Chapter One
At first glance, it’s just another windowless space in an anonymous industrial park. Within these four ordinary walls a fragile illusion of normalcy hides an oasis, a crypt, a bunker, a home.
Overhead lighting from two fluorescent tubes barely manages to cut through the darkness. A man in a welder’s mask works with an acetylene blowtorch. He quickly but carefully fuses the metal garage door to its track. Nearby, a metal pedestrian door is fitted with the best locks on the market; a row of sandbags line the bottom of both entrances. On the shop floor, the elaborate woodworking tools left behind by an unfortunate previous occupant collect dust. A bathroom, kitchenette and an enclosed office on the far end of the space round things out.
The only resident, Alastair, finishes his work. He discards his mask, heavy gloves, blowtorch and other tools. Judging by his looks, he’s in his early twenties. Pale, impossibly smooth skin surrounds knowing eyes. A full head of dark blond, short but shaggy hair looks dark against his fair skin. Lean but muscular, his body is in good shape and he carries himself well.
He paces the shop floor for a moment, as if putting off something unpleasant. Finally, he returns to the office.
In the office cheap, durable work furniture is covered with a few unusual touches. An old, brown leather medical bag sits on a table. Gold lettering reads “Dr. A. Tomlinson.” A few name tags are attached to the handles including: “Alan Tresse, RN” and “Al Tandy, Orderly.”
On another table he puts two “number candles,” the kind used for a child’s birthday, into a sophisticated dark chocolate cake. He lights the numbers “99.”
The water welling in his eyes is a stark reminder that this is an unhappy anniversary.
Alastair whispers, “Ninety-nine supernatural years plus twenty-six real ones.” His frustration grows as he tries to think of a wish. Defeated, he blows the candles out.
Seconds later he lashes out, embarrassed by his own indulgence.
The cake and candles fly into a trash can, making a hollow thunk as they land.
He swaps a simple cotton tee for a uniform shirt, dons his most recent name tag, “Alastair Thomson, EMT-P.”
Alastair grabs the trash on his way out. He kicks the sandbags clear of the door with a bit too much ease. The door slams, locks click shut.
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
