The Entity at Laveen Labs

Wyrd Fiction Short No. 35

I take my job as a security guard very seriously.

My alarm chimes at exactly 8:15 PM—I iron my uniform, clean my nightstick, make sure my cell phone is fully charged, verify that my military grade pepper spray is functioning by firing a test shot into my kitchen sink—it works—then I grab my travel coffee mug and exit, setting the alarm as I go—and I am in my car by 8:50 PM.

I arrive 15 minutes early to the guard gate.

The corporate park is occupied entirely by Laveen Labs, which is a subdivision of UniCo Labs.

It’s twenty minutes south of my apartment in Laveen. I live within walking distance to the Walmart Supercenter. I’ve lived in Arizona my entire life. Some friends moved away, but I love the desert. The open land. The mountains.

John at the gate gives me a smile and checks his watch.

“9:20,” John says. “Are you ever late?”

“Being late isn’t part of the plan.”

The gate opens, I drive in, find a spot, and make way through the vacant parking lot to the front door.

I scan my ID, get inside, check in with the next stage of security—they check my ID verification on their monitor and hand me a walkie talkie in exchange for my cell phone. They put my cell in a bag with my name on it and hang it on a hook behind them.

There are ten rows of one hundred hooks and there are never any more than seventeen other bags hanging there when I start my shift.

The guards turn the tablet-like device on their desk to face me and I punch in my code and answer the daily security questions that verify my identity and finally I push a light green button that says “clock in.”

My fellow guards nod and wave me in. “Have a nice evening, Tom.”

“You as well,” I say as I step into the elevator.

There are four floors up. Six floors down.

I tap my ID to the row of buttons and press B4.

The corridor of B4 is a pristine white. Every night I can’t help but think about how regimented and efficient the cleaning crew must be.

There is no main desk or reception. Just rows of white doors on either side, every twenty feet, each labeled with a different element of the periodic table. And at the end of the hallway, a vacant white wall.

I stop at Fr, a door near the end of the hall. From here I can see the long row behind me. I check my watch. 9:40 PM.

Perfect. Five minutes earlier. As planned.

The elevator opens and three white-coat scientists walk towards me. I know them by face only as fraternization between security and the white coats is discouraged.

They arrive at Fr and I give them a silent nod to which they ignore. I keep my back to the door as they enter.

I heard one story from John at the gate of a guard a few years back that accidentally saw inside a research facility—and even though he said he only saw the sub-corridor walls within—they fired him.

Eyes forward. I remind myself. Stay quiet. This job is too good to lose because you’re curious. They tell me plainly what to do. I do it.

Simple.

I could never find the logic in the existence of my position. Nothing ever happened. No visitors. No other scientists. No other door ever opened. I worked three nights a week. They pay me $35/hour for a ten-hour graveyard shift, and I only ever saw these three scientists come down the hall, enter Fr, and ten hours later exit Fr.

My therapist has a theory that I take my pre-work procedure and arrival so seriously because it’s the only part of my job that I can find meaning.

“I disagree,” I tell her.

“I find it interesting that you always keep your phone charged.”

“Why?”

“You can’t use it while you’re at work. Why does it need a full charge?”

“Well,” I say. “It makes me anxious to think it will die.”

“Do you find the rules you create for yourself inhibit your life?”

“I don’t feel inhibited at all. My phone says I should keep it charged, so I do.”

Our conversations felt like doing laps in a revolving door. I wasn’t fond of therapy. I only went because I started as a teenager, on my mother’s guidance, and have held onto it as a tradition.

The weekly ritual is calming.

Some people go to church on Sunday. I go to therapy every Thursday at 11:30am.

The hallway was always quiet.

Ten hours of straight silence surrounded by polished white would drive anyone else I knew insane. It had the opposite effect on me. It was like standing in an untainted world. Everything here was perfect and unpolluted.

I straighten my back and take a firm stance, trying to keep perfect form like the British Royal Guard.

I love everything about my job. The safety. The consistency. My shift is a long meditation. I am grateful for the gift.

In my world, a pin drop would echo like an anvil. So when the heavy door halfway to the elevator whips open, and a familiar scientist tumbles out, landing hard on the floor with a thud, I forgive myself for flinching at the jarring sight and sound.

The door slams closed behind him as I hurry over and help the man to his feet.

“It’s early.” I check my watch to verify the time: 10:55 PM.

His face was a milky white and his eyes were heavy, like someone who had not slept in a week.

I look at the door he came out of, then behind me to where my post—door Fr.

“How’d you get over here?” I ask.

“What’s your name?” He whispers.

“Tom.”

“Tom,” he leans into me. “Don’t ask questions.”

“Okay.”

He grabs my arm and drags me along back to Fr. “I need an extra set of hands,” he says as he pulls a roll of tape from one of his coat pockets.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Perfect,” he says as he unravels a long piece of tape and leans towards me. “Close your eyes.”

