Capturing Today (TimeShifters Book 2) (5 page)

Erik disappears as I surge forward into the darkness.

A high-pitched screeching causes me to wince as I land on hard ground. The jolt turns my knees to jelly for a second, but I keep my feet. Wouldn’t gain me a ten-point score card in the Olympics, but I’ll take it over the graceless face planting that usually occurs.

The screeching ends with a loud blast, and the ground rumbles. In the distance, voices turn to screams. Nothing hit close by, but there are explosions happening far too close for my comfort.

No. No. No
. Where am I?

Blinking rapidly, I will my eyes to focus. My brain’s a lot foggier than the other times I shifted. Probably because I’m rusty at this.

Every inch of the earth around me has been torn open. It looks like some cosmic butcher hacked open the ground with a hundred dull machetes, forcing its muddy innards to ooze to the top. Rain pools in deep ruts and holes. Men in greenish, tan uniforms, wearing turtle shell shaped helmets—soldiers—swarm the area around me, but they don’t seem worried about a girl appearing in their midst.

Or the explosions that keep blasting the earth a quarter mile ahead of us for that matter.

My heart slams into my ribcage with the power of a charging bull. Rapid gunfire matches the spastic trajectory of my thoughts. Erik sent me into the middle of a war zone. Does he want me dead? Why not simply kill me at the farm, in my time, where at least my dad could bury me since he never got to bury Mom?

Calm down.
I take a deep breath, which is a terrible mistake. If a trash dump, raw chicken left rotting in the sun for eight days, a septic lake, and a men’s locker room all hooked up and had a baby together, it would be the smell currently scorching my nostrils. A person can only hold their breath for so long though. Hesitantly, I take another breath and sputter, gag, and start coughing. Which might be the worst thing ever because it makes me gasp in deep lungfuls of the tainted air. Tears sting my eyes as I try to open them.

In order to transfer my pain—yes, pain, the smell is that awful—I sink my nails into the cushy arm loops of my backpack. Good thing I was wearing the bag when Erik shifted me.

Wait. My clothes. I have to change into my Shifter clothes. 

Looking down, I splay my hands over the shirt I wear. It’s not the shirt I had on back in my time. Somehow I’m in shifting clothes. The soldiers will see me as whatever makes the most sense for the situation. My backpack is different too.

The perspiration from my time turns to cold prickles in the chilled breeze. I scrub my hand against my neck. How did I get in these clothes? Is Erik truly that powerful? Apparently. At least one of us was thinking. I would have shocked everyone in the shorts and t-shirt I had on in Porter’s time.

A man brushes past me, his shoulder bumping mine. “Sorry, nurse.”

That voice. Though strained with weariness, it carries a certain quality that is precious to me. I spin around at the same time he does.

“Michael.”

Every day for the past eight months he’s strolled across my imagination, usually wearing his lopsided, one dimpled smile. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes when I’m fully awake. How could I have forgotten how handsome he is? My mind never did him justice.

Mocha hair in beautiful disarray. Something almost black is smeared across the right side of his face, and dirt in dried sweat lines shows every plane and angle of his face. A purpling gash near his temple twists my heart, and deep shadows pooling under his eyes speak of sleepless nights. My fingers itch to wipe the furrow out of his brow.

A man near Michael’s side is talking to him, but Michael might as well be deaf. With his lips slightly parted, he stares at me. Blinks a couple of times.

“Gabby?” Even over the din of war, his hope-laced whisper reaches me.

Then, “Gabby!” He whoops, and in an instant he has me in his arms. With my feet momentarily off the ground, Michael slowly spins us once. Our eyes locked. Our foreheads mere inches apart. “Gabby.” This time, he speaks my name like a prayer. “You’re here.”

When he lowers me to the ground, his arms stay firmly around my back. My hands snake their way up to cradle his face, and I rub my thumbs along his jaw. “I’m here.”

Someone clears their throat. The muscles in Michael’s arms tighten a fraction, and then he releases me. In the small patches where his skin is still visible through the dirt, his cheeks flush despite the damp weather.

The man Michael was speaking with earlier grins at us like the village idiot. “The look on your face. Guess you didn’t know your wife was joining you on the front. Did you, Doctor?”

Doctor? I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips. Silently teasing Michael.

The married part doesn’t shock me. I have no clue what war this is, but in most of history, a man and woman don’t embrace in public like we did unless there are rings on their fingers and signed vows tucked away in a box at home. I forgot myself, but then again Michael clearly did too. Worth it.

Michael fiddles with a small messenger bag at his hip. “Yes. Well.”

The man whistles as he offers me his hand. It’s then I notice the solider is missing two of his fingers. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you sure are a pretty little thing. Doctor Pace never told us he was married.” I fight a wince as he pumps my hand. “If I had a sweetheart like you waiting back home, I don’t believe I’d ever stop talking about her.”

Overacting, I swat at Michael’s chest. “For shame, Doctor Pace.”

Not unlike our third wheel, I can’t wipe the smile from my face. Sure, we’re standing at the back end of a battlefield, but risk is part of this shifting gig. Erik did what he promised. He shifted me to Michael. I didn’t even have to waste time trying to find him. Erik dropped me right in front of him. Despite the horrible smell and the sounds of warfare in the distance, I want to laugh in order to let loose some of the bubbles of joy piling up inside of me.

Michael glances at me, then at the guy next to him, then back at me. It’s like he can’t form a sentence.

“Pace!”

A soldier runs past us and waves his arms, snapping Michael back to attention. Behind him, a group of men carry a stretcher. The soldier’s holler is followed by a gargling type of scream coming from the stretcher. I didn’t know it was possible to gargle and scream at the same time, but now I know. I wish I didn’t.

