Chapter Eight
Tuesday, October 6th, 2009The Medictrans offices were created for function, not comfort. Green tinged florescent lighting turns the beige furniture a sickly gray. Several computers sit idle, this place runs on paper, a wall lined with in-boxes awaits the latest patient and billing records. Alastair sits at a large table in the middle of the space organizing his records from the evening.
Chuck walks in, still looking like there’s shit under his nose, and takes a spot next to Alastair at the table. Chuck’s longer shift means more paperwork, a stack double the size of Alastair’s, he immediately spreads his papers all around, taking over the table.
Alastair asks, “What’s wrong with you?”
Chuck looks Alastair in the eyes, “I don’t believe you.”
“About what?”
Chuck doesn’t even try to hide his disgust, “You come in with this sob story about some tragic illness and they have to hire you because that’s the law. All I see is a guy who can’t pull his weight.”
Alastair stands up to him, “Maybe I can’t work the same hours, but I guarantee I’m ten times better as a medic than you’ll ever be.”
Alastair finishes his work, slamming his papers in the appropriate in-boxes then leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Chuck gets up from the table, grabs a note pad, and pulls all of Alastair’s paperwork. He carefully takes notes as he spies.
***
Alastair rushes home, just ahead of the dawn. He’s one of many arrivals as the industrial complex gets ready for a new work day.
A red Chevy Suburban is parked three doors down from Alastair’s space. Magnetic signs read: Timothy Kent, Fire Investigator (702) 555-1969.
Timothy uses a makeshift ladder to climb down from the roof, he descends with ease as firm muscles flex underneath sun-beaten skin. His worn face is framed by a regulation crew cut. Halfway down he pauses, coughs violently for a moment but never loses his grip. Once he gets his feet on the ground, he opens the tailgate of his truck, sits and has a smoke.
Alastair can’t avoid Timothy as he heads for home.
“Hey!”
Alastair turns and stares at his neighbor, “Can I help you?”
Timothy examines this new arrival, “What happened to Jerry?”
Alastair tries this best to be nonchalant, “He… disappeared.”
“He always was a punk. Made great cabinets though.” Timothy’s need to know isn’t satisfied, “What’s your story, did your wife kick you out or something.”
Alastair sweats as the sunlight gets stronger, “How I got here is a long story for another time.”
Timothy watches, taking a drag on his cigarette, as Alastair backs away. Alastair fumbles with his keys, dropping them on the ground. Next to glimmering metal there’s a tiny splotch of dark red liquid, Alastair carefully rubs a drop of the liquid on his finger. It’s fresh blood.
There’s no time to dwell on it, he grabs his keys and forces his way inside. Out of the sun, Alastair carefully examines his home, nothing seems out of the ordinary.
He slumps against a wall and stares at the blood on his fingers.
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
