The Chaos Loop

by Peter Lerangis

  “Unless,” Corey said, “his stuff really sucks.”

  “It’s not about quality, it’s about popularity. We’ll do a social media campaign, using . . . whatever they used. This could work, Corey.”

  “Really?” Corey said.

  Leila fell silent. As the strains of Bach wafted through the door, Corey could read her mind. They wanted this thing to work, but it was really sketchy.

  “We’ll keep thinking,” she said.

  Corey scanned the debris in the room again. His eye went right to a twisted hunk of rusted metal, which looked like it had been chewed up by the Incredible Hulk. As he picked it up, an old envelope dangled from it on a string.

  Carefully he reached into the envelope. Its edges disintegrated into flakes and dust as he pulled out an old photo, which had a handwritten message on the back.

  The photo showed two older women standing at a gate marked with a sign in another language. They wore sunglasses and their white hair was done up in a sixties-style beehive. “Do you know who they are?” Corey asked.

  “No clue,” Leila replied.

  Corey turned over the photo. On the other side was a handwritten message:

  CLARA, MEIN LIEBCHEN:

  VERGISS NICHT.

  HÖR NICHT AUF ZU VERSUCHEN

  11/39

  —M. STROBEL

  Leila came closer. “‘Dear Clara’—the chen at the end is what you add when you like someone a lot—‘Do not forget. Do not stop trying.’ I don’t know who M. Strobel is. I guess these are the two people in the photo.”

  “What wouldn’t they want to forget?” Corey said. “It sounds ominous.”

  “November nineteen thirty-nine . . .” Leila was already flipping through her phone. “It was a really bad year over there. It’s when the Nazis started conquering Europe. We didn’t enter the war until nineteen forty-one, but horrible things were happening.”

  Corey looked over her shoulder as she scrolled through a history of World War II. “Kristallnacht was November, but nineteen thirty-eight, a year earlier,” Leila said. “When the Nazis destroyed Jewish shops, breaking glass and kidnapping people, forcing them to go to death camps. Maybe this was a one-year anniversary? This could be something left over from the destruction.”

  “Maybe we should go back to nineteen thirty-eight,” Corey said.

  “Like, just some random time in nineteen thirty-eight?” Leila asked. “Why?”

  “To help out,” Corey said. “If we get there, I can do some microhopping to get us back to before Kristallnacht. Then we can warn people, convince at least some of them to escape before it’s too late.”

  “But . . . what about Hitler?” Leila asked.

  “One step at a time,” Corey said. “Maybe when we’re there we can do some spying, meet some people in the Resistance. Time travelers make great spies, Leila. You and me, everyone in the twenty-first century, we know where Hitler went and what he did. We may have to snoop around in the past, then come back and do research so we can really nail a plan. But if we make friends with the right people, if we tip them off, they can do the dirty work.”

  “You really think that would work?” Leila asked.

  Corey shrugged. “At least as well as trying to turn Hitler into Mona Lisa Guy.”

  “DaVinci,” Leila said. But she didn’t look convinced.

  Corey knew if he hesitated, they’d never do anything. He held tight to the metal thing. It was beginning to feel warm. “Um, I’m needing an answer now, I think.”

  “Corey . . . ?” Leila said.

  It didn’t take long before he started to see white and feel like his own body was about to fly apart. “Hold on to me,” he said.

  “You’re not actually doing this?” Leila said.

  “Not by myself!”

  “We haven’t talked it through—”

  “Hold on to me! Now!”

  He felt Leila’s fingers clasping his arm. He turned to face her, but all he saw was a field of white.

  And all he heard was a sound like a jet engine.

  9

  When Corey came to, he was staring into the face of a dead chicken.

  Gasping, he pushed it away and scrambled to his feet.

  Leila was screaming.

  “Sorry!” Corey said.

  “What just happened?” Leila looked as woozy and confused as Corey felt.

  The chicken, saying nothing, remained in a puddle on the muddy road. Next to it was Auntie Flora’s twisted piece of metal, sending up wisps of smoke.

