“Hey, you alright man? You seem to be out of it today?” A coworker of mine nudged me. I sputtered and gagged on my own saliva as I was rudely aroused from my unexpected slumber. I was resting against the controls of a stalled out forklift down at the shop’s warehouse when it happened. Working for a retail center like Abel’s sometimes has its perks, one being there was some opportunities to find other employment should my boss finally find the balls to fire me; sleeping on the job for the past three weeks and last night was no different, but the energy boost I had on the way in should have kept me up by now.

“How- how long was I out?” I slurred.

About a half an hour. The boss actually sent me to wake you up, and with good reason. Had you actually veered off to the right a couple more inches, you would have speared the new crap we’re launching tomorrow, which could have really pissed off the shipment supervisor.” The coworker explained. I lean over the wheel to see what he meant. The forklift’s right fork was barely a couple inches from the edge or some rather expensive merchandise, the angle in peculiarly resembling a number, which had me take a double glance.
For a second there, I thought it looked like a one, like the one from last night’s dream. I shook it off and restarted the lift, pulling the prongs away. It then hit me, if the boss and coworker was here then where was the shipment supervisor. He was usually here before me, getting a head start on shipments like this.

"Speaking of which, where is the supervisor? I asked.

“No idea. The boss called up his place twice this morning. It’s not normal for him to miss work; especially on major shipment days like this.” The coworker responded. Before I shifted gears for the lift, a short hairy Greek man of a boss walked over, as if he was noticing the slowdown of not only one of his employees but now the other he sent to get him moving.

“What are you doing lounging about?! We got shit to put out, come on!” God, I hated how he stereotyped the New York accent, even if he signs my paycheck. Don’t get me wrong I like working at Abel’s, I just wished I had a more likable- and hygienic- boss. The energy shot may not have woken me up, but his “cheap” cologne did.

“Christ man, ever heard of a shower?!” I jumped gagging at my boss.

“You’re lucky your supervisor says your hard working Marston, otherwise I would have shoved one of those forklift prongs right up your fired ass!” He slams a clipboard with shop orders into my chest. “Hilts, you got the seventh floor deliveries in bay two. Marston, get that lift over to dock five. The Balcony department store on tenth has a large shipment today, and don’t fucking crash it again like last time.” He spat and resumed his patrol further on, leaving the now two disgruntled coworker to their labors.

“Someday that fat bastard’s gonna get it.” Hilts hissed through his teeth and left for his assignment. I couldn’t help but agree; at least they weren’t the only ones who shared a similar point of view. That slave driver of a Boss had emigrated from Greece, in hopes of escaping its economic crisis only to be greeted by the presidency of 2016, and again in 2020 nearly losing everything but his job… and shitty cologne.
Still, this job paid most of the bills and only the graceful word of his supervisor was saving him from the streets again. I started the lift and drove off to the dock where the shipment was waiting, seeing the driver and receiver signing off and talking about something. I could see their lips moving but why was I hearing numbers?

Damn it Marston, keep it together. You didn’t finish off the rest of your shot this morning. The forklift was steadily shifting towards the racks, only to swerve away with each jolt of sudden adrenaline fighting sleep deprivation. With each jolt, that soft chant of random numbers are humming deep in my mind, followed by some unidentified murmur, accompanied by some gentle shoves. I looked up towards whoever was bugging me now, to see the supervisor and it looked like he was trying to get my attention.

“Wake up Grenadier.”

“Wh-what did you say?” I asked confused.

“I said are you okay? You seem out of it today.” The supervisor asked again, his voice now coming loud and clear. He had one foot on the forklift and right arm hanging to the frame; hitching a ride to either take over the lift or something else, I don’t know. The lift itself was stalled out, the prong mere inches away from a stunned coworker on the other side of the shelving units. Did I raise them up by accident?! The scene knocked some sense back into my being.

“Oh shit! I’m sorry man!” I cussed myself out as the Sup took the keys from the ignition.

“We need to talk. Now.” He hopped off the lift and pocketed the keys into one of the vest pockets. I hesitated for a couple seconds then followed behind towards the elevator shaft that lead to the upper levels of Abel’s usually off limits to customers. As the platform shuttered and creaked to life, there was an undeniably stunned silence and a cart of merchandise separating us. The silence was broken when the Sup gave a sigh.

“Let me guess, another rough night out at the clubs?” He asked.

“Yeah, I suppose.” I replied. Crap when was the last time I went out partying? I can’t remember.

“Look Frank, I can tell when someone’s almost dead tired and that little incident could have landed you up nowhere nice as the streets with a slip. Are you sure you’re alright?” The Sup was just as concerned as my coworkers, perhaps more since he actually cared about my employment. New York in 2021 was just a crowded as it was two decades ago but the political atmosphere was just as questionable and rough as the economic sibling, not to mention the news going off about something out in the Atlantic that just appeared overnight had the social media going in an orgie of conspiracies and doomsday prophecies coming true. Even the missing person reports were flooding into stations all along the East Coast as far as Canada and Cuba spanning from a fishing trawl to international flights.
“I’ve been having some messed up stuff happening when I sleep, mainly this same dream over and over…” I tried my best to explain last night’s dream to the Sup while telling myself why would I bother telling someone about it. As far as I’m concerned, he could round it up to just playing games overnight or still peaked by drugs and beer. But not, the Sup just listened and let me speak my mind.
One of the reasons I liked working with this guy.