Michael clamps onto my hand and starts running toward a lone building near the edge of the encampment. I assume it’s being used as a hospital. Maybe infirmary is the right word?

We maneuver around rubble. Places where more buildings used to stand. From the size of the piles, this might have been a teeming village before the fighting began. My heart rams up into my throat. If the enemies knocked down these other structures, what’s to say they won’t take down the one being used as a hospital?

There is risk, and there is stupidity. Even though the two things are vastly different, they tend to masquerade in similar looking outfits. I sure hope our actions fall into the first category.

I stumble over a brick, but Michael rights me without losing momentum. We overtake the group of men with the stretcher on the way into the building, and against my better judgment I peek at the man in need of Michael’s help. A bullet has charted a path through his skull, but he’s still breathing. There are more gaping wounds along his torso. He coughs, sending a splatter of blood onto his companions.

My stomach rolls.

Michael gently positions me so I enter ahead of him, becoming a physical barrier between me and the dying man.

Arriving at the make-shift hospital doesn’t help my stomach. The odor of sweat, decay, and human waste is profuse enough to invade my mouth and hang onto my taste buds. It’s a coating kind of presence. A smell that takes over everything.

Cots span the entire length of the building. Some men have bandages covering their heads. Others have wraps around stumps that used to be appendages.

I spin back to face Michael. Shaking my head. “I can’t do this.”

“You can.” He takes my elbow, guides me toward the back, and deposits me along the wall of a small operating room.

Another nurse rushes in, busily grabbing utensils and readying the area. Michael washes with steaming water and pours a bottle of something over his hands. Stretcher bearers set the wounded soldier onto a hard table and then file out.

Michael bends close to the injured man, placing his hand on the man’s forehead. “You’re a brave man, Samuel. I have been honored to count you as a friend.”

He turns back to the counter and braces his hands against it. With his back to Samuel, he swallows hard enough that I see his Adam’s apple bob. Michael sends the other nurse away, saying I’ll be assisting him instead. I open my mouth to argue, but he silences me with a slight head shake. The second she’s gone he pulls an instrument out of his pocket. I may not be the best trained Shifter, but I definitely know the object in Michael’s hand is not from this time period. Because it’s not even invented in my time. I’ve only seen it in Keleusma.

“Is that …?”  I peek over at Samuel. He passed out right after Michael spoke to him, so it’s not like he’s going to see the Keleusma medical equipment.

Michael presses the thing that looks like a white remote control to Samuel’s neck. “For pain,” he whispers. “I wish I could do more.”

Samuel’s breathing evens, so I risk another glance his way. Big mistake. Some small white chunks flow out of the wound in Samuel’s head. Brain?

My ears start to ring, and I can’t hear anything else. Sweat gathers on the back of my neck, my arms, my chest. A wave of nausea hits me so hard I have to grasp the wall to keep the shudder from knocking me off balance.  

Michael crosses the room and is at my side in under a second. One arm comes around my shoulders. The other takes hold of my hand. “Sit down. Slump against the wall. Easy now.”

“I’m fine. Help him.” Even as I say the words, I’m scooting down the wall and black dots march into my line of vision.

“I have. As much as I can.” Michael applies pressure to the back of my head. “Put your head between your knees. There. Like that. Good. Take some deep breaths for me.”

I shove my palms against my eyes. “The air smells so gross.”

“It’s infection. Gangrene. The smell is awful, but it won’t hurt you.” He massages my shoulder. “Breathe.”

I force oxygen into my lungs, and a few minutes later my skin begins to cool, and my vision clears. I bring my head back up, lean it against the wall, and roll it to the side to look at Michael. “Is he dead?”

Michael rakes his hand through his hair and then nods once, slowly.

“You used one of Darnell’s medical tools on him.”

He leans toward me, tucking the object in question back into his pocket. “They don’t just belong to Darnell. He’s not the only medic in Keleusma.”

“Okay. You get what I mean though. That thing is not from this time.”

He stares forward. “I’m not a real doctor.” The muscle in his jaw pops. “I wouldn’t be any help without it.”

“Michael Pace, breaking the rules?” I bump my shoulder into his. “Since when?”

“Since.” He finally tilts his head to face me. The look in his eyes is so intense it sends an army of treacherous ants racing through my stomach. He licks his cracked lips. “Since a little bit ago.”

After Michael scrubs his hands, arms, and face in a large sink and gives orders to a few other men to have Samuel removed and placed among those going to burial, he takes my hand and leads me far from the building to a small city of white tents. The sun is setting, and nighttime creeps in while he explains that the medical staff and some of the soldiers who aren’t on the front line live in this area. The men at the front line make their homes in shell-proof dugouts near the trenches. Down a row and after a turn, he tugs me into the tent where he’s been staying. Since they believe he’s a doctor, Michael’s allotted his own small living space to sleep in, as opposed to the soldiers and orderlies who sleep in larger, open tents with rows of cots.

He closes the flap to the front of his tent, stands, and then tugs me into a fierce embrace without any warning. Air whooshes out of my lungs, and a few kinks in my back make popping noises as he holds me. But I don’t care. Being in his arms brings on the same feeling I get when I take refuge in my bedroom after a stressful day. He loosens his hold only to brush my hair to the side. Then he presses his nose to my neck and inhales.

That’s when I notice his muscles are shaking. Not him. His muscles. There’s a difference. My muscles used to do that after an especially grueling track practice. I’m not sure he could stand right now if he wasn’t clinging to me.

“Hey.” I rub circles over his back. “How long has it been since you ate? Slept?”

He finally lifts his head and meets my eyes. Fatigue tinges his features. “More recently than since I’ve seen you.”

I grab his arms and shake him a bit. “Be serious. You look terrible.”

The shaking is probably a mistake because he holds up his hand, stopping me, and then pinches the bridge of his nose like he might be dizzy.