The next morning came dull and early. I got up and fetched a key from Meyer to enter the new apartment. He grudgingly acquiesced, and I packed my few boxes into the empty rooms.
The new apartment was three times larger than my old one, and my early arrival meant I had first choice of bedrooms. The two sat down a short hallway on opposite walls, and the bathroom door was situated at the end of the hall. I chose the bedroom on the right. The left one was larger, but there was only one window. The air in the city was dirty, but I liked to see the moon the few times when it made its appearance.
The packing was finished before another, more important duty interrupted the task: work. I climbed into my beat-up old piece of junk of a car and drove to those towers of human achievement. The commercial district was a hub of activity as everyone scurried to their places of work. Buses and taxis sped past my car as other vehicles like my own surrounded me. I was boxed in, trapped like a rat in a maze of mankind's own creation. My only salvation was also of mankind's doing: the office job.
I parked in the underground parking of the Fama Front Report office building, the paper for which I worked. My job took me beneath the ground to the basement floor. A pair of steel doors behind the underground parking elevator led me, and the mail carrier, into the cavernous basement.
The walls were unadorned concrete and the few rooms were sealed by plain, heavy wooden doors with knobs so old the paint had long ago worn off to reveal the metallic material. A few of the rooms were offices, but there was a large room situated close to the interior elevators of the building. The room was filled with short, rickety tables that rocked when you put five pounds on them. The mail carrier dumped twice that weight on each of the dozen tables. I followed behind the man as he hefted in bag after bag.
One of the office doors was connected to the large room. A thin man of middle age stepped out and frowned. This was my boss, Elliott Booker.
"You're almost late," he scolded me.
"'Almost' being the important word," I returned as I shed my coat near the door.
His eyebrows crashed down. "Don't think because you're fast at sorting I wouldn't fire you in an moment. There's plenty of unemployed journalism students who would kill to have your position."
I turned to him and smiled. "But do you really want to work with them?"
"No, and that's why I'm giving you a warning rather than tossing you out on the street for your lip," he retorted. He jerked his head over his shoulder in the direction of the tables. "Now get to work before the piles collapse those tables."
I stepped up to a table and looked through the piles of mail. This was the slush fund for the newspaper industry. Every day we received hundreds of tips, letters to the editor, and resumes. All that mess had to be sorted and delivered to the appropriate office. That meant browsing the address on the back of the envelope or the contents for clues to which department was indebted to them for more work.
The job wasn't for everyone. In this day and age there was always the chance a disgruntled reader or ex-employee would have a surprise in store for the first person to open the envelope. Then there was the sheer volume of mail. Day after day and week after week the letters came from the bags of the mail carrier and were deposited into the baskets of the the department heads.
I cut open the envelopes with my fingers and browsed the contents. A letter to the editor. That was tossed into the Editorial basket at my feet. Elliott came up behind me and watched me work.
"You're going to cut yourself opening those things up by hand," he scolded me.
"I' haven't slipped in five years, I won't slip today," I replied.
Elliott half-turned and glanced at the tables. He ran a hand through his short, graying hair. "I'm getting too old for all this bullshit."
"You could always go back to a beat," I suggested.
He snorted. "I don't know which bullshit is worse. The crap we get from our customers or the crap we give to them." He looked down and tapped his foot against a box. "Better take the Editorials up. It's already full. I'll take it from here."
There were no special elevators to send directly up to each office. Every box had to be carried to their departments and dropped off at the desk of an unfortunate secretary. I hefted the box and stepped into the hall. Down the hall to my right was the general use elevator that led to the other floors. I stepped inside and was whisked to every floor that gave its sacrifice of travelers. Traveling the gamut of the floors brought with it some perks.
"Did you hear the News section was in trouble for that story they ran yesterday?" a woman whispered to her companion.
The guy shook his head. "No, which story was it?"
"The front page story, the one about the lab blast. I guess somebody mentioned the head scientist's name when the official statement came from some general office," she explained.
He shrugged. "So what's the big deal?"
