elevator's doors.
His cell phone lay in front of him, still cued up to 9-1-1. He'd dialed every hour for the last forty-eight hours, until he forced himself to stop wearing down the battery. No service. No service. Bullcrap. He'd set his stomach to boiling again if he thought too much about it. Ed must have mail-ordered a black market signal blocker. As an extra measure, he'd also taken all the office cell chargers. Though not the water cooler, Graham noticed.
A pile of spent objects sat in front of him - scissors, boxcutters, the heavy, unscrewed blade from the paper cutter, all nicked and bent from his failed efforts to loosen the stairwell door lock. The elevator doors wouldn't budge, and the windows? Also no use. Even if he could bust out the safety glass and squeeze through the bars, he'd earn only a 60-foot drop to the rapids. The knuckles of his right hand still throbbed from his slamming them into the wall in a moment of rage.
He read his blog post from his first night of imprisonment again. It was all he could do, since every URL he tried redirected him back to the company webpage.
Posted by Graham (@grahamarama):
I can only hope someone's reading this. If you are, you must believe I am in a legitimate situation. My colleague has gone crazy and locked me in my own office. I swear on all that is good and holy this is not a joke. PLEASE CALL THE POLICE RIGHT NOW to the Bufort Falls Mill, fifteen miles north of the Delaware River on the old mining roads. There's no signs out here, but the coordinates are 41.037995°N, 75.021687°W. Please. Give them the name Ed Leeds. He's unhinged. I don't know what will happen to me.
Other posts had come through, from time to time:
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
The shavings from the paper shredder make a warm bedding for passing the night. My hollow is snug.
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
I'm learning there are so many unnecessaries. Soap robs the skin of its natural protective film of oil and dirt. I am liberated from all conventions that strip me of my essence. Hallelujah.
Graham hated the pleading tone of his responses. "Ed. I apologize. I got hotheaded. You can have your job back, if that's what you want. Let's have a beer and talk." As the sun came up on the second day, he stopped censoring. "This is not a joke, you effing lunatic. Taking your ass to court at the soonest opportunity." At one point his heart leapt at the sight of responses spilling onto the screen, before he recognized them as a backlog of automated replies:
%%%
POST DENIED BY WEBMASTER
POST DENIED BY WEBMASTER
POST DENIED BY WEBMASTER
%%%%%%
Nothing he'd posted had gotten out. Not his call for help. Not his emails to every friend he could think of. Nothing.
His empty stomach snarled.
As if in response, over the tumbling of the river, a set of truck brakes released.
Graham scrambled to his feet and pressed up to the glass. A shipping truck quivered to a stop in front of the building. Graham gasped at the sight of Ed trotting down the steps in a polo shirt and jeans. He jogged out to meet the man climbing down from the driver's seat.
"Hey!" Graham hollered. The man's baseball cap brim shielded his face. Graham beat the heel of his hand on the glass, then rammed it with the butt of the paper cutter handle. The security glass cracked but held, supported by its embedded wire grid. The man looked off into the trees a moment, then turned back to Ed, who was writing in one of the office checkbooks.
Graham kept hammering at the glass. As the man made notations on a form, Ed looked up in Graham's direction, his facial features narrowing.
"I'm up here!" Graham shouted. He cursed. Even if the guy looked up, the mill was backlit this time of day, and the river's white noise masked all other sound.
He watched them unload a half-dozen crates, using the lift at the back of the truck. "Humboldt Machinery"... "Steelcraft"... he read on their sides. What the hell is he buying now? , Graham thought. He groaned as Ed
His cell phone lay in front of him, still cued up to 9-1-1. He'd dialed every hour for the last forty-eight hours, until he forced himself to stop wearing down the battery. No service. No service. Bullcrap. He'd set his stomach to boiling again if he thought too much about it. Ed must have mail-ordered a black market signal blocker. As an extra measure, he'd also taken all the office cell chargers. Though not the water cooler, Graham noticed.
A pile of spent objects sat in front of him - scissors, boxcutters, the heavy, unscrewed blade from the paper cutter, all nicked and bent from his failed efforts to loosen the stairwell door lock. The elevator doors wouldn't budge, and the windows? Also no use. Even if he could bust out the safety glass and squeeze through the bars, he'd earn only a 60-foot drop to the rapids. The knuckles of his right hand still throbbed from his slamming them into the wall in a moment of rage.
He read his blog post from his first night of imprisonment again. It was all he could do, since every URL he tried redirected him back to the company webpage.
Posted by Graham (@grahamarama):
I can only hope someone's reading this. If you are, you must believe I am in a legitimate situation. My colleague has gone crazy and locked me in my own office. I swear on all that is good and holy this is not a joke. PLEASE CALL THE POLICE RIGHT NOW to the Bufort Falls Mill, fifteen miles north of the Delaware River on the old mining roads. There's no signs out here, but the coordinates are 41.037995°N, 75.021687°W. Please. Give them the name Ed Leeds. He's unhinged. I don't know what will happen to me.
Other posts had come through, from time to time:
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
The shavings from the paper shredder make a warm bedding for passing the night. My hollow is snug.
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
I'm learning there are so many unnecessaries. Soap robs the skin of its natural protective film of oil and dirt. I am liberated from all conventions that strip me of my essence. Hallelujah.
Graham hated the pleading tone of his responses. "Ed. I apologize. I got hotheaded. You can have your job back, if that's what you want. Let's have a beer and talk." As the sun came up on the second day, he stopped censoring. "This is not a joke, you effing lunatic. Taking your ass to court at the soonest opportunity." At one point his heart leapt at the sight of responses spilling onto the screen, before he recognized them as a backlog of automated replies:
%%%
POST DENIED BY WEBMASTER
POST DENIED BY WEBMASTER
POST DENIED BY WEBMASTER
%%%%%%
Nothing he'd posted had gotten out. Not his call for help. Not his emails to every friend he could think of. Nothing.
His empty stomach snarled.
As if in response, over the tumbling of the river, a set of truck brakes released.
Graham scrambled to his feet and pressed up to the glass. A shipping truck quivered to a stop in front of the building. Graham gasped at the sight of Ed trotting down the steps in a polo shirt and jeans. He jogged out to meet the man climbing down from the driver's seat.
"Hey!" Graham hollered. The man's baseball cap brim shielded his face. Graham beat the heel of his hand on the glass, then rammed it with the butt of the paper cutter handle. The security glass cracked but held, supported by its embedded wire grid. The man looked off into the trees a moment, then turned back to Ed, who was writing in one of the office checkbooks.
Graham kept hammering at the glass. As the man made notations on a form, Ed looked up in Graham's direction, his facial features narrowing.
"I'm up here!" Graham shouted. He cursed. Even if the guy looked up, the mill was backlit this time of day, and the river's white noise masked all other sound.
He watched them unload a half-dozen crates, using the lift at the back of the truck. "Humboldt Machinery"... "Steelcraft"... he read on their sides. What the hell is he buying now? , Graham thought. He groaned as Ed
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