THE GENERAL

It was nearing midnight, and all was dark at the offices of the Planetary Defense Coordination Office. The lights were always set to disable at 10pm sharp, which annoyed Johnson, whose shift ran from 10pm to 6am.

Johnson felt that he was not respected at this workplace. He was smart, diligent, and punctual, and his master’s degrees in astrophysics and computer science distinguished him from many others in this field. However, having dedicated his life to his studies, he had grown into a fat, sweaty, bald man with a high-pitched, squeaky voice and a perpetually shaky, anxious disposition. He had no girlfriend, no family, and no social life outside of work. Nevertheless, Johnson was proud of his academic achievements and believed his position at the PDCO to be both admirable and important to the world.

Johnson stared at his computer screen, which illuminated his face in the indigo-shaded darkness of the room. He took a sip of his sweet milky coffee and ate a handful of Cheez-Its while trying to shut out the sounds of the janitors vacuuming the neighboring offices. His job was easy, but dull; he had to monitor the skies for any chance of an NEO (near Earth object). He analyzed data from various telescopes across the world to detect any objects that could potentially impact the Earth. There were often many NEOs to be found, but it was unbelievably rare to find one headed directly towards the Earth. Most just zipped on by without ever acknowledging this world teeming with life.

The phone rang, shocking Johnson out of his staring contest with his computer screen. Calls were infrequent, especially during the night shift, so Johnson felt a tremor of anxiety jolt through him. His clumsy hand reached for the receiver, which slipped through his clammy palm, clattering on his desk. Johnson could hear a loud, gruff voice yelling through the phone: “God damn it, Johnson! Did you drop the phone again?! Sounded like a damn gunshot going off in my ear, you buffoon!”

Johnson finally fixed his grip and held the phone up to his ear, now sweating even more profusely.

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Johnson said, cringing at his innate tendency to be overly formal with his superiors, much to their annoyance. The man on the phone was Donaldson, his rigid and loud-mouthed supervisor. “So, why are you calling? You never—”

“You’re probably wondering why I’m calling so late,” Donaldson interrupted. “I have important news. The General is coming.”

“The General?” Johnson had no idea who ‘The General’ was supposed to be. “As in… the U.S. military?”

“He was supposed to arrive earlier, but his flight was delayed,” Donaldson said, ignoring Johnson’s queries. “His time is limited, so he would still like a tour of our offices even though it’s after hours. I practically begged him to come tomorrow, but he insisted on visiting tonight. Since you’re the only one on duty, the task will fall to you.”

“Me? But sir, you know I have to constantly monitor—”

“Johnson, this is The General we’re talking about. His presence takes precedence over your duties. We have no other options.”

“W-well… Okay…”

“Fantastic,” said Donaldson, his voice dripping with condescension. “Oh, and one more thing: you’ve probably seen the Cheez-It snack bags that were left out on the breakroom table. Those are for day shift only. You are not to have any. We made sure to count them.”

Johnson gulped, looking down at the empty snack bag in his wastebin underneath his desk. “Guh… Yes, sir.”

“God knows you don’t need any more snacks, you fat bastard.” Donaldson suddenly roared an evil, scathing laugh that sounded like a vicious Rottweiler barking at a bird. “Anyways, I’m going to sleep. Don’t call me if you need anything.”

The line went dead.

Johnson, temporarily relieved to not be on a call with his boss any longer, had another pang of anxiety after realizing he hadn’t asked what The General was supposed to look like, his real name, his age, nothing. The General could be anyone. Johnson hoped it would be painfully obvious when The General arrived.

His computer began beeping, alerting him that an NEO had been spotted. This, again, was not abnormal; the computer found NEOs all the time. But as soon as Johnson focused in on what the computer had located, he nearly passed out in his chair. His heart jumped out of his chest. His minor sweat beads turned into a raging waterfall. His armpits moistened, his pupils dilated, his nipples hardened, and his hands began shaking with the ferocity of a 9.8 earthquake.

A massive asteroid. Hurtling directly towards Earth.

There was no mistaking it: the computer does math well, but Johnson ran a few ancillary tests to confirm. Indeed, the asteroid was on a collision course with the Earth, and would collide within a day or two, based on its relative speed. It was huge, perhaps 2.5-3 kilometers wide. Typically, asteroids that size could be detected years, or even decades, in advance, but this asteroid appeared to be approaching from the direction of the Sun—what all astronomers know to be called the “solar blind spot.” This was undoubtedly the worst-case scenario.

Johnson, who had trained for this moment his whole life, sprang into action. He immediately called dispatch, who would connect him to the U.S. military. A bored woman answered his call.

“Dispatch,” she moaned dully.

“Yes, this is J-Johnson from the Arizona PDCO.” Johnson spit the words out frantically, trying and failing to maintain his composure. “There is a massive asteroid heading towards Earth. I need to speak to a high-ranking officer in the military immediately.”

The lady did not seem fazed. “You said Johnson?”

“Yes, ma’am, Johnson from the Arizona PDCO.”

“Isn’t that where The General is headed?”

“I, uh, yes…” Johnson furrowed his brow in confusion. “But that isn’t important right now. An asteroid, a huge, huge asteroid, will collide with Earth in roughly two days and cause unbelievable devastation! I need to be connected with someone immediately!”

“Hmm,” said the unaffected lady. “Most of ‘em are asleep right now and would rather not be awoken. Ooh, I have an idea, why don’t you just tell The General when he shows up?”

Johnson shook his head in disbelief, spurring a few beads of sweat to fly off him like skittish bugs. “Look, can I speak to someone else? Maybe someone who can understand the gravity of the situation?”

The lady laughed, a sharp, acerbic sound. “Gravity. Ha ha. I get it. ‘Cause you’re, like, a space guy.”

“That’s not what I —”

“I’m the only one on shift tonight, Johnson. Everyone else called off sick,” said the lady, and Johnson could hear her take a big gulp of something. “And to be honest — it’s my first day.”

“You’re kidding,” Johnson replied, his eyes widening in abject horror and frustration. “Well, you’re supposed to connect me with someone in the military. They need to take action on this as soon as possible.”

“I told you, they’re asleep.”

“Well, WAKE THEM UP!” Johnson suddenly screamed, surprising himself.

“I will not tolerate disrespect,” the lady stated, speaking in a sharp and mature tone. “Donaldson will be notified of your transgressive behavior.”

“I-I’m sorry!” Johnson wailed. “I just need you to take this seriously! This is a matter of life or death!”

No reply.

“Hello?!”

The line was dead. Johnson cursed and re-dialed. No answer.

“G-God damn it!” Johnson slammed his hammy fists on his desk, causing his coffee cup to spill on his keyboard and mouse. Johnson then tried calling Donaldson, who did not answer either. Feeling desperate, he then opted to call Donaldson’s boss. Donaldson would typically be furious that Johnson would go over his head, but he truly felt that he had no other choice.

“Robertson here,” said a grim, elderly voice on the line. “This better be good.”

“Robertson, it’s Johnson. Night shift.”

“Johnson? Donaldson’s employee? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?!”

“There is an asteroid hurtling towards Earth. Nobody has answered my call except for you. We desperately need to alert the military.”

“Well, call dispatch. That’s your entire job.”

“I did. They were no help at all.”

“Hmph. I actually received a report that you disrespected a dispatch officer, verbally berating her until she felt no other option than to quit. Why would you do such a thing?”

Johnson squinted his eyes. “She quit?! Look, she wasn’t doing her one job of dispatching me to—”

“That is unacceptable behavior, Johnson. We will discuss this next time I’m in the office. I’d fire you right now if The General wasn’t coming in. You’re all set to meet him, correct? He should be there any second to inspect the facilities.”

“Just who is this General guy? If he’s so important, why aren’t any supervisors here to meet with him?”

“There’s that disrespect again. Johnson, if I hear about you uttering even a single disrespectful syllable to The General, I will make your life a living hell. I won’t just fire you, I’ll fuck you. For life.”

Johnson paused.

“But sir… The asteroid…”

“Christ, again with this asteroid bullshit. Just tell The General. He’ll know what to do.”

The line went dead abruptly.

Just then, before Johnson could even register that the call had ended, a janitor walked in with a serene look on his face.

“Señor… The General es here.”

Johnson blinked, his heart surging in his chest. He had no idea what to expect, but he was anxious anyway.

He hastily put his coat on and walked to the front entrance of the spaceport. Across the street sat a dark, ominous limousine; Johnson wondered why they didn’t park closer to the actual entrance. A silent driver, who looked more like a walking corpse with his skinny body and pale skin, gave Johnson’s presence zero acknowledgement as he slowly lifted himself out of the car and slowly walked to the rear door of the vehicle. He moved so slowly and so quietly that Johnson felt as if he were watching a surreal play, especially with the moonlight’s glow being the only thing illuminating the scene.

But finally, the driver opened the door.

