Chicken Show

Written by Old English Game

Run. Run. Hurryhurryhurryhurryhurry!

It is a very bad idea to try to get your hair up while you're walk-jogging, with a heavy backpack on one arm and a bunch of notebooks under the other, but that was what I was doing. All the while panicking, I will add, because I was supposed to be across the fairgrounds in exactly two minutes, which meant dodging people, booths, tents, animals, vendors, a clown or two, and, inevitably, clumps of people who thought that the very best way to be a good American citizen would be to spread out as far across the path as humanly possible, while walking at the agonizing speed of a turtle. Actually, judging from the small animal races I had zoomed past a few seconds ago, slower than a turtle.

In front of me was one of those groups of people. A family of - what was it, eight? Nine! - all wearing bright orange (which was a good idea, in case they lost someone, my mom always did that when we were younger - but I digress) - who had made a convenient human fence across the tarmac. It appeared that much of the surrounding crowd was beginning to lose their patience, and if you know people you know they don't have much patience to begin with. Nobody has manners anymore - which is stupid of me to say since I, in my teenage years, have yet to experience "the good old days" - but you know how everyone's moms and grandmas talk about how things used to be, when everyone was nice to each other and knew each others' names, and where they went to school and who married who and all that gossip, and now I'm rambling again.

I stopped, ducked to the side between a recycling bin and a giant tree, and promptly crashed into another fellow who must have had the same idea. Not even like a bump-shoulders, either. We full-on collided. My notebooks and pens and various books about chickens went flying, as did the contents of his bag, which turned out to be a dozen or so diapers, tupperwares full of cheerios, and various other child-rearing paraphernalia that went hither and yon. Something jabbed me hard in the arm - it was either a bee sting, a pen, or one of the several little plastic kiddie utensils that were quickly crushed underfoot.

"Sorry!" We both exclaimed at the same time, and quickly set about chasing down parts of my drafts and his baby supplies, which got kicked about by everyone passing by and picked up by exactly none of them. What did I tell you about peoples' manners these days?

"I didn't even see you there," he said, looking a little red. Or it might have just been because he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, one of the polyester kinds that gets super pilly after the first wash. Why was he wearing long sleeves?

Well, I was too, I told myself, and then myself reasoned back, well, I'm wearing showmanship attire, and he's just wearing long sleeves for the heck of it. Who does that in ninety-something degree weather?

Knock it off, I told myself, and reached for something else.

My fingers scraped against rough gravel.

The temperature dropped thirty degrees.

The noise disappeared so quickly it made my head spin.

I took in a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding - had I been holding it?

I tightened my grip on my bag, and my fingers creaked like I hadn't moved them in ages.

I stood up, and my back ached the same way.

Do not panic, I told myself.

I took a deep breath, and slowly turned around.

A plain gravel road stretched on to the horizon. On either side was a ditch, and then several feet of wild grass and weeds, and then a thick forest. The sun was almost to the horizon and the sky was tinted just a little bit yellow.

"Sweet mercy," I whispered.

After that, I wanted to say a few more choice words, but I couldn't make anything more come out.

So I took a step. And another.

As I kept walking, I wished mundanely I'd worn my sneakers instead of borrowing my mother's black dress shoes. They rubbed on my heel.

After a while, it occurred to me to check my phone - it was gone. It must have fallen out, or else I had been transported to an alternate reality and cell phones were confiscated at the gate.

Great! I had, in my bag, all of a single notebook, a half a broken pencil, and a squished granola bar at the very bottom, amidst a sea of crumbs and a whole bunch of those little torn-off bits from notebook paper. And two hair ties.

"This is lovely," I said, a little scared when my voice wavered. I pinched myself again - I'd been doing it every ten seconds, it seemed, since I'd went to pick up that - bugger, I couldn't even remember what it was. A little gold bobble of some sort?

Then I heard an engine.

Oh, help. Thank goodness.

It could have been bad help, it occurred to me, but then it occurred to me that bad help was probably better than wherever I was right now. So I stuck my thumb out.

A little van came into view. It was old. And I don't even mean old, like, that thing's been sitting in storage for the past fifteen years old. I mean old, like, this is an heirloom from your great-great-great-great grandfather old. Like someone had just stolen it from a museum display old.

The guy who stopped the truck looked even older.

He swiped a hand across his eyes, and blinked at me, and then looked me up and down and up again.

