Revolt of the Rats - Reed Blitzerman (early readers txt) 📗

THINGS DIDN’T GO LIKE he’d expected. Kahle bumped into Beezor his third day on the job. She’d handed him a stamping and spoke to him in that beautiful voice that hinted at too much whiskey. She said, “Stop sitting around on your ass and put this in the scrap hopper.”

He was so intimidated he lost the nerve to talk.

Instead, he kept it on his desk, told everyone it was a quality sample. He replayed their meeting and one thing had not changed: she was a splash of  color in a sea of grey, winding her way up to the engineering offices, a green light shining beneath the door.  

He’d come this far and lost his nerve. But he waited. Seasons were changing at Frampton. He would follow her, he would follow the light, he would solve the Ballad of the Flexible Bullet. Just not yet.

Gold leaves became green after the first week of spring. Vacationers came into town, towing boats still glistening with their factory finish. Drafts of hot air trickled in around the apartment door and across his bare feet, returning his mind to the mission.

Like a good scout, he’d visited most of the plant, getting to know the lay of the land. The only place left was the heat treat area. He’d saved it for last, anticipating a world of swirling smoke and an imminent asthma attack. Tomorrow was the day.

In the morning, his bicycle brought him there of its own accord. Workmen lumbered in heavy aprons checking gages, shuffling forgings in and out, rotating the metals with long, forked staves. Illumination came from open overhead doors or the orange glow of metal heating in the furnaces. Every time one opened, a wall of hot air erupted, took away his breath and bathed him in the Victorian stench of burning coal.

He sauntered around the blast furnaces, imagining the forgings were the cockles of his heart, burning brighter. Beezor on his mind, confusing him. He had nothing to offer. If he cracked his heart open would anything come out? What would a soldier know about love? Maybe friendship was safer.

Kahle thought it over. There was a junkyard down the road where they could scrounge for parts or shoot rats. He knew a guy at a diesel engine repair facility a half hour away, maybe they could get a weekend tour.

Not a good idea. He would keep his engine parts and whatnot to himself. She might think he was a stalker or worse, a fuckup and decide to tell Gary Queeg. He would be hounded endlessly and it would undoubtedly find its way onto his evaluation report.

This is what he got for venturing into heat treat. The smell of baking forgings affected him: the lack of light, the steel glowing orange, the whole cockles thing. Something’s wrong with me that I don’t know how to fix.

He was returning to his office and there Bee was; gorgeous in an Oxblood red pantsuit. She’d let her hair down and it shone, cut in a classic pageboy. Her glasses were gone beneath her safety goggles. He could see her eyes. And her aura burned like a sunburst. His Red Queen.

Standing just behind her was Saffron Meyer, the company Chief Financial Officer. And standing next to Bee, handsome as a movie star, his hand resting oh so lightly on her elbow, feeding her his megawatt smile, was Wesley Brummert the Chief Executive Officer of Motomax.

Kahle remained motionless, frozen. He was a street pole at a parade. They passed by as if he didn’t exist. Perhaps Bee had found someone who was exceptional like herself, making Kahle quite unnecessary. He limped back to his desk and filled out spreadsheets, until the end of shift bell released him to go home.

That evening he dreamed. Bee held Wesley’s hand and a glass of white wine; vibrant in a yellow shoulder-strapped sundress. Wesley removed a blue box from his pocket and opened the lid, where a pearl necklace winked from inside. Bee, eyes glittering like stars, plucked it from the velvet and clasped the bauble to her neck. The pearls shone with dusky intensity, promising future commitments.

She gave Wesley the smile that should have gone to Kahle, and to him alone. His hands on the small of her back, she spoke Wesley’s name over and over, kissing him deeply with a ferocity that said only “yes”. His Chicago friends crowded them laughing and smiling; then raised their fluted wine glasses “to the beautiful couple”.

He was woken by a bang. The transformer outside blown apart, throwing sparks across the parking lot. He called his landlord who called the electric company. There’d be no power tonight. All thoughts of sleep were abandoned.