A man with a button-down shirt, red as blood, and a long, black leather duster stepped out of the vehicle with a confident swagger Johnson had never before witnessed. This man carried himself like a celebrity, or a sports star, or a used car salesman. He had shockingly white teeth, possibly veneers, that seemed to smile and grimace at the same time, like a demented Gary Busey. His graying hair was slicked back like a 1950s greaser. A cigarette dangled out of his mouth, but no smoke was emitting from its tip; was it merely a prop? He wore clean, perfectly ironed jeans that dropped down to his domineeringly large cowboy boots. He looked like a character from a Tarantino movie that Harvey Keitel would typically play.

This man was an enigma. He just had to be The General. There was no mistaking it.

The General looked directly at Johnson, sizing him up. It seemed he was not too pleased with what he saw.

“I’m here,” said The General, a hint of disdain in his voice

“A-are you The General?” Johnson asked. He was intimidated by the man’s sheer confidence.

“Am I The General?” The General giggled and looked at his driver, who laughed as well. “He’s asking me if I’m The General.”

Johnson blinked, feeling pathetic.

“I need to be shown around,” said The General, finally stepping towards Johnson, his cowboy boots clinking metallically with each step. “You will serve as my guide. Do only as I say or you will be severely punished. Do you understand?”

“I, uh, I suppose…”

“My god, you are pathetic,” The General said, sneering at Johnson. “You really must take more pride in your appearance. You’re sweating as if you just ran a marathon, but I presume your job requires no manual labor. A desk jockey! Tell me, is it a condition? Or do I make you nervous? You may answer.”

“To be quite honest, sir…” Johnson gulped. “I found an asteroid headed towards the Earth, which is set to collide with us within one to two days. Approximately.”

The General gave a derisive, closed-mouth smile and looked back at his driver, who met him with only a blank, emotionless stare. He then looked back at Johnson.

“How interesting. Yes, yes, this is quite an interesting development indeed!” The General began pacing with his hands behind his back. “I knew there was a reason that I was supposed to come here tonight. I knew it.”

“So… you’ll call someone? So we can do something about it?”

The General smirked mockingly at Johnson.

“No. No, my dear boy. You do not become someone of my status by merely leaning on others for help. You and I, we will take action here, tonight. We don’t need anybody else.”

“S-sir, but—”

“I did not tell you to respond, did I?” The General raised his hand and smacked Johnson’s cheek with an unyielding strike. Johnson yelped like a wounded coyote. “Now, bring me inside, and we’ll figure this out. Like men!”

Johnson begrudgingly led The General into the lobby of the spaceport, greeted by an empty front desk and a darkened room. Johnson heard this room was often very welcoming during the day, but it took on a foreboding look in the dead of night.

“This is the lobby,” Johnson said, continuing towards the elevators. The General grunted, looking around with a stern and focused expression. Johnson hit the ‘up’ button. “Now I’m going to show you the 2nd floor, where I work.”

They stepped into the elevator, where a dainty jingle was playing. The elevator lurched upwards and quickly settled on the 2nd floor with a jarring ‘ding’.

Johnson saw the janitor down the hallway, who, upon noticing, stood up straight and saluted. Johnson, confused, looked at The General, who nodded as if this was expected behavior. The janitor maintained this salute as they passed by and into the breakroom.

“Ah, Cheez-Its, morsels of the gods,” The General said, somehow unironically, and grabbed a small bag off the table.

“Ah, sir, those are for day shift only…” Johnson felt as though he was talking to the wind.

“Day shift. P’shaw!” The General ripped open the bag and poured the entirety of its contents into his gaping maw. “I am the All-Shift. Shifter of worlds. I can turn Day Shift into Night Shift and Night Shift into Day Shift.”

Johnson made a conscious effort to disregard this comment, and opened the door to the large, dark room that contained his office. At the far end of the room was a single window that took up the entire wall, serving as a viewing port for the Space Shuttle down the tarmac, about a half mile away. The sight of the shuttle often inspired Johnson, and reminded him of why he went into this field in the first place. It seemed The General was struck by this sight as well; his eyes lit up and filled with tears, while his mouth hung open, just slightly agape in wonder.

“A tower… No, a monument to the Heavens. Mankind’s ultimate goal, fulfilled. Not just a marvel of engineering, but a marvel of imagination, determination, and victory over science. Victory over God, even. Beautiful.”

“Yeah… we have a launch scheduled for next week. Just to test some of our propulsion syst—”

“This is why I’m here. I understand now.”

Johnson was confused by The General’s ramblings, and he vainly attempted to soldier on with the tour. “Yep, and over here is my desk.”

“You will allow me onto the spaceship,” The General said, still looking directly at the shuttle, spellbound. “You will launch me towards the asteroid. I am The Savior. I understand it all now. This is my purpose.”

Johnson, confounded, shook his head. “Look, I know you’re The General and all, but I can’t just… launch you. This is a billion-dollar project, plus it would take a whole team to get it to work. Also, you’re not trained, your safety cannot be guaranteed, and—”

“These are all excuses. Matters of semantics. We are two men tasked with finding a solution for a danger that threatens all of humanity. I am not a fan of bureaucracy. I take charge. All of mankind is at stake here, yet you’re still too filled with trepidation to actually do anything about it? It’s time to take charge and stop being the pathetic animal you’ve been your entire life.”

Johnson blinked.

“Can you get me on that spaceship?” The General prompted.

“I mean… y-yes.”

“Do you know how to initiate the launch sequence?”

“Uh… yeah, I guess I know what needs to be done…”

“Very good. I will handle the rest. I will eliminate the asteroid, even if it costs me my life. Safety be damned. This is our purpose.”

Johnson couldn’t help but feel inspired by The General’s words. In many ways he was just happy this matter was finally being taken seriously by someone, even if it was only by this eccentric man.

“Now,” The General continued. “What do we need to do to get this bird airborne?”

Johnson explained that the shuttle was already fueled and fully tested for the upcoming launch, and all that needed to be done was the countdown sequence, which would only occur once The General was in the ship’s cockpit. The rocket would need to be armed, the tanks pressurized, and the spacecraft fully powered up. Typically, this was done by a team of people, but Johnson understood the basics of what needed to be done, as most of the hardest bits of the mission were already completed.

“Good. Very good! We were put on this Earth to meet each other at this precise moment for this specific reason. I will save the world, but I need you to be the Shepherd to my Savior. Understand?”

The General’s charisma was overwhelming. Johnson didn’t understand, but he still nodded, as if in a hypnotic trance.

The General walked out of the building, and Johnson watched from the viewing port as the limousine drove out to the parked shuttle, like a lamb to the slaughter. At this distance, Johnson could barely see, but with a bit of squinting, he watched as The General climbed the precarious ladder leading to the cockpit. After a few minutes, The General’s voice sounded from the computer.

“Alright, Shepherd, I’m in place and buckled in. Not that it matters!” An uproarious laugh echoed from the comm system, causing a high-pitched feedback noise to scratch Johnson’s earbuds. “You’re going to launch me right at that fucking asteroid, and I’m going to obliterate it!”

“But what exactly is the plan here?” Johnson asked. “It’s not like the ship is equipped with asteroid-destroying lasers.”

“It’s simple. Elementary. I’m going to collide with the asteroid at a high speed to alter its trajectory. I’m going to give it a good bump and move it away from Earth!”

Johnson considered this. “Kinetic impact… of course. That could actually work. But that’s suicide!”

“It’s every man’s dream to die for something larger than himself,” The General replied. “We’re running out of time, and I’m running out of patience. Initiate the launch sequence.”

Johnson began powering up the rocket while running through the tasks on his timed checklist.

Rocket: armed.

Tanks: pressurized.

After approximately 15 minutes, the spacecraft was powered up, and dawn was beginning to break.

“We’re all set. I locked your coordinates directly towards the asteroid. We just need to do the countdown!”

Johnson couldn’t wait for this. It was every astronomer’s dream to do the countdown.

“FUCK the countdown, let’s fucking ROLL!”

Once again, maniacal laughter emanated from the comm system, and soon enough, Johnson was laughing hysterically too. Their riotous laughter was almost in sync.

Johnson hit the button.

Beautiful, menacing plumes of smoke and fire erupted from the bottom of the spacecraft. The haunting bellow of the rocket blasted through the room and directly into Johnson’s soul. Everything shook, as if the ground too was nervous at what was about to happen. Beyond the roar of the rocket, Johnson could only hear The General hooting and hollering loudly as the ship took off at an incredible speed.

Johnson cried.

The next morning, the sun came up, and the world continued turning.

TALK TO GOD

Every morning I took the trolley to work in downtown San Diego. The ride was nice, albeit a bit long, necessitating me to wake up much earlier than if I had driven. But I was able to listen to music, read a book, or people-watch in the 45 minutes it took to get to the building where I worked as a security guard. I was apprehensive about taking the trolley at first, but in time I really began to appreciate the odd charm of public transportation, and I started looking forward to the trips. I definitely did not miss sitting in traffic, and the trolley fare was cheaper than gas.

