Tales From the Midnight Shift Vol. 1

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “Step aside,” Julie said, taking a seat at the desk.

  This particular story fragment, about a time traveler that goes too far into the future to find the world’s population wiped out by an incurable disease only to return to his own time to realize he has brought the virus back with him and he is the cause of the devastating future he witnessed, consisted of only three and a half pages. Normally he could knock out three and a half pages in half an hour, but in this case it had taken him the better part of four days to get that much down, and he found the result so poorly written that even looking at the text on the screen now sickened him.

  Leaving Julie to read, Ross made his way over the apartment’s kitchenette and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge. All his glasses were dirty so he poured the juice into a coffee mug and took a few sips. It tasted bitter and acidic, practically stinging his tongue, so he poured the rest into the sink before returning to Julie.

  She had gotten to the bottom of the text, merely staring at the screen with her finger resting on the mouse pad.

  “So, what did you think?”

  “It was okay,” she said, but she wasn’t much of a bluffer. Everything—from the tone of her voice, to her avoidance of eye contact, to the way her fingernail beat out a nervous staccato on the mouse pad—belied her words.

  Ross dove back into his bed, burying his face in the pillows. “See, I told you, it’s crap.”

  Julie once again sat on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on his bare back. “It’s not crap. It’s just…Okay, so maybe it’s not up to your usual standards, but not everything can be a masterpiece. That doesn’t mean you’ve lost your ability to write, and it certainly doesn’t mean your creativity is somehow linked to your old computer.”

  “Then what?”

  “Ross, just listen to me for a second. You obviously developed a strong attachment to working on that particular machine. That’s normal. People get attached to all sorts of things. Cars, childhood toys, even furniture. Hell, when they announced they would no longer be making Polaroid cameras, my Aunt Sylvia stock-piled boxes and boxes of the film and kept on using her Polaroid even after I bought her a digital camera for Christmas.”

  “And what does your Aunt Sylvia’s Polaroid have to do with me?”

  “My point, Mr. Impatient, is that when you get attached to one specific thing, it takes some adjustment getting used to something new. And that’s all this is, a period of adjustment. Just keep at it, and after a while you’ll remember that the stories come from you, not some magic laptop.”

  “I guess.”

  “Hey, I’m speechifying my ass off here. You could at least muster up a little more enthusiasm.”

  “I hear you,” Ross said, reaching out and taking Julie’s hand. “And everything you say makes perfect sense. I’m sure this is just a slump, like you said, and I’m just wallowing in a bit of self-pity. It’ll pass.”

  “I’m on my lunch break, but if you want I could call in, say I got sick from some bad chicken salad, and hang out with you for a while. We can even watch the Twilight DVDs you keep hidden in your closet like porn and think I don’t know about.”

  Ross laughed. It was weak and shaky, but it was a laugh. “No, I really am exhausted. I just want to sleep.”

  “Okay, but promise you’ll call me tonight.”

  “I promise.”

  “You better, or next time I have to come over here I’m busting skulls.”

  Ross walked Julie to the door, giving her a hug and a thank you, and after she was gone he returned to bed. But sleep did not come. His brain was too full of a chaotic jumble of thoughts. He considered everything Julie had said to him, and had to agree it was possible his belief that he could not write without the Big Dog was likely all in his head.

  But did that really matter? Was it any different than a baseball player feeling he always had to wear the same pair of socks on game day, or a religious person fingering the cross around his or her neck in times of trouble? There was no real power in these things other than the power assigned by the people who believed in them, but that was often the most potent kind of power.

  Screw it, Ross thought, bounding back out of bed and going to the closet to grab some clothes. Whether he truly couldn’t write without his old computer or it was just some psychosomatic projection deal, the solution was clear either way.

  Julie didn’t have to know about it, but Ross was going to get the Big Dog back.

  * * *

  “What do you mean, you sold it?”

  Ray leaned on the counter and frowned at Ross as if the man were a puzzle he just couldn’t solve. “Dude, this is a thrift store. People donate their old, unwanted items, and then we sell them to other people. That’s how it works.”

  “Yes, I know that, it’s just…well, I guess I didn’t think you would have sold it already.”

  “Are you kidding? Computers go fast. I think I sold your laptop not two hours after you donated it.”

  Ross’s shoulder slumped as if a great weight had suddenly settled onto his back, and he felt a few stray tears trickling down his cheeks, burning trails like hot acid into his flesh. It was humiliating, to be crying in front of a perfect stranger like this, and over an inanimate object.

  But it was more than that. His entire future as a writer depended on him getting his computer back. That was insane, but knowing that didn’t make him believe it any less.

  “Uh, you okay, mister?” Ray said, seeming a bit panicked. The store was deserted except for the two of them, but still the cashier looked around as if for assistance. “We don’t have any other computers in right now, but we do have a Smith Corona word processor that’s in pretty good shape for just twenty-five bucks.”

  “No, I need my computer, I need the Big Dog,” Ross said, slamming a fist onto the countertop hard enough to cause a display of small porcelain milkmaid figurines to fall over as if God had struck them dead.

