ARRIVAL (ERA 1)

7 | the Ash House

I repeated my name several times in my head that night. It was distant but familiar and without any real evidence, I knew it was my name. Evelyn.

I haven't remembered much else, just what I remember Michael saying were the most common of things: my name, age, birthday and year –the year I thought it was.

It was the night before my Evaluation hearing. I was falling asleep to the same haunting vision of steep rocky cliffs, when I heard a voice yelling. It was distant and muffled, but it was calling a name. I recognized it instantly, as though it had been there all along and I just knew it was calling after me.

I needed to visit the Registry to officially disclose my newfound identity, so that my unidentified status could be formally switched to its proper one: Evelyn L. Katton, Age 16, est. 2015.

It's been three days since my K-Day.

I was flooded with questions about my "established" year. I recapped 2015 and the America I was (and still am) accustomed to. I shared almost everything I remember. Some people knew of my time period. Others were intrigued, never having heard of a cell phone or a computer.

A little boy even asked me what a college did.

I pass time watching the harbor from our deck. I like the busyness of it all. I like that it distracts me.

Every other morning around dawn, an iron barge makes port. Dots of blue unload the shipments and arrange them in order. Some packages make it into the storage warehouse above the boathouse and other cartons are loaded onto the trolleys.

All I have learned about this land is its location. Kemper was built in the most northeastern corner of the old America, right next to the old Atlantic Ocean. Judging from a map Nic showed me, I put this dwelling right about where the state of Maine would be –if it still existed. After the Destruction, settlers chose the area for its easy sea access. Kemper is part of the Wenonah region, another thing of which I have never heard.

I slink by the square and keep to the side, careful not to draw any attention to myself. To the right, I notice a new massive building one street away from the town center.

From the outside, the entire structure appears to be cedar. Windows cover the entire length of the wall facing the town. A mismatched stone pathway leads to the front doors, above which hangs a grand sign etched Cedar Lodge. Appropriate. As I pass the hotel, I notice the backside is the same as the front –completely open with grand white-framed windows.

I continue searching for William. I pass the Post, a tall slender building with a glossy glass front. It's the post office for all intents and purposes, though I have never seen anyone have mail.

On the right, I pass a lustrous bungalow covered in glass on three sides with the same sign: First Banking Co.

Beyond the bank, a fieldstone turret towers in the distance. I turn from the paved path and veer to the left, up a knoll. The ground is bare beneath me, nothing but dirt and gravel. I round the bend at the top of the hill and glance up.

The edifice reaches at least 30 feet high and 10 feet wide, resembling an old stone silo. I scan the surrounding landscape for the usual sign, but my search is futile. What could this place be?

I poke closer. There is a slim fine-gravel lane leading to the front door. Well, leading to where a door would be.

In the place of a door is an open gapping entryway. The archway itself is nearly 15 feet tall. The outside surface of the stone is aged and deteriorating; tiny flakes of cinder clog the cracks and crevices in the stone. It is quiet and spooky here –almost surreal. I peer over my shoulder to see that I am alone and take a step under the archway.