Regardless, driving was not really a choice for me even if I wanted to. In a delirious state, I had totaled my mother’s old soccer mom van about six months prior. I learned many valuable lessons that day, primarily that two hours was not enough sleep to get over your blubbering drunkenness from the night before. I had been late for work that morning; I threw my clothes on, hopped in the car, and drove not 20 feet before I absolutely smashed into my elderly neighbor’s SUV. I will never forget the sheer terror I felt in the moment that I hit the rear of that vehicle. In a stupor, I began to cry, like a newborn. The neighbors took pity on me and did not involve the police, even though the previous night’s alcohol was likely still present in my unwashed musk. My insurance took care of it, but I was without a car. It seemed like a fair deal to me.

It’s true, I have been known to be a bit of a drunkard at times. It’s probably best that I didn’t drive anymore. In recent months, I had begun growing very chubby as a result of drinking exactly six IPA’s nightly before bed, sometimes more on the weekends. I would wake up sick and nauseous almost every morning. I had feigned to my friends and family that I was merely a craft beer enthusiast, when in reality I was very clearly plunging slowly into alcoholism.

But it didn’t really matter. I was a college drop-out with no plans and a lot of regrets that I had to drink to forget. My job was extremely low-pressure; I was just a lowly security guard that sat in the lobby of a large office building and simply greeted employees as they walked in. There was never any trouble besides a random homeless lunatic every now and then, so it didn’t matter if I came in hungover and half-asleep. My boss was just glad that I showed up at all.

I checked my watch. It was 6:00am exactly, and I could see the trolley’s lights slowly work its way through the dense fog of the early morning. The trolley gave out a cute little “PTOOOOO” in a pathetic attempt to mimic a train whistle.

The trolley rolled up, came to a full stop, shuddered, and plopped its doors open. I strolled in and took my usual seat near the back. There was always ample seating in the early morning. I decided to listen to the oddly soothing sound of the rumbling trolley instead of my music, which I did not normally do. I looked around my compartment as the trolley started moving again. Some people were fast asleep, hunched over the backpacks in their lap as if they were preparing for an airplane crash. Others listened to music, some read the newspaper, and a few sipped on their coffees. The sun was just starting to rise, but it was still mostly dark, creating a comfy, nostalgic atmosphere in the trolley car; it was almost as if we were existing outside of time. This was my favorite part of the day.

Ah, my fellow working stiffs, I thought with amusement. On our way to sell our souls for breadcrumbs. I loved everyone on the trolley, as I felt a certain kinship with them; no one wanted to be up this early. Yet here we all were, each for our own reasons. It was a weirdly beautiful thing. On the highway, everyone was my potential enemy. In the trolley, everyone was my friend.

I looked to my left, and to my surprise, someone was staring straight at me. I initially assumed it was an unwell homeless person, but I stole another glance and it appeared to be an attractive woman with light blue hair. My heart fluttered. Why was a woman like that looking at a schlub like me? I knew for a fact that I did not look good that day, as I had stopped caring about my looks once my face took upon a round appearance, much like Charlie Brown. I had stopped looking in the mirror, and I had shaved my head so I didn’t have to bother with my hair. My hair annoyed me. Needless to say, I looked like shit.

“You work at 501 West Broadway, don’t you, Noah Sebastion Silas Grady Brady?”

I sat there flabbergasted. The woman had a wise tone, and spoke in what seemed to be a vaguely Icelandic accent.

“I’m sorry, but how in the world do you know my full name?” Her knowing my place of work was not the weirdest thing, as my uniform was peculiar and only worn by the security guards at my building. But my name was embarrassing and I did everything to keep it secret so as to not make it a source of mockery back in high school. I escaped high school with my dignity, but adulthood was clearly not being so kind. “That’s not even on my driver’s license!”

“The things I know change day by day… But I do somehow know your name. I know you’re 22, almost 23. Isn’t that weird?”

I gulped. This was taking a sinister turn. This was definitely abnormal for the morning trolley. Due to her dreamy manner of speaking, I began to suspect that she was on some kind of drug, but she did not physically appear to be under the influence of anything.

“...Who are you?”

“I’m Claire… I suppose.”

“You know my name, but you’re unsure of yours…?”

“It’s complicated. Anyway. I feel there is something you should know.”

I gulped again, audibly, like a cartoon character.

“Remember: go to the roof. Talk to God.”

I shuddered, and tears inexplicably sprung to my eyes. I had no idea what she was talking about, but her words seemed to puncture something deep within my soul.

“What… what do you mean?”

Claire stared at me, smiling, until a loud, dainty jingle emitted from the phone she held in her hand. Still staring at me, she put the phone up to her ear, and the ringtone ceased. She did not offer any kind of greeting, she merely appeared to listen to whoever was on the other end.

“Yes, I told him,” she finally said.

“Next stop, 5th and Imperial,” the trolley’s intercom chimed.

“This is my stop,” Claire said, then she gently placed her hand on mine. It felt as light as air. “Remember: go to the roof.”

“Arriving. 5th and Imperial.” The trolley doors plopped open. Claire took one last concerned look at me, then skipped off the trolley, happily humming some poppy tune. I sat there, at a complete loss for words.

“Doors closing,” said the chipper loudspeaker.

The doors closed, and I exhaled, realizing I had been holding my breath. I looked out the window to see if I could see where she was going, but she seemed to only be standing awkwardly next to a pillar at the station, still on her phone.

My heart was beating fast. I felt more awake than I had ever been at this time.

“Remember, go to the roof.” she had said. I wonder what it meant. And who was she talking to on the phone? “Talk to God.”

My mind reeled, trying to search for a rational reason this may have occurred. She was probably on drugs. Or in some kind of religious cult. But the way she spoke and moved seemed very… unnatural. I had the nauseating feeling of uncanny valley come over me. I also couldn’t deny that her words, although cryptic, had strangely affected me in a way I still couldn’t explain.

“Hey man, what was she saying to you?” some curious guy a few seats ahead of me swung around to ask.

“Just some nonsense,” I shyly chuckled, avoiding eye contact. I was not good at eye contact. “Something about talking to God.”

The dude smirked. “Makes sense. A new hippie cult showed up somewhere in the outskirts of National City recently. Heard the cops popped off their leader, so maybe they’re goin’ nuts now.” He laughed, as did I, even though I did not find the words funny. He continued, “But I don’t know. Some people are more powerful in death than they ever could have been in life.”

The rest of the ride was uneventful. I decided not to get coffee as I already felt wired.

Remember: go to the roof. Talk to God.

/ / /

As soon as I walked into my building, I saw my short boss standing at the security console in the lobby, looking around. His stature and the way he walked always reminded me of a penguin for some reason; and the suit he wore only contributed to that notion.

“Mr. Cottingham,” I said as I approached the console. “Good morning.”

“Morning, Mr. Brady. Have you seen Neal around?” Neal was the nightshift officer who I was supposed to be relieving. He was a strange guy who always wore a dingey cap to work despite that being against the rules for guards.

“I have not. He’s usually at the desk when I arrive. Was he not here?”

Mr. Cottingham shook his head. “I can’t find him. He knows he’s only allowed to leave the console if he’s going to the bathroom.”

I decided to stick up for him. “He could be confronting a transient, I know they’re more of an issue during the night shift.”

“I suppose. But I didn’t see him around the perimeter of the building. Any idea where he might be?”

Go to the roof.

I shuddered and shook off the thought. We were never allowed to go to the roof of the building.

“No idea.”

“Well, can you check around the building again? Maybe I missed him. I’ll man the console while you’re away.”

I nodded, grabbed my walkie-talkie and my keyset, and set off for a patrol around the building.

Trying to guide my thoughts away from my peculiar encounter this morning, I surveyed the city streets as they were beginning to come alive. People sipped hot coffee while on their way to their respective offices, bicyclists raced by, and joggers occasionally ran by in packs. I felt the cold morning wind bite my face as I stuck my hands in my suit pockets to stay warm. So far, no sign of Neal.

Go to the roof.

There was simply no way Neal was on the roof. We were strictly prohibited from going to the top floor; there was a nice pair of conference rooms that were always set up for an imminent fundraiser, work event, or the like, and other security guards from times gone past have stolen things from these conference rooms, leading them to be off-limits for all staff except janitorial. On the rare occasion that we needed to go to the roof, janitorial’s manager would have to escort us and allow us in with a key only he had access to.

Go to the roof.

I sighed and decided to radio my boss, defeated. “Come in, Mr. Cottingham.”

“Cottingham here,” the radio chirped in response. “You find him?”

“Negative. Have you asked Yvan if he let Neal up to the top floor?”

“You think he’s on the roof?” Mr. Cottingham seemed to find it unlikely. “I’ll ask him. Keep looking though.”

Unable to keep the thought from my brain, I chose to jog across the street to see if I could catch a glimpse of the top floor. As I squinted up at the roof, my heart seized. There was indeed a figure standing on the ledge of the roof. I could barely see who it was, but it appeared the person was wearing a cap.

Neal.

Suddenly, the figure on the ledge crossed his arms and calmly fell backwards off the roof, beginning a rapid plummet towards the Earth.

