The alarm clock shattered Alex's uneasy sleep. He yawned and shivered - the apartment was freezing. Early autumn, no matter how you looked at it, was the coldest time of year when nighttime temperatures dropped sharply but the heating hadn't been turned on yet.

  Shoving his feet into slippers, he shuffled to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and flipped the switch to boil, then headed to the bathroom. Yes, yes, morning didn't begin with coffee, though it played no small role in his routine.

  Today especially, he felt the need for a pick-me-up. He'd had another nonsensical dream - rays of light piercing through bare tree branches like gnarled fingers reaching for his throat.

  Bullshit. Still, his mood had been thoroughly ruined by this "late night cinema programming" from the moment he woke up. He felt inexplicable anxiety and depression. Ah, those autumn blues...

  After making coffee and leaving it to cool, Alex set about "making" breakfast. And by "making" he meant reheating in the microwave - not real cooking by any stretch.

  Not wanting to waste time, he went to the bedroom and sat on the bed to pull on socks picked up from the floor. First the left, then after a long pause - the right. Awkwardly balancing on one foot, he pulled on his jeans, then grabbed a shirt from the chair and, sitting back on the bed, began buttoning it up.

  The microwave's beep interrupted his closet meditation, or "morning stupor" as he called it. Time to fuel up for the day and, more importantly, wake up his brain. As a typical night owl, he only fully woke up after noon, closer to evening. In the mornings, the only difference between him and someone still asleep in bed was his ability to keep his body upright.

  Stirring sugar into his cup, he stared blankly out the window. The gray, gloomy morning, cold apartment, and bad aftertaste from his dream were perfectly complemented by the shouts through the wall. The lead vocals, as usual, came from Marina, but a couple minutes later Simon joined in as backup. They'd been at it more frequently lately... When they'd first moved in at the beginning of the year, it had been quieter.

  The entrance door slammed heavily downstairs and angry footsteps hurried down the stairs. Alex had no idea how footsteps could sound angry, but that was exactly the impression. The person - probably Simon - wasn't just walking but stomping, beating the steps with his feet.

  Putting the dishes in the sink and checking the time, he headed to the hallway. Nothing there needed his attention until evening. One advantage of bachelorhood, along with hearing such "concerts" through the wall rather than in his own home.

  After putting on shoes and throwing on a jacket, he left the apartment and closed the door behind him. "Hello, cold and cruel world!"

  * * *

  There was no rain yet, but judging by the sky, it could start any minute. A yellow leaf flew by. The janitors would have fun with those! Though for now most leaves were still green, or rather dirty green, exactly how they looked against the gloomy sky.

  In the courtyard, Simon stood by his car smoking, gazing gloomily at the clouds. Toolboxes were visible on the back seat, with a folding ladder on the roof.

  "Hey neighbor!" Alex greeted Simon. "How are you?"

  "Heard it all, did you?" Simon asked listlessly.

  "Hard not to," Alex replied. "I think the floors above and below heard too."

  "Ah..." Simon sighed and waved his hand.

  "What's all the fuss about? If it's not a secret."

  "Same old story, woman's whims... 'All day it's 'I don’t want to be a shopkeeper’s wife — I want to be Queen of the Realm! '" Simon said, mimicking his wife's voice. "We're paying rent every month, plus trying to save for a mortgage down payment so we can invest in our own place, not a rental. But she already wants to live as well as her girlfriends! I'm pulling ten to twelve hour shifts at the construction site, and it's still not enough for her!"

  "Tough break, man..." Alex said, awkwardly looking away. "Maybe... just ditch her? You're killing yourself at work, and she's pecking at your brain at home."

  "Yeah, well... but I love her, you know? The idiot..." Simon said with a confused, hurt expression. "It's fine, just a little longer. Once we move into our own place and have a kid, she'll calm down."

  "Well, hope it works out. Hang in there!" Alex tried to encourage him. "As they say, when life gives you lemons..."

  "Yeah..." Simon responded. "Thanks."

  "Have a good day!"

  "You too."

  Alex hadn't even left the courtyard when his path was blocked by Walt. Nobody knew his last name or particularly cared. He was usually called by his patronymic, and even then not exactly called - more like he showed up uninvited, like now, and good luck getting rid of him.

  He looked as usual - like a seasoned alcoholic. A very seasoned one, if there was anything good about that. It was impossible to tell if he was forty or sixty. Gaunt, with sparse hairs on his scalp that might have been gray or just faded. His facial skin resembled that of a not-so-fresh corpse, covered in spots and peeling.