A couple minutes passed as we were at our destination; delivering the contents on the cart to a toy shop on sixth floor. I didn’t even recall leaving the elevator.

“Do you think it maybe your old riot days back in LA?” He asked, wanting to piece more of the details together.

“That’s just it man. It was right here in NYC in front of a white building, and there’s some…things walking out where people go in…” I paused when I glanced down to get the next case of toys, the lids pulled back exposing its colorful and plushed contents. I jumped back, dropping the case of stuff animals onto the ground.

Several plush ponies from the last generation of My Little Pony tussled out.

“Frank! The hell was that about?!” The Sup’s demeanor changed on a dime from the attentive consultant to almost a twin of the Boss. “You gave my heart a start!”

“That’s them!! Those things I was talking about!” I could only point as the Sup started to gather them back up but unlike anyone else working here, he attempted to brush them off before putting them back into the case. In my slight panic attack, that voice chimed off another random set of numbers deep into my mind.

“I didn’t know you had Pony dreams; never saw you as that kind of guy. Heh, you learn something new every day.” The Sup shrugged it off, but he still seemed to be talking. One this I didn’t like about him was that he muttered to himself. Once the last pink pony was brushed off and placed back into the case, the Sup looked back to me the demeanor slowly creeping back to a passive state. “Look, maybe you should just go home and take the rest of the day off. I’ll convince Mr. Heilogas that for the safety of everyone on Freight detail you needed some time off. I mean when’s the last time you had a day off?” He said ending with a question.

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple weeks ago? Times are tough and money is money, right?” I stumbled for words. Another likable tab about the guy; puts people over product. Why he left his previous jobs was anyone’s guess, but he did use to call himself a Box Ghost for again anyone’s guess. However it was also his double edge sword and can turn on a dime as well; just like brushing off toys from a dry spill on the ground.

Wait, why is there one of those pony things on his watch?

“Go on and clock out. I’ll take care of this.” That was the last thing I heard the Sup say. I brushed my head off and headed back towards the elevator shaft back down the hallway, leaving him to clean up my mess. I guess this will be a large price for me financially, especially when the HR hears about the forklift matter.

My eyes blinked. I swore I saw a number fallout from the wall towards me, with a slight static and pop. I blinked again and there was nothing.

“Maybe my supervisor’s right. I just need to get some sleep.” I said taking a small drink at the bar. Instead of head right back to the apartment, I had to make a stop to Carlo’s Side bar near Mid-town. This place was usually empty around eleven in the morning, aside from a few other patrons watching a match on the overhead.

“Could be, or you should be out having more drinks with your buds. Nothing beats a hangover like a peer pressured hangover.” Antino smirked, sneaking another drink up to me. Carlos Antino was once an illegal from Mexico but after the Wall War back in ’18, he managed to earn his citizenship plus he made the best Tejelo-Vodka this side of the border and nobody (at least his patrons) didn’t want to give that up without a fight. He even told a select few; myself included, that this concoction was just a flammable as a Molotov but tastier. Old family recipe he calls it with pride.

Wait, Molotov… why was that being a red flag?

“Even with a hangover man, I still can’t shake it off- shit man I almost killed a coworker this morning! That’s how bad it is.” With that came a large swig of the CATV; a patron ataman for his drink. Just as I was about to put the glass down, I saw yet more numbers bleeding from the droplets of the drink onto the bar top accompanied by what sounded like missiles and static pops; but there was something new…

Is there someone new? Their voice sounded regal to the tone but almost haunting and they were saying the numbers.

“Hey man, you look like you’re going to kill somebody. I didn’t think Molotov had that sort of effect on people.” Carlo happened to look back to me, void of life and trance-like towards the wood of the bar at a few spills. Molotov?

“Molotov? But isn’t this CATV?” I broke the trance and turned to Carlo.

“Are you gringo loco? Why would I serve Molotovs? Those things are for riots not drinking man.” He even pulled away the fresh glass from my direction, a sure tell sign of patrons having enough. “For once, I’m gonna have to send you home as you is. I don’t want another call up from the cops.” He was talking but something was drawing my attention away to the far corner of the bar that lead towards the restrooms; a bright color blob moving too fast to make out anything specific- at least not out of the usual.

That red trail of numbers.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll head home. Just put it on my tab Carlo. I gotta go.” I didn’t hesitate and got up but instead of heading towards the doors, I stumbled towards the restrooms. Carlo’s Mexican laced protests were being drowned out as my pace quickened. I brushed off one of the returning patrons with force as I went, but when I got there, I just black out. Nothing hit me but it could have felt that way but the world around me continued to speak but more voices were chiming in, all speaking numbers.

A-2.4.11.4.18.19.8.0.22.7.8.19.4.7.14.20.18.4.3.4.2.17.4.4.22.14.17.11.3.0.2.19.8.21.0.19.4.

This is NBC Nightly News with 11.4.18.19.4.17.....We just received word from the white house that the strange occurrence out in the Atlantic Ocean has just been confirmed to have ties with the countless missing person reports, as well as a special announcement from what most would take from a little girl’s imagination who claims ownership of the landmass.

Author's Note