The Chaos Loop

by Peter Lerangis

  “It’ll work,” Corey murmured, trying not to feel numb inside. “I’ll correct my mistakes, and it’ll work.”

  “Corey, what you and Leila did was brave and dangerous and very smart,” Papou said gently. Leila sat on the other side of the old man and rested her head on his shoulder. “Think about all you’ve done. Many, many things. You saved a soldier from suicide in the eighteen sixties. You saved Bailey from being run over. You stopped an evil man from mugging your sister. But you can’t do it all.”

  “You guys don’t know,” Corey muttered. “You can’t do what I can do. You’re not Throwbacks.”

  “Paithi mou, maybe there are some things in history that are just too big to change, even for Throwbacks,” Papou said. “You can keep a stream from flowing, but you can’t change the tides.”

  From outside the room, Corey heard the doorbell ring, followed by Ms. Sharp’s footsteps running to answer the door.

  “Come on,” Leila said. “Food’s here.”

  “Etsi, bravo,” Papou said, rising to his feet on creaky knees. “Ela. Come to the kitchen. You will feel better.”

  As he left, Corey struggled to his feet. He unhooked his backpack and turned it upside down onto Leila’s bed.

  All that was left inside was a pair of Air Jordans and a metal cigarette case. The chandelier shard and the photo, the painting from Fritzie—they were gone now. Corey had left them in the past.

  Even that he couldn’t do right.

  He pushed aside his sneakers. The cigarette case had fallen open to the beat-up old card inside that said “anislaw Meye.” His mom’s words came back to him.

  Stanislaw Meyer . . . Mutti’s brother. Your great-uncle. They found this on his body in the woods, near the end of the war.

  He held the card and tried to remember the rest of his mother’s story. An escape from a death march, through the woods. A road where Stanislaw was killed after he shot at Nazi vehicles that had actually been captured by Allies.

  Killed because of a mistake.

  Corey thought for a long moment. Even if he wanted to go back to 1908 Vienna, or the Bürgerbräukeller in 1939, he couldn’t. The artifacts were gone now.

  This cigarette case was found near the end of the war. Corey wasn’t sure how near. By the time Stanislaw made his way through the woods, Hitler had probably done most of his dirty work.

  But not all.

  What if Stanislaw had not mistaken the convoy for Nazis? He would have survived. Mom had said he could see the lights of a town. If he could see them, he could have reached it. There, he might have had a chance.

  Corey’s mind was racing now. What about trying one more time?

  A voice in his head screamed no. Papou had warned about this. Once you start, it is so hard to stop. You get caught in what the ancients call a chaos loop. A cycle of failure and escalating frustration. It sucks you in and you will never, let go until . . .

  Chasing Hitler could become a chaos loop. Corey saw that now. What his grandfather had said about changing the tides made sense. Every superpower had a vulnerability.

  “Corey mou!” Papou called out from the kitchen. “Come before the bagels get stale!”

  Corey heard the words but didn’t move.

  He knew he couldn’t just give up. Saving a man’s life—that wasn’t trying to change the tides. That was something he had done before, and he could do it again.

  Corey took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Papou,” he said softly. “Forgive me, Leila.”

  “Eh?” Papou called back. “Did you say something? Corey, come! Ach, what is with my grandson?”

  Papou’s footsteps padded down the hallway toward Leila’s room. But Corey was already gripping tight to the cigarette case.

  He heard a hand on the doorknob. He saw it turn.

  As the door angled open, he was gone.

  26

  The cold was a deep shock to his system.

  So was the sight of the corpse.

  It—he—was facedown in the snow. The dead man was dressed in a thick but ragged wool coat. A deep oval of blood was growing in the snow from the top of his head outward.

  Corey felt sick to his stomach. He had to look away.

  Instinctively he backed off. But the ground rose sharply behind him and he stumbled. The snow was seeping through his shoes, and already his feet were freezing. Above him the sun shone through the gray-green peaks of a pine forest. Corey could see a shack at the top of the incline. The corpse had been left by the side of a path recently beaten through the snow. The footsteps were fresh, their outlines only now being softened by thick, falling flakes. They traced the bottom of the hill and disappeared into the woods.

