Authors: Ryan C. Thomas
“
But…
”
the old man raised his hand.
“
Goodbye.
”
The general thrust his sword through the man
’
s throat, killing him instantly. Then, to his aide,
“
Gather the troops, and get me some ink. I will inform His Majesty we need more troops. And then we will crush this ridiculous collection of infidels. No more magic, no more old wizards.
The old ways are dead.
Victory will be ours by our hands alone.
”
MARTIN
’
S JOB
There was a low rumble, somewhere distant, followed by firecracker gunshots and faint screams. As if in response, the police precinct trembled,
dust snowing from the ceiling.
Martin held his head in his hands, stared down at the nicked interrogation table in front of him. Someone had etched
smells like bacon in here
into the surface. Elsewhere on the table, dark brown stains suggested something beyond
verbal
coercion, something Martin thought was only a cheap de
vice used in television dramas.
Across the table from him, fists balled so tightly the white bone underneath looked like it was going to rip through, officer Burke loomed like a golem frozen in time. His wide jaw moved ever so slightly, chewing over
possible ways to get Martin to tell the truth
. It seemed he had aged ten years since
the interrogation began some thirty-five
minutes ago. Twice he had stepped out of the room into
the bu
llpen, the maze of desks
visible to Martin through a thick pane of Plexiglas, and asked,
“
Has anyone gotten hold of my wife yet!
”
Each time the reply was no.
Martin didn
’
t know the joys of marriage, but still, he felt bad for the man.
Burke
’
s eyes flicked to the solitary window in the corner of the room that looke
d out over the city street, stayed
there for a minute, and then returned to Martin. The Herculean cop was silent, furious, scared. His attempt to hide his vulnerability wasn
’
t fooling Martin. And that scared Martin even more. After all, Burke was authority, he was the law, he had no reason to be scared; people didn
’
t mess with big cops.
But then, people weren
’
t the important
part of the situation unfolding around them.
Burke stopped leaning on the table and rolled his sleeves up. Faded military tattoos hid beneath wiry, dark hair. One of them was a Marine Corp logo.
“
I don
’
t know,
”
Martin stammered. It was more an effort to fill the silence than anything else.
Out in the precinct
’
s offices, cops ran around like excited ants. Nobody seemed to know what to do or who to call. It was chaos.
The building lurched again, the grout in the green tile walls cracking like varicose veins.
“
Tell me once again about the door,
” Burke said.
Martin met the man’
s eyes.
“
What’
s to tell. It was just a door. Typical, red, with a gold knob.
”
“
And the man who went into it?
”
“
Please can I go home? I don
’
t know anything. My dog is still outside and I…I just want to go home.
”
Burke came around the table and leaned in close to Martin
’
s face, his large head eclipsing the room
’
s overhead light. His bloodshot eyes hovered in the shadow between them. Martin had to look away again.
“
I
’
m trying to understand. You said there was a man, so describe him. Again.
”
Martin swallowed, tasted adrenaline and fear. Just thinking of the man made him afraid, as if mentioning him would bring swift retribution of some sort.
“
Long neck, blond hair, glasses,
”
Martin replied.
“
I
’
ve already given a description. Can I have a cigarette?
”
“
No. This blond guy was the guy who hired you?
”
Martin felt the building rumble once more, saw the overhead light swaying, heard the now familiar sound of gunshots a few streets away. He wished Burke would back off; it wasn
’
t really his fault after all. He couldn
’
t be held accountable. Could he?
“
Yes,
”
Martin said.
“
The name of the firm is
—
”
“
We checked. Right before the Web went down. We checked. There
’
s no such firm as Plato Processing. It doesn
’
t exist.
”
“
You don
’
t believe me?
”
“
I
’
m trying.
”
“
Well he said that
’
s who he worked for and that
’
s the name that was in the listing.
”
Martin remembered the ad in the paper:
Data processor needed, part time, good pay, first come first serve. Plato Processing.
He remembered it, but he wished he could forget.
***
The ad contained an address to an old warehouse near the shipyard. Martin rushed out there in his baby blue Taurus, the fan belt squeaking the whole way, praying he
’
d be the first to arrive because he was so mired down in late fees on his credit cards his only other option for getting ahead at this point would be filing bankruptcy. He smoked a Camel as he drove but it did little to relieve his stress. The nearly empty cigarette pack in his shirt pocket, purchased after scrounging change from under couch cushions, was just another reminder of his destitution.
He rehearsed answers to possible interview questions on the way, many of them lies; the resume on the seat beside him was already full of them. He needed to do whatever he could to get the job.
It was nine o
’
clock when he pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse. The building
’
s façade was covered in rust and illegible graffiti. The lot was empty.
A note hung on a large metal door at the front of the building:
Applicants Please Knock
. He pulled his old college blazer across his neck to fi
ght off the wind blowing off
the water. Near the dock, a blackened barge rolled in the tide, a slick, dark liquid running out of a bilge hole into the water.
The door opened a crack and stopped, the
occupant inside studying Martin. T
hen
it
swiftly opened wide to reveal a skinny blond man in a red knit sweater and tortoise-shell glasses. Martin immediately noticed the length of the man
’
s neck but composed himself not to stare. He
himself had grown up with a large gap in his front teeth and knew well the discomfort that came from being scrutinized
over physical abnormalities
.
“
I’
m here about the job.
”
“
Yes. Right this way.
”
The m
an motioned Martin inside and
led him through the dark warehouse, past broken-down forklifts, oil drums devoured by rust, through looming shelves stacked with dusty boxes long forgotten, down a set of stairs to the
basement where cobwebs were thick and unsettling
. A dim bulb threw coffee-stained light onto rundown machinery.
“
Just a little further,
”
the man said. He did not smile nor seem to be embarrassed by the poor condition of the place.
They entered a long hallway littered with scraps of yellowed paper and torn cardboard boxes. Someone had smashed the glass to the fire extinguisher box on the wall and taken the extinguisher. Overhead florescent lights flickered continuously as they
made their way to an office
with wood paneling and an orange shag rug. A Budweiser calendar a decade old still hung on the wall. The lighting in the office was also dim, but at least it didn
’
t flicker.
“
Here
’
s the computer you
’
ll be working on.
”
The man tapped the keyboard to bring the old computer out of sleep mode.
“
Please.
”
The man pulled out the desk chair.
Martin eased in behind the industrial gunmetal desk, just like the one his father used to keep in the garage growing up, and looked at the
computer
scr
een. There was a database on it
filled with various names. No addresses, or telephone numbers, or additional information of any kind, just names.
“
I trust you
’
ve used this program before,
”
the man asked. His long neck was bent at a very unatural angle. Martin looked away quickly, reminding himself that dirty environments and strange staff made no difference as long as he got a paycheck. His bills were too many to be choosy.
“
Yes,
I
’
ve used it a bunch. Not too great with formulas but I—
”
“
No need for formulas. Just enter the names into the database as you get them. Last names first. Full middle names if there are any. Understand?
”