  "Oh! Brother! Mornin' to ya!" he greeted enthusiastically. "Spare ten rubles for bread?"

  "I know your 'bread,' Walt," Alex said with slight disgust, stepping around him to the left. "Why should I buy you drinks with my money?"

  Walt wasn't offended - clearly years of practice had made him immune to rejection, which he heard hundreds of times daily. He simply switched targets to Simon.

  "When will you finally croak, you old ghoul?!" came the voice of Martha from her window perch where she surveilled the entire courtyard.

  "I'll outlive you all!" Walt shot back. "Thanks Simon! To your health..."

  * * *

  The commute to work had become so routine over the years that Alex operated on complete autopilot. There's a pothole here, a puddle there, this stretch might get you splashed by a car - better hurry through carefully.

  Similarly, he mostly recognized the faces of pedestrians heading the opposite way. Like him, they rushed to work at the same time every day, selling a third of their lives to provide for the other two-thirds.

  The growing roar of an airplane overhead made him look up as it quickly approached and then flew away. The vibrating, low sound sent a wave through his body that rose and fell.

  "Flying awfully low," he thought with a smirk. "Must mean rain's coming..."

  His mood, soured by the dream, began improving slightly as the cold autumn air gradually cleared the morning fog from his head. The sounds of cars and shuffling feet. Over there, a truck delivered goods to the store. The driver opened up and started unloading trays of what looked like baked goods.

  People, cars... The rain began drizzling, just as he'd expected. He pulled up his hood and continued toward work. Same old, same old...

  * * *

  "Fuck! I get that Monday's a tough day, but this is just Clusterfuck with a capital 'F'! I'd take 'same old' over these changes any day!"

  The moment Alex passed through the factory gates, he sensed the unhealthy atmosphere hanging in the air. It felt like invisible threads connecting people had tensed and become inflamed. If asked, he couldn't have clearly articulated his feelings, let alone rationally explained what led him to this conclusion.

  There were no facts, just sensations - like laser sight dots dancing around and signs on the walls reading: "Warning! Sniper at work."

  However, he didn't have to wait long for his premonitions to be confirmed. During lunch break, Vic caught him in the hallway and, grabbing his elbow, pulled him aside.

  "Heard the news?" Vic asked, looking around.

  "Not yet," Alex replied, "but something tells me I'm about to."

  "Harper, Mitchell and Jenkins are leaving!" Vic blurted out.

  "Leaving where?" Alex didn't understand.

  "Quitting! Handed in their notices to HR an hour ago!"

  "That's bad..." Alex said thoughtfully. "They're our senior installers. Everything depends on them. We were already struggling with deadlines, and now... There'll be more mistakes without them. And mistakes mean redoing work and more delays."

  "Wrong thing to worry about, Mr. Responsible!"

  "Then what should I worry about?"

  "You picked up your paycheck yet?"

  "I was going after work, why?"

  "That's why! The bonus is toast!"

  "Toast how?" Alex was stunned. "That's a third of our pay!"

  "Exactly! Word is they went straight from accounting to the director, and an hour later were handing in resignations!"

  "This doesn't bode well..."

  "Your intuition tell you that?!" Vic sneered. "This reeks of something rotten about to drop on our heads!"

  "Well, let's not jump to conclusions," Alex said reasonably. "People come and go. Though no bonus is disappointing..."

  "Yeah, our little optimist!" Vic clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's see how long that lasts."

  The bare salary and mental budget recalculations noticeably shook his relatively positive mood. The announcement of an all-hands meeting in the cafeteria after work filled his heart with dark forebodings.

  His instincts didn't deceive him. For half an hour, Director Henshaw pontificated about the global financial crisis, sanctions against the Motherland, and the dire straits of their industry.

  In such times, the departure of certain team members amounted to betrayal of those who stayed strong. Soon enough, he claimed, they'd realize their mistake - but it would be too late, no take-backs.

  "Yes, this will test us all, requiring temporary belt-tightening while presenting an opportunity to cleanse ourselves, root out rot, and jettison dead weight!"

  In short, standard demagoguery justifying solving company problems at employee expense while vilifying those unwilling to sponsor their employer from personal funds.

  "Wait! Where am I?" Alex startled and stopped. Lost in thought about the day's events, he'd taken a wrong turn and had been walking through the evening park for several minutes.

