Fleeing From Security

arr. by Andread T. Eblis

It is highly unlikely this will reach you. I hope you can piece together the mishmash of coasters, napkins and gum wrappers that I stuffed in the envelope I sent you, as it is of grave importance to your affiliates.

Being an Army dropout and a failed cop I've worked security most my life. The post I got now ain't no cake. That's why I'm running. 

It's 07:10, and I know my tail just showed to say he hasn't seen me all morning, and that I never came home last night. That's because I'm running, trying to figure out what to do.

At 07:00 I'm usually just making roll call. The only rolling I do however, is on a gurney in 7 -point restraint.

The job pays well I'd suppose, if you ever got to spend it. If I m not here, or working a double, I'm trying to bust the hangover from all the dope they load me up on. Then there's the booze and pills from trying to drink myself to sleep. I'll never sleep again with this gig.

They roll you to some operating room in some sub-cellar. They induce death... You spasm, you shit, you seize. I've died more times than any sane man should. I am no longer sane.

The only solace is that I know I'm not alone in my vocation. There's MacDouggal and big ol' Earl Jones. MacDouggal always bitches about me being late [I've built up a tolerance to death], and mumbles about his late car payment, or his wife's cheating, or something as he slips out the door, leaving me with a hand full.

Jones is a company man, though. He's always on overtime, helps me set the load, and is early to relieve me. The man is huge, with sweat always boiling on his knotty black brow.

I'll skip the part of bow we transmute, how we get there, for then I would be truly nuts. To even try to relate the process that tears a man's being in shreds and delivers it to that place, would snap the thin thread of credibility I have with you and your people.

So, once I'm down there, or up there, or where ever there is, the reality of my task becomes apparent. Not that this is a place where reality has any meaning. 

As I become aware— after the initial overwhelming stink and sound— the sight of one puny man holding back that, seems wholly ludicrous. Its enough to fill one with tears and titters, and then I know I am to replace the man who is firmly entrenched, maintaining the security of the Gate.

Yesterday morning it was Jones. Actually the man is huge and dark, looking proud and tall, holding it back with unfailing ease. "Where's MacDouggal," I mumble.

"No call. No show," Jones grunts. "Got him before I hit the gurney." All conversation is over as I brace myself for the load. Jones, kind as he may be, lets up too quick, and I am nearly bowled over with the sudden encumbrance. 

Those on the otherside rally at the newcomer, emitting that low, though deafening, hiss-click-click noise which I know is an entreaty, an empty promise.

The frayed edges of my mind tell me that if I succumb I will not die like the rest, I will go to another place, have great power, much of a realm, and thousands of concubines; things I have never imagined. 

Pulpy talons stroke my chest, and tails— at least I hope they are tails— lash and wrap around my thighs. My shift has just begun.

I no longer have any concept of myself. My life before isn't even triggered by photographs. My off-duty hours are bobbled and lost. I have no paid holidays, sick days, vacation, or health insurance. I am off on a folly and I run...