by H. D. Gordon
I nod, throat tight for some stupid reason. “Okay.”
7
2:34 p.m
This. Day. Will. Never. End.
I’m sure of it. It will stretch on unto eternity, trapping me in an abyss of copier machines and paperclips, too-cold office temps and over-spritzed cologne.
Five o’clock is never coming. This is where I die. Right here, in this desk chair that hurts my lower back and staring at these computer screens. Take me now, cruel deity, and spare me from the never-ending, soul-destroying horror of cube-life.
Just kill me. Kill me now.
“Hey nerd,” says a voice from the other side of my cube.
I roll my eyes and continue on with my work.
“I know you hear me, nerd.”
I sigh and spin away from my screen. Peeking around the wall of my cube is George Frump. And, yes, that’s really dude’s name.
“What’s up, dork?” I say.
George’s voice lowers conspiratorially as he stares intensely at me from behind his thick-lensed glasses. The light of the fluorescents reflects off his forehead, where his messy hair line is receding.
“I saw the video,” he says.
“The porno?” I ask.
I say this purely for the scarlet that flares to his jowly cheeks. He sputters a few times, trying to get a word out. “N-no,” he says, and his voice lowers still. “The other video. The one in the convenience store.”
Bless George’s heart, but he is the worst at picking up social cues.
Case in point: I swivel back around to face my computer. He keeps talking.
“So what are you?” he asks.
About to throat-kick you, George. That’s what I am.
“Buzz off, George,” Lucy says, popping her head over from the opposite wall of the cubicle. “Nobody likes you.”
George ignores her, changing the subject. “You guys hear about Karen Stansel?” he asks.
George is always on top of the rumor mill. I take the bait, hoping it’ll make him go away faster.
“What happened?” I ask.
George’s eyes gleam behind his glasses as he leans forward, making his chair groan beneath him. “Her husband and son showed up last week with a huge bouquet and balloons. Karen refused to see them, had Vince go to the front desk and send them away… Apparently, they exchanged some heated words.” His voice lowers conspiratorially. “I hear Vince and Karen have been banging for months,” he says. His eyebrows waggle. “Having an office affair.”
Lucy scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Get a life, George, and maybe you won’t be so wrapped up in other people’s business. Also, for the love of all that is holy, never say the word ‘banging’ in my presence again.”
George and Lucy hate each other, so it’s no surprise when George grumbles unpleasant things and disappears back around to his side of the cube wall.
I shoot Lucy a grateful look, and she winks at me before disappearing, too. I turn back to my computer, ready to pick up where I left off when my phone buzzes.
Picking it up, I see I have a message from my cousin, Hera. It’s about her mating ceremony tonight.
Shit. I’d totally forgot about it. She wants to know if I’m still coming.
Gods know I don’t want to. The day has been long enough as it is. But I love both Hera and Henry, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings by not showing up.
I grit my teeth and force myself to text back.
I’ll be there.
Great. Now I can’t decide if I want five o’clock to come or not. The last thing I want to do is see every person in my extended family, right after my true identity has been revealed to the world.
Just thinking about what they’ll say when I see them threatens anxiety, so I shove the matter away for later.
I start to lose myself in my work, only to be jarred away by something else.
This time, it isn’t an annoying coworker or a group of entitled men. In fact, the feeling is so out of place in the office setting that it takes me a moment to reconcile it.
But though I live that white-collar life, I’m a predator beneath the clean finish, and there is no denying the sensation.
The ripple of energy I sense is fear. Pure and unadulterated. A half heartbeat later, Lucy’s head pops back around the divider.
Our eyes lock. We confirm our thoughts without needing words.
Yeah, I felt it, too.
Three heartbeats following that—gunshots.
8
3:15 p.m.
For a single breath, the world stops.
Nothing stirs and no one moves save for the tiny hairs that rise along the back of my neck and over my arms.
Then, some faceless person from another cube says in an almost whisper that is somehow loud enough to be heard by all, “What was that?”
There is no time to answer before more shots ring out, eliciting gasps and yelps from some of the others. The shots are coming from the first floor, I think, but that’s only separated from where we are by a staircase and a hallway.
I’m barely completing this thought when panic ensues.
All of a sudden, everyone is out of their chairs, staring at each other over the dividers with matching confused faces that are rapidly melting into horror. The logical part of our minds knows what is happening—workplace and school shootings are a damn epidemic in America these days—but those kinds of things happen in other places, to other people. They don’t show up on your personal front door.
Until they do.
Now the stench of fear permeates. The wolf in me perks up in response, and a glance at Lucy tells me that the fire demon is reacting the same way. We’re creatures of chaos by nature, no doubt part of the reason we get along.
“We have to get out of here,” says Mary Ann, a middle aged woman who’s fond of long, gray skirts and loose shirts, and always smells like cheese.
Lucy and I exchange a look that says, No shit, Sherlock.