  Dry leaves skittered across the pavement at his feet, their rustling oddly loud in the unusual evening quiet. Above him, a streetlight struggled to penetrate the bare branches of a tree that had lost its leaves too early. The image triggered memories of his dream. Suddenly afraid, he turned around and hurried away, barely resisting the urge to run. What nonsense...

  Passing the store near his building, he hesitated but went in. His insides felt like trembling jelly after the day's stresses, and he had no appetite - but he needed to eat. Maybe later, when he calmed down...

  He did calm down. Really, what was there to fear? If there'd been real danger, sure. But no - he'd just gotten distracted and taken a wrong turn. So what? He turned back. And the bad dream? That's what dreams are for.

  Tossing four boiled sausages into the pan, he poured six beaten eggs over them and stood at the stove, stirring with a spatula to prevent burning. Mmm... smelled delicious! Swallowing saliva, he kept cooking.

  At least it was quiet next door. Maybe they'd made up? Let them have something good today, unlike his work disasters that had turned his confidence about tomorrow from solid rock to shaky swamp.

  Suddenly, angry shouts came through the wall, followed by a crash of broken glass. Alex listened. Silence. Still, something felt off and unsettling.

  His stomach growled. Well. Dinner wouldn't eat itself. Come on, Alex, come on... Let there be at least one positive thing in this day.

  * * *

  Alex's eyes flew open, unseeing at first, as he jerked upright in bed. He blinked several times before his gaze gained any semblance of coherence. Breathing heavily, he wiped the cold, acrid sweat dripping into his eyes from his forehead. His wildly pounding heart gradually began to calm.

  "Christ, feels like I just ran three kilometers..." he muttered under his breath. "What the hell?! Second night in a row with these crazy dreams. And it's like... the same one, only the feeling's even nastier this time..."

  He threw back the damp sheets to air them out and shuffled to the shower on wobbly legs, the unpleasant weakness making each step precarious. At least the hot water would wash off the sweat and maybe warm him up a bit - the apartment was freezing. When would they finally turn on the damn heat?!

  Stirring sugar into his coffee, Alex stared blankly at the wall. Yesterday had definitely not been his best day. Everything had gone wrong from the moment he woke up - the nightmare, the shouting through the wall, the clusterfuck at work... Where would it all lead? The bonus he'd come to take for granted after seven years at the company had vanished. Not catastrophic yet, but a serious blow to his budget.

  And what if it wasn't just this month? Henshaw's rambling speech yesterday had been conspicuously vague about timelines. Sanctions, "crises", circumstances beyond their control - convenient excuses, but other companies seemed to be managing somehow.

  What could he do? Look for another job? He'd grown comfortable here... His feet knew the way, his hands did their work automatically, he knew the people, the duties weren't too burdensome. The economic situation really was unstable now - no guarantee competitors were doing any better. And there weren't many firms in his field in the city anyway - you could count them on one hand. With his skills, he had nowhere else to go. Not like he could just start sweeping streets! And autumn was hardly the best time to begin that illustrious career...

  At least it was quiet next door. Strange, really, after months of constant drama.

  Glancing at his cup, he stood and took a bottle from the cabinet. Pouring the coffee into a larger mug, he generously laced it with brandy - purely "for warmth", of course. And honestly, to take the edge off his nerves. In this mood, trudging to work would be...

  The sky outside was dark gray again, with a fine drizzle. Six degrees Celsius according to the thermometer. At least that was a positive number... Ha-ha...

  In the courtyard, Alex looked around. Simon's car sat in its usual spot, but there was no sign of Simon himself. Odd. He usually left for work even earlier than Alex - yesterday's delay had been unusual.

  Approaching the car, Alex peered inside - no tools, no work clothes. So... he wasn't planning to work today either? Something else going on?

  "Looking for Simon?" Mrs. Martha called from her window. "He went to the store for a pick-me-up, poor thing."

  "What happened?" Alex asked, confused. "Another fight with Marina? That's nothing new..."

  "That hussy left him!" Mrs. Martha said disapprovingly. "Came by yesterday with some 'Vadim' fellow and took her things."

  "Well damn..."

  "When Simon got home from work, the whole building heard him screaming, poor man..."

  "Shit... sorry, Mrs. Martha."

  "What's there to apologize for?" she waved him off.

  "Well, he'll grieve and get over it," Alex suggested. "Might be better off alone than with that snake. She started fights daily."

  "Who knows, who knows..." she murmured doubtfully. "Let's hope for the best."

  "Yeah," he agreed. "I should get to work."

  "Yes, yes..." she replied absently. "Have a good day..."