I instinctively closed my eyes and turned away, only to hear a thunderous splat, a pathetic death grunt, and the shattering of 270 bones, all in one horrific, simultaneous moment. It was quite possibly the worst sound I had ever heard. I could hear people around scream in horror and surprise.

A loud bell began clanging in the nearby clocktower, indicating it was precisely 7am. With my heart beating rapidly, I steeled myself, slowly crossed the street, and looked at the body. I grimaced; it could hardly be referred to as a body at this point. The height of the building didn’t seem to be quite enough to annihilate the corpse into an unctuous puddle of bones and blood, but it certainly killed him instantly; blood was pooling out of every orifice in his head, each of his limbs were askew, and it seemed his torso had attempted to fold in upon itself. Despite the constant stream of blood obscuring the man’s features, I could still see the man had been wearing our building’s uniform. This was definitely Neal.

Panting wildly, I looked around to see a crowd of people had formed, each processing the horror of the moment in their own way. Some screamed, some cried, some held their hands over their mouths in abject terror. I watched as Mr. Cottingham raced out of the front door to see what was happening. First he saw the body, then he looked up at me in confusion.

“I found him,” I said.

/ / /

I was sent home for the day, since the building was closed so the cleaning crews could scrub the sidewalk and erase any evidence that a suicide had just occurred there. Mr. Cottingham also wanted to make sure that I didn’t go insane due to the trauma of what I had witnessed; after all, he was already down one employee, he couldn’t afford to lose another.

The entire trolley ride home, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. If I had just went to the roof, like I had been told by Claire, then perhaps I could have prevented what happened. I felt that my inaction inadvertently caused the death of my co-worker.

Additionally, I wondered how Claire knew what would happen. How did she, or the person on that phone with her, know that something was going to happen involving the roof? Was she psychic? Did she play a part in Neal’s death? Neal was always an odd one, but he didn’t seem suicidal. But truthfully, I didn’t know him well enough to say for sure.

I recalled having a strange conversation with Neal about a week ago, the last time I saw him alive, that I hadn’t found too significant until now.

“Do you believe in free will?” Neal had asked me while I was busy clocking in. He was still gathering his things to go.

“Me? Uh, I guess,” I had replied. “Why, do you?”

“I used to,” Neal said, avoiding eye contact. “I’d like to believe I have control over my actions. But I’m starting to think something else, whether religious in nature or not, is pulling the strings.”

I remember considering this before trying to change the subject; the conversation was getting a bit too esoteric for 7am.

That night, as I tried to sleep, Neal’s death and our last conversation kept replaying in my head. I had never witnessed anything that horrible in my life, and the guilt inside of me kept growing and growing by the second. I settled on one thing before I managed to finally fall asleep: if I saw Claire again, I would take more of an effort to follow whichever directive she may give.

/ / /

I woke up the next morning, just as tired as if I hadn’t slept at all. I showered, donned my suit, and walked myself to the trolley station. I was so tired I could barely think, but when I did, my thoughts drifted towards Claire. I was apprehensive at the thought of seeing her again, but still wanted her to appear again just the same.

Lo and behold, I walked into the trolley car when it arrived and saw Claire sitting in the back, directly next to the seat I had been sitting in yesterday. She noticed me, smiled, and patted on the seat next to her, beckoning me to sit down. I obeyed wordlessly; I didn’t even know what to say.

As the trolley lurched forwards, Claire turned to me. “You didn’t go to the roof,” she said, but didn’t sound disappointed, more like she was just stating a fact. “Why not?”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, looking down. “I should have.”

Suddenly, her phone began ringing again, breaking the silence of the trolley. A man who had been trying to sleep looked over, annoyed. Once again, Claire put the phone up to her ear, still maintaining her enigmatic gaze at me. The ringing stopped.

“The door will open; do not go through.” she said. Like yesterday, I felt a strange surge of emotion run through me, despite having no idea what she was referring to. Suddenly, I felt the need to get answers from her before her stop.

“H-how did you know what was going to happen yesterday?” I asked incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me more?!”

She shrugged. “The things I know change day by day,” she replied, as if it were obvious. She stood up and spoke into the phone: “Yes, I told him.”

“Wait,” I said desperately as she started walking towards the trolley doors. “Who are you on the phone with?”

The trolley rolled to a stop, and the doors opened with a ding. She looked back at me.

“God.” she replied, then skipped out, humming the same infectious tune as yesterday.

“God.” I repeated to myself, at a loss.

The door will open. Do not go through.

I was determined to follow her advice this time. The trolley soon reached my stop and I headed towards my building. I wondered if I had already failed the prophecy by going through the open trolley doors. Was I supposed to stay on the trolley forever?

/ / /

My work day started off slowly; I did my typical duties. People looked at me with sympathy, but never asked me about Neal; I supposed they didn’t want to stir up any latent trauma within me. As I did my patrol around the building, I checked the sidewalk where Neal fell, and there wasn’t a trace of anything; the cleaning crews had done an excellent job. People walked by, trampling over the exact spot Neal had died, none the wiser. It was always shocking to be reminded that no matter how or when I died, the world would just keep turning. People would still go to work, the trolleys would keep running, the Sun would still rise.

Despite that existential thought, I was still filled with trepidation about what Claire had told me, and kept vigilant. However, no doors were opening for me, or at least ones I hadn’t opened myself. I wished she was less cryptic with her directions.

However, later on in the day, I was tasked with assisting a lawyer up to the 9th floor. She had a few heavy boxes that she needed to deliver to her boss right away, so I offered to help her carry the boxes up. We walked down the long hallway on the 9th floor, engaging in idle chatter. After delivering the boxes, we walked back to the elevator lobby. Just as I moved my hand to press the ‘down’ button, the elevator door swung open, with nobody inside.

I froze.

The door will open. Do not go through.

“Would you look at that, we didn’t even need to press the button,” the lawyer said, chuckling. “I think that’s what they call kismet.”

“Stop.” I said abruptly.

The lawyer laughed awkwardly, thinking I was joking, until I held my arms up to bar her from entering.

“Uh, Noah, what’s wrong? You alright?”

“Don’t go in.” I said with as much authority as I could muster.

“Is there something wrong with the elevator?” asked the lawyer, growing nervous with my behavior.

Just as the doors started to close, the lights inside the elevator began to blink erratically, and within a second, we watched as the elevator cab plummeted down the shaft, creating a grating, metallic roar. Within another second, we heard an apocalyptic crash just nine floors down.

“Holy fucking shit,” said the lawyer, hyperventilating. “Noah, you just saved my fucking life. What the fuck?”

We looked at each other, both visibly shaking, our eyes wide.

The door will open. Do not go through.

It was true. It was all true. Claire was some kind of psychic. She had just saved my life. I started laughing nervously, which turned into crying.

Just what is going on here?

Once again, the building was closed down so the engineering staff could inspect the elevators for issues. The last inspection was only a few weeks prior, so everyone seemed to be confused as to how this could have happened. There were no obvious defects.

“The elevators aren’t even that old. There’s no reason this should have happened,” one exasperated engineer explained to me. “At this point, I think we’re gonna have to chalk it up to an act of God.”

The words sent shivers down my spine.

/ / /

“I see you did not go through the open door,” Claire said to me the next morning. “Or else you would not be here today.”

“Claire… I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life,” I replied. “I do wish you had told me more information, but I’m grateful all the same.”

“You do not need to thank me,” she said, smiling. “I must thank you. You are not meant to die.”

I considered this. “Well… what am I meant for? What is my purpose?”

“To talk to God.”

“To talk to God?”

“When the time is right.”

“When will it be the right time?”

She shrugged. “The things I know change–”

“Day by day, I get it,” I fiddled with my hands nervously. “What am I to do today?”

Claire stopped smiling, and looked out the window of the trolley. “Today will be a little bit harder. For you.”

“Harder? How so?”

Once again, her phone rang, and she placed it up to her ear. She seemed to listen for a moment, then said, “Are you sure he can?”

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” I said with determination. “I know now how important your directions are. I’ll do anything.”

She looked back at me with empathetic eyes.

“You will face a choice. Do not choose.”

I paused. “Uh… is that the most specific you can be?”

“Yes, I told him,” she said to her phone.

We rolled up to Claire’s usual stop, and she stood up, still frowning uncharacteristically. “I’m sorry, Noah Sebastian Silas Grady Brady.”

I cringed at the sound of my full name. “Don’t be sorry. I’ll do what you say.”

Claire flashed me a sympathetic smirk, then walked off the trolley silently; no skipping, no humming. This worried me. It seemed this request was even more dire than the last two, which was scary considering what those requests ended up being for. Plus, this was even more cryptic than before; I hoped whichever choice I was presented with would be obvious.

Today was a Saturday, which meant work would be much slower than usual. The only people at the office were the true workaholics, and I typically didn’t see more than 10 people the entire day.

Just before my lunch break, a business manager from the 11th floor stopped by the console. All of the security guards knew him as the single biggest prick in the entire building. He would often make demands of us despite him not being our boss, which only managed to piss off every single guard on every single shift.

