
I pull.
Simon screams. It's the worst sound I've ever heard.
“Give him something to bite down on!” I yell. I remember the leather strap hanging in the tent. That's what it must be for. “Isabel—give me that.” Why can't there be anything here to knock him out? Anything to dull the pain?
Isabel hands me the leather strap. She's quiet. Pale. Scared.
“Good,” I say, cramming it in his mouth. “Bite down on this. I'm sorry.”
“This is what we have to work with,” Simon says.
“Ready?” Frank asks.
I grab the shrapnel. It cuts into the palm of my hand but I pull. I close my eyes and they water. The smell of Simon's blood fills my nostrils and he groans. I know he's biting down, just waiting for the agony to be over. The shrapnel gives. There's a disgusting squishing sound and vomit rises in my throat. It's his leg. My God, it's Simon's leg making that sound.
And then it gives completely. I fall back, holding a slippery piece of metal in my hands.
Simon screams. I don't dare open my eyes. "Isabel!”
She pushes past me and at last, I can open them. I hold the shrapnel in my hands. It's about eight inches long and pointed on both ends. Sharp. Covered in blood. It's on my hands, staining them red. And Simon writhes on the table as Isabel presses the white cloth to his leg. “Get the alcohol!" she yells.
I run and grab a bottle of yellow-orange liquid. Uncap it. Yes. It's alcohol. “Move the towel.” I'm going to see the wound. Simon's in some major hurt.
Isabel removes the towel. There's a three inch long gash right on Simon's shin, just missing the bone. Blood dribbles out.
I pour the liquid over it.
Simon writhes in pain again. He keeps the leather strap in his mouth, biting down. “I'm sorry!” I say. “We can't have it get infected. Turn over.”
Frank still has his shoulders. “Turn over, sir,” he says.
Simon finally does. He seethes a couple more times in the process. His calf's exposed and the wound here is even worse. There's more blood. It spurts out and stains the cot. The doctor's going to have a mess to clean up when he gets back.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yes!”
I pour the whisky over the wound. I know it's only cleaning the surface. We have to move quickly once we're out of here, before infection has time to set in. Simon bites in his scream this time. I press the towel to his wound. The stench of alcohol mixes in with his blood and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. I hold it back. I'
m not going to get sick here. I can handle this.
Outside, cannons fire and something explodes nearby. Bits of dirt rain down on the tent, making tiny shadows above us. We're not safe here, either. Sometime, another shell might come through the tent. We're dead if that happens. “I need to tie this around your leg,” I say. I can't think of anything better.
“That's a piece of cake compared to the other stuff,” he says.
I wrap the towel around his calf and tie it tight. It's got to stop the bleeding enough to let it clot. I can't have Simon bleeding out in the Hub. There's no help there. And how do we run if Isabel's father is still waiting?
“Up.” I hook my arm under Simon's again and he sits up. “We didn't have to saw off your leg. We need to find Monica before any soldiers get here.”
"They were holding a strong line,” Frank says. “The generals have ordered the regiments to rotate every few minutes, so we can keep a high rate of fire. I heard them talking.”
Fred ducks his head into the tent. “I don't think that's the case, good brother,” he says. “It looks like the enemy is heading this way.”
“They shouldn't be,” I say, rushing to the tent. I leave Simon sitting on the cot, staring after me. “The Union is victorious in this battle. They can't lose. It's not like we did anything dramatic.” I peek out of the tent and down towards the fields. There are soldiers fighting, all right. And smoke. Lots and lots of smoke. Guns crack and bodies fall. There are blue uniformed fighters everywhere. They're more scattered now, no longer holding a coherent front. Brown uniformed Confederates break through the stone fence, climbing over and gunning down everyone in front of them.
No.
That's not right.
Us saving Frank and Fred shouldn't change the outcome of the battle.
“They might be up here in a few minutes,” Fred says. He readies his gun. “I suggest the three of you run out of here. You're not soldiers. Let us do the fighting.”
Frank's pale. Sweating. He eyes the coming battle. I watch as there's another explosion, and bodies, both blue and brown uniformed, go flying. I hear screams. A loud moan, cutting over all the noise. Fred's right. The Union isn't holding the enemy back like history says it should. The battle's not going to end the same.
“We need to go!” I yell at Isabel. She's got Simon leaning over her shoulder. I grab Simon's other arm and he leans on me.
“I'm dizzy,” he says.
“I know. But we need to walk.”
“I want to thank the three of you,” Frank says. “You saved our lives. I don't understand what just happened, but thank you.”
“And thank you,” I manage. We have to move.
Frank shakes his head. “For what?”
“For...your help just now,” I say. For not killing us in the future, I want to say. “We have to go. Good luck.”
“Now,” Isabel says.
We drag Simon uphill, closer and closer to the cluster of trees where Monica's hiding. How could the battle have gotten screwed up? We didn't do anything big. It wouldn't have mattered if Fred and Frank had died at that tree or not. What did we do? Is Time so sick that all other times are turning upside down as well?
A bullet zips past us and cracks against a tree. They're growing closer.
Or did we distract too many soldiers by running through their camp? That general did take some time to yell at us. What if, by being there, we prevented him from planning the battle the way he should have? I remember that this battle was a close one. Only one small thing could have changed it—and the outcome of the Civil war.
“Guys!” Monica leans out of the cluster of trees. She waves us closer, desperate. “Hurry!”