  About two hundred meters down the road, Alex spotted Simon by the store with an open beer bottle, angrily ranting to Walt, who nodded sympathetically. Alex caught fragments of the tirade, mostly obscenities.

  Mmm... yeah... Pity the guy. And Walt - the old alcoholic hadn't lost his touch. Knew where to sniff out free drinks. Sure enough, as Simon's rant wound down, Walt took him by the elbow and steered him back toward the store.

  Ah well, he'd survive. Needed this right now. Better a hangover than heartache. Eventually Simon would pull out of this nosedive, sober up, and turn the page. Meanwhile, Alex needed to focus on work. What would this new day bring?

  * * *

  The moment Alex passed through the factory gates, it felt like a heavy blanket had been thrown over his head. The light dimmed, colors faded, sounds became muffled, and the air seemed thinner. He shuddered.

  Looking around, he saw his coworkers dragging themselves to their stations. Apparently he wasn't the only one feeling this way. Maybe the general atmosphere was just the sum of everyone's individual moods? Ah well, they'd push through... This too shall pass...

  In the hallway near his office, Vic intercepted him again, practically bouncing with barely contained excitement.

  "Heard the news?!" Vic half-whispered, half-shouted, glancing around.

  "When? In my sleep?" Alex replied. "My dreams have been more horror movies than news lately."

  "Must be nice having time for movies!" Vic shot back. "I did some digging last night - called in favors. Turns out two weeks ago, our dear Director Henshaw bought fifteen acres for a private estate."

  "Uh... why? I heard he's got a huge apartment."

  "Why? Let the serfs live in apartments - the lord wants a manor house!"

  "So that's where our bonuses went..." Alex's face twisted in frustration.

  "Bonus? Think bigger!" Vic sneered. "He'll be building for a year, then renovations, then furnishing the damn palace! And who's footing the bill? Take a wild guess!"

  "Us..." Alex said quietly.

  "And here's the kicker," Vic continued. "Construction's a money pit. However much you pour in, it's never enough. So not just no bonuses - we'll be doing double shifts to meet inflated quotas."

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "He'll bleed us dry... There's got to be something we can do."

  "Like what? March into his office and shame him? Three guys tried that yesterday - they're now ex-employees."

  "I don't know..." Alex mused. "What if it wasn't three, but more? Form a union. If fifteen people walk out, work grinds to a halt. By the time he replaces and trains new hires, deadlines get blown, contracts canceled, penalties pile up. Reputation tanks, and you know competitors are just waiting to poach our clients."

  "Now you're talking!" Vic brightened. "At that point, revising his plans would cost less than the losses."

  "Only how do we organize it?" Alex wondered. "And get enough people on board without them chickening out?"

  "Don't worry!" Vic clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll handle that part!"

  "Yeah..." Alex agreed. "You might just pull it off. Alright, I should get to work."

  "Go on! Good luck! I've got plenty of people to talk to..."

  * * *

  The one good thing about busy workdays was how they vanished without a trace—whoosh, and gone. You'd think only half an hour passed, then glance at the clock to find lunchtime already arrived.

  During breaks, Alex spotted Vic three or four times, talking intensely with different people each time. He kept shaking his head at the man's relentless energy.

  But revolution or no revolution, the work wouldn't do itself. And there was plenty of it—whatever didn't get done today simply piled onto tomorrow's load. Slow down even slightly, and you'd be stuck working late or coming in on Saturday...

  It always worked out that way—no time to think at work, no energy left by evening. Eat dinner, and sleep drags you under, then it's morning and back to the grind. The only thinking time came during the walk home.

  Henshaw had really screwed them all good... The sheer gall of it... And that performance yesterday! "Our nation in peril!" "We'll all tighten our belts together..." Right! Tighten our belts to build his fucking mansion!

  Could they actually influence him? Unlikely... Unless a significant number united and stood firm—which seemed improbable. Even then, Henshaw might dig in his heels, take the losses just to avoid bowing to common workers. Who knew what else they might demand tomorrow? Well, they'd see what Vic could pull off, then decide together.

  Having settled on this plan, Alex turned his attention outward. The park trees had turned completely yellow, though near his home they remained green with only a few beginning to wither.

  A light breeze at his back rustled dry leaves across the pavement. That rustling and his own footsteps were the only sounds in the unnatural silence.

  Stop. STOP! What the fuck?! Why was he in this damn park again?! Whirling around without hesitation, Alex broke into a run. Not that he needed to worry about witnesses—the evening park stood empty. Probably empty.

