Daimones - Book 1 of the Daimones Trilogy. Booktrope Publishing Edition

The Purge

The Last Day

Nothing prepared us for the last day. I arrived at work as usual, after dropping off my daughter at school. A too-bright Monday morning and sunny for early February. The weather had been mild during the weekend, much warmer than it should for the season.

My wife, Mary, complained about the warmth, worried this would be no good for plants and the garden.

"Everything's waking up. See all the buds? They will burn when it freezes again."

Indeed, those days felt like early spring. I liked that.

The whole winter had been harsh with average temperatures way below freezing. To leave home and take my little princess to school on my way to work was an exercise of will—even more so when my day started at 6:15 a.m. and it was still dark outside.

"I go to bed and it's dark. I get up, dark...yet again. You know how it bothers me," I told Mary every time she asked, "What's going on, sweet pea? You're pensive."

She still called me that even though it had been years since we were high school sweethearts and I'd played quarterback for our school team. Thank the Lord, she never said it in public. No one protects a "sweet pea" quarterback or fights to catch his passes. And let's not even think about the harassment from teammates.

Mary had just turned sixteen when we first met. Something of young lovers remained between us, even after thirty-two years, a twelve-year-old daughter, and life in three countries. We had an easy way to keep count of the time the two of us had spent together: ten years of dating, ten of marriage and then our first and only child. Total number of years? Twenty, plus our daughter's age.

When I got to work, I waited as usual for the gate to open. It was a solid slab of metal and stood next to the guard house, a bulky construction with thick, tinted windows and dark concrete walls. Sliding slowly on its rails, the mechanism paused long enough for me to drive through, reminding me this place was not meant for everyone.

I could never tell whether anyone was seated in the guard house or not. The first times I passed that gate I wondered if I needed to wave good morning to some invisible man. Now I simply drove through, conscious of my right to cross the thin threshold separating those inside from the rest of the world.

I had to cross another barrier before entering, had to swipe my badge and be greeted by the welcoming green light. I went down the ramp slowly, giving the gate below time to open, enough to let me pass without having to wait. With the years, my timing had become impeccable. In the underground garage, my place, Number 98, was in the last row so I had enough time to realize something obstructed it. I slammed on the brakes and raised my hand to hit the steering wheel in exasperation. Two wood crates sat in the middle of my slot.

The parking also served as a reception area for the Publications Department. Slots in the middle section had been eliminated to give room to the storage areas where all deliveries received by the Pub's colleagues were collected and where confidential publications were packaged for shipment. No one thought that arrangement to be efficient and sustainable. At times, I had to wait for small crate lifters to operate. A short wait but frustrating when colleagues waited for me at a meeting. Complaints to Human Resources and Logistics & Operations had so far produced no results. And now this.

I stepped out of the car to check for any of the storage workers but no one was around.

The crates were empty. They weren't particularly heavy. I only had to slide them a short distance, zero risk of injuries or other silly things like tearing my trousers or jacket.