  Not two feet away a woman stared at Corey and Leila, openmouthed. She was wearing a gray, old-timey raincoat and too much makeup. She clutched a paper bag full of groceries in one hand and a leaky umbrella in the other. It was raining pretty heavily, and water dripped from the edges of a thick kerchief she’d pulled around her head.

  Corey caught a glimpse of a sign that said Rosenheimer Street. The road was lined with two- to four-story buildings, and just ahead was a grand archway marked Bürgerbräukeller. “Where the heck are we?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Leila said, her face darkening as she spotted the metal shard on the ground. “And I don’t know why you just thought you could hop in time without even discussing it. Welcome to nineteen thirty-nine, I guess.” Leila attempted a smile at the woman and said, “Entschuldigen Sie, bitte.”

  The woman eyed them head to toe with a baffled expression, as if they’d come dressed in Halloween costumes. Then she let loose a torrent of foreign words as she snatched the chicken out of the puddle.

  “Is that German?” Corey asked.

  “A weird dialect of it,” Leila said. “I think she’s calling you a chicken thief. I also think we shocked her. Considering, you know, we appeared out of nowhere from the future.”

  The woman had turned and was now heading toward the archway. “WE . . . COME . . . IN . . . PEACE . . .” Corey called out.

  “Shouting at her slowly is not going to make her understand English. Hang on, let me try again. I’ll find out where we are.” Leila ran after the woman, asking her a question in German.

  Corey scooped up the piece of metal and shoved it in his backpack. He caught up with Leila and her new friend at the archway. His teeth were chattering, but he didn’t know if it was from the cold, the rain, or the time travel. The woman had extended her umbrella to cover Leila but didn’t seem concerned about Corey.

  He followed them down a path to a massive brick building with the same name that adorned the archway—Bürgerbräukeller—over double wooden doors. The woman tried them, but they were locked. This caused another explosion of words, as she set down her bags and fumbled in her pocket for keys. “What’s she saying?” Corey asked.

  Leila stepped back and lowered her voice. “I’m not getting one hundred percent of it. But this is a major restaurant and she works here. We’re in Munich, Germany, and her name is Maria.”

  Corey looked around. “Did you ask her what year it is?”

  “Uh, no, that is not a normal question,” Leila replied. “She is insisting that we come in and have breakfast. Someone was supposed to open the place this morning at six thirty, but he didn’t show up. She thinks our clothing is weird, but when I told her we were Americans, that seemed to satisfy her. I said we were orphans visiting an uncle, and he’s at work.”

  “That’s so lame.”

  “She bought it. Anyway, to answer your question, the artifact said nineteen thirty-nine and that would make sense from the things she said. She mentioned Nazis. She also said that everyone is working around the clock and receiving less for it. Which would make sense for Germany before the war. She’s very opinionated.”

  With an exasperated grunt, Maria pushed open the heavy wooden door. Corey caught a blast of pungent air, a combination of food spices, stale cigarette smoke, and spilled beer. But it was warmer and much drier inside, and that counted for something.

  They stepped into a marble lobby with a carved wooden desk that contained an old-fashi
oned telephone with a brass bell and an open leather-bound ledger. But Maria immediately veered to the right, down a wide stone staircase.

  It was dark, but Corey could see the outline of an enormous underground space, nearly the size of a city block. At the bottom, Maria pressed a button on the wall. Above them, a matrix of six giant, elaborate chandeliers came to life across a vaulted ceiling. The light bathed a neat array of tables in a soft sepia glow. Chairs sat upside down on the tabletops, like wooden families frozen in place during a dinner. Balconies lined all four walls, containing sturdy railings and more tables. Under one of those balconies, along the opposite wall, was a stage with a podium.

  “Schön, ja?” Maria said.

  “Yes, beautiful,” Leila replied. “Guess they have entertainment here. Haben Sie Theaterstücke hier?”

  Maria nodded. “Und Reden. Sie sind ganz berühmt.”

  “‘And speeches,’” Leila translated. “‘They’re very famous.’”

  “Kommt,” Maria urged, gesturing toward a pair of swinging doors in the wall.