  * * *

  "Fuck! What the hell?!" he muttered nervously, fumbling the key with shaking hands, struggling to fit it in the lock. "And now the damn hallway light's out..."

  Finally managing, he stumbled inside, slammed the door, and leaned against it, trying to calm down. After catching his breath somewhat, he went straight to the kitchen without removing his shoes, took out the brandy, and gulped straight from the bottle. Coughed, then took another swig. The burning in his throat distracted from the panic. He yanked open the fridge searching for something to eat.

  "Ah... sausage... that'll do."

  His hands trembled like a twenty-year alcoholic's. Rather than slice the sausage properly, he hacked it into uneven chunks. Good enough to chase the brandy's fire.

  Half an hour later, the barely-started bottle stood empty, the panic replaced by drunken fog.

  "It's all s-s-subconscious tricks!" he explained to the microwave, which struck him as hilarious. "Wh-when did it start? I dreamed about tree b-branches and light shining through. Then I got d-distracted and my subconscious led me there! What'd I do? Got scared, of course! Remembered it, so I dreamed it again! And again my s-subconscious took me there! That's all! All I need is... What do I need? Right! Just gotta... gotta pay attention walking home tomorrow, not get lost in thought! And now... shoes off maybe... wherever they are..."

  * * *

  Blinding light pierced through bare branches. The light moved, drawing closer. He tried to run, but his feet seemed rooted to the pavement. A jerk! Another! Suddenly control returned, and he lurched forward into darkness.

  A sharp impact to his elbow made him yelp. Ribs, knee... seemed okay... silence. He tried rising, but his legs were tangled... Wrapped in fabric... Fuck! Just the blanket...

  Another dream, just another dream... Though this time he'd managed to fall out of bed. Heroic. Well, nothing broken, at least... Elbow throbbing, but easing. Head pounding though, mouth tasting like a sewer...

  What time was it? An hour before the alarm. Fine, he'd run a bath instead of showering. Soak a while, relax. Otherwise he might actually lose it.

  Or maybe he already had? Same crazy dreams, then his feet carrying him god-knows-where. If this happened again tomorrow, he'd get sleeping pills from the pharmacy—knock himself out dreamless. If that didn't work... Well, a doctor then. Though how he dreaded that!

  Ah well, maybe it would pass. People didn't just go crazy overnight, without warning... Did they? Then again, just because he hadn't noticed anything strange before didn't mean nothing was wrong...

  Enough. Current problems first. Work was uncertain—quit (how he didn't want to) or try reasoning with Henshaw. Fine, build your mansion, but not on our backs! Make it two years instead of one, take out a loan if you're so desperate. No need to bleed your workers dry!

  Working himself up, he went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge, listened to his stomach, and closed it. No appetite. Water then. Two glasses. No, three went down better...

  * * *

  In the hallway, Alex froze. Official seals stamped on paper strips marked Simon's door—one near the handle, another higher up. Something had happened... Only one way to find out. Hurrying downstairs, he rushed outside and turned to stare at the first-floor windows. Still there.

  "Morning, Mrs. Martha!" he called. "Why's Simon's door sealed?"

  "Oh, Alex..." she lamented, "Such tragedy! Our Simon's dead... Yesterday afternoon, police and ambulance came. They took him away, sealed the apartment."

  "Dead how?" Alex asked numbly. "I saw him yesterday morning at the store... Vodka poisoning?"

  "If only..." She waved a hand. "Yesterday around three, that snake showed up with her new man. Must've forgotten some things. Went up there, and five minutes later—screaming fit to wake the dead. The medics said he'd slit his wrists in the bathtub, drunk most likely. All his blood... well, drained out. They found him there, pale as..."

  "This is insane..." Alex muttered. "I mean, anything can happen... but like this... the very next day... Impossible! He was a good guy!"

  "That's just it, Alex—the same thing can happen to good people and bad," she said bitterly. "Truth be told, more often to the good ones. Life's never been fair, and the moment you show weakness, trust the wrong person..."

  "Can't be that bleak, Mrs. Martha!" Alex insisted hotly. "People live good lives too! Different paths..."

  "Yes, whatever lot falls to whom..." she whispered, then added louder, "You just look after yourself, Alex."

  "Thanks..." He turned away. "I should go—late for work..."

  * * *

  For the third straight day, Alex passed through the factory gates like crossing an airlock—from the gloomy but still-normal streets into a madhouse, honestly...

