“One last thing for you to sign.” The obscured figure slid a paper attached to a small rectangular machine through the slot at the bottom of the translucent glass sheet separating the rooms. Logan’s eyes skimmed over the skinny black text, pressed deep into the page by an old, heavy printer. Atop the header was the seal of the Federated States of Providentia.

The device was a rectangular brick of rusted metal. A long vertical slit held the page along the side, while another section jutted out from the bottom over a thick black line. 

Logan picked up the device and flipped open the metal door. Beneath was a simple pad of letters, arranged vertically in three columns with chunky black buttons. An ancient LCD display flickered to life above the lot. 

Slowly and deliberately he typed his name, appearing letter by letter on the display.

LOGAN BAULTUS.

A sharp pain pierced the pad of his finger as he pressed the ENTER key. It startled him, a curse escaping his mouth. The display flickered. A series of stamps slid along the section over the line and pressed his name into the page with a tar-like ink. 

Logan set the device back on the table, and a gloved hand emerged from the slot and reclaimed the machine and paper. “Elevator’s to the right. Good luck.”

“Do… Do I get orientation?” Logan asked, sucking the wound on his thumb. It bled more than it should have.

“This is your orientation. Ray’s waiting for you. He’s been here sixteen hours. When he’s done, you’re relieving him.” The figure didn’t move. “Get a move on.”

Logan mouthed “okay,” stepping away from the glass. The room was dim and musty, a collection of dirt and grime creeping up the walls and lockers and settled into the grout, illuminated by the sickly glow of dying iridescent bulbs. His boots clicked on the old floor. He recognized the room as having, once upon a time, been a coal miner’s dry.

Past a section of lockers was the elevator door, imposing and dark.

“Don’t forget your gear.”

“I won’t.” He checked his belt just to make sure anyways. The door rattled open and he stepped in.

It sealed him in, groaned to life, and launched upwards as though propelling him to heaven. The speed of the elevator caught him off guard more than he was willing to admit.

The speed concerned him less than the combination of lack of light, strange noises from the elevator machinery, and the apparent length of the elevator shaft. How far below ground was he? Where was he going?

What had he signed on to?

He couldn’t check his watch, on account of the light. He could only wait and pick at the flaking paint on the metal poles, patiently anticipating his destination. 

It slowed to a halt at a much more gentle pace than it had accelerated. The evening light seeped into the elevator, followed closely by the gently swaying lantern outside the door. 

His eyes adjusted to the light, stepping past the rickety threshold that he felt, for the life of him, would swallow him. His feet planted into the dirt of a dark, forested trail.

“You must be the new guy!” A figure limped down the trail on the edge of earshot, lantern swinging with his uneven steps. “Logan, right?”

Logan squinted. “You Ray?”

“Yup!” Ray finally closed the gap, extending a hand. He was missing his right thumb and ring finger. Ray himself was a thin, blond man with a squinted right eye and a crooked nose.

Logan shook his hand, but too soon did Ray break it and trudge off down the forest path, as though he was in a hurry. He followed, stepping over roots straying into the path. Despite the gap in age–and ability–Logan struggled to keep up with him, as though all Ray knew was this one path and how to navigate it perfectly. 

“I dunno what you did to land this gig, but welcome.” The trees broke, and Logan saw the broadcast station. It was a simple brick building, not a single round surface to be seen. An array of radio equipment jutted off in random directions, over the mountain cliff to its north, between the trees, directly above. A red light pulsed at even intervals. A green one flickered as though communicating in morse. 

The only adornment on the station, aside from the equipment, was a single red door, thick and steel. Ray set his lantern handle on a hook next to the door and stepped in. 

“You gonna turn that off?” Logan asked.

Ray stopped in the doorway, holding the door open with the tip of his toes. “Nah. That’s one of those Horlav lanterns. Burns forever. Come in, we ain’t got all day.”

Logan pushed past the door and stepped into the station. Immediately he was assailed by a distinct feeling of wrongness. Only a single thin strip of fluorescent lighting, situated lengthwise on the ceiling, lit the entry hall. Not that there was much to see aside from the brick-coloured tile flooring, the kind of hundreds of little tiles you see in public pool floors.

At the far end of this was a second door, although it was propped open by a small wood doorstop. Ray shouldered the door open and slid the doorstop aside with his foot. “We ain’t got the key to this door. If you ever gotta leave, use the doorstop.”

Logan nodded and stepped past the third threshold of his journey. He was confused at what he saw.

A threadbare office chair, a metal desk, an FM receiver, and an LCD display. A bundle of wires spindled into the fiberglass suspended ceiling and, presumably, into the enormous antenna atop the structure.