  Leila scampered after her. But Corey’s eyes were stuck on the enormous chandeliers. He’d never seen anything like them. It seemed impossible they could stay attached to the ceiling without crashing down. The light coming through the upper windows was hitting the crystals, thousands of them. He walked into the room, watching tiny rainbows shoot out in all directions.

  He was dying to show Leila, but she and Maria had disappeared behind the hinged doors. As Corey turned to follow, he heard a soft crashing noise and the click of a closing door to his right.

  “Hello?”

  His voice sounded small and weak in the big room. The noise came from the stage area, under the far balcony. Behind the podium and under the balcony was a door in the wall. Corey was sure someone had slipped inside.

  Which meant someone was here who wasn’t supposed to be.

  He thought about heading into the kitchen to tell Maria, but his eyes landed on a pile of stuff—a chisel, hammer, and mound of rags at the base of a thick white pillar under the balcony.

  As he stepped closer to examine, the door’s handle clicked again.

  Corey quickly hid behind the pillar. He heard the door squeak as it slowly swung open, and he held his breath.

  He waited for footsteps, his heart galloping. He counted to one hundred. But there were no other sounds in the room, no footsteps, no voice, no other person’s breathing.

  He waited a few seconds more in total silence.

  Whoever had been there must have retreated. And Corey had no interest in sticking around to find out who it was. Slowly he craned his neck around the pillar.

  On the other side, a thick-haired man with a beard stubble was looking back at him.

  “Gahh!” Corey blurted out, jumping back.

  The guy said nothing. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips thin and drawn into a horizontal line.

  “L-L—Leila?” Corey rasped, backing slowly away. “Leila?”

  With a sharp ssshhh, the man grabbed Corey’s arm and dragged him away from the pillar and inside the open door.

  10

  Corey didn’t know what the guy was saying. He was practically spitting his words. He seemed jittery and wild-eyed. None of those things was a good sign.

  “I—I don’t speak German,” Corey said. “No . . . gespeaken . . .”

  The guy stopped. His eyes were focused on Corey’s shoes now. He swallowed and blinked. “Bist du . . . Amerikanisch?” he said.

  “R-r—right,” Corey replied. “I come in peace.”

  He cringed at his own words. That plea hadn’t worked the first time.

  “Peace,” the man repeated. Then he pointed to himself. “Eh . . . Georg, me,” he said, pronouncing the name GAY-org. “Johann Georg Elser.”

  “Corey, me,” Corey replied.

  The man gestured toward Corey’s shoes. “Sehr . . . interessant.”

  “Air Jordans,” Corey said.

  The guy cocked his head. “Er . . . was?”

  Corey tried to shake loose, but the guy held tight. He wasn’t sure what to do. Possibilities flew through his head: The guy could be homeless. Or a burglar. Or a repairman who got stuck in the place overnight and was afraid to be found out. Or a homicidal maniac digging graves under the restaurant.

  “Well, nice to meet you,” Corey said. “But I’m late for breakfast. Leil—!”

  “Ssssh!” With his free hand, Georg covered Corey’s mouth. The palm smelled of motor oil and plaster. Corey looked around desperately for a mode of escape. He couldn’t help coughing. The only thing he could do was use his teeth. In midcough, he bit down hard. His teeth grabbed a tough, fleshy part of the guy’s palm. As Georg jerked backward, gasping, Corey bolted out the door and headed for the kitchen.

  “Nein!” Georg cried out. His hand grabbed the edge of Corey’s untucked shirt. Corey lost his balance. They both tumbled to the floor, landing next to the pile of tools by the pillar. Corey reached for a hammer, but Georg snatched it away from him and held it high over his head.

  Corey scrabbled to his feet. “You—you don’t want to do that. I’m not even born yet.”

  Georg’s face was growing red and swollen. His chest was heaving. “Who . . . is you?”

  “A tourist?” Corey replied. Georg looked confused, but at least he had some English vocabulary, so Corey slowed down. “I . . . don’t care . . . that you’re . . . here. Okay? Let . . . me . . . go . . . and I won’t . . . say . . . a word.”

  “You . . . me . . . secret?” Georg said, his voice soft and desperate sounding. “Please to tell nobody about me . . . ?”

