Fight or Run

You open the door to decipher the buzzing sound just in time to see the black drone take off. You look down at the package, confused that such a thing even happened in your small town. You try to examine the package without touching it because you've seen too many movies and tv shows of what an unexpected package could bring. Squatting down to get a better look, all you see is your name scrawled across the top with no other markings. The package begins to ring, and you fall back on your butt at being startled. As it continues to ring like an old-fashioned telephone, you take a gulp and rip open the brown paper. The ringing intensifies as you tear open the box. You pull out a flip phone and answer it, "Hello?"

"Good morning," is spoken by a male voice with a tinge of an accent.

"Who is this?"

"You can call me Bob."

"Should I call the police, Bob?"

"That is your choice, but then you wouldn't be able to receive what I'm prepared to give you."

You hesitate at the decision, wondering if you want to take a chance while you pick up the empty box. You've never heard of someone receiving something good from a mystery box, either fact or fiction. You believe you will be smart enough to deduce danger. After all, you were the one who sensed your cousin's significant other was cheating on them.

You look around the area to see if anyone looked out of place then step back inside, "Well you haven't broken any laws yet. I'm listening."

"I'm well aware of the suffering you have endured at the factory."

That hit a nerve. Your mind starts to race at the possibility of who was on the other end of this call as you slid into your beat-up sofa.

"The unsafe working conditions, denying worker compensation, loss of job. You're about to lose the house. You're struggling to put food on the table for your kids. Your spouse was killed in a suspicious car accident..."

"That's enough!" you demand as your heartbeat starts to thump in your head. "I don't know if this is some sort of sick joke, but..."

"Just stating facts."

"And you know this information because you work for the factory?"

"Not directly."

"What does that mean?"

"Independent contractor that they didn't consider a problem."

"I don't understand."

"Someone they hired to clean up. They gave me just enough information to get the job done."

"Did you kill my spouse?" you demand looking for some sort of closure on something declared an accident.

"I wasn't given that maintenance job. I'm called for tech that is too risky to keep in house."

"What kind of tech is needed for a factory explosion?" you question standing back up and proceed to pace around the house.

"Paper trail. Reports, emails, anything that talked about the faulty cutting machines."

"Well, you did a fabulous cleaning job," you quip remembering the reports your lawyer received from investigators. "You even got the ones that put in the requirement we needed to work that night."

"And that was their mistake."

"You saying it gave you conscience."

"I understand you thinking that, but they called me a second time for that. Once I deleted the second set of documents, I decided to find out who hired me."

"Are you telling me you had no idea what company hired you?"

"I knew a company name, but it was a large company with multiple industries and international locations they work in. This was the first time in the U.S., and they were never told about the required overtime to get a job done."

You freeze, allowing your mind to race around the possibilities. Your whole body is heating up with rage and fear.

"So, who hired you?"

You here the hesitation in Bob's breath aware that he is conflicted on the correct path to take. "I have to make a living..."

You pull the phone from ear to look at it as if it magically turned into Bob to feel your glare. "Are you kidding me? Why would you call me if you're not going to help?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't help. Go to the factory and bring the phone."

The phone disconnected. You snap the phone shut and squeeze it while you shake from internal emotions. The temptation was there to throw the phone, but you need it.

You glance around your living room trying to think about what choice to make. You hadn't been to the factory since the explosion and didn't really want to go back. The memories still make it difficult to sleep through the night. As you think you walk towards the side door, staring at the car keys hanging on the hook. You reach out for them, only to remember you barely made it home yesterday on what little gas was left looking for a job.

You think this is a sign that you shouldn't go. It is too risky. You don't know who Bob is, you don't know what information he has, and you don't know if he's telling the truth. It could be a trap to get rid of you just like they got rid of Drew.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your neighbor revving the engine of his dirt bike and curiosity out votes your trepidation.

You brake the bike hard and you pull a 180. You're overwhelmed with memories as you stare at what is left of the factory. The four walls still stood, but they were charred and crumbling.

You look at the spot you always parked your car. The place you were standing when the explosion happened. You had forgotten your food in your car and rushed out to get it and still give you time to eat. As you locked your car that night and turned to return to the building, you heard the explosion. You see the blast shoot through the roof with pieces of machinery decorating the sky. Then the screams came. Screams you hear when the silence comes.

You rev the engine then continue your journey towards the factory, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the nightmare that night.

Placing your hand on the steel wall, you swear it is still hot from that night when you tried to go back in to help and pull your hand back from the triggered memory. You step through the hole in the wall and hear several beeps. The cell phone rings, and you pull it from your pocket.

"Now what?" you ask, placing the phone to your ear.

"Make your way to ground zero," Bob answers and you make your way to the center

"Why are doing this?"

"Anonymity."

"I didn't need to come out here for that."

"No, but I needed to see if you had any fight in you."

"Fight in me?" you hiss as you spot the table with two boxes, one large and one small. "I have been fighting this for months. I was the only one who survived that night. I have been doing nothing but fighting for them to get justice."

"What does it matter if they get justice? They are already dead. No one cares about who they were."

"Their families do."

"Yeah, and how many of those families have joined you in the fight?"

"They needed to survive. All they could do was move on."

"You could too. You don't have to continue this fight."

"What choice do I have?"

"You have a choice of which box to take."

You step up next to the table, "What are you talking about?" you ask them gasp when you see the large box is open. Sitting across the top were stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

You go to touch them, "I wouldn't do that just yet if I were you."

You jerk her hand back and look around to see where Bob was to see her. "You going to kill me if I touch your money."

"No, that isn't what I do."

"Then what?" you ask looking into the open small box to see a flash drive.

"Well, I'm giving you a decision."

You take a step back from the table and look around again, "What decision?"

"Which box to take? Now that big box contains $500,000 and within the money there is an account number for one and a half million dollars."

"And the flash drive?" she asked trying not to hope for the money.

"Evidence that the company wanted me to delete and some stuff involving other cover-ups. You have to choose which one you want. You only get one."

"What do you mean?"

"As soon as you pick up one box, the other is destroyed."

You look back and forth between each box. You loss dozens of co-workers that night and it wasn't the first time the company has covered it up. Your husband was killed because of the explosion. Your life was ruined because of this company. And they were never stopped. They'll do it again.

But your children are hungry now and about to lose the roof over their head. You're tired and exhausted from fight and reliving the trauma.

So, do you take the money and run? Or do you keep on fighting?