"That's what News wants to know," she told him. "One of the reporters used their connections to get the scientist's name linked to the statement, and now the editor wants to know who was the source."
"Seriously? That's bullshit," the man growled.
"And I guess there's been more sightings of the shadow that was supposed to be around there, but the higher-ups won't let anyone look into it," she added. "Rumor has it even the big boy's gotten involved."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Fox?"
She nodded. "The same. I knew it was going to be a bad day when that asshole and his Indigo Industries bought the paper. No wonder this place is going down hill. We don't get the juicy stories while everyone else gets the scoops." She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "But at least we don't run the tabloid shit."
"Have you looked at the Life section? They ran a piece on losing weight through breathing in more air," he retorted.
"Slow life day, I guess," she replied.
The pair got off and I went on my un-merry way to deliver the mail. The day passed and night arrived at the end of my shift. Another day of my life was gone, and the only thing I had to show for it was a sore back. I climbed back into my old car and headed home.
Crowded streets welcomed me to my block. The nearest open parking spot was a block away. I parked the car and looked out the windows. The few streetlights that worked were a dull, hideous green that barely lit their own posts. The mouths of the alleys were yawning voids of darkness that hid nightmares.
I sank back into my seat and sigh escaped my lips. My eyes fell on the glove compartment. I popped open the lid. My pistol and holster sat atop the registration and insurance papers. I never left home without them, but I did have to leave the things in the car for work.
I slipped on the holster and checked the cartridge before I tucked the pistol into its leather sheath. I stepped out and looked around. Hopefully the boys weren't expecting me to keep my promise at this hour.
I strode down the street. The chilly fall air cut through me like a knife. I grasped the collar of my coat and wrapped it closer around me. My footsteps clacked atop the lonely sidewalk. I could see the light over my stoop. Just a little further and I'd be home.
I froze. Something inside of me forced me to look to my right. I stood at the opening to an alley. My eyes couldn't penetrate the deep shadows beyond the sidewalk, but everything was still and quiet. Such serenity couldn't shake from me the feeling that something watched me.
I took a step back. A chill wind blew over me, reminding me the night was full of worse nightmares than my imagination. I hurried forward and reached the stoop without further incident. I slipped inside and walked up the stairs. The new apartment was on the fifth floor. My old apartment was on the fourth.
I reached the fourth floor hallway and a stooped figure rushed around the corner. We collided. I grabbed the railing and steadied myself before I tumbled down the stairs. My opponent stumbled back. It was a man of twenty-five. His short brown hair was slicked back in a way th
at aged him another ten years. He wore black pants and a blood-red overcoat that was buttoned so it hid his shirt. His tall collar gave the false impression that his head sunk into his coat. The man's pale skin and hunched stance reminded me of tormented zoo animals.
He raised his head, but his eyes hardly left the floor. His voice was soft and hesitant. "I-I'm sorry. Are you all right? Did you need help?" He reached out for me.
I slapped his hands away. "I'm fine."
He cringed and hung his head. "I'm sorry."
He hurried past me and down the stairs. I took a step forward, but paused. I leaned over the railing and looked down the rectangular gap that was created by the turns of the stairs. The man's slick head circled the gap until he emerged at the lobby. He disappeared in the direction of the front door, and in a moment I heard the entrance open and shut.
I shook myself and stepped away from the railing. He was an unfamiliar face among the occupants of the fourth floor. That must've been what caught my attention.
I proceeded down the hall and stood before my apartment door. My hand reached into my purse a moment before my eyes fell on the number on the door. This was my old apartment. I swore under my breath. Habit and the run-in with the stranger had forced me to take this familiar route.
I returned to the stairs. The last flight of steps awaited me, but I paused. I placed my hands on the railing and leaned over. The stairs and lobby below were empty. There wasn't a sound.
I shook my head. "Probably some guy visiting his girlfriend. . ."
I hurried up the stairs away from the old memories and to the new ones I would make at the fifth floor apartment.
CHAPTER 4