"Hi," I said, "I, um… I'm lost," Gotten flung to another reality in an eighth of a second, more like it. But I didn't want to scare the guy.

Apparently, I did anyway. His face paled, "Nicht anders!"

"I'm sorry?" I took a step back.

And noticed the lettering on his truck. Oskar Schnitzer. Tierarzt.

Then a lot of things made sense. Not everything, mind you, but a few key questions of mine were suddenly answered. The Mary Sues.

"Oh, dear," I said aloud.

"You're a writer, aren't you?" He sighed.

I nodded apologetically, "Yes."

He sighed and ran his hand down his face, and closed his eyes for a second, and then waved his hand next to him, "Get in."

I climbed into the passenger side, and then a thought occurred to me, "Wait, you're a good guy, right?"

He raised an eyebrow, "You should have thought of that before you get in the car," His English wasn't very good, but I wasn't about to correct it.

"Sorry," I said.

"I take you to Colonel Hogan," He shoved the truck into gear.

"Thanks."

He grunted, and didn't make much conversation.

It was only a few minutes, but I don't think there was a single spring, cushion, or other like device in his vehicle. When he stopped along the road (there seemed to be an extensive stretch of wood in this area, because the scenery appeared to be the exact same), and climbed out, it took me a few minutes to regain circulation in my rear as I hobbled after him.

In another few minutes, he stopped, and pointed, and said, "About twenty yards that way, I suppose you know about their tree stump?" I didn't recall if he was involved with the previous time-travel adventure, but apparently he'd heard the tale.

"Yes," I said, "Thanks very much for the ride. Sorry if I caused you any trouble."

He gave me an odd look, and turned and went back the way he came.

I watched him go, and then realized it was probably dangerous to be standing out here in the woods, and made my way in the direction he'd pointed.

I didn't actually have the sweeping view of the stalag like in the show (in the show… how had I not dropped dead from panic yet?), but I could see bits through the trees. I didn't linger.

The tunnel was also much deeper than the show let on, which did make sense, and by the time I'd reached the bottom the temperature had plummeted yet again.

I had to try to make myself as tiny as possible to fit through the narrow tunnels. There wasn't very much light, either, in fact I had no idea what was giving me just enough light to make out the grayish outline of where I was going.

"Hello?" I called finally, when it started to get a little lighter; there had to be someone by the light source, right?

Nothing, and then, "Did you hear that?"

"Yes."

"Hi?" I called again, "Umm… hello?"

"It's a lady! She's down this way," The light brightened and suddenly burned into my eyes.

"Eek! Please don't," I held up my hands, one to block the light and the other up in surrender.

"Oh, bother," Someone sighed. An English accent. I assumed it was Newkirk, but I couldn't really see through the light.

It did diminish, though, and as I was blinking away spots someone grabbed me by the arm and tugged me down the tunnel.

There was a tiny room, and there, in the flesh, was James Kinchloe. At least, I assumed it was him. It certainly looked like him - or, rather, looked like Ivan Dixon, I should say. He even had the mustache.

"Hi," I said. I wanted to say something along the lines of "I'm Caroline, great to meet you," but if I said that I would end up fangirling (eugh) all over him and I did not want to embarrass myself like that.

"You another author?" The guy next to me asked. Looking over, it wasn't actually Newkirk. This guy was shorter, and had dark hair, and a slightly different accent. He was kind of cute.

Nope! Nope.

"Yeah," I said, "Sorry. I didn't really… mean to… you know. End up here."

"We figured as much," Kinch said. Wait, I should say Sergeant Kinchloe. I've never actually met him before, "What year are you from?"

"2019," I said, "I heard about the other time-travellers."

The Englishman shuddered.

"That being said," I went on, "I don't suppose you happen to still have the little gold doodad that sent them all back? I'd love to stay, this is probably the opportunity of a lifetime and I'll probably regret it as soon as I get back, but I'll bet you want to get rid of me and I have a chicken show in -," I glanced at my wrist, which did not have a watch on it, "Well, about half an hour ago, actually."

"Chicken show?" The Englishman repeated.

"Yes," I said, "We pose chickens and talk about chickens, and there's a plastic trophy for whoever knows the most about their chickens." From the look on his face, I didn't have to worry about any awful dramatic time-travel romances.

"Anyways!" I exclaimed, "How 'bout it?"

Sergeant Kinchloe raised an eyebrow, "Well, miss, that's the problem."

Oh, crud.