“I’m only saying, something about this experiment stinks. They’re not being on the level with us. About what’s on the other side.”
“I can tell you what’s on the other side—French girls!” One of the soldiers curved his hands through the air in the shape of a woman’s body. The gloom was dispelled by talk of sweethearts left behind, of whether or not European girls were “friendly” and loved American boys. Of glory and right and might.
“Always writing, Luther. What do you write about?” One of the other soldiers ripped Luther’s letter from him.
“Give that back!” Luther made a grab for it, but the other soldier was bigger and pushed him back easily.
“‘Oh, my darling,’” the soldier read aloud to the others. “‘I long to hold you in my arms and wish that we were far from here and safe to love…’”
James snatched the letter away. “Come on, Gilroy. Enough.”
“You’re always protecting him. Saint O’Neill,” the big soldier teased. “Come on, read it to us, why don’tcha? Live a little.”
James handed the letter back to Luther. “I know what he writes. I don’t have to look.” He tapped one finger against his temple and smiled.
“Shit, O’Neill. You’ll be the best code breaker in the army. Can you read what everybody’s thinking?”
“Not always. But often enough.” James winked. “So you fellas might want to be careful.” James placed a hand on Luther’s shoulder. “Don’t let them bother you.”
Deep in her trance, Evie smiled, happy to know that the brother she remembered as good and kind had been exactly that. But the memory was shifting. There was a forest of tall pines. A partially frozen lake. A soldiers’ camp in a clearing. Four soldiers hunched over a game of cards at a small table. The sergeant gazed into a mirror hung from a branch on a tree as he scraped a razor along his strong jaw. On a shorn stump, an old Victrola turned round and round: “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile!”
Evie had witnessed this scene many times in her dreams. But this, she knew now, was no dream.
One soldier stared at the Victrola. “Faster,” he said, his neck tendons straining as he concentrated. The record picked up speed, making the singer’s voice go comically high.
The shaving soldier laughed. “Sounds like a buncha hyenas.”
“Now, just a minute! We’re not supposed to use our powers yet,” one of the soldiers at the table called out as he examined the hand he’d been dealt.
With a sigh, the soldier who’d revved up the record slowed it down again. “Just wanted to dance,” he said, breaking into a little soft shoe.
Another soldier lit his cigarette with a flame at the end of his finger. “Handy,” he said, and blew it out. “Hey, Luther! What’s with the long face? Come join the party!”
Luther stood off to one side, staring into the expanse of forest, his hands in his pockets. “I can’t shake the bad feeling.”
“C’mon now, Luther. They shot us up with super serum,” the shaving man said. He flicked shaving cream from his razor into the bushes, giving them a coating like snow. “We’re invincible! We don’t have to be afraid—it’s the enemy that should be afraid of us!”
The soldier with the fiery fingers leaned back in his chair. “Luther, you honestly think Mr. Marlowe and the United States Army would do anything bad to us? We are the one forty-four!”
“The one forty-four!” the others responded.
“I’m not saying they’re doing it on purpose,” Luther explained. “I’m saying they don’t realize what they’re getting themselves into.”
“And you do?”
“It’s that stuff they put inside me. Gives me a sense for what’s going to happen before it happens.”
“Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile!” the soft-shoe dancer sang to Luther, and soon, all the men except for James joined in with the teasing.
“Aw, lay off, boys,” James tried, but the others only sang harder, finally convulsing into fits of laughter.
Luther exchanged a furtive glance with James, then set off for the trees. Behind him, he heard the sergeant calling, “Aw, Luther! Come on back down after you’ve finished sulking!”
Luther tromped through the still pines, coming at last to a hilly mound surrounded by sentinel trees. A confectioner’s dusting of snow dappled the spongy pine. A moment later, here came James. “Luther…”
Luther’s breath came out in smoky bullets. “I’m leaving.”
“Be sensible. The experiment’s about to begin. You can’t leave.”
“I can. Through the woods.”
“Luther, you’ll be court-martialed!”
“I don’t think so. Not if my gut is right. Come with me.”
James’s expression was somber. “I’m not a deserter.”
“Better than whatever’s gonna happen to us today.” Luther took a step closer and wrapped his arms around James’s waist.
James tried to pull away. “Not here. What if…?”
Luther silenced his protest with a kiss. “To hell with them. I love you. I want to save us both. Come with me.”
James kissed each of Luther’s palms and then his lips. “I have to do this. I promised. This is my country.”
Luther shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders. “What if your country is asking you to do something you know is wrong?”
“Then I’ll accept the consequences. I signed up, and I’ll honor that.”
“Do you think your country would fight for you? For us?” Luther scoffed. “After all, you can read people’s thoughts now. You know what’s inside them.”
James angled his face toward the sky, cloudy gray with hints of blue. “You’d be surprised at what people think. It will all be fine. You’ll see.”
He kissed Luther’s forehead, then trekked back into the woods, toward the base, leaving a trail of footprints behind. Luther didn’t follow right away. He needed stillness. He needed to think. Along the lake’s edge, he looked out at the snow-dusted mountains and tried to shake his growing dread. More than anything, he wanted to believe as James did—that the people in charge of the experiment knew what they were doing and it would all be okay. But Luther had held back what he’d seen that had scared him most:
“Let me into your world,” the gray-faced man with the soulless eyes had whispered to Luther with a nearly orgiastic joy. “And I will tear it asunder.”
Whispering voices came from the forest.
“Who’s there?” Luther said. But he knew already. He could feel the press of the spirits at his back. The whispering grew louder, a clarion bell reverberating inside him:
“… It’s a trap, a trap, a trap…”
“… You are not safe from what comes. What comes. What comes…”
“… You must stop this stop this stop this…”