The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The interior of space is filled with shadows; she can make out few, if any, of its details more than a few yards away on either side. She wishes she had flashlight, but also thinks that she might look pretty foolish with one.

Again, she wonders whether it is safe to cross this corridor. She turns and checks the glass pane of the door. There is no warning sign posted there—only a corporate flyer about an internal promotional event from two days earlier. Straightening with self-imposed confidence, she moves forward.

The door closes and locks behind her with an audible click. Unlike before, this time the sound disappears quickly within the vast, dark space. For some reason, she turns to check the door. She discovers that there is no security panel on this side. Feeling a sudden, sharp knot in her stomach, she realizes that she is committed now.

Staring into the dark span ahead, she pauses, coming to the conclusion that the time for persistence might be past. If the exit ahead is blocked, then she will be trapped within this space. Angry with her own sense of defeat, she reaches into her bag and removes her phone. The small glow radiating from its screen is an unexpected comfort. She scrolls quickly through the numbers, certain that she had program the number for security into the device. She locates it and presses the Call button.

A few moments later, the call fails. She checks the display: No Signal. She swears, although whether at the device, the cellular company, the building, or herself, she is not certain. She slips the phone into her pocket, grabs the extended handle of her case and marches forward.

She is nearly at what she believes is the halfway point when she realizes that she can no longer see the exit door ahead. Stopping, she turns and cannot locate the one that she had just passed through. Around her, there is barely enough light to see, but everything is vague shapes and shadows. Whatever little illumination there is seems to come from nowhere, and everywhere. She cannot pinpoint its specific sources and finally assumes that it reflected from somewhere outside the building.

More out of concern for her safety, than from any sense of fear, she pulls the phone from her pocket. She activates its display, solely for the small amount of illumination that it provides.

Better than nothing . . .

She slides it in her palm for a better grip. It slips from her fingers, clattering onto the floor somewhere to her left. She sees it bounce twice and then its display goes dark. Stepping toward, she hears something crunch beneath her shoe. She stops, wondering what it was, and recognizing how dangerous it might to roam off the walkway in the dark, even if she is certain that her phone is only a yard or so away.

That moment of being startled has disoriented her. She realizes that she can no longer be sure exactly where the phone has fallen. Looking ahead again, she still cannot see the far exit door. Looking down, she believes that she can see the faint gray strip of carpet that lines the corridor. If she stays on it, she believes, she should reach the next door.

She begins moving forward again, slowly. Although she looks down almost the entire time, it is difficult to see the carpeted path. She is beginning to breathe hard again. She wonders at this, for she is neither moving all that quickly, nor does the path incline upward. If anything, it has a slight downward slant. Still, she continues on.

Her breathing does not come any easier as she moves along the path, deeper into the darkness. The back of her throat begins to feel raw from forcing dry, dust-laden air through it. She feels it in her nasal passages as well. It is not like a building sneeze, but a sensation of almost painful dryness. Her chest feels tight. Within it, her heart beats harder, faster.

The air is heavy with construction residue. She recognizes now the tang that has been stinging her nostrils. Countless solvents and other chemicals have been in use here, none of them healthy of a human being without protection to inhale for any length of time.

There’s no circulation in here, she realizes. They only run it during the day.

She has trouble putting her thoughts together. They seemed to make sense, but she is not certain that they really did. She grasps for focus, trying to stave off the lightheaded sensation that makes her thoughts want to float free.

Damn.

She pants out the word as if she had spoken it aloud. She is not sure that she could have. It takes an effort to breathe even that much.

She stumbles, gripping the extended handle of her case for support. It holds her upright for an instant. Then, its wheels glide it backward. She tumbles on top of it, her legs no longer able to support her. It impacts her below her rib cage, paralyzing her diaphragm. She gasps for breath, willing her lungs to function.

In the moment just before she surrenders to terror, she is able to breathe again. She pants, deeply, drawing in more and more of the poisonous vapors around her. Lifting her head, she looks in the direction of the door. She still cannot see it. Turning her head, she realizes that she is no longer sure at all in which direction she was heading.

She looks down, trying to find the gray path provided by the carpeting. It is difficult for her to focus on it, for dark patches float across her vision. She tries to breathe more slowly, telling herself that she was hyperventilating. It helps. For a moment.

Darkness swims before her eyes. She feels like she is spinning. But is sure—almost sure—that she is not moving.

Phone.

She forgets that she no longer has it. She reaches for it, scrabbling on the floor in front of her in order to reach it. Her fingers brush against carpet fibers and grit. Even those sensations, though, vanish from her awareness an instant later. Her throat spasms, blocking her airway. She is unable to draw in the air that it needs—that she needs.

Her consciousness fades slowly, slowly enough that she can follow its progression. Blackness fills her sight. The sensations of her body—the toppled case pressing hard against her stomach, her abraded fingertips against the carpet—become distant. She struggles to hold onto her mind, to construct coherent and lasting thoughts.

Not.

Fair.

Any words that come after those are lost.

The last light within in her mind fades to darkness. Oblivion consumes her.

#

“Sorry, John,” George, his shift supervisor told him. “The head office makes these assignments, not me.” He gave John a sympathetic, but serious look. “Part of the problem with being the new kid on the block, kid,” he told John. “You get sent where and when they need you until a regular shift opens up.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He knew that there was not anything that George could do about it, at least not this far into the shift. He sighed, trying only a little to hide it.

“Where is this place?”