“You’ve got experience with equipment, yeah? Repairs ‘n shit?”

“Yeah. Went to school for it. Shouldn’t there be more equipment?”

“Should be. Not for this, though.”

“I mean, where’s the microphone? Audio processing equipment? Anything?”

“Nah.” Ray sat down in the chair. It looked as though he belonged there, somehow. Like his legs were suddenly the same length. “Job’s easy enough.” He pointed to the screen. “See this?” Logan leaned in, squinting past the glare from the angle he stood at. Numbers rapidly poured onto the old green display. 

…1 8 13 5 8 15 23 8 1 18 4 1 20 8 9 14 7 9 20 9 19 20 15 19 1 25 23 8 1 20 23 1 19 20 8 9 19 6 15 18 5 19 20 19 1 22 1 7 5 18 15 21 7 8 1 14 4 19 20 5 18 14 23 8 9 3 8 9 14 20 8 5 22 5 18 25 20 8 15 21 7 8 20 18 5 14 5 23 19 20 8 5 6 5 1 18 19 15 2 9 20 20 5 18 9 19 9 20 4 5 1 20 8 9 19 12 9 20 20 12 5 13 15 18 5 2 21 20 15 6 20 8 5 7 15 15 4 20 15 20 18 5 1 20 23 8 9 3 8 20 8 5 18 5 9 6 15 21 14 4 19 16 5 1 11 23 9 12 12 9 15 6 20 8 5 15 20 8 5 18 20 8 9 14 7 19 9 19 1 23 20 8 5 18 5 9 3 1 14 14 15 20 23 5 12 12 18 5 16 5 1 20 8 15 23 20 8 5 18 5 9 5 14 20 5 18 5 4 19 15 6 21 12 12 23 1 19 9 15 6 19 12 21 13 2 5 18 1 20 20 8 5 13 15 13 5 14 20 9 14 23 8 9 3 8 9 8 1 4 1 2 1 14 4 15 14 5 4 20 8 5 20 18 21 5 23 1 25…

“Huh.”

“Weird, right? No clue what it means.” Ray chewed on something. The light caught him in such a way Logan realized he had a moustache. “Here’s the thing. You can’t let ‘em stop.

“What?”

“NEVER, you hear me, NEVER let the numbers stop. Under any circumstances.” His eyes were heavy set and serious. “You got me?”

“Do I have control over that?”

“Sorta.” Ray pointed at a large green light, on the wall opposite the setup. “If that goes red, something’s gone wrong. Go out that door, reset the breaker, and come on back.” His finger moved to another door–a second door, marked with the words “ROOFTOP” on a black plaque at about eye height. “Need to piss, do it over the cliff. Shit? Second verse, same as the first. And that’s it. That’s the job.”

“What happens if the numbers stop?”

“Dunno. Don’t wanna know. You’ll find out why. I can’t tell ya.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Ray pursed his lip, bobbed his head a little. “Bit of both.” He rose from the chair, an awkward motion. Every joint clicked as though in protest. “Good luck to ya.” He thumped Logan on the back twice as he passed. “Throne is yours.” He pushed open the door to the exit.

“When will you be back?”

Ray paused for a beat. “Won’t be me. Should be… Ames, I think. Sixteen hours. See ya.”

The door closed behind him.

He found a bouncy ball in one of the drawers. He had thrown it one hundred and twenty-two times.

He didn’t see what was so bad about it, aside from the boredom. He just watched the numbers and threw the ball. Mind numbing, but at least he was getting paid for it.

…20 8 5 18 5 6 15 18 5 9 20 8 9 14 11 1 14 4 10 21 4 7 5 9 20 6 15 18 20 8 25 2 5 19 20 20 8 15 21 6 15 12 12 15 23 13 5 1 14 4 9 23 9 12 12 2 5 20 8 25 7 21 9 4 5 1 14 4 12 5 1 4 20 8 5 5 8 5 14 3 5 20 8 18 15 21 7 8 20 8 5 5 20 5 18 14 1 12 16 12 1 3 5…

He was hungry. He didn’t know he had to pack a lunch. Not that he could afford to make one. He could tough it out. He had bread at home. What else?

A bag of chips. Some jerky. Jar of instant coffee. He might even have some noodles left, if he was lucky. 

This didn’t seem too bad, all things considered. Sixteen hours every thirty-two hours. Sixteen on, sixteen off. 

Oh well.

His line of thought abruptly ended when the light overhead flicked on. The numbers stopped, all of a sudden.