  In the distance he heard tromping feet and voices—shouts and commands in some other language. It sounded like German to Corey, but he couldn’t be sure. The metal cigarette case belonged to Uncle Stanislaw, and he was Polish.

  In the area where the voices were coming from, Corey could see movement. A dull gray blot among the trees, popping in and out of sight.

  As he stood, his back ached again. He kept himself from crying out in pain. He couldn’t risk being heard in the clear wintry air and the empty forest. Someone in the group obviously had a gun. And was not afraid to use it.

  Corey’s teeth began to chatter. He knew he wouldn’t last long standing here in just a shirt and pants.

  He stole another look at the corpse. The coat looked raggedy, but it was made of wool. The boots were a little big, and they had holes, but they were thicker and sturdier than what Corey was wearing. And the dead man’s hands were covered with shredded leather gloves.

  Corey choked back a feeling of nausea. The idea of taking clothing from a dead person was disgusting.

  But not disgusting enough to die for.

  Kneeling down, he took a deep breath and said softly, “I’m really sorry, sir. If you’re listening to me from wherever you are, forgive me, okay?”

  He waited a moment, then reached for the jacket collar. The man was rail thin, but he still seemed heavy. Pulling downward, to avoid the growing bloodstain, Corey carefully removed the coat. The body was still warm, and somehow that fact made Corey finally give up whatever was in his stomach. It wasn’t much, but it steamed when it hit the snow.

  He coughed and coughed. Loud, retching coughs. He tried to stifle the sound but couldn’t. The voices in the distance were growing louder, but it sounded like the men were arguing. No one seemed to have heard him.

  The coat was heavy and about two sizes too big, but putting it on, Corey felt warmer right away. As fast as he could, he removed the guy’s boots and put them on, too. And then the gloves. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Lifting his feet awkwardly with the oversized boots, he headed up the hill toward the shack. The snow was fluffy but very thick, which made the going slow. The shack was lopsided and neglected. Its only door had been torn off, and if there had ever been windows or screens, they were long gone. The rusted black pipe of a stove emerged upward through a small, slanted roof, which looked like it was about to slide off its beams.

  It was shadowy inside as Corey leaned into the door. “Hello?” he called out.

  No answer.

  As he stepped in, the ground was soft and bouncy under his boots, fragrant with decaying branches and pine needles. He propped his back against a wall and allowed himself to sink down. In the cold, his pain wasn’t quite so horrible. He could still hear the voices down on the path. It seemed like the men were standing still, maybe taking a break. German. Definitely German. Soon they gave way to laughter, light talking. And then, finally, silence.

  Leila would know what they were saying.

  Of course.

  Corey felt himself seize up inside. He was more scared than he’d been in a long time. What made him think he could do this without Leila? Making decisions when you were tired and depressed was a dumb idea. Where was he anyway? What year was this? He knew nothing.

  He would have to go back. He would have t
o convince Leila to do this with him.

  Corey felt a funny sensation on his legs. He looked down in time to see a small rat leaping off his pants and onto the floor.

  “Gahhhh!” he cried out.

  The rat twitched its whiskers and scurried into a hole.

  Enough.

  He took off his gloves and reached into his pocket for his twenty-first-century coins. Those would get him back to the present. Right away he noticed the cigarette case was gone. He must dropped it down by the corpse.

  He looked around for something else, some other piece of metal in the shack that would eventually get him back here, with Leila. But the place was in such a state of decay. It looked like it had been put together with glue anyway. He took a deep breath. Before doing anything else, he would have to go back down the hill and get the case. He stood and moved for the door.

  A sharp bang, from deep in the woods, made him jump.

  Then another bang.

  A scream rang out over the snow, followed by a series of explosions like firecrackers. Screams. Bloodcurdling howls.