  “Look man, what you need is to chill. I’m sorry, but your laptop is gone. Nothing I can do about that.”

  “Who’d you sell it to?”

  Ray blinked. “What?”

  “Did I stutter? Who did you sell my computer to?”

  “I can’t give out that information. It would be a violation of, uhm, something, I’m sure.”

  “You don’t understand, it’s imperative I get that computer back.”

  “What’s the big deal? That thing was past its prime anyway. Plenty of other computers out there.”

  Ross felt like reaching across the counter and smacking Ray right in the face, but he forced himself to calm down. He was acting like a hysterical nutjob. He took a few breaths and came up with another approach. “Look, Ray, I accidentally left some personal financial information on the laptop, and I can’t tell you how important it is that I retrieve it.”

  Ray crossed his arms and a knowing smirk twisted his lips as he made a tsk-tsk clucking with his tongue, suddenly very much the stern teacher disciplining a naughty child. “Dude, didn’t I ask you when you brought it in if you’d gotten all your personal info off of it?”

  “Yes, you did,” Ross said, trying to look appropriately chagrined.

  “You just can’t be too careful in this day and age, what with all the cases of identity theft and all. I mean, I once had my paypal account hacked and someone spent over a hundred dollars of my money skyping. And I don’t even know what the hell that is.”

  “I know, man, and I really thought I’d gotten everything, but I forgot about this one folder.”

  “Pretty much have to wipe the whole hard drive just to be safe.”

  “I’ll remember that in the future. So what do you say, Ray? Can you help a brother out?”

  Ray hesitated a moment more, but Ross could tell he had him. “Okay, so I do happen to know the lady who bought the laptop. Don’t get too excited, I’m not going to give you her name or number or anything, but here’s what I can do. I’ll give her a call, explain the situation, and pass along
your number. Maybe she’ll call you. That cool?”

  “Oh, more than cool. You’re a lifesaver, man.”

  Ray gave him a piece of receipt paper from the register, and Ross hurriedly scrawled down his number. “Tell her it’s urgent, if she’ll call me just as soon as she possibly can, I’d really appreciate.”

  “I can’t make any promises, but I think I can convince her to at least give you a call. And I think you’re safe from identity theft with this lady. She’s not the type.”

  “Great,” Ross said. “I look forward to hearing from her.”

  * * *

  Ross was awakened by the high-pitched chirp of his cell phone. He squinted at the clock by his bed. Just after 10 a.m.; he’d been asleep for only an hour. Snatching up the cell, he checked the Caller ID. UNKNOWN NUMBER. He flipped open the phone and mumbled, “’lo.”

  “Um, Mr. Berkley. Sounds like I woke you, I’m sorry.”

  “’It's okay. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Patty Westmorland. Ray gave me your number, said you wanted me to call in regards to the laptop I bought at Thrifty Joe’s.”

  Suddenly Ross was wide awake. “Finally,” he said then reminded himself to be gracious. Two days had passed since he’d given his number to the hippie at the consignment shop, and it had been a Herculean feat for him to keep from stopping by everyday and asking why he hadn’t received a call. Now that he had the woman on the other line, he had to keep his impatience in check lest he frighten her off. “I mean, I’ve been very eager to talk to you. Thank you so much for calling.”

  “Well, Ray’s a sweetheart, I’ve known him since we were just kids, and he explained the situation to me, said you were desperate to get some information off the computer. Naturally, I wanted to help out any way I could.”

  Not enough to call me back right away, Ross thought but didn’t say. “Well, I do appreciate that. Maybe you and I could meet somewhere for lunch, and you could bring the computer with you.”

  “Well, Mr. Berkley, here’s the thing. I talked to my son—”

  “Your son?”

  “Yes, Chuck. I bought the laptop for him. You see, he’s a freshman at Limestone College this year. Full academic scholarship, otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to swing it. As it is, it’s all I can do to pay for his books. I know a lot of the other kids have their own computers, but I just couldn’t afford one for Chuck. Felt awful bad about it, I have to say. But then I stopped by Thrifty Joe’s last month, not even to shop really, just to say hi to Ray, and there was a laptop for only fifty dollars. Seemed too good to be true, magma from heaven.”

  “Manna,” Ross said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. So what you’re saying is that your son has my laptop?”

  “Yes. I called him yesterday, and he went though everything and said he couldn’t find any financial files, or any other kind of files you may have left on there. He triple checked just to be sure. You must have deleted them after all.”

  Ross felt his calm starting to crack, and he bit down on the insides of his cheeks to keep from raising his voice. He waited ten seconds then said, “It’s not in a folder on the desktop; the file is kind of buried in there. Your son probably just doesn’t know where to look.”

  “Chuck’s pretty smart. I mean, they didn’t give him that scholarship for nothing. I’m sure if there’d been something on there to find, he’d have found it.”

  “Ma’am, I really need to talk to your son. Could you give me his number at school?”

  Ross could hear the woman’s hesitation. “Well, I don’t know about that. Tell you what, Chuck’s coming home weekend after next for a visit, and more than likely to have me do months’ worth of laundry, so maybe then—”

  “I can’t wait that long!” Ross shouted, all his frustration and impatience coming out in a roar. “I need that computer NOW!”

