Night Shift

Another night shift. Why did he agree to take it? He steadied his mind and closed his eyes. Commence pros and cons, his inner voice cued. Ritualistically, he tapped his thumb to his pointer finger as he reminded himself of the list. Pro, no one else around. It was quiet. Con, no one else around. He opened his eyes; fingers static. The factory always had that eerie feeling. He knew he would be the onlyone there, but he never felt alone. Sometimes, the mental preparation to psych himself into it wasn't worth the overtime pay. Tonight he was okay. He was having breakfast with Marg after his shift. He sighed cheerfully and then realized he hadn't added her to the pro list. He steadied his mind and closed his eyes. Commence pros and cons, his inner voice cued. Ritualistically, he tapped his thumb to his pointer finger as he reminded himself of the list. Pro, no one else around. It was quiet. He would have breakfast with Marg after his shift. Con, no one else around. He opened his eyes; fingers static. Much better! He felt oddly calm. He packed his uniform in the grey company duffle bag. He didn't like wearing his issued attire in or out of the house. He would change at the factory, twice. Using his mental checklist, he grabbed his lunch from the fridge. He turned on the stove light and turned all the other lights off. Did burgulars really fall for the illuminated stove light trick? It seemed like a moot gesture, but it was part of his 'leaving his house for a night shift routine.' There was no changing it, or he would have to start all over again from the beginning. Sometimes, he was late.

He arrived by foot to the factory. He had the same puzzlement every time. Why did the shift start after everyone else had left? He walked up to the gate. He liked to take the bus at night, no beacon for car theives with only one in the lot. He wasn't trained in security. Why should he risk it? He swiped his card and the chain link retracted. Ten steps through and he was on company property. Count to thirty and the gate would start to expand. He would keep walking towards the factory and only turn around when he heard the gate close. He would rather be attacked from behind then see them charging with no place to go. The familiar sound of scraping metal meant the gate was closed. He looked over his shoulder. He confirmed the sound with his eyes and continued to the doors. Swipe the card and *ding*. The entrance door unlocked.

During the day, Roger was in the booth, scanning employee cards, registering deliveries and visitors. The building doors only locked after hours. Nothing came in overnight. If you worked this shift, they would give you swipe clearance for the night. It commenced promptly at 10:45 PM (no sooner). It remained the duration of the shift... for the smokers, so they could get in and out. He appreciated it. He would come out for his lunch break if the weather was nice. There was something dreary about eating in the empty lunch room. After your shift, you had fifteen minutes grace to exit. If you got caught in the building or in the parking lot, the alarms would sound, the police would come and you would be fired. Or so he heard. There had been a few employees he had not seen again after their first night shift. He never took the chance. His closing regimen was down to the seconds. He was always out with ten minutes to spare.

Then he would go for breakfast. He would catch Marg at the end of her shift. She always made him feel better. She poured coffee from way up high. He liked that. It felt like he was in the movies. She didn't mind that he would rearrange the cutlery, shortest to tallest, squaring off the edges. It helped his nervous system to have everything oriented. The diner flatware had ninety degree corners. It was comfortable for him to eat there. Marg never asked him where he worked. She liked to talk about her birds. They weren't real, because she was allergic to feathers. But they all had names and she could tell you exactly where she was when she bought them. Thrift shops, gift shops, the beach, anywhere they sold fake birds. She had asked him a few times to come over and see them. He protectively put her off. It had taken him seven tries of getting off the bus and walking up to the diner door before he came up with a routine that satisfied his exigency for control. Going to her personal abode would require at least a week of mental preparation. He wouldn't get any run throughs first. He reacalled their last exchange. It was two weeks ago.

"I love this song," she said, leaning her hip up on the counter. She closed her eyes, swaying dreamily to the music.

He didn't like this song. It was one of those old country tunes designed to have people think about love. The tempo made him anxious. It was like the song was spinning its tires in mud. Stuck. Not going anywhere. He said nothing.

"Not a fan? Don't worry," she winked, "I won't play it when you finally come and see the birds."

He smiled, his mouth full of chicken and waffle. He had to add Marg to his pro list for working night shift.

He swallowed, "Two weeks. My next graveyard shift two weeks from tomorrow. I'll come over then."

Marg squealed with delight and went back to pouring coffee. Her smile was warm and wide. He liked that. She looked him right in the eye and he knew she was genuine. He could talk himself into a visit in two weeks.

The door closed loudly behind him. The thud brought him back to the present. He would see Marg soon enough. He turned and gave the door an extra pull to make sure it was really closed. His 'entering the factory' protocol had begun. Fifteen paces to the time clock. He pulled his time card, punched in and the night shift lights turned on. It was a limited set of luminance. Obviously, with only one person on site. He could manually turn on as many lights as he wanted. He never did. What if they were keeping track of wattage? There was no end to his paranoia and fear of the unknown. He had a locker, but he always kept his duffle bag with him after he changed into his uniform. He had configured a cooler that would keep his lunch without a fridge. He preferred not to use the microwave. Radiation, don't you know. He did enjoy the absolute stillness of the workroom when the conveyor belt was stopped. He exhaled contently. It was peaceful.

