Adventures of the G-Men #1

"Reflections"

Fort Oakley, Louisiana – 1953

The rain came down in hard, Southern sheets, rattling the tin roof of the medical wing at Fort Oakley. Inside, the dim yellow light of a single desk lamp cast long shadows on the cinderblock walls. The Army psychiatrist, Major Walter Griggs, leaned back in his chair, flipping through the notes of his most troubling case.

Across from him sat the G-Man—a man of legend among the ranks, his codename whispered with awe and a hint of fear. Officially, he was Sergeant First Class Garland Monroe, recipient of classified enhancements in a desperate Cold War initiative to create America’s answer to the Soviet "Red Titans." But nothing in the Army files explained the haunting dreams, the reflections, or the way he spoke with a cadence older than his years.

Garland sat still, his rigid frame too large for the wooden chair. The fluorescent light above flickered once before settling.

"You had the dream again, Garland?" Major Griggs asked.

Garland nodded slowly, his voice low and graveled, more Mississippi Delta than Fort Benning. "It’s always the same, Doc. I’m back in the swamp, barefoot, 'bout seven years old. Name’s Jeremiah. Ma's skin’s dark as wet earth, Pa’s got calloused hands from cuttin’ cypress all day. We live in a shack out past the bayou, away from the town and the men in white sheets."

Griggs scribbled a note. "You believe this child—Jeremiah—is you?"

Click here for the beginning.

Garland hesitated. "Don’t just believe it. I feel it. Like a memory more than a dream. I can smell the crawfish boilin’ in Ma’s pot, hear the frogs bellowin’ after dark. And when I wake up—every damn morning—I see his face. In the mirror. Not mine. His."

Griggs glanced at the one-way glass behind them. He knew full well the observers from the Pentagon were watching, listening. This wasn’t just therapy. It was containment.

"You said something new happened last night. Something with the Klan?"

Garland’s jaw clenched. "Yeah. They walked past the shack. Torches high. Same as always. Only this time... they stopped. They looked straight through the cypress trees. I heard one say, ‘We got a demon in there, waitin’ to sprout horns.’ Then Pa pulled me inside. Told me not to make a sound. Told Ma to hide the bones."

Griggs looked up sharply. "Bones?"

Garland nodded. "Animal bones. Deer. Birds. But... arranged. Like charms. I don’t know what it means, but it ain’t just a dream. I can feel the weight of it when I wake up. Like mud in my lungs. And Doc—" Garland leaned forward, voice trembling for the first time, "—I don’t remember becoming the G-Man. I remember becoming Jeremiah. More every day."

Griggs leaned back, unease prickling under his collar. "Have you considered the possibility that the project—the injections, the conditioning—might be altering your memories?"

"I thought of that. But then why does Jeremiah know things I never learned? Why do I remember his Ma singin’ a hymn in a language I don’t even speak?"

There was a pause.

"I looked up the hymn," Garland added. "It’s Creole. Real old. Talks about hiding from the Devil in the trees."

From the observation booth, a red phone rang. A general picked it up, listening, frowning. Griggs noticed the movement behind the glass. Something was changing.

"Garland," Griggs said cautiously, "if these dreams are telling you something—about your origin, about the nature of your powers—what do you think they mean?"

Garland looked up, his eyes distant and far away, as though still in the dream.

"I think... I ain’t supposed to be here. I think they pulled me outta somethin’ old. Buried. Maybe cursed. I think the G-Man ain't a hero." He looked at the mirror. "He’s a mask. And Jeremiah’s the truth."

Suddenly, the lights flickered again. For a split second, the mirror across the room reflected not the towering soldier—but the frightened face of a small, barefoot boy.

And then the light steadied.

But the boy’s reflection remained.

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To Be Continued.

Copyright 2025 Chris Love