The Mad Chief: Part I

“I told you I wouldn’t work this late again.” The words hung in silence for a moment, and Bastion’s computer seemed to frown. “What? I’m just practicing for what I’ll tell her tomorrow.” The monitor glowed doubtfully, casting its bluish-white light on his dark surroundings. The lights had turned themselves off long ago, the motion sensor not fine enough to detect the small, almost birdlike movements of a pen across a tablet, a mouse across a desk.

Sighing, he stood up, knees complaining to their vertical position. He twisted left, then right, and his back cracked a little too loudly. He felt like some sort of stone gargoyle waking up from a day frozen in the sun. But the sun had set many hours ago. Outside the window, the building across the street faded to black, only the occasional red flash from a passing fire engine noting its existence.

After letting his heart push some blood through his extremities, he pulled on his coat and stepped hesitantly towards the door of his office. It was silly, but he sometimes stayed even later to put off his walk through the hallways, past the dark silhouettes of silent mannequins and the sounds of a building settling into the night. Over the two years he’d been working at Alf Cohen, he’d developed an almost debilitating fear of his workplace, until the building itself became a dangerous foe. At night, when no one else was around, Bastion felt constantly threatened, always anticipating disaster.

“Well, goodnight,” he said shakily to no one in particular, and, feeling inexplicably embarrassed by the sound of his own voice, he hurried off through the door. Immediately, the dim, unpredictable hallway grabbed at his psyche, spinning it like a cruel potter with a lump of soft clay. Jagged shapes of clothing threw sharp shadows onto looming filing racks, while crooked floor tiles created the impression of a tilting deck. It would be a good place to bring children on Halloween, he thought: just throw up a few cobwebs, and you’d have a haunted house.

He pulled his hat down to just above his eyes to block out as much of his surroundings as he could and walked at an almost running pace through the twisting hall. Something pulled on his sleeve, and he yelped, jumping forward and knocking over a pile of clothing. Butterflies slammed around his stomach, forcing Bastion into a run. He jogged, stumbling occasionally, all the way to the end of the hallway where the employee area ended abruptly. Wood floors gave way to plush carpet, and oil paintings and leather chairs replaced filing cabinets. Brown-stained mahogany pillars stretched up to a high ceiling lost in shadow, promoting an even deeper sense of foreboding. At least the elevators were nearby; Bastion could already make out the little square button that would enable his escape from the building, but to reach the button, he’d have to pass Alf’s painting.

Towering over the bank of elevators hung a portrait of imperial proportions depicting the company’s founder, Alf, straddling a rearing horse. Alf’s eyes pointed specifically at you, no matter where you placed yourself within the room. Keeping his head turned towards Alf, Bastion brushed his hand over to wall until it hit the metal plate upon which the button sat. He pressed it, and gears churned within the empty shaft, pulling an elevator up to the seventh floor. “Ding.” The door to his right slid open, and Bastion turned, his mouth forming an empty “O” out of which a scream tried to emerge.

Filling up the entire elevator, its wet nose not four inches from Bastion’s quivering brow, stood a jet black horse. A rider, clothed in green, stared coolly down at Bastion from a gold saddle, harsh blue eyes drinking in Bastion’s horror.

“Wha—“ Bastion sputtered, taking a slow step back. The rider’s face looked extremely familiar, and Bastion squinted at it. No, it couldn’t be, he thought, asking nervously, “Sir, is that you?” The horse moved forward a step, its rider completely silent. “Mr. Cohen?” It’s looks just like him, he realized.

The tan, wrinkled face of the 70-something year old owner of Alf Cohen, Mr. Cohen himself, stared down at Bastion. “I just want to use the elevator,” Bastion said dumbly, taking another step back. The horse kept pace with him, and a frown etched itself into Mr. Cohen’s face. For each step Bastion took, the black horse followed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your, uh, ride.” Bastion’s back hit the wall opposite the elevator, and he could go no further. The horse let out an ear-splitting neigh, rearing back. For the briefest moment, Alf’s portrait became a perfect reflection of the scene unfolding in front of Bastion, except Alf’s painted eyes were tame by comparison. Bastion dove out of the way as the horse’s hooves smashed down onto the marble floor where he had just been standing, cracking the tile clean in half.

“Don’t hurt me, sir,” Bastion squeaked, running back into the depths of the building. He soon heard the clip-clap of hooves directly behind him, and he dashed into a narrow corridor just as the horse barreled past. In the few seconds it would take for the horse to swing back around, Bastion thought furiously. He couldn't return to the elevators, and hiding didn't seem like a particularly good idea. After a brief pang of regret for ignoring his earlier impulse to bring a parachute to work, the image of Harold, the building's portly safety officer, swam into his head.

Harold ran through emergency procedures every three months—and if this wasn't an emergency, Bastion didn't know what was. If he could just make it to one of Harold's oft-talked about fire escape staircases, the horse wouldn't be able to follow him inside. Better yet, the nearest staircase was in the very next corridor. Bastion strained his ears, and, hearing no sign of the horse, proceeded to tiptoe from his hiding spot. He crept forward slowly, placing each foot down gently to avoid unnecessary noise, but when he rounded the corner, his heart sank.

Fifty feet away, the soft glow from the exit sign over the emergency stairway lit Alf's head like a jack-o-lantern. The horse's massive torso filled the entire width of the corridor, leaving almost no room for Bastion to slip past. The frown on Alf's face had transformed into a wicked smile, and this—more than anything else—forced Bastion to a decision: he'd need to reach the door, horse or no horse.

Bastion removed his shoes, placed them on his hands and shouted what he'd later describe as a war cry (but to an outside observer would have sounded more like a frightened scream). Then he sprinted towards Alf, who simultaneously kicked his horse forward, picking up a thick, metal ruler as he galloped past. At the last moment, when Bastion was so close he could see the horse's flaring nostrils, he lay flat against the wall. With his legs held stiff, his socks allowed him to slide several feet across the wood floor. Bastion's nose was less than an inch from the horse's sheen, heaving ribs, but before could slide clear, he felt a sharp pain where the yardstick Alf held had apparently connected with the soft flesh at the center of Bastion's stomach. No matter. He was already past the horse and into the stairwell.

Copyright 2010© Alexander Jacobs