American Dreams

Prelude

The city that never sleeps.
And yet, on this icy December evening, almost every light in the city was dim, their owners having tucked into their warm beds long before. One solitary office block illuminated the clustered New York City skyline, casting a metallic glow over a single floor, where a man sat poring over a plethora of folders. Evan had always liked working alone. Less distraction, less bureaucracy, less small talk. Only then, he reasoned, could he properly fulfill his duties to the people of America. He had always been a patriot.
He felt his phone buzz and flicker to life in his pocket.
"Fidance."
"Evan, it's Oban. They know."
Evan blinked. "No, they don't. They can't, alright?"
A voice shot back angrily. "They know, Evan. Go. NOW. You know that I can't help you if you choose to stay." The caller's voice rang with desperation.
"I can't just leave. I'll take my chances." He hung up and placed his phone on the table. The number of false alarms in the past few weeks were enough to convince him of his ensuing safety.
Blinking his eyes back to focus on the messy pile of papers strewn in front of him, he let out a disgruntled yawn. That it was a holiday weekend, and he could easily have had the day off, did not faze him. In actuality, it excited him; an opportunity to get ahead, to work harder than everyone else, to provide everything his family wanted. That was the goal, anyway. At this rate, he rationalised, he wouldn't do very much at all. For the next half hour or so, the only sound at all in the building was that of a cheap ballpoint pen skimming lightly against the stack of files. A light and refreshing winter breeze flowed freely in through the huge panel of windows that surrounded each floor - an emblem of transparency in a building that was anything but. Evan shivered as the cold bit into him. During the night, most of the electricity was shut off, including a workaholic's best friend, the entire central heating system. Pictures of his family were spread along his desk, offering some comfort in the piercing cold. He raised a beaker to his lips and savoured the boiling coffee, relishing in the momentary respite. The volume of work he had was extraordinary for a Monday, much less a holiday weekend. Some sort of Department of Defense cordon was being established around a crop of barley in small-town Nevada: a thoroughly unusual proceeding, with oddly high priority, but with the DoD Evan knew to ask no questions. He just did what he was paid to do; manage the books.
The air shifted.
It was subtle, so subtle that many would have brushed it off as their caffeine-driven mind playing tricks on them.
But no. Evan stood up, wondering what had changed. Had the wind picked up? Was it raining? He held a tentative hand out of the window and felt no droplets of water fall onto his palm.
No.
It was as if the air had a palpable edge to it: a threat, a warning. As if he was being watched.
A loud beep pulsed from the floor below. That was odd, he thought. He had been certain that he was the only one in the office. Sinking back into his chair, he braced himself to reprise his work. Ever since the incident last year, no one else had been brave enough to come in alone. Evan had never been one for superstition. He reasoned that murder was like lightning; it never struck in the same place twice.
He jumped as the beep returned. It was louder this time, and constant, each time gaining strength with an eerie rhythm. Evan frowned. It was moving around, unnaturally quickly.
He exited his office, pulling the glass door shut behind him with a muted thud.
The faint whistle of the wind scythed through the empty corridor, broken only by the sound of Evan's footsteps patting softly on the carpeted floor.
Strange - all the windows had been closed when he came up.
Reaching the staircase, he punched in the code to the keypad and heaved open the door to head downstairs. The staircase, however, was completely dark, save for the sparse light entering from the ajar windows. He reached to his hip and grasped his phone, flicking it to flashlight and squinting to see as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Pressing onwards, he took the stairs two at a time, almost tripping on the final one. He swallowed, and realised his throat was parched with fear. The hallways were shrouded in a cloak of ominous darkness, and with every movement of his torch he dreaded what he would find. Shaking it off, he was about to enter when he saw a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye.
A chill slithered down his spine.
He didn't turn around; he didn't need to to know that there was someone standing, waiting behind him. He could feel the disturbance in the air. A soft, steady breath, gently grasping at the back of his neck. It was as if eyes were boring into him, seeing straight through him. A hazy reflection of a hooded figure stared back at him from the glass entrance of Floor 6. A glint of steel flashed in the mirror, like a gruesome smirk.
Evan was stuck in place, his mouth gaping wide in a silent scream. He closed his eyes and whimpered softly as padded footsteps crept up behind him. He wanted to run, to fight, but his body remained perfectly still.
The intruder grabbed Evan by the throat, and with one quick motion slid his knife across with a brutal slash. Evan fell to the ground, a blanket of crimson red pooling under his crumpled body.
They know.