  Corey couldn’t move. It felt as if every organ had shriveled, every ounce of fluid in his body drained. He stood still in the silence that followed, which was absolute. As if nothing at all had happened.

  He felt like puking again. Puking and going home.

  He would do this fast. Grab the cigarette case, then grab the coins in his pocket. His twenty-first-century coins. Did he even have coins anymore, in these clothes from 1939? Corey wasn’t even sure of that. He’d used them to get back to the present, but had he even put them back in his pocket when he’d changed into these clothes at that store in Munich?

  As he fumbled in his pocket, his hands were so cold he couldn’t feel his fingers. Even with the gloves. They closed around something, but he wasn’t sure what. The dumbest thing he’d done was not wear a belt with a metal buckle, from home. As a backup.

  He tried to pull his hand out, but it caught on the edges of his pocket. Which would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. With a grunt, he pulled it loose.

  His fist was full of coins, all right. But they spilled out onto the ground, scattering on the forest floor like tiny animals. Some of them disappeared into the shadows, but three coins rolled right out the door.

  Corey ran after them, but he didn’t get very far.

  A massive figure stepped into the doorway, blocking his way.

  27

  “Ssssshhhhhh . . .”

  Corey didn’t need the warning. He was too scared to make a noise. He retreated into the shack until his back made contact with the wall.

  The man stood there, staring. His face was broad and pockmarked and covered with sweat. His eyes were dark, but strands of reddish hair flowed out the sides of a thick wool cap, almost to his shoulders. He wore a coat not much different from the one Corey had taken from the dead body, and he looked as shocked as Corey felt. “Junge . . .” he said under his breath.

  Corey recognized that German word. “Boy!” he said. “Yup. I’m a boy. A helpless one. So don’t kill me.”

  “Englisch?” the guy asked.

  “American.”

  Taking a deep breath, the guy walked in. “You dropped coins. But I do not think you will need them here. The wolves, they do not accept cash.”

  “Wolves?” Corey said

  “I am not afraid of many things.” The guy chuckled. “But I am very much afraid of wolves. It is why I do not like der dunkle Wald.”

  “I don’t speak German.”

  “The dark forest.”

  The guy had to duck to fit through the door. His shoulders were enormous. He seemed to take up most of the space in the room. Not to mention the air. Corey was finding it hard to breathe.

  He stared at Corey, scratching his head. “Why are you here?”

  “Why are you here?” Corey asked.

  “To make peepee.” He gestured toward one side of the shack. Then he gave the tiniest hint of a smile. “But I am finished.”

  The man went right for the window. He grimaced as he lowered himself to one knee and peered through, in the direction of the shots. For a moment he stared, not moving a muscle. “I hear nothing,” he said finally.

  “No,” Corey agreed.

  “Do you have gun?” he asked, his eyes not wavering. “Knife?”

  “Sorry.”

  “The shots. Outside. You heard them, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Bullets. Wolves.

  Get me out of here.

  “I . . . sort of have to go,” Corey said lamely. He eyed the holes in the snow, just outside the door, which marked where the coins had dropped.

  “No!” The man grabbed Corey’s arm and pulled him down onto his knees. “It is not safe.”

  “Right. Okay, I’ll stay a few minutes.”

  “They tell us—all of us—we are the best workers in camp. . . .” The man’s voice was raspy and strained. His eyes darted as he spoke, and his words spilled out over one another. “They say they are taking us to freedom. To border town near Austria called Kurtstadt. We have food, drink while we are walking. Then one man, Oskar, he is very sick. He asks them to warten. Wait. But it is so cold, and they are not patient. They tell him come, come, schnell, we must go! Oskar tries, but he cannot move. And so they shoot him. In den Kopf. In the head. Just like that. They say this is act of kindness. Because otherwise he will die slowly in snow. Kindness!”

  The man’s eyes were red and moist now.

  Corey gulped. “I think I’m wearing Oskar’s coat.”