George looked down at the display. “Looks like somewhere on the northeast side,” he said. He looked back up at John with a mischievous smile. “You don’t have a GPS?”

John just stared back at him, not feeling like playing along. “I just wanted to know.”

“Sure,” George agreed, turning away. “Make sure you log in.”

John nodded without replying aloud.

He turned and headed back to his car, less than excited about the at least half-hour drive to patrol site. He was grateful that this was neither the morning nor evening shift. Getting to the other side of the city at those times could easily take over an hour. He could recall occasions when he had sat in traffic listening to his dispatcher pass on messages from the site demanding to know where their relief security officer was. More than once, John had just turned the radio off, as there was absolutely nothing that he could do to make the traffic move any more quickly.

Of course, there was that one time when they cancelled my shift by the time I got there . . .

A fatal accident had closed his side of freeway for nearly two hours. The dispatcher had tried to reach him a little over to let him know that he should just turn around and come back.

As if I could have . . .

With the traffic literally stopped, there was not even an opportunity to pull off at the nearest off-ramp, for no one was moving. In the lack of any truly accurate information as to what was happening and when the road might be re-opened. Three updates had been broadcast, each one prolonging their stationary existence by nearly an hour each time. From what John could tell, everyone had apparently decided to just remain where they were.

He pulled onto the expressway, relieved to see only a handful of cars on the road. On a weekday night, he would have been surprised to see very many more. Still, he was careful to follow the speed limit, knowing any of the headlights behind him could belong to a highway patrolman.

The drive to the site was uneventful. The only incident he found even remotely noteworthy was when a dark-colored European sports car dashed past him easily going at least ninety miles an hour. He watched its taillights vanish into the night ahead, feeling just a little envious.

I guess if you can afford one of those, you don’t care about speeding tickets . . . or insurance.

The reminder of the latter made him check his own speedometer. He eased off the gas pedal slightly, moving more into the safety range.

They can catch me . . .

One of the driving school sessions that he had been required to attend had been taught by a retired highway patrol officer. One of the students there had asked why he had been ticketed when other drivers had clearly been going much faster than he was.

“Because we could catch you,” the officer had replied with only the slightest trace of humor.

John could tell that the student had been unhappy with the answer, but also clearly sobered by it. It was a revelation for John as well. It took some of the excitement out of it knowing that he would be the one taking the fall if he happened to be in the slowest of the speeding vehicles. It made him wish once again that he had a sportier car, and then remembered what his father had shown him his insurance payments were going to be as it was.

He arrived at the site, a large office complex of four enormous interlinked buildings. He seemed to take forever to travel along the outer perimeter road to where the main lobby was located. For than once, he was convinced that he had passed it somehow in the dark. Only the continued increase in the numbers that designated the various parking lots and parking structure entrances reassured him that he had not.

When he finally reached the main entrance, he discovered that it was very clearly marked.

Don’t want visitors getting lost, right?

He pulled into a space in the front visitor lot and turned off the car.

One perk of working graveyard, he thought with a smile.

He had only worked at this site on two other occasions: once during the regular day shift and the second filling in for an officer who had called out sick midway through his shift. Both of those times, he had been informed, rather rudely John thought, that would need to use one of the regular parking structures. Both times, they were packed, and he found himself walking nearly half the length of the complex to get back to the lobby area.

Grabbing his cap and pad from the passenger seat, he exited the car and then locked it, pausing until he heard the reassuring chirp of the alarm system being activated. Donning his cap as he walked, he strode the cobblestoned path to the main entrance.

The guard on duty looked up as he walked through the double sliding doors. He was older man, probably somewhere around in his fifties. He scowled at John as he entered, scrutinizing the badge that John proffered for inspection. John waited, trying not to let his annoyance and impatience show as the older man called the main office to verify his identity. From the older man’s expression, he seemed less than pleased to learn that John was, in fact, authorized to be there.

It’s going to be a long night . . .

The older man handed John back his badge, dropping it into his open palm as if it were tainted specimen slide.

Maybe next time I will lick it first, he mused, managing to suppress a smile at the notion. The thought of actually doing it, however, disgusted him. I know where that badge has been . . .

“You got a flashlight?” the older man asked with gruff suspicion, as if expecting John to have arrived unprepared.

As Josh slid the long-handled light from his belt, he fought back a gratified smile. Then, he decided let his grin show. Holding up the flashlight, he displayed it proudly for the older guard’s inspection. It was one of his prized possessions. It was a professional-grade, tactical model. Well-balanced, it also had enough heft that it could be used as an extra truncheon, if needed. Its beam was much brighter than the standard-issue models, and its spread could be adjusted within a far wider range. Although the security company provided him with a basic one as part of his standard equipment, he had purchased this one with his own money.

The older guard grunted indifferently, but John could see in his eyes that he was impressed. For a moment, John considered allowing the older man to look it over, but decided to wait until the man actually asked to see it. John gave himself even odds that it would happen before the shift was over.

Reaching into a drawer behind the security desk, the older man pulled out an access card and held it out toward John.

“You’ll need this,” he told John. “And don’t lose it. They don’t like it when you lose it.”

John guessed that “they” were however ran the company—or at least whoever hired the security company.

“I won’t,” he promised, keeping several more flippant responses to himself as he clipped it onto his belt.

“See that you don’t.”

John studied the older man for a moment, wondering how long he had worked here and whether he had, during all that time, ever lost a badge. John was willing to bet that he had.