"Oh,” Simon groans.
“Hold on,” I tell him. “You can lie down as soon as we're out of here. And away from Isabel's dad.”
“Now,” he says. He's slipping. My heart hammers. Is he still losing blood? I glance down at the towel around his calf. It's already turning red. Splotches grow bigger by the second. Did the shrapnel sever an artery after all? The bleeding should be slowing down by now. And how long will that towel hold on in this?
Fred gives a war cry behind us. Fires his gun.
They're close.
We need to run from both sides. They're so busy fighting that a stray bullet could kill any of us.
And then something whizzes past my ear. Isabel screams. I stare at her, but she's okay. A small tree nearby splinters. Smoke fills the air and burns my nostrils. They're coming up the hill and shooting at the brothers behind us. There's another shot and a shout of pain. Whether it's Frank or someone else, I don't know.
“Up here!” Monica waves towards the tree that still has the coat tied around it. She's stayed here for hours, waiting for us. I'm going to hug her when we're out of here.
We make it into the flimsy shelter. Simon curses and grabs at his leg. He struggles to stand up straight. "Through,” he breathes.
Monica jumps into the space between the trees. She shimmers and vanishes as the hole in Time swallows her. I drag Simon and Isabel joins me. My skin's electric. We turn around to face the battle as the sensation grows stronger. Frank and Fred stand against a backdrop of smoke and bodies, guns aimed into chaos. Will they survive? I'll never know.
The electric feeling increases and consumes us. I'm falling with Simon in tow. I never thought I would pray for Frank to be okay, but at that moment, I can't help it.
Chapter Fifteen
“Get up.”
Monica's full of tension. At first I think that Isabel's father must be standing over her, gun held to her head or something. But I straighten up and Simon leans against the wall of red, angry crystal. Monica stands in the middle of the corridor, hands at her sides like she's scared to touch anything. Time is still sick. Even more so, now. The red of the walls is still there, horrible as ever, but it's duller than I remember. It's almost as if Time doesn't want to fight anymore.
I reach up to make sure I still have the hair clip. It's stayed on. I rub my hand across it and it downloads my memories. My scalp tingles. We have to keep everything and that's my duty.
"What's going on now?” I ask, dreading the answer.
Did we just change the outcome of the Civil War?
Did Frank and Fred still die?
Did we just mess up all of United States history and possibly, world history?
Judging from the look of the Hub, the answer is yes.
“I don't know,” Simon says. He catches his breath. “I am so tired of being shot at today. I hope that part's over.”
Isabel searches up and down the corridors. The fog is just as thick as before, but it almost seems listless and dead.
"What have we done?” I ask.
“I don't know,” Simon says. “We weren't trying to change anything. I swear. We didn't mean to distract anyone from winning the battle. But at least Frank's gone. That's a good thing.”
“Simon.” I can't help but feel angry at him. “This whole situation is out of control. We need to do something and now. Time is past sick. This isn't right. None of it is. Can you imagine how bad the regular world is getting? How many things are screwed up now? And not just in Nancy's time, either. What if Arnelia is dead in the future because of this?”
"She's not.” He takes several heavy breaths and faces me, gaze on my hair. “You have her invention even after that. That means she must still exist in the future. Otherwise, we wouldn't be standing here trying to mess with things, either.”
I feel the top of my head again. The wing of the hair clip still pokes out, threatening to cut through my skin, but it doesn't.
“Is this the way it has to be for Arnelia to exist?” I ask. “I don't think she wanted this. Or did she? Is the world just going to have be all screwed up? You know, for us to continue to exist, too?"
“It shouldn't have to be that way,” Isabel says. “Maybe Time just needs to heal. And we need to get out of here before my father finds us. I'm not sure how far he is."
He's still leaning on the wall. “It hurts. That's how I'm doing.” He's snapping at me. That's not like him at all. I have to tell myself that it's the pain doing it to him. This isn't the Simon I love.
“We need to get you fixed up,” I say. “We can take you to Arnelia just long enough to get you healed. And long enough to make sure she's still there after all. I'm sure they have great medical care in the year 5000 or whatever it was. Let's go. I think I remember where that rift was.”
“I do, too” Isabel says. “I can lead the way.”
“No more jumping through times!” Simon says. “Frank's gone. But you're right that this is getting out of hand. I say we should start thinking of a way to get to the bottom of this. Like now.” He grabs at his leg and sits on the crystal floor. “It's neither hot nor cold in here. It just feels...stagnant. Like Time's become a corpse.”
"That sounds fantastic," Monica says.
“That doesn't make sense,” I say.
“That's what it feels like.”
I put my hand on the crystal. Simons' right. It's neither cold nor warm. It's like some kind of equilibrium has been reached here. The energy is gone.
“I don't like this, either,” Isabel says. “I've been Timeless for a long time, and this has never happened. Time wasn't even this bad after we saved my ship. Which, by the way, should still be saved—right?”
“Right,” I say.
There's a rumble from somewhere.
And another.
It sounds like distant thunder. I can't tell from which direction it comes. From the Main Chamber?
“We have to check that out,” Simon says.
“I really don't want to,” I say. “But we should.”
A dark, oily terror rises up inside of me and I think of those Chronophages. What if something even worse than them comes out to kill us at this point? Something that can destroy mortals? Time seems to have lots of ways to defend itself. It must have something it can send.
There's another rumble that reminds me of those cannon blasts.