  Simon occupied his thoughts the entire walk. Understandable. People grew accustomed to truly terrible things happening somewhere else... to others. Perfect fodder for journalists to dissect every detail before serving it up to viewers who'd sigh, shake their heads, and return to dinner.

  But everything changes when it happens close to home, to someone you know. Then abstract phrases like "...recovered the body from the wreckage..." strike like a knife to the heart, leaving scars that ache years later.

  Life's unfairness gnawed at him. Simon went on one bender and that was it—he snapped... Meanwhile Walt had been drinking for what seemed like decades, not years! The old bastard looked rough but kept ticking. How?

  And speaking of—wasn't it Walt who'd dragged hungover Simon back to the store yesterday? That bastard! If not for him...! If only... If Alex himself had skipped work to stay with Simon, let him vent... But who could've known?

  Still, someone ought to punch Walt. Not that it would matter. You could piss in that old drunk's eyes and he'd call it holy water.

  * * *

  As Alex walked the factory grounds lost in thought, several workers gave him encouraging shoulder pats. At the doorway, Wilson shook his hand and muttered, "Good initiative, Alex. About time someone put the director in his place. Solving his problems at our expense... Though I worry how this'll play out..."

  "They can't fire everyone, surely!" Alex said, catching on.

  "Not everyone..." Wilson replied uncertainly. "Anyway, know this—all the lads are with you!"

  "Thanks, Wilson! Good to hear."

  * * *

  Well damn! Vic had really gone all out—made him the "Face of the Protest," though Vic had done all the real work. Hell, he'd even dug up the dirt about Henshaw's land purchase. Really, with his energy and enthusiasm, Vic should've led this himself... But apparently the guy had drive without courage. So yes, someone had to take responsibility. Otherwise they'd all just sit around picking their noses waiting for someone else to act.

  As the saying goes—the beast runs to the hunter. And here came Vic now, practically dancing with impatience outside his office door.

  "There you are! Finally!" Vic exclaimed. "Sleeping in? You'll miss the whole revolution!"

  "Come on!" Alex checked his watch. "Eight minutes late, tops. With good reason."

  "No doubt, Gewerkschaftsführer!" Vic snapped to attention like a soldier.

  "What 'führer'?" Alex frowned.

  "'Union leader' in German." Vic grinned. "Sounds cool, right?"

  "Enough joking!" Alex snapped. "You dug everything up, organized it all, talked to everyone—I'm just along for the ride."

  "Don't sell yourself short!" Vic turned uncharacteristically serious. "You don't realize it, but unlike me, you've got serious clout here. If I'd spearheaded this, nobody would've followed. But you? They respect you."

  "Well... flattering, sure..." Alex flustered. "But what now?"

  "What do you think? Put Henshaw in his place, or next month we'll all be digging his mansion's foundation on weekends."

  "Yeah... he would..."

  "Just remember," Vic said firmly, "the guys have your back. He can't touch us all. Three quit and he howled! Imagine ten? He'll have to rein it in."

  "Exactly." Alex nodded. "When do we go?"

  "When he shows. Between that construction project and everything else—electricity, gas, water, sewage hookups, permits, blueprints, paperwork—he won't be around much. You get to work, I'll keep an eye out for him."

  "Deal. No pasaran!"

  "Couldn't have said it better! No pasaran!"

  * * *

  The day dragged unbearably. Focusing proved nearly impossible. Alex kept replaying recent events—could he have helped Simon? Probably, if he'd just stopped that day. But who knew it would be the last chance?

  And the coming confrontation with Henshaw... However tough he acted, inside his guts twisted into knots, his legs treacherously weak. He could only hope his voice wouldn't betray him with pathetic bleating when the time came.

  Lunch ended. The workday neared its close with no word from Vic. Alex began relaxing, thinking the meeting postponed until tomorrow—then at six sharp, Vic burst in like a hyperactive squirrel.

  "What? Slacking off?!" Vic shouted. "Big news—"

  "Unlike you, I'm actually working," Alex said. "What news?"

  "The boss graced us with his presence." Vic calmed slightly. "Checking what we've done without his oversight, I guess."

  "So we're on?"

  "We're on."

  * * *

  "Mr. Henshaw, we—I mean, the workers—must categorically oppose canceling bonuses that comprise a substantial part of our income!" Alex swallowed hard. "Withholding bonuses should require actual misconduct, not arbitrary external factors! By that logic, I could walk into a store and declare—given the economic situation—I'll only pay half price!"

  "Well, well... Interesting." Henshaw reclined comfortably. "You oppose this. So what?"

