Sidewinder #1: Shane and Max

Shane and Max

LOCATION: E.O.W. PREP INCORPORATED, SECONDARY OFFICE

Shane needed this job. Period. He couldn't afford to screw up. The only problem was that day one on the job wasn't spent mopping and cleaning toilets the way he thought it would go. So far he'd spent most of day one sitting outside of a building made of blue glass, with a manicured lawn and great big trees and modern art sculptures. It was the kind of building that made you think of important people, who went to universities and traveled abroad for fun. In Shane's life, traveling abroad mean going to the state next door. Everything else was just fantasy.

The building had a great sign made out of fancy stone. Carved into the sign was E.O.W. Prep's company logo. The same logo that was plastered on the side of the van he and Max drove in with. So why was he helping pump smoke into this building?

Why were there huge construction lights propped up everywhere and people dressed in military black and gray camouflage, hiding behind sandbags and barbed wire? Only he knew they weren't the military, because of his dad, and he knew those weren't real guns, because he had seen those too.

Max, his cap resting high on his head, monitored the smoke machine. It looked like some relic from a party supply store, but Max had thrown on a new engine and the whole thing shook and gurgled and smelled like oil and smoke chips.

"Man, Shane. I told you," Max said and tapped the side of his temple. He did this sometimes when he wanted to be sure you felt like an idiot. "If you wanna work for E.O.W. Prep, you can't go around asking too many questions."

"Right," Shane said and scratched the back of his head. It itched like crazy when his hair started to grow back in, but it hurt even more when his old man took the shears to his head. That was his dad's solution to skipping school: cut the hair, clean the room, run a few laps, do a few pushups, repeat. Sometimes he threatened to fill out recruitment paperwork. Sometimes a recruiter came by; an old friend of his dad's. Shane put his cap back on. He was pretty sure his dad would fill out the paperwork this time. He had to prove them wrong. He had a future. It just looked different from theirs.

"I can keep shut," Shane mumbled to himself.

Max wiped his forehead. It wasn't just a hot day, it was the kind of hot day that made the ground steam.

"Hold this," Max said, handing Shane the log. It was just a beat up composition notebook.

Shane flipped through it, not really paying much attention to the crumpled notes, sketches, long lists, or occasional numbers. Just seeing Max's crappy handwriting made Shane smile. His handwriting still sucked and Shane couldn't read half of the notes. Most of them seemed like job sites, but one look around this place and Shane wondered what Max had done at the other locations. Trying to bury the question, Shane flipped the page. There were several pages dedicated to the bridge that connected Central City to the Southside. Shane was about to ask why Max had notes about a bridge, but remembered that he wasn't supposed to ask things.

"This thing's nearly full," Shane called out to Max.

Max rummaged in their van. They were parked on the side of the building, next to a cluster of old trees and a bench. Shane imagined that during lunch time people in fancy suits sat on the park bench, drank frozen coffees, talked about important things. Like ghosts, the images of important business people faded away.

"Need any help?" Shane asked.

On the outside, their van was sleek and gray with the company logo on the side. But inside it looked like Max's brain. It was all scrap metal, and junkyard parts, broken planks of wood and old electronics that people left by dumpsters, faded clothing and unmarked gallon jugs with unidentifiable liquids or sticky residue. It wouldn't have surprised Shane if Max were lost in there.