He shot up straight in his chair. “What?” He muttered aloud. “Shit, what do I do again?” His mind raced. “Right. The roof.” He rose from his chair quick enough to send it careening across the floor, pushing open the door to the roof and hearing it shut behind him.

Panic flared in his chest, behind his eyes. He shouldn’t be feeling this way.

The numbers stopped. Why did the numbers stop? His eyes moved skyward, convinced the world was going to end, that–

He stubbed his toe on a metal stair and snapped back to reality, climbing the rickety stairs and up a maintenance ladder, sheathed in a safety casing.

On the rough, gravelly roof was a heavy, wind-worn breaker box with a flickering light. The night sky had begun glowing red.

He pressed the small button below where the handle was rested, flush and snug with the cover surface, gripped the handle as it flung out, and swung open the door, narrowly missing his face with it.

The main shutoff was a thick, rubber-coated mad-scientist switch in the middle of the panel. Logan gripped it with one hand, the side of the box with the other, and put all his weight on to the switch.

Fwooooom.

The red light on the tower stopped pulsing. The night sky grew dark.

Then, for a moment, everything got loud. Footsteps ran past him from behind, his glasses cracked–

He flung the switch back up. 

Everything was alright. 

The relief hit him like a wave of vertigo. A shard of tooth fell out of his mouth.

He didn’t realize he had clenched his jaw that hard.

He flung the breaker back down and the anxiety washed away. He was beginning to grow inoculated to the whole thing, his adrenal glands providing less and less adrenaline each time the numbers stopped. 

Checking the digital readout in the top right corner of the number panel [...20 8 5 14 8 5 13 15 22 5 4 15 14 1 14 4 9 2 5 8 9 14 4 8 9 13 6 15 12 12 15 23 5 4…], he stood up and hastily escaped. 

Down the forest path, the opposite direction. A walk he’d been imagining for the past eight of his sixteen hour shift. 

The light on the wood beams around the elevator door flickered red. He saw the cables whirr past him, the rattling and shuddering of the ancient thing ascending to the mountaintop.

It opened. Inside was a woman, red haired and pale. She had the faintest traces of freckles, though her face was cut deep by lines of every kind.

“You must be Logan,” she said, stepping past the threshold. “You seem eager to leave.”

“I didn’t pack a lunch.”

“Rookie mistake. I’m Ames. I’ll be your savior from now on.”

“So, is it just us three?”

“Yep. FSP doesn’t wanna waste anymore manpower on this job. Even though it’s so important…” She retrieved a cigarette from her dirty pocket and placed it in her mouth, dirt and pine needles seemingly not bothering her. “Most stressful maintenance job in the country, I tell ya.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Used to.” She fumbled with a gas lighter. Curiously, she was also missing a couple fingers. “Not anymore. Been here long enough.”

“You know where those numbers come from?”

“Nah. And I wouldn’t go looking into it.” She blew a large cloud of smoke directly in Logan’s face. “It’s not good practice to leave it alone. Ask me more questions tomorrow. Train should be ready to take you home. See ya in thirty-two.” She pushed past him, mumbling something about the lantern and how he forgot it. Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped into the elevator, steeled himself for the initial lurch, and went home for the day.

The apartment block stood against the morning sky like dead pixels on a screen. It pulsed, like a dying heart, morning life rolling into motion. The road was sparse with cars, though replete with parked, pine-needle and bird-shit covered cars. He passed through the glass doors at the front, pressing the plywood board covering a broken pane for entry.

He could hear through the particle-board doors people listening to the morning radio, preparing coffee, getting their kids ready for school. None of them knew Logan, and the feeling was mutual. He was a ghost, passing through a hallway with squeaking floorboards. 

There had to be something better than this. This was only temporary, he thought.

He fumbled for his key and stepped through his door after fighting with the lock awhile. 

His apartment wasn’t much to look at. One bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen/living room combination that felt more like an obligation than anything. His furnishings consisted of an old, stained sofa across from a CRT TV that were both there when he moved in. His personal effects still rested in cardboard boxes stacked all the way to the ceiling. It was a personification of his hope this was only temporary. That he wouldn’t have to unpack, that he’d be gone soon enough, even though it had been months.

The job offer from the FSP still sat on his countertop, next to six dirty coffee mugs, a pan he’d used four times since its last wash, and an unfinished letter.

He passed by the couch and TV, into his bedroom (which had no door), and slumped onto the bed, held together by a frame that was little more than four pieces of sheet metal and reinforced coffee table legs.

Unconsciousness took him before he could remember he was supposed to wash the sheets today.