Some people start running toward the exits, while others crawl under their desks or dart toward the supply closets. Still more people just sit there, staring into space as if they’ve lost the ability to compute thoughts.
I draw a breath. There are nearly one hundred and fifty people who work in this building, and half of those people are on the second floor. None of the windows on the second floor open, and are made of thick, triple-paned glass.
That makes the two stairwells and single elevator the only way to reach one of the three exit doors.
Without wasting any more time, I take Lucy’s hand and begin pulling her toward the stairwell that is the furthest from where we’d last heard the gunshots. Lazarus pokes his little horned head out of her shirt pocket, his small, diamond-shaped eyes glittering at the excitement.
George follows us without saying a word. So does Mary Ann.
Karen asks, “Where are you guys going?”
Tense situations just seem to make some people absolutely idiotic.
I stare out over the cube farm. Six rows of ten. Nearly all of them full. And maybe thirty more people in the offices lining the hallways to get to the farm.
I realize with a sinking heart that some of these people might not make it home today. Then I shove the emotions away, because there is no place for them in the immediate situation.
“There’s a shooter in the building, everyone,” I say. “I’m getting out of here. Come if you want, but be quiet if you do.”
Several people join my little group, while others blink blankly, and others still run off on their own. My heart is beating fast, but the sound of it is drowned out by the rapid pounding of those of my companions.
Lucy and I take the lead, and I think about the fact that some of the people in my group were among those giving me the side-eye all day as a result of learning about my supernatural status.
Then there’s a scream, followed by another two gunshots, which cut off the cry abruptly. The shots are closer than they were only a moment ago.
Lucy and I pick up our pace, making it to the door to the rear stairwell with six other employees in tow.
Gods help the rest of the poor bastards, but I’m not dying here today. Fuck that.
I pause at the door, putting an ear to it, picking up all the minute sounds on the other side. I’m just about to reach for the knob when someone draws my attention down the hall.
“You,” Mark Humphrey says in a tone that can be called nothing but accusatory, “what’s going on here?”
I consider ignoring his dumb ass under the circumstances, but if I do make it out of here, I’ll still need this stupid job tomorrow.
“I think there’s a shooter in the building, Mr. Humphrey,” I say.
His eyes narrow, as if he just knows I’m somehow responsible. His face is so full of distain that I think for a moment that he will actually make the accusation verbal, but then, another gunshot sounds—How many is that now? Five? Six?—and he hurries over to us.
I ignore his ignorance and go for the doorknob—only to find it won’t budge.
“What’s going on?” someone asks.
“It’s locked,” Lucy replies, trying the knob herself with no success.
“How can that be?” Karen says, pushing her way to the front and trying the knob herself, as if Lucy and I must’ve forgotten how doors work. “These doors are electronic. They’re controlled by security down on the main floor.”
I pause before stating what to me is obvious, the very idea of speaking the words going against my nature.
“I can break the lock,” I say.
Everyone except for Lucy stares at me dumbfounded for what seems a long moment.
“Break it,” George says.
“Well, hold on—,” Mr. Humphrey starts, and is cut off by the sound of a scream.
The fear leaking out of the Big Bad Bossman is pungent in its potency.
“Break it,” Mr. Humphrey mumbles.
I can’t help but be hyperaware of the eyes of my coworkers as I grip the metal knob and give a sharp twist.
The lock is no match for my supernatural strength. I give the door a push, and it swings open. The stairwell yawns before us. No one makes a move to go down.
Because there’s a crazy mofo with a gun down there somewhere.
I glance back at Mark Humphrey, the man who runs this place, the head honcho whose hobbies include taking out the general discontent with his life on the helpless employees arranged below him in the org chart. The same dude who’s quick to point out your mistakes and publicly ream your ass for them. A veritable corporate pit-bull, all five-foot-five inches of him.
But now the big dog won’t meet my eyes. Seems his balls only drop as far as the conference room. He’s not going to be first down the stairwell.
Nah, it’s gonna be me, who earns probably more than one hundred and fifty grand less than Mr. Humphrey a year. I’m going to go first.
I’ve gone halfway down the stairwell when the door at the bottom that lets out onto the first floor swings open, a wide shadow falling over the stairwell from the other side.
9
3:23 p.m.
The smell of blood hits me first, the scent of fear following quickly after.
Then another feeling. One that I’m not sure humans possess in qualifying proportions. A sixth sense that lets the predator in me know that another predator is near. The hair on the back of my neck pricks, my other senses perking as well.
I hear him breathing. I know it’s a him because of the capacity of his lungs, the pace of his pulse, and the scent coming off him. It’s laced with testosterone, aggression, and anger.
It’s different from when I face another predator in the woods, like when I’m in my wolf form and come across the occasional cougar or bobcat. Those predators kill out of necessity, whereas the one in the stairwell below me does so out of hatred—the ugliest of the human emotions.
