The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

by Paul Bagnell

  Chapter 12: A ROOF OF FRIGHT

  It was Thursday morning, and McBridle stopped at Tom’s house so he could change clothes; they continued on their way to the office.

  The drive was quiet as neither talked much. He thought about last night. Exsorbo could no longer fight his interdimensional battles.

  Tom tried to unscramble his probed mind without a hope in hell. Today his muscles were sore (sorer than yesterday), and it felt as if he were caught in a tug of war between the forces of good and evil. He was breaking apart at the seams.

  He glanced over at McBridle; she smiled tenderly at him. He considered telling her about his late-night, strange-world encounter, and how he saved her slimy father from the devil’s belly; but he couldn’t think how he could explain that pile of bull. His nerves were tested. No sensible explanation could explain that rude adventure. She’d think he was high on morphine salt, and she wouldn’t understand what the hell he was mumbling out.

  The dewy autumn leaves blew across the wet pavement; the morning air was chilled. Tom turned up the radio volume to soothe his familiar torment. Dancing with the devil was taking an unwelcome toll on his skewed sanity; he needed a release.

  She broke the sustained silence and commented about his car, which hadn’t been parked in his driveway, and asked if it was still in the shop for major repairs.

  He cleared his stumped throat and powered the window halfway down, debating whether to explain the details of how he wrecked it; then he confessed. He told her that he drove off the road Tuesday night on the way home from her place.

  She was somewhat sympathetic but didn’t fish around for the end of the story. The Belk Tower was in plain view as they entered the financial district. There was an automobile accident ahead of them. An ambulance was at the scene with an emergency rescue unit and a couple of flashing police cruisers. The unlucky vehicle was flattened, apparently nobody survived.

  Tom viewed the wreckage as traffic moved slowly past the site. A flash of light blurred the present, and Tom’s sight dropped into the past. There, he saw a young lady park in front of the high-rise fixed for renovations. She vacated her vehicle and entered what appeared to be an Italian bakery located at ground level. Moments later the lady emerged with a bag of goods and stood at the curb. She looked up and down the avenue as if waiting for somebody. A long vehicle pulled up in front of her, and a hefty man got out. They argued in a foreign language.

  He pushed her against the car. She was crying heavily. The man shouted louder--this time in English: “Don’t bother me with your financial wants. I paid you once; there are no seconds,” he released her; then he climbed back into the limo. She wiped away her tears and got into her vehicle. She was about to drive off when an overhead crane cable snapped and dropped a ton of building materials on her soft-top, killing her instantly.

  Tom was there in his bent mind; however he could do nothing to avert the tragic event. He took a deep breath and put the vision to rest. It was the powers of the mind-crash. Exsorbo was right! These irregular powers were uncertain and served no master so he’d better be careful not to rattle any empty meat hooks.

  McBridle and Tom entered the tower and rode the elevator to their floor. Mackenzie stood near the office entrance; he was questioning Stella about a particular telephone message that had somehow been misplaced and mysteriously turned up on his desk a week late. He saw McBridle and alertly asked if she was available for lunch.

  “I’ll need to confirm my to-do list; call me later this morning,” she replied, and hurried past. “Tom, I have another matter to attend to; I’ll see you later.”

  “When you need me, give me a shout,” as he went off and hid in his cubicle. Death seemed to stink all around him; he couldn’t shake the mind-crash or the bad vision of that young lady who died a crushing death; it haunted his emotionally numbed mind.

  Jant peeked in, extremely pissed off. “Thanks, buddy, I’m your replacement. I’ll be working under Selly’s dictatorship; it’s not gonna be friendly days.”

  “Sorry pal for the unexpected inconvenience.”

  “I bet you are,” he replied softly with a bitter grin. “So, really, how long will this assignment last with you and that slave driver?”

  “Next week, maybe the week after,” Tom replied. He diverted his attention to clearing off the top of his desk.

  “Thank holy shit for that,” Jant said, and stormed off.

  The telephone rang. “Tom Bronze.”

  “I need you here in my office--right now,” McBridle said mischievously before she hung up.

  When Tom entered her office, she was conducting a telephone interview and pointed to the seat. He positioned it closer to her side.

  McBridle finished the call and rocked back in her chair. She looked into his cloudy eyes, “Wherever you want to start this investigation will be fine with me.”

  Tom sized up the three boxes stacked beside her desk. “With all these files and stuff, I’m sure we can create a technically convincing report,” he said.

  “That theme shouldn’t be difficult to get across; after all, they have a strong, worldwide reputation; and I’m sure the majority of shareholders will believe whatever the company wants them to believe,” she replied.

  “I somewhat believe that yet I believe our main focus should be directed at the integrity of Carravecky’s name.”

  She opened her desk drawer and withdrew a plastic ballpoint pen and standard writing pad. “They’ve been in business for over forty years and never once had a known breach of security. If we can sell this rock-solid track record to the shareholders, I’m sure we can maintain their confidence in the company.”

  Tom placed a box on top of McBridle’s desk and ripped off the tamper-proof seal. The box contained file folders that were organized by colour code. Red was security, blue was internal operation; and green was system malfunctions. Tom pulled an assortment of folders from the box and viewed them. In combination, there must have been at least fifty reports in total; and it would, surely, take them more than two days to review all of the material, even if they both worked non-stop, twenty-four hours a day.

  He got busy and examined a file, but he had a sneaky feeling that McBridle was searching for something extremely important to her in one of the other two boxes.

  The telephone rang, and she answered it. Her conversation lasted a second or two; then she hung up and said: “Tom, I have to go. I’ll be back later. It looks like you’ll have enough work to keep busy until I return so have fun and don’t pull a groin.”

  “Lots of fun--enough to last six months of royal shindigs--and that’s no information fabrication,” Tom replied with a smile. He helped her on with her coat and out the door; then he continued to browse the reports. He knew the stuff was smothered with deceitfully flavoured accounting methods. Most of the information was prepared internally and was probably, at best, unreliable. He leaned back in the chair to rest his overtaxed eyes. The smell of McBridle’s perfume filled the office as if she were still there. The feminine bouquet seemed to pull a horrible thought from the bottom of his mindscape, he remembered her saying that things could get dangerous. Now, he kind of believed her.