The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation by Paul Bagnell

  Chapter 8: YOUR SECRET IS TOLD

  Tom trudged painfully to work and arrived at 7:45 a.m.

  “Morning Tom,” Stella said in a motherly tone.

  “It would be if my body weren’t so sore,” he replied.

  “Why, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern.

  “I experienced a bit of car trouble.”

  “Did it quit or stall out again?”

  He massaged the back of his brawny neck. “No, I did.”

  “What’s that mean?” Her eyes expressed wonder.

  “Oh nothing, I’m just poking fun at a bad situation,” he said with a negative hand gesture.

  “You can always tell me your problems. What’s on your mind? Maybe I can help,” she insisted, and touched his arm.

  “I know,” he said, and nodded, as if to agree.

  “So, what happened?”

  He looked around to ensure no one else was listening, “I blacked out at the wheel last night and drove off the road.”

  “That’s a great shame.” (She seemed overly concerned.) “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

  “No broken bones... just crumpled up my rusted two-door death-trap into a bowling ball... climbed out of a finger hole,” he laughed, as if it was funny, “and left the wreck in the gully.”

  “The important thing is that you’re still alive and with us,” she said. Her desk phone lit up.

  “Go ahead, take the call,” he insisted.

  “I’ll let the machine pickup.” She squeezed her round bum into the seat, “So, did you report the incident to the police?”

  “No, I didn’t bother. I was going to sleep off the aggravation, then deal with it today.” Tom clamped a curled-up newspaper under his arm, and said, “I’ll call them later,” as he continued onward to his cubicle.

  He prepared his desk for another workload. A flush of bad thoughts spoiled his content mood. Why was he so anxious about this assignment? It seemed more unbalanced than him; and to top it off, his wife cursed him for being a money-junky, and now he had to contend with this overblown dimensional pain in the groin. Even so, one phone call was all it would take, and he’d be safe and warm in his wife’s arms. He knew that wasn’t the case; if she said no, his hope for a better future was gone--rejection stopped him cold in his tracks. He fought further back into the scrawny chair and prayed that Exsorbo would release him from these uncontrollable reality shifts, which seemed to be growing stronger with more punch and frequency, the prime cause of his auto accident last night.

  The telephone rang.

  “Bronze here,” he said with a concealed depression.

  “And good morning to you, Tom,” McBridle said joyously.

  He popped straight up in his chair, “Sorry, Celia, good morning.”

  “I’ve rearranged your schedule for next week,” she said, “so all your investigative energies can be directed at our auditing task. Right now, I’ll need you in my office in 10 minutes.”

  “I’ll be there in two,” he replied while counting the seconds and tugging at his tie as if it was strangling the last bit of life out of him.