“Brady,” said Orson, the aforementioned asshole. This was his way of greeting me. “I’m going to be working all day up on 11, and I don’t want to be disturbed. This means no calls, no visitors, no nothing. If I get a single call, Mr. Cottingham will be notified immediately. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied pleasantly. He rarely had visitors on weekends anyways, so this was not a huge deal. He walked away without even saying thank you.

I realized as I went about my day that life was all about choices. Choosing to go to one bathroom stall over another. Choosing to clock out for lunch at 11 or 11:15. Choosing to eat my sandwich first or my chips first. How could I be sure which choice was the one I was not supposed to choose? It seemed like an impossible task, and I started to understand why Claire had said this directive would be more difficult than the others.

About an hour later, after my break, a man wearing casual clothes showed up at the front door of the building, which was locked on weekends. I allowed him in. He appeared frantic and shaky.

“I’m here to see Orson, up on 11. He’s having a medical episode,” the man explained. “I need to get these meds to him right away. There’s no time.”

I paused. This was it.

You will face a choice. Do not choose.

I had never seen this man before. I had no idea if he was telling the truth. If I send him up, I could lose my job. If I don’t, Orson could potentially die.

Do not choose.

“I… don’t care,” I finally said, my heart pounding. The man looked at me quizzically, but ran off towards the elevators without another word. I watched him up on the cameras as he went up and got off at the 11th floor.

I thought about it. I technically made a choice, but it was more so the choice to not make a choice. It seemed oxymoronic, but I hoped I had done the right thing.

What worried me most was the fact that this seemed to be the easiest direction I had received so far, which was in stark contrast to how Claire was acting about the choice earlier. She implied it was going to be hard. Was this really the matter she was referring to?

Unfortunately, my questions were answered less than an hour later.

The man from earlier returned to the lobby, his clothes drenched in blood. He was laughing maniacally, and breathing hard. I stood there, in a daze. He then collapsed to the floor, wheezing.

“That stupid motherfucker… Motherfucker…”

He just kept repeating curse words while wheezing like a detuned accordion. My hands shaking, I called the police.

/ / /

The police showed up quickly, arrested the crazed man who was still muttering on the floor, and went on to investigate the 11th floor, where they found Orson with 42 stab wounds: dead. The police explained that they found evidence that showed the killer was a disgruntled ex-employee of Orson’s.

“So, you allowed the suspect, a certain Mark Kobelchek, into the building?” a detective asked me after the police had left with the killer.

“I did. Doors are locked during the weekend, so we always have to manually let people in, unless they have a keycard.”

“I see. So he didn’t have a keycard. How was he able to access the 11th floor without a keycard? Don’t you need one for the elevators as well?”

I paused. There was no way out of this except to lie.

“Mr. Orson said to allow any visitors that arrived up to the 11th floor. Apparently he was expecting a lot of people today.” As soon as the words left my lips, I felt ashamed.

“I see. That’s unfortunate,” the detective scribbled a few notes onto his pad. “We may have more questions for you in the future, but this seems to be an open-and-shut case. We’ll reach out if we need anything.”

After the police left, I called Mr. Cottingham and explained everything that occurred.

“I swear to God, our building is going to shit. Everyday there’s a new goddamn problem,” Mr. Cottingham said, frustrated. “What the hell did we do to deserve all this?”

After my shift, I took the trolley home and thought about my actions. This one did seem really bad. My inaction, or my lack of choosing, caused a man to be murdered. Why would Claire want to ensure this man’s death? He was an asshole, sure, but he didn’t deserve to be stabbed 42 times by a crazed madman. I felt very conflicted. On one hand, Claire had saved my life. On the other, Claire had ensured a man’s death. What was her goal here?

I thought some more, and I had a sudden realization. Perhaps this was another way of saving my life. If I hadn’t allowed the man to go up to the 11th floor, maybe he would’ve killed me. Maybe my lack of action was exactly what saved my life. Perhaps this was Claire’s intention.

Still, I had another near-sleepless night. Visions of Neal’s death, the elevator plummeting, and the blood-drenched man filled my mind. I realized I was thankful for Claire saving my life, but I still had to know the real, ultimate purpose behind her strange directives. I decided I would confront her tomorrow and finally demand answers.

///

I marched into the trolley, determined to have my many questions answered. However, I was shocked to find the trolley car was empty. No Claire, no anybody.

Maybe she takes the day off on Sunday, I thought, and decided I would try again tomorrow, on my day off.

///

Once again, no Claire to be found. Since I had no work, I got off on her usual stop and waited at the station nearly all day. No strange blue-haired women appeared. I started feeling discouraged.

///

A month passed. My days were uneventful. I went back to drinking nightly. Everyday I got on the trolley, I hoped I’d see Claire again, sitting there smiling, waiting to deliver a prophecy just for me. But she never appeared.

My confusion turned to depression, which turned to anger. What gave her the right to come into my life, make me believe I had a purpose in this world, just to disappear? How could I be so stupid to actually believe I’d ever mean anything to this fucked up world? I was just a depressed, anxious, drunken mess of a person. I felt more useless than ever.

I don’t know who the hell Claire was, but I had decided I hated her. Or perhaps I just hated the feeling of being purposeless. That was probably more likely.

However, one random Saturday, a thought crossed my mind. One of Claire’s objectives. Her first one.

Go to the roof. Talk to God.

I remembered that when I had asked her my purpose, she had plainly said it.

To talk to God. When the time is right.

I stood up from the console, my knees quivering. I knew what I had to do. The time was right.

I radioed the janitor, Yvan, to allow me up to the top floor with his special key. He was behind schedule, so he begrudgingly gave me his key to the roof. “Don’t go killin’ yerself like the last guy that asked me for that, alright?”

I walked up the steps leading to the roof, each step heavier than the last. I knew my fate, my purpose, was awaiting me. I felt terrified, but also strangely tranquil. My heart pounded in my chest, and my stomach was filled with butterflies.

I finally reached the door, inserted the key, and walked out onto the patio, the wind immediately pummeling me. I looked over to the ledge where Neal had jumped, and there she was.

Claire.

She turned around, smiling. Her phone was up to her ear.

“Yes, he’s finally here,” she said to her phone. Her hair seemed to dance in the wild wind. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I slowly walked up to her, breathing shallow. She looked right at me.

“You’ve proven yourself,” she said to me. “Are you ready to talk to God?”

I nodded. “Y-yes. I am.”

She handed me her phone. I slowly put the phone up to my ear.

Tears began uncontrollably streaming down my face. A blissful feeling ran through my entire body, and I soon became enraptured in pure, unbridled ecstasy. I began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

I knew, even as I fell, that I had fulfilled my purpose. And it was beautiful.

THE CHRISTMAS BERRY

Brick’s eyeballs bulged as he fell to his knees. His forehead throbbed painfully, and he could feel his pulse accelerating. He tried to grab his head to keep it from exploding, but his arms were to weak to move. Around Brick, the abundant redwood trees grew taller and taller with each agonizing moment. THey had an odd purple hue to them despite being the middle of the night. Brick fell to the floor and bean thrashing about like a madman. 

How did I get here?

Millions of images pulsed through Brick’s head. He saw his birth, he saw the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, the siege of Leningrad, the crumbling of the Berlin Wall. In the span of a couple seconds, Brick saw the entirety of human history. Our accomplishments, our failures. 

The trees seemed to be dancing joyfully around him, celebrating his catastrophic enlightenment. 

“Stay still, damn you,” Brick managed to mutter to the spiteful trees. “Make yourself useful and…” his voice trailed off. He was too weak to speak. Too much was going on in his brain.

A rush of wind jetted through the forest and the trees began to snicker menacingly at Brick. His muscles spasmed as sweat trickled down his brow. Memories of his own life began replaying in his head like an old film, but they were all playing at once. He jerked his head to the side and his nose tickled a berried shrub he had violently kicked out of the earth only moments ago. He impulsively bit off a berry and started chomping it. 

Heteromeles arbutifolia…

ONE WEEK EARLIER

“Heteromeles arbutifolia, also known as the Christmas berry, is perhaps the most prominent understory shrub in our county. Many find the berries to look good enough to eat, but keep in mind that they have been known to contain a small amount of cyanogenic glycosides. Whatever that means.”

Brick looked up from the lectern. The classroom stared back at him with glazed expressions. A few mouths hung open.

“...That was a joke. Anyway, uh historically, the plant has been used by indigenous peoples as a treatment for Alzheimer’s, citation needed, and recent research has found a number of active compounds that are potentially beneficial to Alzheimer’s treatment. These include icaricide compounds, which protect the blood-brain barrier and prevent infiltration of inflammatory cells into the brain. A 2016 study, conducted by the Central University of Muckton, found 5 grams of the dried berries, used as a treatment for Alzheimer’s, to be safe. The study also found no cyanogenic compounds in the plant.”

Brick looked at his incredibly large professor, Mr. Washburn, who had the general shape of a bowling ball stacked precariously atop a boulder. Much like a boiler, he stared back at Brick with a rigid, stony face. Brick was intimidated until he finally spoke.