All of this passes through my mind in a handful of heartbeats, and then I’m easing the door shut again, putting my back to it, turning to face the others.
The question is on their faces.
“We can’t go that way,” I whisper. “He’s on his way up.”
And I’d just broken the lock that might have stopped him.
I watch as the blood drains from their faces, still holding the knob with the broken lock. No one says a word or draws a breath.
I push through the gathered and head down the adjacent hallway. “The other door,” I say. “Let’s go. Hurry.”
People practically trip over themselves following on my heels, Lucy taking up the spot in the rear of the group. This surprises me, though I suppose that it should not. The people at the edges of the group, as she and I were now, were obviously the most vulnerable.
I knew Lucy had even less patience for humans than I did; not to say that she didn’t like them, but it was hard not to stand on one side of the line when the world knew about supernaturals and was reacting to this knowledge in all the worst imaginable ways.
But, now, when it came down to life and death, she and I had taken up leadership roles naturally, well aware that among the gathered, we were the best equipped to survive the situation.
We get out of this alive, one of these fuckers better bake me some damn cupcakes on my birthday, I think.
Leave it to me to think about cake at a time like this.
We’ve just rounded the corner when the sound of a door creaking open sounds from behind—from where we’d just been. Hinges never screamed so loudly in all my life. The smell of fear permeating from our little group makes my nostrils flare.
We reach the other door and find it similarly locked. It occurs to me that the people in security must have put the building on lockdown. That seems silly to me, as the elevator is not automated in a way that requires clearance, so anyone who knows anything about the building could get to the second and third floors without needing a security badge.
As if these thoughts summon it, I hear the elevator in the adjoining hallway ding as it comes to a stop on our floor. There’s no way of knowing who’s getting off or on.
I snap the lock on the door to the second stairwell and lead the way down.
When we reach the bottom, I open the door that leads onto the first floor lobby…
And find myself staring into the dark eye of a barrel.
It takes me a millisecond to realize that I’d been wrong.
There is not one gunman, but two.
Instinct takes over.
And thank the Gods for that shit, too, because my mind is stalled in shock. Luckily for me, the wolf part of me is not so easily startled.
And that bitch hates guns.
Pretty sure it has something to do with that time as a pup when I was almost shot by a hunter in the woods, but I digress.
I deflect the barrel just before it fires, the sound loud enough to make my sensitive ears ring. The smell of gunpowder is pungent, and the group lined up behind me screams and gasps, some of them racing back up the stairwell, as if they’ve forgotten that another man with a gun waits on that level.
The bullet hits the wall, sending out a puff of plaster. I don’t let him get off another shot. With a sharp twist, I’ve taken the gun from him.
But the motherfucker has brought a spare.
SMDH. And we’re the ones they say everyone should be afraid of.
Bitches, please.
I slam my fist into his face. Bones crunch. A fine spray of blood mists the air. I know my eyes are glowing wolf-gold—something I can mostly control, except for when the beast in me gets overly excited.
And this shit definitely qualifies as over-excitement.
The gunman drops like a sack of potatoes. Only then do I realize how young he is, likely no more than twenty years old…
And familiar, though I can’t place how.
Then someone behind me lets out a heart-wrenching screech. Karen Stansel shoves to the front of the group. She kneels beside the unconscious gunman, tears welling in her eyes,
and I stare at her like the crazy mofo that she is.
“Jason,” she cries, swiping some of the blood from his face with the sleeve of her blouse. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
She repeats those three words over and over. Behind me, the group is silent, but I turn to them with the obvious question on my face before the answer hits me.
I know why the gunman looks familiar.
He’s Karen’s son.
10
3:30 p.m.
It takes me longer than perhaps it should to connect the dots.
The story George told us about Karen’s husband and son showing up with that huge bouquet of balloons and flowers, Karen refusing to see them, and the subsequent altercation between them and Vince… The affair Karen and Vince might have been having.
This is not a random act of violence. What’s worse; the shooters are familiar with the building. I’d managed to put out the son for a while, but the husband could run a muck before the authorities got here if someone didn’t stop him.
As if the thought has summoned them, a swat team bursts through the lobby doors, geared the fuck up, ordering us to put our hands in the air.
Once they see the unconscious gunman on the ground, they aim their guns at him, despite the fact that even if the shooter did wake up, he would have a hard time seeing through all the blood on his face.
I hadn’t held back when I’d punched him. Now I just hoped he’d end up being okay. Not because he deserved it, but with all the mess going on in the courts at the moment involving supernaturals, one of my kind killing a human would not be taken lightly, even if it was justified.
One of the officers restrains the shooter’s hands with a zip-tie while another calls in a paramedic. Karen hisses at them to be careful.
Ah, the sweet advantages of having been born a white human male. The police were killing my kind during routine traffic stops, while this fool gets an immediate call for paramedics?