Mom,

I found a job! It requires someone with my experience. They sent me the offer today, but I think it’s weird they didn’t even interview me. Apparently it’s a government thing? I don’t know. I hope to have my feet under me soon.

I know you worry about me. I’m sorry for that.

Love,

Logan

The elevator groaned to a halt, although his heart was still in his throat from the lurching start.

Ray limped down the trail. “You survived!”

Logan nodded. “It’s not too bad. Boring.”

“Ah, you say that now.” Ray handed his lantern to Logan and shuffled past him into the elevator. “See ya.”

The door rattled shut and the elevator rocketed down at such a speed as though the cables were cut. Logan turned and marched down the trail toward the station, paper bag of lunch in hand. 

He swung open the first door, nudged past the second, and sat in his office. A cautious look took in the first numbers of the day.

…1 14 4 8 5 20 15 13 5 1 19 15 14 5 5 24 16 5 18 9 5 14 3 5 4 8 5 18 5 1 12 12 19 21 19 16 9 3 9 15 14 14 5 5 4 19 13 21 19 20 2 5 1 2 1 14 4 15 14 5 4 1 12 12 3 15 23 1 18 4 9 3 5 13 21 19 20 14 5 5 4 19 2 5 8 5 18 5 5 24 20 9 14 3 20 23 5 20 15 20 8 5 16 12 1 3 5 8 1 22 5 3 15 13 5 23 8 5 18 5 9 8 1 22 5 20 15 12 4 20 8 5 5 20 8 15 21 19 8 1 12 20 2 5 8 15 12 4 20 8 5 16 5 15 16 12 5 4 15 12 15 18 15 21 19 23 8 15 8 1 22 5 6 15 18 5 7 15 14 5 20 8 5 7 15 15 4 15 6 9 14 20 5 12 12 5 3 20…

What were they?

He figured he might as well put his degree to use. If he could figure out what the numbers were, surely he would gain some kind of recognition, right?

He fiddled with the receiver behind the LCD display. Numbers and glyphs whined in phosphor light, pressed against a cobalt-blue background. Strong signal. But the frequency was strange, it wasn’t anything Logan could recognize–as though it had come clean through the other end of high frequency and wrapped back around to mid range. The number was so much higher than it should have been.

Not to mention the signal address. FSP addresses were normally formatted like:

[State]-[Province]-[County]-[Radio Zone]-[User Address]. There was an amount of these numbers any self-respecting operator or tech should be familiar with. There were only fifty states, fifty-one if you’re conspiratorial, so of course the first number could only be 01 through 50, with 01 being the Capital. And so on.

The state code was three digits. The province and county sections damn near went into integer overflow, the Radio Zone was 0, and the User Address section didn’t exist to begin with.

Wherever the numbers were coming from, it had a very strong signal. 

…23 5 18 5 12 1 13 5 14 20 1 20 9 15 14 19 14 15 14 5 2 21 20 15 14 12 25 19 9 7 8 19 20 8 1 20 20 18 5 13 2 12 5 13 1 4 5 20 8 5 5 22 5 18 12 1 19 20 9 14 7 1 9 18…

The panic set in as the red light glowed. What could the numbers be?

He fought the panic as long as he could, staring into the receiver, piecing together the numbers. Foreign system, maybe? Not Horlav, for sure. Not Ummaktabah, either…

Something touched his shoulder and instinct took over. Before he knew it, he was at the breaker, taking in the sweet sensation of relief. 

The faint receiver light seared into his retinas. The numbers had ceased to mean anything. 

He hadn’t touched his lunch. He just couldn’t figure it out. Like something on the edge of his mind, like a story he knew. Like a story he should have known. Or just… something. It had to be something.

A knock at the door roused him from his stupor. He opened it to a very confused Ames. “You good, new guy?”

“Yeah.” Logan blinked twice. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You’re sweating like a bastard.”

“Oh. It’s hot in here.”

“It’s never hot in there. Go home.”

“Do you know what the numbers mean?”

“Don’t even fucking approach that, man. Go home.”

He could see them on his vision, blinking across his sight as the train passed by city lights.

…1 14 4 14 15 23 2 5 7 9 14 20 8 5 4 15 12 5 19 15 13 5 14 15 20 5 19 20 15 7 18 15 23 1 21 4 9 2 12 5 21 14 20 15 13 5 14 15 23 1 13 9 3 15 13 5 20 8 5 18 5 23 8 5 18 5 13 21 3 8 12 1 13 5 14 20 1 20 9 15 14 19 20 18 9 11 5 19 21 16 15 14 13 5…

What did it mean?