  "Not just us—the entire workforce! Today it's fabricated reasons to deny bonuses; next month, pay cuts. With workloads unchanged! This is unjust!" Alex's voice hardened. "Furthermore, we believe these 'financial measures' relate not to any 'global crisis' or 'sanctions,' but solely to your personal... extracurricular expenses!"

  "My expenses are none of your concern!" Henshaw's polished executive veneer slipped momentarily, revealing something feral. Just as quickly, it returned. "Regardless, I fail to see this meeting's purpose. All I hear is whining. Were I interested in employee opinions, I'd ask. But on MY premises, only MY decisions matter. Your role is compliance—unless I misunderstand your... implied threat..."

  "Yes! Exactly!" Alex's temper flared. "We refuse... to continue this arrangement! Find other fools willing to work for pennies!"

  "That all?" Henshaw remained calm. "Then no problem. I'll easily replace one or two such 'fools.' Did you imagine a 'people's uprising would topple the bourgeois oppressor'? Let me assure you—if even one more resignation appears tomorrow, I'll be shocked. Moreover..." He smiled. "No need for your resignation. I'm terminating you under Article 81, Section 3—incompetence. Permanently noted in your work record."

  "But I—" Alex stammered.

  "Doubting I can?" Henshaw arched a brow. "I'll personally advise my... associates to blacklist you. Like me, they've no use for 'union rabble-rousers.'"

  "But—"

  "Enough!" Henshaw cut him off. "I've wasted enough time! Report to HR tomorrow afternoon. Dismissed!"

  On rubbery legs, Alex turned toward the door, Vic beside him.

  "Oh, and Victor?" Henshaw's voice stopped them. "You'll stay. Though a bit player in this... insurrection, we should talk."

  * * *

  Leaning against the corridor wall, Alex trembled. This wasn't the outcome he'd imagined... There was still hope those morning back-patters might stand up for him, but... honestly, he doubted it himself now. Faced with "tightening belts" versus "left with nothing," most would choose the former.

  Had Henshaw simply told him to fuck off, they could've fought—rallied the workers... But with this "blacklisting"... Even the most disgruntled would think twice about resigning now, fearing similar treatment.

  And he'd dragged Vic into this with his overconfidence... The would-be revolutionary... Not that Vic was blameless—he'd jumped in willingly—but Alex would regret it if he got fired too... What were they saying in there?

  Edging closer to the door, Alex listened.

  "...clear enough," came Henshaw's voice. "But why the charade? Alex as a 'union leader' makes as much sense as me as a ballerina. He was a decent worker."

  "Andrew Henshaw," Vic replied smoothly, "from your office, you can't feel the mood after yesterday's announcement. People were seriously considering either quitting or demanding their old pay. We needed quick action. When you can't prevent something—you must lead it. So I immediately 'organized a union' in Alex's name before anyone else could."

  "Hmm... Agreed. Good proactive work—sacrificing a pawn to save the board."

  "Exactly. This 'public execution' ensures no real union or organized protest now that everyone sees the personal cost."

  "Enough on that. The gas line project?"

  "Documents submitted today. Ready in two weeks."

  "Good..." Henshaw sounded pleased. "And when can your brother's crew start?"

  "Tomorrow if needed!"

  "Tomorrow then. First we'll—"

  Alex recoiled, unable to stomach more. The words wouldn't fit in his head—this had to be some insane dream! Had Vic made excuses or denied involvement, that he could've understood. But this cold, calculated betrayal—using him to terrify the others before discarding him like trash...

  Being at his former workplace became unbearable. His legs carried him away on their own—anywhere but here.

  How long had he known Vic... Victor? Five years, give or take. They'd gotten along fine, shared beers after work, swapped gossip. And for what? Not over some slight, real or imagined. No—simply because the others respected him, he'd made the perfect sacrificial lamb.

  For money, Victor had betrayed them all—sold his colleagues into servitude while tossing Alex to the wolves. What now? Where to go? His trade was closed to him. How would he live?

  That mark in his work record... Any new employer would check references, call Henshaw, and hear such damning words even a prison wouldn't take him.

  Unemployment benefits? Ha! Half what rent cost! And that's before food and everything else. You quickly grew accustomed to decent living—relative comfort—but giving up those small pleasures hurt. Skimping on meals...

  The day had started badly—Simon's death like a gut punch—and now this betrayal left him jobless and adrift. The wave of despair made him want to scream, but he restrained himself—not that it mattered with the park deserted anyway.