He always grabbed an extra stool when he worked graveyard. One for him, one for his mobile. He kept it on his left hand side, away from the bin. Sometimes he would watch videos or listen to podcasts. Truthfully, it was for emergency calling, just in case. He had heard the other rumours. He had never seen the flash himself, thank god. He did not include those rumours in his cons list. He would never leave the house if he did. Conveyor belt sequence complete. He felt like an airline pilot; flipping switches, engaging dials and monitors. Whoosh, just like a plane taking off, the conveyor belt would start. The work itself was easy. Make sure all packages were sealed and uniform in shape. Unsealed toss forward, misshapen toss to the right. There were bins in both places for salvage and inspection. The hours were still sixty minutes, but he would get into a meditative state and they would disappear. He was deep in the zone. Thinking about Marg and her birds, he was completely alone in his thoughts. Beep, beep, beep. The sound brought him back sharply. He silenced his alarm and paused the conveyor belt. Lunch time. It was strange to call eating in the middle of the night, lunch. It wasn't 'night lunch'; that was an entirely different meal.

The air was warm tonight. He carried one of the stools with him outside to eat. He had his food stacked in the cooler in order of consumption. Everything tasted fresh and crisp. He wondered what Marg's place would look like. How many birds would she have? Hundreds? She never did specify. She made him feel safe to be adventurous... he let his mind wander until his alarm sounded for the end of lunch.

He was back at the conveyor belt. Bladder emptied, hands washed, teeth brushed. He was almost at five hundred perfect packages. That would be his personal record. He started listening to a podcast about talking to women. He figured the preparation wouldn't hurt. Four hundred and ninety-five,

"Be yourself. Listen," the digital audio file stated. Four hundred and ninety-six, "Find out what her interests are."

"Birds," he replied to the voice from the podcast.

Four hundred ninety- shoot. What was he on? Ninety-seven, ninety-six? He had lost count. There was a thunderous clunk and the feeder jammed. That had never happend before. He got up off his stool and counted the forty steps to the large metal box. It had jammed once during the day, but there was no clunk. Just a back log of packages bars. Someone had left a glove on the belt in the upper room. There was no one up there now. Tonight, at the mouth of the feeder was a photo. The face looked vaguely familiar. Was he one of the guys that was fired? In the subdued glow of graveyard shift lighting, he couldn't tell. There was an overexposure on one side of the photo. He frisbee tossed it in the bin to his right. Technically it was misshapen.

He manually paused the conveyor belt power. God forbid it should start up while he was cleaning the feeder. He could lose a limb! He pulled out one misshapen package at a time. He was up to nineteen so far. What was going on? He was too far away from the toss bin. He would slide them all in when he started the machine up again. They were squishy, unnervingly so. He slid his arm up the chute, causing a substantial amount of irregular packages to come tumbling out. The packages were changing shape again, fuller. Were they leaking? What on earth would be leaking? There was an acrid smell coming from the feeder. Singed hair and meat... what was the smell?

Then it dropped. A dull, heavy splat. The face in the picture was lying without its body, on the conveyor belt. He had no time to react before the vomit flew out of his mouth all over the decapitated remains. Stumbling backwards, he couldn't regain his bearings. What the fuck was going on? He tripped over the stool, sending his phone flying under the conveyor belt. He tripped again and his feet were sliding. The floor was slippery and sticky. There was a trail of bodily fluids on the floor. He puked again. His mind was spinning. His eyes refused to focus. He had never felt his heart pound harder. He steadied himself by holding onto the conveyor belt. Looking forward he could see his phone. It had slid fifty steps toward the exit door. His legs wouldn't move. He was jello and paralyzed all at once. Time stood still. Then everything started moving in slow motion. He pulled himself across the width of the belt on his stomach, falling forward to the floor. He felt his right cheek and shoulder hit the cold concrete. The fluids had seeped underneath, making a wet sound as he peeled his face from the floor. He pushed himself up. His feet refused to touch the floor, unable to to find any grip in the pool of blood. He could see his phone. There is a sheer determination that comes with the will to live. To survive, he needed to call for help. He slithered on his belly, his phone within inches of his fingertips. He looked back and saw the shadow. A tall wide figure, looming. He scooped up his phone. His feet found the floor. He popped up and ambled towards the door. He reached the handle and as he pulled it open, he saw it. The flash of green light. Stunned, he fell into the door, closing it back in. The figure was within arms length. He didn't feel a thing as his head left his body with a thud.