“Brick, that was… good. Everyone give him a round of applause.”

Brick smirked pridefully. Looks like I got away with it again. The professor rolled towards him, his feet imperceptible beneath his protruding paunch.

“Please see me after class,” Mr. Washburn whispered with an indignant tone. Brick gulped. Maybe I didn’t get away with it.

After the rest of the students finished their horrifically boring presentations on the local flora of the county, Mr. Washburn dismissed the class. Brick was firmly implanted into his seat, an anxious sweating wreck.

Mr. Washburn pretended like Brick wasn’t there for a few minutes as he looked through some papers and tapped at his keyboard a few times. Finally, his droopy eyelids slowly turned Brick’s way. Brick could feel his face redden.

“Brick,” the professor said. “Your article was, word-for-word, exactly what was written on Wikipedia. The only thing that wasn’t plagiarized was your terrible attempt at a joke. In fact, I’m glad you clarified that it was a joke, because I wasn’t entirely sure.”

Fuck me, Brick thought.

“Look sir, I was tired last night, and frankly, I don’t care about flowers or berries or ferns or whatever. I’m her to learn how to be a journalist and write interesting articles. If I wanted to learn about plants, I’d have majored in Biology.”

Mr. Washburn’s face did not move an inch. He didn’t even blink as he stared directly into Brick’s soul.

“First of all,” the professor started. Brick swallowed hard, knowing a long lecture was about to come his way. I should’ve just asked Wally to write the article. “If you choose journalism as a career, you will be given assignments that you do not care about and do not want to write about. It’s part of the job. Second of all, it doesn’t matter what you’re majoring in, plagiarism is taken incredibly seriously at this school. I’m supposed to call the Dean of Admissions and report you.”

Brick sighed, frustrated. “Isn’t this a community college? Like, who cares? If this was Harvard and I copied my thesis from the Internet then I can see it being a big deal, but this school was recently recognized as being the ‘Only School in Nation Without a Working Toilet.’ Our most famous alum is only known for digging up the grave of Ronald Reagan to ‘shoot the sucker again.’”

The professor nodded, a bit disdainfully. “Yes I had Rupert in my class before the incident, but he was psychotic, and still never plagiarized a single sentence. What does that say about you?”

Brick sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, thinking.

“Look, Brick,” the professor continued. “I’m not going to report you, since I know your uncle. Who know what Elliot would do to me if he found out I was the one who reported you? I don’t want to imagine such a scenario. But I don’t want to let you off easily, because you need to learn consequences for your, frankly, stupid actions. All I had to do was search ‘Christmas berry’ and your entire presentation popped up. Y’know, I think you even said ‘citation needed’ at one point, but I was hoping I misheard you.”

Brick cringed internally. “Fine. What do I gotta do to pass this class?”

“I want an hour long news documentary on the Christmas berry on my desk next Friday. That will excuse your mess of a presentation.”

Brick considered this. “Fine, but I’m going to shoot this my way. If I’m gonna make a film, it’s gonna have suspense, intrigue… It’s gotta be sexy.”

Mr. Washburn rolled his eyes. “...Whatever you gotta do.”

PRESENT DAY

Brick snapped back to his painful reality.

“Documentary… Mr. Washburn… That’s right…” Brick seized in agony on the forest floor. His heart rate was through the roof. “Ghhh… Why can’t I remember anything?”

Brick slapped his forehead. “C’MON, THINK!”

Brick bit off three more berries off the unearthed shrub.

THREE DAYS EARLIER

“Are you filming?” Brick asked.

“Yes, it’s rolling, that’s what the blinking red light means,” replied Dimitri, Brick’s best friend and impromptu cameraman.

“Alright… ahem… Hello, my name is Brick Balboa, and I will be your host this evening. This–”

“You’re really going with that stage name?”

“Quiet on set!” Brick growled. “And yes, the alliteration gives it that extra oomph. Washburn will approve.”

“Whatever,” Dimitri said, refocusing the video camera. “Go again.”

“Hello, my name is Brick Balboa. I’m here to reveal a shocking conspiracy that is unfolding in our humble town of Sussingham. If you live here, you’ve probably seen the Christmas berry.”

Brick brandished a sprig of the Christmas berry that he had picked earlier.

“Sussingham exports these berries in large quantities to a medical facility called Golaris, which uses the berries to produce anti-Alzheimer’s medication,” Brick continued. “Sussingham makes big bucks off this crop.”

Brick then flashed a dramatic look at the camera.

“But what if I were to tell you that Golaris was actually processing these berries into poison pills to kill off tose stricken with Alzheimer’s?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dimitri piped in.

“QUIET ON SET!” Brick screamed in frustration. “MOTHERFUCKER!”

“You’re really forcing the conspiracy angle here, huh? Why would Golaris poison the very people that keep them in business?”

“SHUT UP!” Brick yelled, then took a deep breath. “Investigative journalism is all about how you frame something; it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.”

“Says the community college student.”

“I hate to say it, you’re my buddy, but you’re really fucking this up right now. I’m getting very hot.”

“It just seems that a journalism teacher isn’t gonna like deliberately false ‘news.’”

“I really, really need you to shut up. I don’t know how to edit, so this is all going in the final cut.”

Dimitri’s roommate, Cornelius, lazily walked into the room, munching on a family size bag of corn chips. “Yo,” he said in between obnoxiously loud crunches. “What are you guys doing?”

“We’re uh…” Dimitri paused, looking concerned. “Gosh, what were we doing again?”

“We’re filming my documentary, idiot!” Brick turned to Cornelius. “It’s a project for class.”

“Documentary, eh?” Cornelius said, dropping his empty chip bag to the floor. “What’s it about?”

“Uncovering a vast and insidious conspiracy within Sussingham,” Brick stated proudly. “...Still figuring out what the conspiracy is, though.”

“Well, what are you doing with those berries?” Cornelius asked, pointing to the small bushel in Brick’s hand.

“Oh these? Well the documentary is supposed to be about these berries in some way. My initial idea was to argue that Golaris, that medicine company that just moved its factory to Sussingham, is using these to poison and kill Alzheimer’s patients.”

Cornelius considered this. “Y’know, Brick, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you’re onto something here.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dimitri scoffed. “Why would Golaris poison their customers? It makes no sense!”

Cornelius nodded. “You’re right, that part is ridiculous and clearly wrong. But I have noticed something… off about Sussingham in the last few days. Ever since Golaris moved their factory here.”

Brick and Dimitri looked at each other, unsure of how to process this information.

“I can’t quite place my finger on exactly what it is,” Cornelius continued, pacing back and forth. “But I aim to find out.”

“Wow,” Brick said, crossing his arms. “Y’know, Cornelius, you have some chutzpah. Star power. How about I make you the subject of my documentary, and I follow you around as you uncover the conspiracy?”

“I know you’re just asking me so you don’t have to figure out the conspiracy yourself,” said Cornelius. “But I accept.”

MEANWHILE, AT THE SUSSINGHAM GAZETTE OFFICES

Elliot Buckworth, Sussingham’s richest man and owner of their local newspaper, the Sussingham Gazette, emerged from his office. Elliot was exceedingly eccentric and always wore a green velvet suit. His hair was perfectly groomed, and he had always had incredible posture, standing at a rigid 90 degree angle.

His writing staff both feared him and respected him, so whenever he exited his office, they would immediately pretend to be working as fastidiously as possible, even if they had nothing to do.

“WALLY!” Elliot yelled. Wally, Dimitri’s older brother and a long-time Sussingham Gazette writer, snapped to attention. He had a classic case of General Anxiety Disorder and hearing his name yelled in such a way by his insane boss was almost enough to send him into a frenzy (luckily his meds were helping). He loved his job at the Gazette, but Elliot’s leadership style clashed poorly with his many mental issues. “OFFICE! MINE! NOW!”

“Y-yes sir!” Wally jumped up and nearly sprinted to Elliot’s office. Elliot followed him, closed his door, and took a seat in his ornate office chair, colloquially known as “The Throne.” Wally stood at attention, like a military cadet waiting to take orders from a drill sergeant.

“Wally, you big lummox,” said Elliot, leaning back in his chair. “You quivering quail. You’re quite experienced in writing… ‘puff pieces,’ one might say?”

“Well, uh, no,” Wally stammered. He was constantly told by his therapist to stick up for himself more often, but it often felt like Herculean effort for him. “I like to think my articles have substance…”

“Substance. Yes. Of course,” Elliot scoffed, smiling enigmatically. “Well, luckily, this article I am about to ask you to write will require none of that ‘substance’ you claim to have.”

Elliot leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk.

“Golaris, that pharmaceutical company, recently signed a large contractual deal with the city of Sussingham,” Elliot continued. “This is a huge win for us, as Golaris is profitable and for some odd reason chose to set up their production factory in this godawful, one-horse town. They mayor requested that we doctor a positive write-up on them within the week. Puff piece. A piece for a puff. Let’s get everyone on Team Golaris to make sure they choose to stay in Sussingham. This town desperately needs the money. For god sakes, the community college doesn’t even have a bathroom.”

