The idea for this week's story is from a nightmare I had last week. I have a few nightmares a week, and I assume that's pretty common? Maybe? Well, anyway, here's one that stood out, hope you like it.
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Just don't look anyone in the face directly, they already hate us. We just need to survey the area and we can get out of here, said Eric.
Joe was less than willing to talk to the locals, let alone make eye contact. He knew this area only from the news, and knew it wasn't the best place to be visiting. But duty calls, and he had to get this job done before he could return back to the US.
Ok lets just get this over with, Joe muttered, quickening his pace. His beige duster whipped around in the wind like a cape. He stuck his hands in the big pockets, closing his right hand around his gun. He expertly turned the safety off and had it ready for action. Let's hope I don't need this, Joe thought, scrunching his forehead in the pale sunlight as he and Eric rounded the corner of the block.
This was a very poor town, it didn't even look like it had electricity. The streets were all made of mud, hard packed and seemed perpetually damp. The trees that did survive these hard winters were twisted and bare; not a single leaf was left on a branch. The little bit of snow that was on the ground was mushy and brown. Joe's boots would squish every time he took a step, coating them in grim and mud. The buildings were mostly make of brick, and all had at least two windows missing glass, as well as damage to the facades. They were sad and needed some rehabilitation, but the locals all went about their business without giving the buildings a single glance. Everyone wore shades of neutrals, and their clothing looked like it was from centuries ago. Children walked beside their parents, quiet and serious, like they were forever on time out. There were no cars, just bikes and small scooters. Every time Joe and Eric passed a building, the townspeople would stop talking and glare at them, watching as they passed.
Joe looked at his feet to avoid another glare, and realized his boot was untied. He was approaching a long bench and decided to stop there and tie it fast. The laces were muddy but he didn't want to risk tripping on it in the factory. As he straightened up he looked at an old man sitting at the other end of the bench, who unknown to Joe had been staring at him the whole time. Joe gave him a small smile and waved, and the old man moved his hand up as if to return the greeting, only to take his thumb across his throat in a slicing motion instead. Joe's face fell and he swallowed hard. He sped up to catch Eric.
The factory came into view finally for them, as they hustled towards the entrance. Terribly tall, it had a charred black exterior, the smoke stacks were void of any smoke. There was a group of weather worn men waiting outside, all bundled up in old factory jackets and pants. No one said hi or greeted them, but one opened the door and they all walked inside. Eric gave Joe a glance that seemed to say don't do anything stupid now. Don't worry, Joe wanted to say, these workers look like serial killers.
They twisted and turned down corridors and hallways, like they were trying to solve a maze. Finally they got to the main structure's space, which looked worse than the outside. Most of it was gutted out from an explosion, leaving partially crumbled chambers in it's absence. There was graffiti all over the place, all saying anti-American slurs and threats. The mud had pilled up in here, and the lighting was cloudy. There was a sad little tree growing out from one of the chambers that no longer had it's seal attached, the door flopped open and crooked. How the hell is that the only greenery in this place?, thought Joe.
Eric took out his glasses and started walking around the space. He had his notepad out and was already scratching down notes.
What are you doing? said the unofficial leader of the group in a thick Russian accent.
I'm just taking down notes so I can evaluate the factory and determine whether or not this can be repaired, said Eric, still looking around.
What do you mean? We must start work again, how will we afford to live? - Unofficial Leader
Well I can't tell you if that is going to be a possibility yet until I assess the damage. - Eric
Another worker suddenly broke from the group and hopped up onto a pile of rocks. F***ing Americans!!! He shouted in a similar Russian accent, so loud the place echoed the insult back and forth. All you do is push paperwork, you never work in factory! You have no idea how our town works and how we live! You have been taking advantage of us for too long. No more!!
The other workers started to cheer and picked up debris from the ground to throw at the walls. One worker picked up a pipe and charged at Eric. He looked to be about three times the size of an average man, with his jumpsuit ripping at the seams as he raised his arms.
STOP! Joe pulled his gun out and shot into the air. A flurry of dust fell from the ceiling, and the sound stung the air long after it was shot. The workers all stopped throwing things, but turned towards Joe with menacing faces.
Eric, you got what you need?, said Joe, pointing his gun at the unofficial leader.
Eric nodded and the two shuffled out of the main room. The sound of rebellion had resumed, chasing after them in the dark corridors.
How do we get out of here?, mumbled Joe, Eric close behind him.
