May 23rd, 2025
At 8 AM sharp, Neville arrived at the supply depot, where a man asked for his ID. “John Neville,” the man called out to a woman across the room. She gestured for Neville to approach.
With a measuring tape in hand, she quickly took his measurements, noting them down on a scrap of paper. Without a word, she excused herself and disappeared into the backroom.
When she returned, she carried a complete outfit, including boots. Handing them to Neville, she pointed toward a nearby door.
“The changing room is over there,” she said, her tone brisk. “Lockers for your personal belongings are on the wall to your right. Do not bring anything from this era with you. Anything you bring will be confiscated.”
Neville was angry and confused. “There must be some mistake. This uniform is for the Union Army,” he said, confident the error would soon be corrected.
“John Neville, Union Army, Massachusetts 54th Regiment. Is that you? Are you John Neville?”
“Yes, but I’m not supposed to be in the Union Army! And the 54th is a bunch of ni–”
“Mr. Neville,” she interrupted sharply. “You have been assigned to the 54th. Pursuant to our contract, section 12C, in the event of a shortage of participants, we reserve the right to assign you to a regiment of our choosing.”
“Yes, but I assumed that if I couldn’t get into the Charleston Battalion, I’d still be fighting for the goddamn South!” he shouted.
“Clearly, that was an incorrect assumption,” she replied, her voice devoid of emotion.
“Then I want my fucking money back!” Neville roared.
“Pursuant to our contract, section 33D, there are no refunds in the event of a refusal to perform,” she said flatly.
Neville argued heatedly with her, then tried pleading his case with the man, but it was no use. Frustration overtook him, and he cursed and screamed at them, achieving nothing. At one point, he began to storm out, but the thought of his entire savings—no small amount—kept him rooted. Resigned, he eventually surrendered to his fate, though his mind churned with thoughts of revenge. He considered ways to turn the tables on them, even fantasizing about sabotaging their operations. Hell, he might even turn on his own regiment, he mused, a crooked smile forming at the thought.
Still seething, he made his way to the dressing area. He yanked off the MAGA cap and stripped out of his old clothes, replacing them with the new uniform. Every few minutes, he growled obscenities into the empty room, venting his anger. Now a Second Lieutenant in the Union Army, he stared at his reflection in the mirror as a wave of self-loathing washed over him.
Grimacing, he stormed out of the supply depot, yelling, “Cunts!” at the man and woman before heading toward the departure area.
***
After he left, the woman began to giggle, and the man laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face. Similar scenes had played out repeatedly as the brother and sister, travelers from a distant world, indulged in their twisted game. They targeted truly despicable people from the past, using technology that, on Earth in the year 2025, defied human comprehension. Instead of simply eliminating their targets, they toyed with them—it was far more entertaining than straightforward murder. To be fair, they were not above straightforward murder; they just preferred their little game.
The pop-up time-travel store idea was born one lazy afternoon when boredom struck the siblings. They decided to travel to Earth in the year 2025 to select their victims. It didn’t take long to identify their prey. After all, it was easy to find gullible fools in 2025—and there was certainly no shortage of them. Sometimes, they wore hats that proclaimed their ignorance!
They would bombard their prey with memes and computer ads that appeared to be offered to everyone but, in reality, would only be seen by the victim. In this case, the victim was a member of a Civil War reenactment club. Their ads appealed to his fantasies and prejudices. It was a very effective strategy. He invested practically every dollar he had in their scheme. They didn’t need the money, but having him so invested would make it difficult for him to back out once things began to go south. And going south was the whole point of the game.
***
As frustrated and angry as he was, Neville was eager to move forward. He had been a dedicated member of the Virginia Chapter of the Confederate Reenactors for several years, but this—he’d heard—was the real deal. He had seen videos of former participants singing the praises of this experience. He had seen videos of the battles, and these were the most authentic reenactments he’d ever seen! These people really knew their stuff. He understood why it was so expensive. It would cost a great deal to produce the battles they promised. Supposedly, they used live rounds and staged historically accurate battles. Neville had been saving up for an experience like this for years.
