Temping Is Hell

Prologue

Aloyshus shuffled from his cramped office to the cavernous basement for his weekly random check on the workers.

The fluorescent lights flickered high overhead, illuminating the cinderblock walls.

Long tables were laid out in rows in the cavernous space, and thousands of pages were stacked on them like a paper fortress.

Ten workers sat at each of the tables, diligently reading every sheet.

Or at least, they were pretending to be diligent. Hence his “random” checks.

Aloyshus paused, mid-step, as a strange scent assaulted him.

The workers were suddenly twice as intent on their tasks, avoiding his gaze. A twinge of concerned awareness skittered over his spine.

He clenched his jaw, struggling with his bone-handled cane to hobble more quickly toward the source of the smell. It was strong, drowning the normal scents of old parchment and cold dust with a hot, liquid aroma reminiscent of tin foil and salt.

He saw the pool of blood first, thick and red, near the end of one of the tables. Then he saw a sensible low-heeled shoe dangling from distended toes. Trailing his gaze up from the feet, he saw the runs in a nylon stocking… the hiked up skirt...

What was left of her torso.

He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling frustration and rage course through his veins.

“All right, damn it,” he bellowed, his voice echoing against the concrete. “Which one of you ate another temp?”