  “Absolutely nobody. Boy Scout promise.” Corey began backing away. “Mouth gezippen.”

  “Or I must . . .”

  The old guy was fishing for the right English word. But Corey didn’t care what the right English word was. He turned, zigzagging around the tables toward the kitchen. He didn’t bother to look back.

  In the kitchen, Maria and Leila were chatting away in a mix of German and English, while Maria prepared an elaborate-looking omelet. The air smelled of cooked onions and peppers. “Where have you been?” Leila asked.

  “Nowhere!” Corey snapped, a little too loud. He forced a smile, trying to stop himself from jittering. “I mean, just . . . in there. The restaurant. Ballroom. Or whatever it is. Admiring the chandeliers.”

  “Very biggest room, eh?” Maria said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Wait, you know English?” Corey asked.

  Maria laughed. “Ja, ein bisschen.”

  “That means ‘yes, a little,’” Leila said, raising an eyebrow toward Corey. “And you are lying to me. Something happened.”

  “Nope,” Corey lied.

  “What was it?” Leila insisted.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you!”

  Once again, Corey cringed at his own words.

  With a sigh, Leila removed her apron. Taking Corey by the arm, she led him back toward the restaurant. “Entschuldigung, Maria, er hat Angst, auf die Toilette zu gehen.”

  As they approached the door, Corey asked. “What did you tell her?”

  “That you were nervous about going to the bathroom.”

  “That’s humiliating!”

  Leila pulled him through the swinging doors and into the big restaurant. Corey’s eyes went right to the pillar, where he’d last seen Georg, but the guy was nowhere in sight.

  “So tell me, Corey Fletcher,” Leila barreled on, “why are you acting so weird? And what just happened to you? We are here in nineteen thirty-nine, this is your idea, and if you think you’re going to keep secrets from me, I will go back to the future and leave you here to work things out yourself.”

  Corey thought for a moment. “I did a little snooping around, but . . . um . . . I promised someone I wouldn’t say what I saw. Sorry. Don’t leave me here.”

  “We’re, like, a century in the past and you’re worried about keeping secrets?”

  “It was a guy na
med Georg, Leila, okay?” Corey replied. “He was doing something with tools . . . repairing . . . I don’t know. It didn’t seem like it would be a big deal, but he hid from me. I was curious. I didn’t expect him to jump me with a hammer.”

  “What? He attacked you?” Leila ran around Corey, heading for the door. “No one attacks my best friend!”

  “Leila, no!” Corey yelled. “Wait, I’m your best friend? Come back!”

  There was no stopping her. Corey raced to the pillar to pick up one of the tools, just in case they needed to threaten him. But the floor around the pillar was clear—no tools, no rags, no pile of dust.

  “He escaped!” Leila called out from the door. “There’s no one in here.”

  “That was quick,” Corey said. “There were tools here. A hammer, a chisel, rags. Like the guy had been repairing one of these columns.”

  “Repairing?” Leila said. “So he’s a homicidal custodian?”

  Corey knelt by the pillar. A thin rectangle had been traced into the side, about two feet high by a foot wide. Leila ran her fingers along the shape. “Looks like some kind of door. But there’s no keyhole. No handle.”

  “You think he’s hiding something in there he doesn’t want Maria to know about?” Corey guessed.

  “Why would a person hide something in a big old restaurant?”

  Corey shrugged. “I’ll work on that.”

  “At any rate, he probably wouldn’t care about Maria. She doesn’t run the place or own it. She’s just a waiter, plus she cooks and shops.” Leila glanced around the room. “Maybe he’s still here. Maybe he’s hiding.”

  “This place is huge. You could play a baseball game in here.” Corey gazed up into the balconies, looking for shadows, movement, but he saw nothing unusual. The chandelier crystals shot pinpricks of light against the wall. One of them seemed to be turning slightly, as if from a small gust of wind.

  There was something about those chandeliers.

  His eyes fixed on one of them. It hung from a sturdy metal ring affixed to the ceiling. From the circumference of the ring, filigreed metal bars curved downward and inward to meet at the center. They formed a cage in the shape of a half-sphere, containing a bank of light bulbs.