“I mean, I don’t know too much about them, but I guess I could take care of it,” Wally shrugged. Do you want me to visit with them?”

“I would say to be very… cautious if you choose to interview them,” Elliot said menacingly.

“...Why is that?” Wally said, spooked.

“You’re very awkward and you might just bore them right out of Sussingham!” Elliot roared with laughter, but became annoyed once he noticed Wally was not laughing with him. “I was being facetious. Yes, goofus, meet with them, get some quotable quotes, and report back with a happy, pro-Golaris article. let’s make this town some cash, Wario!”

“Uh… my name is Wally.”

“Oh, yes, Waldo… Remind me why I called you in here again?”

LATER THAT NIGHT

“Action!” Brick shouted, pointing the camera at Cornelius, who was now wearing a fedora and a black leather duster. 

“There’s something fishy going on in Sussingham… and I don’t mean the catch of the day at the local diner.”

“CUT!” yelled Brick. “That was fantastic! Very noir!”

“I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with your project? You guys have just been workshopping noir one-liners for hours,” Dimitri groaned. “Do either of you have any idea what ‘conspiracy’ you’re even investigating yet?”

Just then, Wally walked in the front door. “I’m home!” he stared bemusedly at the comical scene unfolding in his living room. “What the hell are you guys doing?”

“School project,” Brick replied. “Trying to uncover a conspiracy involving Christmas berries and their connection to Golaris.”

Wally chuckled, placing his bags in the front closet. “That’s ironic. I was just assigned to write a puff piece on Golaris for the newspaper.”

“No shit?” said Cornelius. “Well, pray tell: what do you know? Maybe you could help us crack this nut.”

Wally sat down in an armchair facing the guys. “Well… Golaris is a pharmaceutical company. I guess they just signed a massive, multi-million dollar deal with the city of Sussingham. It’s the talk of the town.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know that much. What else?”

“Okay, well, they just moved their factory here, where they produce all their anti-Alzheimer’s medicine. It’s supposed to be creating a ton of jobs, so the city council is ecstatic.”

“Eureka!” Cornelius jumped up. Brick hastily took out the camera and started filming again. “My friends, I ask you this: Why did Golaris move their factory to small town Sussingham of all placed? This, boys, is the crux of the conspiracy.”

“Well, I think it’s obvious,” Wally replied matter-of-factly. “Golaris is moving here so they have close access to their prime resource, the Christmas berry, which is grown here in plentiful numbers, and is heavily used in their drug compounds for Alzheimer’s treatment.”

Cornelius shook his finger at Wally. “But, such a resource could be easily shipped to nearby cities with next-to-no production delays; sure, it might be slightly more expensive, but such a cost would be pocket change to a multi-billion dollar company like Golaris,” Cornelius paused, deep in thought. “No, their reason for moving their factory here has to be something far more substantial. What’s in it for them?”

“Cornelius, you’re a star,” Brick said behind the camera, smiling ear-to-ear. “This is gold.”

“Well, I guess I’ll find out more about them tomorrow. I have an appointment to interview their PR manager tomorrow evening,” Wally said. “I’d invite you guys along, but I never mentioned anything about a documentary crew, and these kinds of guys get a whole lot less candid with a camera in their face. But I’ll relay any info I get back to you guys.”

“Aw, man,” Brick moaned. “Getting a shot of the factory would be perfect B-reel for my doc.”

“Actually, I just remembered they specifically requested no recording devices at all, not even my trusty tape recorder,” Wally said. “I guess that is pretty shady, huh?”

THE NEXT DAY

Wally drove deep into the Sussingham Redwood Forest where the Golaris factory had been constructed. Soon enough, he saw the unmistakable chimneys pumping out steam slightly above the treeline, indicating he was close. He wondered what advantages there were to building a factory so far within a heavily wooded forest.

Wally parked in the large parking lot, and ensured he had all of his belongings before exiting his vehicle. He sighted his tape recorder, and after a brief consideration, decided to pocket it. He clicked it on, and began his trudge towards the front entrance.

He strode in the large front doors, and was immediately greeted by a creepily jovial secretary sitting at a massive front desk.

“Welcome to the Sussingham Golaris factory, Wallace Jonathan Harkham.”

“Wow… thank you. How did you know my full–”

“Well, well, well, you must be Wally!” shouted a deep voice from the other end of the lobby, echoing through the spacious room. The voice was perfectly manicured, like a politician’s. A well dressed man, about 45-years old, approached Wally with his hands outstretched, as if greeting an old friend. “Welcome to our new factory. My name is Rich, and I’m the head of our PR department. Am I to understand you’re writing the article about us for the Sussingham Gazette?”

“Yes, I’m writing an article on the recent deal you made, seems like quite the sweet deal for Sussingham.”

“Well, of course, one of the many core tenets of Golaris’ mission statement is charity. Many would look upon Sussingham as a town of utter desolation… an unplace, if you will. It hardly exists at all. However, when we came upon Sussingham, we at Golaris saw an opportunity waiting to be seized.”

“That was going to be my first question, actually,” Wally said, taking out his pen and paper. “Why did you choose to move your factory to Sussingham, instead of a nearby city?”

“Well, I’m sure you’re aware that Sussingham is wealthy with our prime resource: the Christmas berry, a plant we heavily utilize for our Alzheimer’s medications.”

“Yes, but there are many towns where this plant is abundant, correct?”

“You’ve done your research!” Rich threw up his arms. “Yes, that is right on the money. You see, we chose Sussingham for the same reason many home buyers would purchase a ‘fixer upper.’ We wanted to make this town as prosperous as our company; as we get richer, so does this town. Our executive leadership team also values the idea of establishing a homebase far away from the hubbub of big cities; there are often too many politicians with vendettas against profitable companies, and retaliate by enacting legal restrictions that make it difficult for us to expand in the way we would like.”

“I see,” Wally scribbled a few notes down on his memo pad. “What kind of legal restrictions are you looking to circumvent?”

“Hahahaha! That’s a good one, Wally,” Rich heartily slapped Wally on his back. “A magician never reveals his secrets. Obviously, what we have been looking for is a town government that is incompetent and willing to turn a blind eye to our wildest ambitions. And my, oh my, do we have a bunch of wild ambitions.”

Wally stopped scribbling and froze. “A blind eye…?”

“That’s right, Wally,” Rich’s face took on a sinister expression. “The reality is that we wanted to buy a town for ourselves. Golaris owns Sussingham now. We have your entire city council deep within our pockets.”

“Wait, but…” Wally blinked. “I… forgot what I was going to say. What were we talking about again?”

“Yes, I was just explaining that we chose Sussingham because we simply fell in love with the town and its people,” Rich said, smiling pleasantly. “Again, our desire with this town is pure; we want to endow Sussingham with fat stacks of cash as we continue our mission to cure Alzheimer’s completely.”

Suddenly, a loud clicking noise emanated from Wally’s pocket. Wally froze.

“Erm… what is that sound, Mr. Harkham?”

“Oh, it’s nothing…” Wally tried to slap his pocket to disable the clicking noise; his tape recorder was clearly malfunctioning.

Rich boldly stuck his hands into Wally’s pocket and pulled out the tape recorder, and brandished it the air as if it was illegal paraphernalia. 

“Hmph. Did we not specifically ask you not to bring any recording devices?”

“Oh, I, uh, forgot I had it on me…”

“How unfortunate,” Rich then pulled a small device out of his pocket, which resembled a remote control. “For you.”

Rich then tapped a button, and Wally, as if electrocuted, yelped and fell to the floor, grasping his head.

“What is your name?” Rich ashed. Wally continued to moan on the floor. “I said, WHAT IS YOUR NAME?!”

“I… I don’t know!” Wally cried. “What did you do to me?!”

“Excellent,” Rich giggled evilly. “Now, follow me to the ‘breakroom.’”

LATER, AT DIMITRI’S HOUSE

“MIND VIRUS!” Cornelius ran into the room where Dimitri was trying to watch TV. Brick soon followed, holding his camera up like a trophy.

“Mind what?”

“Brick and I figured it out. The conspiracy. It all makes sense,”

“What conspiracy?” Dimitri asked.

“See, Brick? Everyone’s forgetting everything. Dimitri, we’ve been making a documentary about a conspiracy all day long. Do you not remember?”

Dimitri sat there for a second. “Yeah, I guess I don’t remember what I did today. At all.”

“Dimitri, there is some kind of mind virus, or perhaps a prion disease, sweeping through Sussingham as we speak. It seems to be primarily affecting our ability to retain short-term memory.”

“It’s true! I was right! There is a conspiracy in Sussingham!” Brick shouted.

“Brick and I spent all day together, and we both realized just moments ago that we had no memory of what we did.”

“Luckily, I’ve been filming everything, so we decided to watch back the tape, and sure enough, it seems we were filming some kind of documentary on Golaris and the Christmas berry. No idea why, but it has to be related to why everyone is losing their memory.”

