Out of Reach

by Jocelyn Stover

  Curling up in my office chair and getting comfortable, I reach for the soda can and pull the tab; I’m instantly greeted by the sweetest sound on earth: the decompressing hiss of a freshly opened Coke. Sigh.

  Heaven! I think to myself. Savoring that first taste, I dig through my top desk drawer and pull out a badly battered book and begin to read. I’ve no more than flipped to the second page when ...

  “Ahem,” interjects Melanie to get my attention. “Are you reading that thing again?” she admonishes.

  “I love this book,” I counter.

  “Yeah, but you’ve read it a hundred times. And I guarantee it ends the same way it did last time,” she finishes. Knowing her disdain stems more from the fact she’s miffed I’m not using the Kindle she got me for my birthday, I play along.

  “I don’t have anything else to read at work. I lost my Kindle.”

  “You what!” she screeches. Laughing too hard at this point to keep up the ruse, I reach back into my desk drawer and pull out the Kindle before she can berate me.

  “You’re such a bad liar,” she says, grabbing the thing out of my hands. Flipping it on, she verifies it’s still in working order before turning the face back toward me and saying, “See, I’ve even taken the liberty of downloading some of that vampire porn for you.”

  Melanie doesn’t share my love of the fantasy fiction genre. The “vampire porn” she is referring to is nothing more than a clever title she uses to categorize the whole genre. I don’t actually read pornography. But I have been drawn to the supernatural for as long as I can remember. Vampires, werewolves, angels, and demons ... who says they don’t exist! Admittedly, to my knowledge I’ve never seen anything supernatural, but who knows, maybe that’s only because my human senses aren’t keen enough to notice. Authors all over the world are regularly capitalizing on the existence of the supernatural; maybe they’re just more enlightened than I am.

  I’m not crazy, I remind myself. I don’t actually run around in my spare time looking for the existence of vampires. Well, except maybe once in undergrad, but I was really really drunk I remind myself.

  Staring straight at Melanie for a moment, I concede, “Alright, point taken. I’ll pick something new to read.”

  “You should really see things my way more often,” she beams, returning my Kindle. In one final act of defiance, I shove the thing to the farthest recesses of my desk drawer while she isn’t looking.

  “Now what brings you to see me this early in the day?” I ask.

  “My company car is in for routine maintenance so I’m onsite today taking care of paperwork. Needless to say I’m bored and it’s lunch time.” Melanie never was one for office work; sitting still for more than an hour at a time physically pains her.

  “I’ve already eaten,” I lie.

  “That can of soda doesn’t count. Come on, Gwen, please, let’s go get some real food,” she pleads, bobbing her head up and down in enthusiasm. “I’m dying in my office,” she adds, fainting into the chair opposite me for dramatic effect.

  “Oh, alright,” I agree, starting to pick up on her energy and good humor. It’s hard not to be in a good mood when Melanie is around. Her battery never runs down and her perpetually joyous spirit is infectious. Leaving my lab coat on my chair and snagging my purse, I follow her out the door

  * * *

  Sneaking back into the command center fifteen minutes or so past our agreed upon deadline, I silently take my seat. Joe is at the board with Charlie immersed in quiet conversation. Glancing around I notice we are still waiting for several key team members to come back from lunch, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not a rule breaker by nature and being late physically pains me. Stowing my purse under the table, I smile, reflecting on lunch and how time with Melanie is great therapy and just what I needed. In firm possession of a satisfied stomach and a positive outlook, I grab my pen and head for the board.

  “Hey, Gwen, listen to this,” Charlie says, immediately pulling me into the conversation. Taking the lead, Joe begins to go back over the inspiration I assume Charlie and he have just been discussing. Ten minutes into his spiel, I lean back against the conference table, relieving some of the pressure on my feet so I can think.

  “It makes sense, but I feel like there’s something missing between steps eleven and twelve,” Joe speculates. After a brief span of reflection from the three of us, I stand up and reach for the dry erase marker. Handing it over, Joe steps back as I approach the board to make a few notations.