I take the order and feel the adhesive press into my eyelids. Then I hear another piece of tape rip, and another. Both overlap with the first.

“Can you see anything?” He asks.

“No.”

There is a pause. Suddenly I’m slapped across the face. Hard.

“Ouch.” I say flatly.

“Had to check,” he grabs my arm and I hear the door open. “Apologies.”

I’m guided inside and hear the door close behind me.

Silence.

Then two consecutive beeps, and an automatic lock opens and we start forward.

“Tom, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Do exactly what I say, understood?”

“Okay.”

We twist through tight corners, and the hallway air grows colder with each turn—almost unnaturally so. A muffled humming pulses in and out of my hearing, like a frequency tuned by ghosts, rising and falling like distant static.

“What are you doing?!” a voice says as I’m pulled to a halt.

“Did it work? Did he follow me?” The scientist holding my arm asks.

“Stop talking! The guard has no clearance for this—you want to get us all fired?”

“I’ve been here for twenty years—it’ll be a cold day in hell before they fire me—now tell me, did it work?”

“Jesus Christ—yes—it worked.”

“Excellent, and he’s still contained in the exit funnel?”

“Yes. But—”

“–just shut up—” the scientist holding my arm says. “Tom,” he tugs my forearm, “I need you to do one thing for us—it’s easy—just like your job.” He pulls me along.

“What are you doing?” The other voice asks, and he ignores them.

“I need you to stand here, Tom.” He moves me a bit to the left. “Just right there. Can you do that?”

“I can.”

“And keep your arms to the side, and no matter what you hear—”

“—this is insane Joseph!” The other voice says, and he shushes them.

I hear a tapping on glass. The other snaps—“What do you want me to do?”

“Everyone shut up!” Joseph barks.

“Tom, do not move. Do not remove the tape from your eyes. Just be still and be quiet.”

“Okay.”

“And you—we’ll stand far on either side—ready with Francium—and you!” There is a rapping on the glass. “On my signal, open it.”

Whoever was on the other side of the glass must have been protesting—but I couldn’t hear his voice.

“Just do it!” Joseph screams.

I hear the two scientists scurry around. Metal clangs and other heavy objects thump. It’s hard to track the conversation without being able to see.

“—take this—”

“—got it, set the device there—”

“—this is madness—”

“—noted—” Joseph says and I hear a clunk and my feet vibrate slightly as something heavy hits the floor right in front of me.

Then the room is quiet.

“Okay, let’s not fuck this up. Ready. Three. Two,” Joseph pauses... “One.”

There are a series of beeps and I hear the suction of sliding doors part and a bone-chilling war cry envelopes me.

I should be terrified.

I should have resisted doing whatever it is he asked me to do.

But it didn’t bother me. My job is perfect, I think. I like being instructed what to do.

I may not know the plan, but there was a plan. That’s what mattered. As long as there was a plan, I’m not anxious.

I feel the ground tremble as if a stampede were bearing down on me, then suddenly glass shatters and a man screams.

“No!” Joseph yells.

“David!” another voice yells.

All around me was a whirling wind and a chorus of shattering glass and objects flying around and crashing into the walls. Joseph and the other scientist scream and I hear an alarm trigger and there are many other noises I cannot describe but they all come to a screeching halt and all that is left is the alarm blaring.

And then I feel a cold chill at the base of my neck.

The room settles. This is what it must feel like to stand in the aftermath of a tornado.

I feel the weight of someone step right behind me and then a gentle voice speaks right into my ear.

“What is your name?”

“Tom.”

“Finally, I am free,” the voice says. “Thank you.”

A long thin digit brushes the back of my head, and what feels like a sharp fingernail slices the tape and I feel my eyelids instinctually start to open, but I keep them tightly shut.

“Open them,” the voice is delicate, like a seductive femme fatale from some 1940s noir movie, and it carries a low resonance that vibrates through my bones, with an echo not of this world. Her breath is warm on my face and my eyelashes dance in her breeze.

“Open them and be free with me...”

I stand there—all I can hear is the alarm blaring and with each wail it sings my body tightens—and I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don’t want to see the room. I don’t want to know anything I shouldn’t know.

I pull the walkie from my hip and pause—what do I say...

“Something has happened,” I hesitate. “Can someone tell me what to do?”

A sweet, calming scent washes over me, lingering as a sudden gust of wind whips past, nearly knocking me off my feet. The smell is like honey and wildflowers. The ground shakes, and I hear the distant, ominous crashes of thunder, punctuated by the sharp, jarring sound of shattering glass.

A distorted announcement cuts through the sirens: “Containment breach in Sector B4-Francium—emergency protocols engaged.”

My walkie talkie squawks: “Stay put. Do not pursue. Do not open your eyes.”

The pleasant fragrance begins to fade, overcome by the heavy, smoky smell of a raging fire. Yet my heart rate slows, and the tension eases from my locked eyelids, as the muscles in my face rest in a state of soothing calm.

Someone has a plan.