  Patty’s voice was suddenly much less friendly; there was practically a frigid chill wafting from the phone. “Look, Mr. Berkley, I don’t appreciate you talking to me in that tone of voice. I think maybe you need to get a hold of yourself and—”

  “Lady, just give me your son’s number. Or give him mine, but I have to talk to him ASAP.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think we’re pretty much done here. That computer belongs to my son now, fair and square. If he finds anything of yours on it, I assure you he’ll erase it. Goodbye.”

  Ross opened his mouth to respond, to try to say something to fix the mess he’d just made, but she’d already hung up. Cursing at his own stupidity, he stared down at the phone. She’d registered as UNKNOWN NUMBER on the Caller ID so he had no way to call her back. But he had to get back in touch with her, with her son. Maybe he should pay another visit to Ray over at the—

  Or better yet, Ross could go straight to the source. Patty had let it slip, her son Chuck was a freshman at Limestone College. Ross had never been there but he was familiar with the school, a tiny little campus about a three hour drive from here.

  Jumping out of bed, not even pausing to consider the rationality of his plan, Ross dialed work to call in sick. Bad chicken salad. Then he threw on some clothes and got ready for a road trip.

  * * *

  It took Ross a bit longer to find Limestone than he’d expected. While he knew of the school, he didn’t know exactly how to find it. He’d been tempted to ask Julie to MapQuest it for him, but he’d rather she not know about his little excursion. So instead he’d gotten the college’s number from information, called and got directions from the switchboard operator. Either her directions were crap or he’d written them down wrong, because for forty-five minutes he’d found himself lost in the city of Gaffney, which was hard to do considering the smallness of the place.

  Eventually he’d happened quite by accident onto College Drive, which led him straight to Limestone. He’d heard that there wasn’t much to the campus, but still he was surprised by just how very little there was to it. A handful of buildings crammed together on a relatively small parcel of land. Ross had seen high schools that took up more space.

  It was almost 3 in the afternoon when he parked in a small visitor’s lot next to the campus library. There were a few students milling about the quad, so Ross stopped a young man with bright blue hair and so many piercings he looked like a pincushion and asked for Administration. He was directed to a large white building with a bell tower and six towering columns out front. Curtis, the kid called it.

  He found the Registrar’s Office on the second floor. A round little man with thinning white hair and the rosy cheeks of a Hummel figurine stepped up to the counter. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m looking for a student named Chuck Westmorland.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “His real name might be Charles, but he goes by Chuck. He’s a freshman. I’d like to know if he’s in class now, or maybe what dorm he stays in.”

  One corner of the round man’s mouth curled up in a puzzled smile, as if he’d just heard a joke but didn’t quite get the punch line. Still the picture of professionalism, he said, “Sir, I not at liberty to disclose information about our students.”

  “It’s not like I’m asking for his social security number or the pin to his ATM, for Christ’s sake. I just need to talk to him; it’s urgent.”

  “And you are?”

  “A friend of the family,” Ross said, just making it up off the top of his head. After all, that was what writers did. “His mother, Patricia, sent me to deliver some very upsetting news. The, um…the death of a close relative. His grandfather.”

  The round man’s smile vanished altogether now, replaced by a look of blatant skepticism. “And why wouldn’t his mother have just called?”

  “Oh, this isn’t the kind of news you give over the phone. She wasn’t able to make the trip, so I promised I’d deliver the message for her personally.”

  “And Ms. Montgomery couldn’t have told you what residence hall her son is in? For that matter, you
can’t just call him now and tell him you’re in town and would like to meet?”

  Ross didn’t have a ready answer for these questions. That was the thing with talking out of your ass; sometimes you talked yourself right into a corner. He hesitated a beat too long then just said, “No.”

  “I see. Would you excuse me a moment, sir? I’m going to make a call, see if I can find someone to help you.”

  The round man stepped back to a desk behind the counter and picked up the phone. After punching a few numbers, he turned away and started whispering into the receiver.

  Security! a voice screamed in Ross’s head, accompanied by warning bells. He’s calling security!

  “On second thought, you’re right,” Ross said, backing down the hall. “I’ll just give Chuck a ring, have him meet me for dinner.”

  Then, without waiting for a response, Ross turned and fled for the stairs. As he came out of the building, he saw two security guards exiting an office down a slight hill to the left and starting toward the Administration building. One was older, short and stocky, the other young, tall and thin, both looked mean. Ross turned in the opposite direction, forcing himself to keep a normal pace. Nothing said suspicious like running. He also resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. He didn’t hear any hurried footsteps behind him and no one called out for him to stop, so he figured he was in the clear.

  He was approaching one of the dorms, and two young girls with matching blonde ponytails exited the building and started toward him. As they were about to pass he said, “Excuse me, do either of you know a Chuck Westmorland?”

  The two girls exchanged a glance and then both shook their heads. Ross knew it was a long shot. Limestone was small, but not so small that all the students would necessarily know each other by name. He’d have to come up with another—