/Cult Fiction\

Page 11 - Ghost

The sun was beginning to set. Orange and red hues bleeding into the horizon, trailed with the ice and royalty of the atmosphere. It was a beautiful view from the office, one of breath taking masses, but Emerson didn't seem to care. His eyes were fixated on the TV mounted above his head. The show playing was useless to him, he only used the thing to look into his reflection. He looked at his sad tired self, flickering his eyes to the guards around the room and the stray phone on the table. He tried to execute a plan, watching their moves carefully to put something into the play. When one was looking out the window to admire the view, one was falling asleep in his chair.

Emerson stood up quick, faking a trip and falling straight back onto his face. He coughed and gagged wildly, pushing himself up again onto his knees. Both men were staring at him. He pushed himself up with his knee but fell again, forcing up a dry burp. One of the guards almost gagged, the one falling asleep got up and grabbed Emerson by the arms. Pulling him up a bit to provide support, Emerson latched onto the leather jacket around the man's body. The two struggled to the bathroom, where Emerson pushed himself onto the ground and crawled up to the bowl of the toilet. He turned his face the other way and snuck two fingers down his own throat, bringing his lunch back up. The guard cringed, backing away and closing the door.

Emerson, continuing to falsely cough, pulled a pick-pocketed, pitch black phone from his pocket. He looked at the keyboard and typed in the password he'd snuck into his sight. Keeping suspicions low, he stuck his fingers down his throat again before going through all the messages on the phone.

~Mr. Weekes

Be here in 10. I can't deal with him.

You got it boss.

~Ryan

Last time I checked we're heading to the hanger at dawn next weekend. Supposed to bring in the profit.

Bring it on. Weekes has been on my ass about this trade all year.

~Sheen

&$+- **725/! £€√π©} 110+#

+•√~¶∆

When Emerson got enough of an idea of what was going on, he faked another burp while dialing Remington, a number he'd memorized, yet never thought he'd actually be dialing. He whispered as lowly as he could into the microphone, "98265."

A pause, then a whispered response, "Copy. 88492."

"142. 747. Translate "&$+- **725/! £€√π©} 110+#."

"Copy. 6647."

"66479." The phone beeped and Emerson sighed. He hadn't recited those numbers in years, yet somehow he still new the secret language they'd taught each other. He smiled before putting the phone back in his pocket, standing up and opening the door before the guard could check up on him. He shuffled back onto the couch and fell asleep, on his own guard for the next sign from his position.

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Remington burst through the door to Pete's office. His face had looked rabid. Alive  with peeled eyes and a sliver of hope in his soul. Pete didn't even have to look at the reflection in his screen to feel the energy oozing off of him. "Check Weekes's data base."

Pete scoffed but felt the energy growing contagious, "Why? There's nothing new. If you ask me I'd say he probably figured out his data base was hacked and created a new one. "