What could it mean? Why was he hired?

He was so tired. He blinked, and he was home, little goblins named sleep hooking claws into his eyes and trying to pull them shut.

He barely got into his apartment before they got too heavy, and his eyelids closed.

Hey Mom,

I’m liking my new job. It’s easy. It pays well, and I get to be alone. You know me. I always did like my me time.

It’s exhausting, though. Also classified, Ray told me (Ray’s this guy from work. Reminds me of Uncle George), so I don’t know how much I should be telling you. 

Well. Okay. It doesn’t pay well. Rent takes most of that pay, groceries the other. I know I was saving up to move back to Horlav with you guys, but… I don’t know how viable that is. I haven’t been able to put aside anything since I started.

Ray says if I stick around, I’ll get a raise. I hope so. Every little bit helps.

I miss you.

Logan.

Days passed.

…1 20 20 8 5 18 5 20 21 18 14 15 6 3 15 14 19 3 9 15 21 19 14 5 19 19 20 8 1 20 3 12 15 19 5 4 2 5 6 15 18 5 20 8 5 16 9 20 25 15 6 20 8 15 19 5 20 23 15 18 5 12 1 20 9 15 14 19 23 8 9 3 8 21 20 20 5 18 12 25 23 9 20 8 19 1 4 14 5 19 19 8 1 4 3 15 14 6 21 19 5 4 13 5…

Days in and out. Trains and radios. Beeps and whirrs and alarms and breakers and the groaning of the steel tower in the wind.

…2 21 20 20 5 12 12 13 5 23 8 15 20 8 15 21 1 18 20 20 8 1 20 9 14 19 15 4 15 12 5 6 21 12 1 16 12 1 3 5 1 18 20 16 21 20 1 14 4 9 14 19 21 3 8 16 21 14 9 19 8 13 5 14 20 9 6 19 15 13 5 1 18 5 7 18 5 1 20 5 18 14 15 14 5 9 19 19 15 4 9 19 16 12 5 1 19 9 14 7…

Each day, he left something of himself there. Just a piece, a bit with each number. Bit by bit. Day by day. Shift by shift. Sixteen hours at a time, he ceased to be.

…8 5 18 16 5 18 13 21 20 1 20 9 15 14 19 8 1 22 5 14 15 20 1 14 25 20 18 21 3 5 14 5 3 5 19 19 9 20 25 13 1 11 5 19 8 5 18 16 18 5 3 9 16 9 20 1 20 5 19 15 15 6 20 5 14 3 15 13 5 20 8 23 8 15 8 9 19 20 21 18 14 15 2 20 1 9 14 19…

His neighbours saw a ghost in the mornings.

The morning commuters he saw on the way home avoided him.

After three years, he stared with a numeric gaze.

The red light hummed.

He stared into the terminal. Counting numbers. Knowing numbers in the way a baby knows a wolf. Not in knowing its name, but in knowing the danger it represents and not knowing how.

The numbers stopped.

Still he stared.

Something touched his shoulder.

He did not turn.

He was a ghost, and so were they.

The screen cracked. He saw splintered reflections of his eyes glaring back at him.

They had to be.

He wanted them to be.

Perfect emptiness.

Radio silence.

Logan wanted to go home.

And so did they.

He bit his finger off to be free.

Heaven is a funny thing. Everyone talks about it all the time, like they know what’s going to be there. Like they know it’s going to be better. A perfect life where all the people I like go forever and ever once they die. The perfect denial.

But hell is a funnier thing. No one can agree on it. Some rationalize it. Taxonomize the miseries into little boxes and what you could have done to deserve each one. Some picture a big lake of fire and be done with it. 

Do rats trouble themselves with thoughts of hell? Or did they only start once someone built a little city for them and put pictures of god on the cheese?

If we gave rats a little city, would they make little tasks for them to run back and forth to do, forever and ever, for scraps of cheese and a little cardboard box to hang up pictures of their little rat families?

Would they call it the human race?

…20 8 18 15 21 7 8 13 5 25 15 21 7 15 9 14 20 15 1 3 9 20 25 15 6 23 5 5 16 9 14 7 20 8 18 15 21 7 8 13 5 25 15 21 7 15 9 14 20 15 5 20 5 18 14 1 12 16 1 9 14 20 8 18 15 21 7 8 13 5 25 15 21 7 15 1 13 15 14 7 19 20 20 8 5 12 15 19 20 16 5 15 16 12 5…

…9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5 9 23 1 14 20 20 15 7 15 8 15 13 5…

Hey mom,

I work here now.

Come visit sometime.

Logan