While he didn’t buy into the company’s claims of actual time travel, he figured it was just marketing fluff—no different from the kind of bullshit the left had been promoting for years, like when they say that vaccines work or immigrants aren’t eating people’s pets. He knew better. He had done his research.
***
Neville arrived in Charleston utterly exhausted from an arduous journey unlike anything he had ever experienced. The slow realization that he had traveled through time was a profound shock. At first, he thought they must be using drugs to create this world. Yes, they must be using some kind of hallucinogenic to create this world in my mind. Then he thought, Maybe they injected me with one of those DNA-altering injections that allowed them to take control of my mind with an iPad. But eventually, he began to accept that he had actually traveled back to the 1860s. There were no highways, no tall buildings. Everything looked old, mostly made of wood. He never once saw a car.
1863 was nothing like he had imagined—the sights, the smells, and the everyday challenges he encountered overwhelmed him. Now that he had reached Charleston, he was finally on the cusp of seeing action. The thought of taking another human life both terrified and exhilarated him.
***
July 18th, 1863
A bullet whizzed past Neville’s head, forcing him to dive to the ground. Dirt erupted around him as a flurry of rounds raked the area. Crawling toward the cover of a nearby outbuilding, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his lower left leg. Rolling onto his side, he pulled up his pant leg and saw a shallow graze. Relieved, he gritted his teeth and kept inching forward. Just a few more feet, he thought. Almost there.
But an overpowering thirst gnawed at him, becoming a relentless distraction. His parched throat ached for a sip from his canteen. Four more feet, he promised himself. Then, water.
As he crawled, a voice rang out from the outbuilding’s far side.
“Lieutenant! Hurry, you can make it!” Sergeant Carney called. “I’ll draw their fire—when you hear my shots, move!”
Moments later, gunfire erupted from Carney’s position. Neville seized the chance and scrambled behind the building just as the enemy adjusted their aim. Safe, at last. His first thought wasn’t relief, but water.
Carney glanced at him. “You hit, sir?”
“Just grazed,” Neville replied, fumbling for his canteen. His hand froze—it had been struck, a bullet tearing it open. The container was bone dry.
“Goddamn it!” he roared, his throat burning like sandpaper.
Carney, still reloading, offered his own canteen. “You thirsty, sir?”
Neville spat back venomously, “I ain’t putting my mouth where your fat lips have been, you damn coon!”
Carney’s expression hardened. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, turning away.
He resumed firing, his focus sharp. Spotting a Rebel soldier peeking over sandbags, he squeezed the trigger. A clean headshot dropped the man. Carney reloaded, his anger simmering. They’re all Neville now, he thought grimly. Another Confederate rose from cover; Carney aimed, fired, and the man dropped, mouth agape.
Meanwhile, Neville’s thirst consumed him. His eyes lit on a fallen Confederate just beyond the shelter—a canteen strapped across the dead man’s chest.
“Cover me!” he yelled to Carney and began crawling.
Gunfire erupted as enemy soldiers targeted him. Carney returned fire, keeping them pinned. Neville pressed on, dragging himself closer to the canteen. His mouth felt full of sawdust, his mind singularly fixated on water. Finally, he reached the dead soldier. The canteen was within his grasp.
Just as he reached for it, a shot rang out. The canteen burst open, water spilling onto the ground.
“Nooo! Goddammit, motherfucker!” Neville howled, clawing at the canteen. The strap, still secured to the corpse, prevented him from lifting it as the last drops ran out.
From his position, Carney smirked. Hitting that canteen from this distance might be the finest shot I’ve ever made, he thought. Calmly, he began reloading.
He grinned at Neville, whose expression had twisted into pure horror. As Carney raised his gun, aiming at Neville’s head, the man’s breathing quickened, his eyes wide with panic.
Carney thought with a savage grin, I don’t care how much this shit cost—it was totally fucking worth it.
The End
About the Author
Dan Mindo is an American author specializing in speculative fiction and noir mystery. His work delves into the darker sides of human experience. His first story, When Am I, is set to be published in Anotherealm in 2025. Mindo’s stories reflect his love for noir and classic science fiction.