  Rereading what I’ve done, I erase the second line and revise it slightly.

  “So if we wait and introduce the stabilizing agent after step three instead of before the drying agent in step five, yeah, I think that’ll work. Great work, Joe,” I say.

  “You don’t think we’ll get hung up between steps eleven and twelve?” Joe asks.

  “No. As long as the transfer isn’t rushed, I think it’ll be just fine,” I reply. “At the very least this gives us a great starting place.”

  “Wonderful!” Joe announces. “I’ll sleep so much better tonight knowing we have a game plan.”

  “Me too!” I exclaim while doing an abbreviated version of my happy dance. Laughing at my outrageous disregard for decorum, the three of us turn around to address the rest of the team who have all trickled into the conference room over the last thirty minutes. Over the next few hours we explain the new procedure we will be using to bring compound 253B to room temperature and maintain stability, taking longer than necessary to review the details of each step involved in the process and answer any questions the team members may have. It is extremely important everyone performs the required steps exactly the same and that they are able to replicate the process numerous times.

  In this respect, working in a lab is like baking. When you’re inexperienced, you follow the recipe as closely as possible so your end product will look like the pretty cake in the example picture. Most of what we do is routine recipe work. Once Joe, myself, and the lead chemists have developed a procedure/recipe for stabilizing and then synthetically replicating a compound, it can move into the testing phase.

  Sometimes this process is easy and sometimes it’s extremely difficult. What’s tough is we never know the potential of the compounds we are dealing with. Maybe the compound we couldn’t adequately replicate last month would have gone on to cure cancer. That’s one of the reasons we take our failures so seriously and exhaust every foreseeable option before throwing in the towel.

  Exiting the command center after the conclusion of our meeting, I feel better than I have all week. Not only have we developed a new strategy for working with compound 253B, but the team seems just as eager as I am to get started in the morning. Riding the intellectual high, I make a quick stop by my office to drop off some equipment before slipping out of the building. In the parking lot, as the warmth of the late afternoon sun embraces me, I don my black sunglasses and rock a smile all the way home.

  Chapter 10

  Margie, the receptionist, must be at lunch because no one is manning the counter in the waiting room. Mike looks around to be sure the place is spotless, noticing the potted plants could use watering, before proceeding across the foyer to a large set of double doors. He softly knocks, and steps back to wait patiently to be admitted. The possibility Mr. Taylor won’t acknowledge him isn’t a concern; Mike knows he will see him.

  But the seconds drag by, leaving Mike with nothing to do but stare at the wood grain of the large doors. The longer Mike stares at the door, the more obvious the smudge marks from multiple sets of finger prints become until they are all Mike notices. Pulling a rag from his cart, he begins to polish away the offending fingerprints. He has just finished with the nameplate when he is summoned:

  Mr. Taylor

  Preston-Ward Pharmaceuticals

  CEO West Coast Office

  “Come in, please,” says the muffled voice of Mr. Taylor from beyond the outer doors. Mike enters the office and takes a brief moment to apprecia
te the understated elegance of the room. He has always had an appreciation of nice things. The quality of the furniture and the sparse artwork around Mr. Taylor’s office are above reproach.

  “Good day, Mr. Taylor,” Mike says.

  “And good day to you, Mike. What brings you to my office this fine morning?” Mr. Taylor asks.

  Mike drops his gaze to the floor for a moment, gathering his thoughts before responding to Mr. Taylor’s question. Looking back up into Mr. Taylor’s expectant face, Mike begins.

  “There’s been another incident, sir.”

  Staring back at Mike for a moment, Mr. Taylor finally responds, “What do you mean?”

  Taking a deep breath, Mike launches into his story, trying to stick clearly to the facts.

  “Mr. Johnson with the night crew has been seeing things.”

  “Wait,” Mr. Taylor interjects. “Who is Johnson again?”

