The Vampire Harold

by Jen Larsen

A vampire, right down the hall in the finance department. She told her boss. She told HR. She told security. Just because his name was Harold, and he was an accountant, and short and round. Just because sometimes she drank a cocktail or so at lunch. Just because sometimes she might seem a little lonely.

They didn’t believe her. Even though his cubicle stunk of the coconut sunscreen he reapplied every hour, and he wore hats. Indoors and every day. He wore his collar upturned. And the smell—bad meat, grave dirt. His skin, what you could see of it, translucent. When he caught her eyes with his rheumy, bloodshot gaze, she felt the weight of all his years bearing down on her and burying her alive. And then he hissed.

She knew he was the one who left the oranges on her desk, every day. Two perfect puncture marks, welling up with sweet juice. Her phone was always sticky, and the combination of scents, the citrus and the smell of blood made her clutch her throat, heaving over her tiny little trash can. “You’ll have to file an official grievance,” the HR man said, pushing his glasses up his nose. Her boss offered her a tissue and a weak, confused smile, and the gentle suggestion that maybe she ought to take a couple of days off. Security asked her to leave the office immediately, or they’d be forced to escort her off the premises. He was spinning on his office chair, around and around and around, when she marched by his cubicle on her way out of the security office. As he swung around he bared his teeth at her, and waggled his bony, earth-stained fingers and swept away again. There was a sack of oranges under his desk.

There were oranges on her desk, every day, and the smell seemed to fade away more and more quickly. You get used to anything, after awhile. You start to pick up the orange and hold it for a moment, before you toss it away. You lick your fingers clean of the juice. You squeeze the fruit between your fingers and feel the peel give and stickiness run down to your elbow. And you start to look almost look forward to it, every day. The orange, with two perfect puncture marks, sitting on your desk every day.

Quis Custodiet?

by Rudi Dornemann

The drones came and circled, glided off. Never fewer than three in view; never more than ten. The border was a showpiece for the strategy of Mutually Assured Detection, and I did my bit to count and verify and uphold the treaty’s red tape.

Rain came with the dusk, and when my touchscreen chimed the official end of daylight, I retreated to my hut. While I waited for my self-heating supper to cool, I watched the light wash over the hut, the glass block walls and ceiling filtering a hazy glow over my bedroll, the binder of daily code settings, and my little supper.

I was just realizing that the walls had been midnight dark for at least ten minutes when a voice broke in. “Panoptico employees! In today’s realtime bidding, we have lost the north-central border region contract. Please proceed immediately to an approved exit trail. Panoptico…”

Before it finished repeating, I’d dropped my spork, grabbed my personal effects pack, and was running down the trail. One of the drones had been assigned to my trail; its spotlight would have been helpful, but apparently we’d already been cut off from the premium GPS, so the creosote bushes and rocks about fifteen feet to my left were daylight bright rather than the ones I ran through and tripped over.

When I got to the collection point, four other watchers were waiting, nursing their own bruises and cuts. I stood in the cold, tried not to think about where I’d be assigned next, and how maybe it was time to move to something more steady like drone maintenance, or leave the company completely, like my friends back home were always telling me. Not much time to fret or think, though, since one of the drones soon hovered over in speakermode: “Panoptico employees! We have completed a merger with SeeAndBeSeen LLC, and acquired all their contracts, including the NCBR. Your previous assignments are reinstated.”

I trudged back up the mountain. Halfway, though, I had a change of heart—I’d done this long enough, given Panoptico enough years of sunburn and lonely boredom. Time for a change.

Five steps down the path, my touchpad chimed. I don’t know how they got the cameras there, but there was no question of what they’d captured, or who.

I turned around and resumed my uphill climb, hoping nothing had gotten at what remained of my supper.