Just before the buildings were two large, white tents with people popping in and out. I frowned and squinted, trying to make out what was going on inside. I paused as a few women entered, each wearing a giant white sash in the shape of an X that made me think of old-fashioned nurses. The outfit was even complete with a small white cap on the head.
As the white door flaps peeled open, I caught a glimpse of several cots with bloodied soldiers lying on them. My eyes widened. There is something really bizarre about this reenactment thing.
I glanced at the second tent as a nurse exited, clutching a handkerchief to her face. Inside the tent, I caught a glimpse of yellow-faced soldiers, some hunched over and vomiting, just before the flaps lowered, obscuring everything from view.
My heart stopped, and my stomach churned in revulsion. What the frack is going on here? My feet urged me forward, away from these creepy tents and whatever weird cult or fandom this was. Someone clearly took their history textbooks way too seriously.
At long last, I approached the buildings, and my jaw dropped. Impressive monuments and edifices towered above me, some adorned with domes and elegant archways, others with grand pillars and iron balconies. Many of them looked to be several hundred years old.
Dazed, I stumbled forward, craning my neck to drink in the view. The grandeur slowly tapered off to smaller, more modest buildings. But even so, most of them were made of the old and sturdy concrete that reminded me of an ancient, preserved town near my neighborhood that was full of historical monuments.
Did I somehow Teleport to Europe? I wondered in bewilderment. This wasn’t exactly the hub of beaches and bars I was expecting.
A buzz of soft voices reached my ears. I shuffled forward eagerly and found a group of people muttering anxiously together near a large, extravagant building that looked like some kind of church. My eyes raked over them. They were all women, some of them holding toddlers and babies. Some women wore long, flowy skirts, and others wore the same nurse’s uniform I’d seen earlier.
My brows furrowed as I stared from woman to woman. I squinted, trying to make out what they were saying, but I couldn’t understand a word.
My eyes widened. They weren’t speaking English.
A petite woman with black hair pulled back in rounded braids approached me. Her eyes glanced over my outfit and bedraggled appearance, and her lips pulled down in concern.
“Señorita, ¿está bien?” she asked.
I blinked. My limited understanding of Spanish prompted me to nod. “Sí.” I shook my head. “Uh, no . . . No. I need help. Uh, ¿hablas inglés?”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No, no hablamos inglés aquí. Solo los soldados.”
My mouth opened, and I stammered, “Uh . . . No comprendo. Do you have a cell phone?” I extended my pinky and thumb and held it to my head like a phone.
The woman cocked her head at me, her brown eyes confused. “Lo siento, señorita. No sé qué es eso.” She paused, and worry creased her eyes. She touched my arm. “¿Qué viste allá arriba? ¿Están ganando los americanos?”
My mouth opened and closed like a fish. I grimaced apologetically. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. No comprendo.”
The woman nodded with a weak smile and patted my hand, as if to assure me it was all right. But her eyes were still wide with worry.
I bit my lip. Why was she so worried if it was only a reenactment? I looked at the women’s clothes one more time and realized they were part of it. Perhaps she was just playing a role.
As I looked from woman to woman, the fear and anxiety on their faces seemed much more real to me than just part of a role.
I muttered a quick thanks to the woman and sidestepped the crowd to walk farther into the town. A few heads turned to look at me quizzically, but most of the women continued to watch the hill I had just fallen down.
The town seemed eerily empty and quiet, save for a few groups of soldiers stationed outside the bigger buildings. These men wore light blue uniforms and white hats that were slightly different than the ones the Americans wore. The soldiers scowled at me as I passed, and I avoided eye contact. A few heads poked out of windows nearby to stare at me, but no one uttered a word.
I swallowed, my throat dry and my stomach growling. A small market came into view, but as soon as I approached, I knew it was a useless idea. The stands were empty of any food. But a stack of newspapers rested next to the empty carts, and I hurried toward it, snatching the copy on top. The newspaper was called “La Lucha” and most of it was in Spanish. I growled in frustration until my eyes caught the date.
1 de julio de 1898.
“What?” I whispered in disbelief.
I scanned the front page and found the words Cuba, España, and Estados Unidos de America.
“Cuba?” I muttered, feverishly flipping through newspaper pages until my eyes widened. An article in English!
My eyes flew through the article, and my jaw hit the ground. The newspaper fell from my shaking hands.
I was in Cuba. In 1898. In the middle of a war between the United States and Spain.
“No,” I whispered, my vision darkening. “No, this can’t be happening.”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
I wheezed, my breaths ripping through me like I was made of paper.
Don’t panic.
My chest rattled as I gasped, but no air came. Is this what a panic attack feels like?
I choked, my lungs desperate for air. Black spots appeared in front of my eyes.
Distant cannonfire rang out, breaking through my hysterical fog. I inhaled,