  “Mr. Johnson is part of the night custodial crew. He is usually responsible for the section B labs.” Mike continues, “Anyway, like I was saying, he believes that he’s seeing things. All manner of things from people to animals to things that can’t possibly exist. He has become quite paranoid of late, always looking over his shoulder, muttering under his breath about people out to get him. Last night he even wore garlic to work.” Mike pauses, shaking his head. “The guy hid it in his pockets so he wouldn’t break the dress code.”

  “I see,” Mr. Taylor responds.

  “Sir, he’s starting to make the staff nervous. Many of them are worried he’s off his medication.”

  “Has he ever shown any instability in the past?”

  “Well, no, not at work, but it’s no secret he battles mood disturbances and regularly sees the company counselor.”

  “Well, Mike, I think Mr. Johnson needs to be put on medical leave, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I agree. I’ll speak with HR personally and have the paperwork taken care of right away.”

  Mike begins to turn and leave when Mr. Taylor interjects, “Mike, I’d like you to assume responsibility for Mr. Johnson’s sections until we can find a suitable replacement.”

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

  Mike turns and departs the office. Closing the double doors behind him, Mike pulls the rag from his back pocket, this time to polish out the fresh set of fingerprints he’s left on Mr. Taylor’s door, before collecting his cart and moving on.

  Chapter 11

  Kade

  I find myself staring at the ceiling when I wake up in the morning. Lying flat on my back I intensely scrutinize the textured surface. Instinctually my body knows its 6:30 a.m.—I need no verification from the bedside clock. My chest is heavy with dread, the three-week deadline weighs heavily on me. With the end of the world close at hand, I find it truly ironic that getting up to take a shower and keeping up appearances at my pretend job rank at the top of my priority list today.

  With a sigh, I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Unencumbered by pajamas I stroll into the kitchen and start the coffee before heading to the bathroom. While I hate the feel of the apartment in general, the shower is quite luxurious. Completely open with a simple glass block wall to shield spray from the rest of the room, the massive showerhead hangs down from the ceiling. Soft water drops drench you as though you’re standing outside in a tropical rainstorm.

  If I ever had a woman up here, the delicate silhouette visible through the glass wall would be exquisite, I think to myself.

  Flipping the nozzles on I step back and allow the temperature of the water a few minutes to heat up. Grabbing a fresh towel from the linen closet, I hang it on the towel rack and step into the spray. I look up and close my eyes, allowing the downpour to wash over me. Wiping the last of the water from my face, I shift positions so the bulk of the stream cascades down my broad shoulders. As the heat seeps through my skin, I feel the tension in my muscles loosen and relax and I let my concerns temporarily drain away. Working the bar of soap into a lather, I cleanse myself. When the last of the suds washes away, I reach for my towel, shut the water off, and step back into real life.

  While finishing my daily ablutions in front of the vanity I contemplate ways to force Gwen into using her powers. Most of my ideas are absurd, and, short of threatening her life (which I refuse to do), I’m not sure what to try.

  I stuff my wallet and keys into my pockets and grimace. Maybe Gwen will surprise me. There are still three weeks left, and anything could happen, right? Determined to keep an extra close watch on Gwen these next few weeks, I lock the apartment and head off to work.

  * * *

  Turning off the bike’s engine I dismount effortlessly and stow my helmet. Carefully opening the saddlebag, I remove the small package stashed inside. The brown paper bag is reminiscent of when children carried sack lunches to school instead of the brightly colored plastic boxes they tote around these days. Caught up with the morning shift entering Preston-Ward, my parcel looks no more sinister than the coffee cups and bags of baked goods carried by the other employees. Firmly gripping my prize I take the entryway steps two at a time, not stopping or pausing for anything until I’m safely locked behind my office door.