  But the man didn’t seem to hear him. He was talking as if to the air. “They say they will take the rest of us to freedom. But we must walk. This is when I know they are not telling the truth. They do not want to walk. They do not want to go all the way to another Nazi camp in the cold. They want to return. And if they return with no prisoners, pffft, the Nazis do not ask questions. They do not care what happened to us. So I tell guards then I must go and peepee, and I hope they do not notice I am gone. . . .”

  “Yeah. I hope so, too.”

  The man whirled around to Corey. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Corey Fletcher,” he replied.

  “Because when I come up the hill, I find this in the snow.” He held out the metal cigarette case to Corey. “Yours?”

  “Uh, yes. Thanks.” Corey reached for the box, but the man pulled it back.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “One question.”

  “What?”

  The man eyed him oddly. “If your name is Corey, then why you have a cigarette case with this card on the inside?”

  He flipped open the box and lifted out the ID card, which was now newer looking and intact, displaying the name STANISLAW MEYER.

  Corey thought fast. “Because that’s my . . . uncle. My Polish uncle. He gave this to me. I’m using it as an alias. Because the Nazis are after my family. I was sent away. I don’t want anyone to know my real name.”

  “Ah.” The guy snapped the box shut and handed it to Corey, who quickly stashed it in his pocket. “This is a coincidence. Because this name, Stanislaw Meyer—this is my name, too. And I have a case that is exactly same.”

  28

  By now Corey had watched Leila come face-to-face with her ancestors twice. So he should have known how to handle this meeting. Running into these ancestors made sense. That’s what the artifacts did—they brought you to the people who owned them.

  But all that came out of his mouth was incoherent splutter. “You—you’re Stan—wow—I mean—the same name—”

  The big guy reached into his pocket, pulled out the identical cigarette case, and flipped it open. Inside were a few battered-looking cigarettes, some of which had already been smoked down to nubs. With his yellowing fingertips poking through his gloves, he pushed aside the cigarettes and pulled out his ID card. The identical Star of David. The identical name.

  He didn’t look at all like Mom. That was the first thing Corey noticed. But h
is face was dirty and he was dressed in heavy clothing, so it was hard to tell. As he looked at Corey, his gaze was steely and direct. And his smile curled up on the left side. Those were definitely family traits.

  “If your name is Fincher,” he said, “it is maybe not wise to take an alias as a Jewish name.”

  “It’s Fletcher,” Corey said. “My family is Jewish on my mother’s side.”

  At least that was true.

  “Mm,” Stanislaw said, pocketing his case. “We are maybe related.”

  “Maybe,” Corey said.

  Crouching to his knees, Stanislaw looked back out the window. “We cannot stay here long.”

  “Where do we go?” Corey asked.

  “Sssshhh . . .” Stanislaw put his finger to his mouth, gesturing outside with his eyes.

  Corey knelt next to him. The snow had picked up, so it was hard to see very far. Overhead the wind rustled in the pine trees, howling piteously like a lost ghost.

  “Ach,” Stanislaw whispered. “We stay here too long already. Look to the right.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, Corey saw a vague shadow in the whiteness. It began to grow, until he could make out individual shapes. Two . . . three . . . four . . .

  “Five guards?” Corey asked.

  Stanislaw nodded. “And we were thirty prisoners. We outnumber them six to one. But they have guns. And power. And no souls.”

  “Our footprints!” Corey said. “They’ll lead here!”

  “No,” Stanislaw said. “Look. Do you see our prints now? Nature takes care of us.”

  He had a point. The forest floor was a field of blowing snow. Whatever prints had been there were now covered over.

  They both ducked down under the windows as the men came into view. Although their prints had been covered, too, Corey could see that their path had been carefully marked. They had driven metal tags, in the shapes of swastikas, into tree trunks using nails.

  Soon they were passing directly underneath, talking steadily. “What are they saying?” Corey asked.

  As Stanislaw listened, the lines on his face seemed to deepen. “We killed them all. That’s what he is saying. Killed every one of them. Shot them in a barn. Where they . . .” The words choked in his throat and he cleared it. “Where they belonged.”