“When did you guys get here?” Dimitri asked.

“Oh god,” Cornelius said hopelessly. “It’s getting worse. Everyone, quick, grab a Sharpie. It’s Memento time.”

Dimitri grabbed a Sharpie from his desk, and they each took turns writing something down on their forearm.

“Okay, what has everyone written down?” Cornelius asked the group. “I wrote ‘Mind virus, watch Brick’s tape if you forget.’”

“I wrote, ‘trust Cornelius,’” Dimitri replied.

“I wrote ‘Me Brick.’” Brick said sheepishly.

“Brick, it doesn’t make you lose your entire memory, it’s just short term. You’re not gonna forget who you are, dope.”

“Well, how in the world do we combat a mind virus that targets short term memory?” Dimitri asked, worried.

“We go to the source, of course.”

“Holy shit,” Brick aimed his camera at Cornelius. “Perfect line. Can you say that again?”

“Say what again? Are you talking to me?” Cornelius asked.

“Yes, you said something cool. Don’t you remember?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Cornelius looked down at his arm.

“Brick, play back that tape for us, willya?”

The three boys watched the tape and took notes.

“Holy shit, I completely forgot that Wally was supposed to meet with Golaris today. He should’ve been back by now, it’s well past 5pm.”

“That’s not good,” Cornelius said cautiously. “Based on this tape, it’s clear that Golaris is behind this whole mess.”

“What do you mean?” asked Brick.

“Brick, they make anti-Alzheimer’s medication. I think it’s obvious: they’re somehow making the town forget their memories so we become reliant on their memory drug. They’re turning Sussingham into lifetime customers!”

“And the last time I heard from Wally was before he went to the Golaris factory,” Dimitri said, gulping nervously. “Who knows what could have happened to him. We gotta go find him. He could be lost in the woods for all we know!”

“Sweet, this will be an epic conclusion to this documentary. I’m gonna enter this in film festivals,” Brick said, smiling.

“Do you only think of yourself?” Dimitri asked coldly, while grabbing his car keys. “Let’s go.”

PRESENT DAY

Brick continued spasming in pain on the floor. He looked down at his arm, where the words “ME BRICK” were scrawled messily. 

“Me Brick,” Brick read aloud. He felt another jolt of electricity run through him, giving him an agonizing headache. He scrunched his eyes, screaming in pain. Through his distress, he managed to eat one more berry.

EARLIER, THE DAY OF 

“So this is the Golaris factory. Looks ominous in the nighttime.” Cornelius remarked after they parked the car.

“I’m glad we watched the tape again in the car, or I probably would’ve forgotten why we’re here in the first place,” Dimitri said. “Let’s go find my brother.”

The boys cautiously approached the front entrance, clinging closely to one another. Once they reached the front, the doors swung open by themselves, causing Brick to gasp.

“Boys,” said a voice. “I don’t know how you did it, but you managed to circumvent our memory ray. Congratulations.”

A man stepped out of the darkness holding a remote control in one hand. “You boys are smart,” he continued. “I’m Rich, the factory manager here. I assume you’re here for Wally, whose curiosity ended up being his downfall.”

“Where’s my brother?!” Dimitri yelled. 

“Be careful guys. I feel woozy.” Cornelius remarked, cradling his head. “I assume the ray’s effects are more prominent here.”

“Right you are, Cornelius.” Rich laughed. “Follow me if you want Wally to live.”

Rich began walking off, and the boys followed at a slight distance. 

“Tell us what you know, you rat bastard,” Cornelius said. “I know you’re gonna make us forget everything anyway, so might as well come clean!”

“Sure thing. Let me just take care of one thing first.” Rich stepped towards Brick, swiftly grabbed his camera, and in one motion, threw it to the floor, shattering it into many pieces.

“You goddamn son of a bitch! MY SCHOOL PROJECT! MY AWARD WINNING FILM! YOU FUCKED ME!” Brick screamed furiously, spit flying from his mouth. 

“Shush now, simple one,” Rich smirked. “Now I can tell you everything. Golaris has long been a profitable company; we’ve created miracle drugs to assist with memory related issues, but our stock price has stagnated in recent years. Not enough people are getting Alzheimer’s with recent advances in medical technology. It’s quite simple; we needed a way to ensure the funds never stopped rolling in. That’s when one of our engineers found a way to erase people’s memories using a radio wave that can be emitted to a small area.”

“Of course. You moved your factory here to use Sussingham as guinea pigs for your memory loss experiment. It would be too obvious in a large city.” Dimitri said angrily.

“Like I said, you boys are smart. Yes, Sussingham was perfect because it’s a small, relatively unknown town with an incompetent government desperate for money. But you see, this isn’t a factory at all. It is simply a building that houses the memory ray. We’ve been emitting the ray in small bursts over the last few days, and the results have been magnificent.”

The boys followed Rich into a large room. In the center stood a massive, overbearing satellite dish pointed to the sky. 

“However, I made a mistake when Wally came by. I had assumed he, too, was an incompetent, and did not count on the fact that he had any recording devices. Turns out he was slyly carrying a tape recorder, which had picked up some facts I was not too keen on others knowing. I had to destroy the tape recorder, and place Wally in detention for his transgressive behavior.”

Rich motioned to the corner of the room, where Wally lay destitute, in the fetal position. “Poor thing. With his proximity to the satellite, he received hefty doses of the ray each time we enabled it for emission. He’d be lucky to remember anything ever again.”

“Wally!” Dimitri screamed, and ran over to him. “Are you okay?!”

Wally looked up at Dimitri cluelessly. “Blargh… Rammel flaggem doogan smirtz…” Wally babbled.

“After the third burst, he forgot how to speak English. We’ve done six more bursts since then.” Rich laughed evilly. “But don’t fret. We are ready to release our largest burst yet, and you boys will experience the effects of 1,000 bursts, all at once!”

“We’re fucked,” Cornelius said, the color draining from his face. 

“We’re not fucked,” Brick whispered to Cornelius. “He may have destroyed the camera, but the memory card is doing just fine. I swiped it when he wasn’t looking.”

Cornelius’ eyes bulged. “Brick, you beautiful bastard! I could kiss you!”

“Please don’t.”

“I’ll handle Rich. You run to the police and show them everything.”

“Wait. I wanna rub it in his stupid face.”

“Wait, don’t–”

“We’ve foiled your plans, Rich!” Brick yelled triumphantly, holding up the memory card. “You may have destroyed the camera, but the memory card lives on! The world will know of your evil deeds!”

“You goddamned idiot,” Cornelius shook his head. “Now we’re definitely fucked.”

“You meddling morons,” Rich said angrily. He walked over to a large switch, and with much effort, pulled the lever down. “Eat this!”

The satellite began making a loud whirring sound. 

“It’s warming up,” Cornelius said. “Brick, RUN!”

Brick took off without another word. Cornelius lunged at Rich, and started punching him as hard as he could. But as soon as Brick reached the entrance, all three boys felt a powerful surge go through their bodies, like being struck by lightning. Cornelius dropped to the floor like a gnat. Dimitri collapsed next to Wally. But Brick kept on running.

Brick felt the pain come on more gradually than the others, but when it came, it was strong. 

PRESENT

Brick remembered everything now, and it gave him the courage to overcome the pain and he stood up, his legs shaking violently. He grabbed another bushel of berries and began pouring them in his mouth. 

“5 grams of the dried berries… used as a treatment for Alzheimer’s…” Brick knew he had to eat a bunch. They were disgustingly bitter, and tasted like earwax. They dried out his mouth like he was chomping on deodorant. But he persevered. Memories began flooding back to him more and more, clearer and clearer. 

“I have to… save my friends!” Brick began running again, his strength returning to him alongside his memories. “I have to… pass my fucking class!”

It took him fifteen minutes of running at full speed, but he finally reached the town square. 

FRIDAY, DUE DATE OF THE ASSIGNMENT

“Brick,” Mr. Washburn greeted him as he walked through the door of the classroom. “I expect you have the documentary for me?”

“Ahem…” Brick cleared his throat. “I… don’t have it.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Mr. Washburn shook his head. “You better have the best excuse in the world.”

“Well, I kinda do. The police have it.” 

“The police have your documentary?”

“They needed it for evidence. I accidentally stumbled upon a major conspiracy involving Golaris and how they were making the town lose their memories in order to make everyone reliant on their memory drug. My documentary was so good, it’s taking down a multi-billion dollar company.”

“Okay, well… I guess I did see something in the newspaper about that. But I can’t verify the veracity of your excuse. I’m afraid I’m going to have to fail you, Brick.”

“Wait, but I do have something to turn in to make up for the missing documentary!” Brick yelled, rummaging through his backpack. He pulled out a report written entirely by Wally. “I redid my presentation, and I can guarantee this one is not plagiarized at all!”

Brick handed Mr. Washburn the paper, and he began skimming through it. “This does look remarkably well-written,” Mr. Washburn nodded. “You had Wally write this, didn’t you?”

“God fucking damn it.” Brick said.

END.

Blog Post Title Four

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