Chapter Three
Pete
Boston, Massachusetts
1941
T he mess hall hums with a familiar clatter of trays and loud voices. I look around and wonder if they’re all as brave as I’m pretending I am. Is anyone else questioning their choice to join Inkwell?
I run my thumb over the smooth edge of my tin cup, staring into the dark liquid. Coffee, they called it. Tastes more like a dare. I drink it, though, just like I’ll accept my next injection. I chose this and there’s no going back.
“Hey, Pete,” a voice calls from another table. It’s Ray, someone I’ve learned to avoid. To say that he’s confrontational would be putting it nicely.
I ignore him.
He stands and comes over, sliding into the seat across from me. The way he looks me straight in the eye, daring me to slug him, is unsettling. I was raised with three brothers and can hold my own in a tussle, but there is something dark and broken about Ray. All he knows is violence.
“I have a question,” he says, leaning an elbow on the table between us. “It’s something a bunch of us are curious about.”
I straighten my shoulders and hold his gaze. When I joined Inkwell, I imagined fighting Nazis in Europe. I didn’t realize the battle would start on American soil with men dressed in the same uniform. “Ask away. I have nothing to hide.”
“Why were you classified as 4-F? You don’t look any different than how you arrived. What was wrong with you?”
I take a deep breath and fight the temptation to look around the room. If the lowering of voices is anything to go by, people are listening. I keep my eyes glued to Ray’s, though, because doing anything else would be a sign of weakness to him. “I had Ulcerative Colitis.”
His expression twists comically. “You had what?”
“Digestive issues.”
“Hold on, they wouldn’t let you enlist because you had a stomach ache?”
I could have come back with a slam that would highlight the differences in the quality of our education. My father would have called that punching down, though. There’s no honor in that. So, instead, I joke, “I guess shitting myself constantly and the potential of my loud flatulence being flammable made me less appealing.”
“No, shit,” he says, seeming to mull that over.
“ Too much shit and sometimes arriving unexpectedly,” I add. “It’s not a condition I miss.”
He nods, and for just an instant, he seems to respect me for being honest. We’ve been told our future training will involve sparring with each other. I don’t look forward to facing him, but I don’t fear the prospect of it either. I had a great childhood and a wonderful family. I’ve heard he had neither. I don’t want to lose to him or beat him and hurt him more, but I won’t have the luxury of opting out. None of us will.
What we have in common is that all of us agreed to leave our prior lives behind for the chance to help save the world. We traded more than our freedom for this. Had any of us understood the finality of our decision, I doubt many would have agreed. Our families believe we’re dead. Many who joined with us already are. Each weekly injection thins our herd horrifically. Those of us who survive are becoming healthier, stronger, and faster. We don’t ask what they’re putting in us and we don’t talk about the men who are taken away screaming in pain.
No one doubts the warning that if any of us run, Inkwell will erase not only us, but also everyone we care about.
I used to think that being brave meant not being afraid. I don’t see it that way anymore. Now it means not giving up. Not letting fear win. I’m not the only one worrying that such a brutal organization might not send us on the most ethical of missions. But I’m here and I’m going to save the world—with or without Inkwell.
Another soldier, Hugh, joins us, laying a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “Everything okay over here?”
Ray stands, turns, and shoves Hugh back with a force that would have sent an unenhanced person sprawling. Hugh stands his ground. Ray growls, “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”
I rise to my feet. “We’re good.”
Hugh’s concern isn’t unwarranted. Ray broke a man’s arm a few days ago just for bumping into him.
Hugh stands nose-to-nose with Ray. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Ray’s body shakes with a fury that makes me sad for him. Someone did that to him. Someone cursed him with a rage that rules him.
Jack, a man I’d describe as a gentle giant, walks over and stands beside Hugh. “Ray, I noticed they just put out dessert. It’s chocolate cake.”
Ray blinks slowly, weighing the pros and cons of allowing the situation to de-escalate. “I fucking love chocolate.”
“I’m glad I can eat it now without shitting all over myself later,” I joke.
Ray turns and scans my face. I smile. Maybe it’s the knowledge that any of us could die due to the next injection, but I don’t hate him. Nor do I feel the need to fix him. It’s nice that Hugh intervened, but it wasn’t necessary. I don’t want to, but I can handle Ray.
“That must have sucked,” Ray says with a surprising hint of sympathy.
“It did.”
I wouldn’t say we became friends in that moment, but we did come to an understanding. War isn’t about friendship. It’s not even about survival. It’s about believing in something bigger and more important than yourself. We may have lived very different lives, but we are all heading into the same battle and our survival will rely on learning to trust each other.
“Want a piece of cake?” Ray asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Thanks.”