  Setting the sack down on the top of my desk, I slide my bookshelf away from the wall, exposing the frayed carpet beneath. Pulling up the corner reveals the lockbox I’ve hidden underneath. Quietly I remove the lockbox, placing it next to the Sylph sphere in the brown paper sack on my desk. In the last two hundred years, Z and I have only come across two such spheres. The one in the brown sack has been in a wall-safe at my apartment for the last couple of years, nicely spelled to repel humans and keep it hidden from sight. Z has the other. He’ll be by later today to collect this one and prep them both for transport in a few weeks.

  The angels did us a great disservice when they scattered the spheres to the four winds. I choose to believe it was done to prevent a single man from obtaining too much power by stumbling onto a convenient pile of Sylph spheres. Halim believes it was done to give the Wanderers time to develop and understand our powers. Whatever the reason, it took us the better part of our first 500 years to track the bulk of them down. No one knows the exact number of Sylph in existence, but finding the spheres is rare nowadays. Z located the two spheres in our possession several years ago.

  He had dragged me to a geological collector’s convention in Dallas. I forget exactly what they called the event. Basically it was a large event center filled with collectors showing off their rocks. The two Sylph spheres had actually been in the same collection. The guy, with an enormous display of naturally formed mineral spheres, wasn’t aware of what he had.

  To the human eye, Sylph spheres look no different from any other rock, but enough of a connection remains between us and the Sylph that we can actually feel their essence inside of the stone.

  Utilizing the power of suggestion, Zafir bought the two gems off the guy. It became apparent while he was wrapping up Z’s purchases exactly why he’d never figured out what he had: The man always wore gloves when handling his collection in order to keep the surfaces of the spheres clean and free of fingerprints.

  Without even opening the paper bag, I drop the sphere in the lock box and return it to its resting place under the bookshelf. Grabbing a lab coat off the door hook, I head out to start my workday.

  * * *

  Between thoughts of Gwen I manage to get little work done this morning. Christine drops by my bench twice to jest about my mediocre process.

  “Get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  Laughing, I feign an ashamed expression and promise to pick up the pace after lunch. This is not my day; my brain is too cluttered. I make a mental note to plant a thought in Christine’s mind that I’ve gotten more work done this afternoon, breaking the cardinal rule of minimal interference for the umpteenth time this week.

  Tossing my pen on the table I make a stealthy escape and wander down to Gwen’s lab, checking in on her for the third time already tod
ay. I take the long way there, stopping off at the vending machines to pick up a Coke so I have an alibi in case I accidentally run into Gwen. As I’m counting out my change, I overhear two co-workers talking.

  “Did you hear about Mr. Johnson?”

  “The jainitor? No, what about him?”

  “They’re saying he went bat shit crazy. Started wearing garlic to work and seeing ghosts.”

  “Really? Creepy.”

  Intrigued, I collect my can and confront the two men, smiling openly at them. “Do they know why?”

  “No one I’ve talked to seems to know why he snapped.”

  “What’d the company do?” I ask.

  “Medical leave.”

  “Ahh,” I acknowledge. “Does he have any history of mental illness?”

  Both men share a look before the one I’ve been pumping for information replies. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  “Okay thanks, I hadn’t heard the news,” I say, politely disengaging from the conversation. Those two were feeding me rumors, nothing more. They didn’t really know what happened. I know Mr. Johnson to be a caring, friendly, family man. Not exactly the poster child for mental instability. Hitting the elevator call button, I promise myself to look into the matter more closely.

  * * *

  When Z arrives several hours later, I am buried in paperwork at my desk. “You look to be in the middle of something I don’t wanna be any part of. I’ll just collect my package and be off.”

  The humor in his eyes is unmistakable: Z thinks busy work is for suckers.

  “Step back, gigantor. I can barely breathe with you in here. Lock the door while you’re at it.” Once Z has complied, I rearrange my furniture and retrieve the lock box. Despite having the area spelled so people can’t find it, I will feel a lot more comfortable with the sphere out of my office. Handing the brown paper bag to Z, I straighten up the office once more and return to my desk.