  * * *

  He'd gone deeper into the park than ever before. To his left, under the streetlights, stood a makeshift exercise area, beyond it—a crumbling stage that forty years ago might've hosted concerts.

  Strangely, here at the park's heart, the trees stood completely bare as if November had come early. A sudden chill made Alex shiver.

  The dreams of recent nights returned to him—how his feet had brought him here before, how he'd fled in terror... He should've been afraid now, but... something inside had short-circuited. A dull apathy settled over him.

  His world had ended. What worse could happen? Maybe... maybe reaching this place that called to him would finally bring release.

  A faint hum overhead made him look up—just as searing light erupted between the branches. The blinding flash turned everything monochrome—black and white.

  A cone of light narrowed to a beam illuminating the old stage. So intense it seemed solid—a matte-white pillar from ground to sky. Seconds later, it faded into ordinary brightness, revealing figures below.

  Their utter banality stunned Alex. Heads twice the size of an adult's sat improbably on child-sized bodies. Huge dark eyes, slit noses, tiny mouths. Gray faces scaled like fish—larger plates on the skull, smaller around eyes and mouth. Their detailed heads contrasted with flat, shadowy bodies—afterthoughts appended for vague human resemblance.

  A dozen or so stood there. Their gazes locked onto him. Instinct screamed to flee, but his body refused. Statue-still, he couldn't even twitch.

  While he stood frozen, they moved toward him—if "moved" was the word. Their legs didn't touch the ground. The heads floated, swaying slightly, while the bodies dangled like ragdolls—bizarre ventral fins on airborne fish.

  Five meters away, the nearest parted thin lips, revealing translucent needle-teeth. So many teeth...

  Not the "first contact" he'd imagined. Maybe this was their version of a friendly smile? Perhaps those teeth were for alien fruit, not flesh...

  Two years back at the zoo, standing beside the brown bear enclosure, he'd vividly imagined facing that four-hundred-kilogram beast in the wild. Now that primal terror awoke—shattering the ice in his veins, flooding him with molten panic. Trapped in his unresponsive body, his mind thrashed wildly. Had he been able, he'd have screamed himself hoarse. THEY WERE GOING TO EAT HIM!

  Suddenly—a blur intercepted the approaching swarm. A vaguely familiar figure shook its hands as if flicking off water—and sprouted curved claws.

  "Think you can poach our flock, you intergalactic freeloaders?!" it rasped before attacking.

  Whirling like a dervish, the newcomer kicked and slashed. The floating heads scattered—some rolling away, others oozing black fluid from claw marks.

  A flash blinded Alex. When vision returned, the stage stood dark and empty. Released from whatever held him, he collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

  Only two remained in the lamplit park—Alex on the ground, and his rescuer standing nearby, back turned. When it faced him, recognition struck—Walt. Younger now. With very large fangs...

  * * *

  With each step Walt took toward Alex sitting on the pavement, his fangs grew shorter. Three steps, and they'd vanished beneath his upper lip. The same transformation happened to his claws. The springy gait of a predator gave way to the usual shuffle of a neighborhood drunk. Though he did look somewhat fresher than when Alex had last seen him—not sixty years old now, but maybe forty.

  "Well now, brother, rough day?" Walt asked rhetorically.

  "Uh...ah..." Alex bleated, nodding toward the stage.

  "Them?" Walt jerked his chin. "Don't worry, they won't be back. I'll make some calls—their superiors will tan their hides for poaching. We have an agreement! Want to watch? Fine. But no touching! This is our flock! But those bastards got bored, wanted fresh meat..."

  "Those dreams..." Alex whispered. "Why me?"

  "Don't flatter yourself—you're not particularly tasty. Meat is meat." Walt smirked. "They just cover their asses by following our laws... mostly. They picked you because you'd reached the Edge—even stepped over it with one foot. Made you legal Prey. Though personally, I'd have waited—let you choose: life or death."

  "So Simon... It wasn't him, it was you..."

  "Yep. My nature. Gotta eat something besides vodka, no? Liver'd give out after two hundred years otherwise... Yeah, maybe rushed it a bit, but you've gotta be quick before colleagues beat you to it. Anyway, Simon chose death—I just shortened the trip. We're sanitarians of this concrete jungle—cull the weak and broken in spirit. We're allowed."

  "And... what about me now?" Alex whispered.

  "You?" Walt's eyes flashed crimson. "Tonight shook you up—made you step back. I've no claim to your blood... yet. But you've no right to remember any of this."

  "I... I won't tell anyone!"

  "Course not—because you won't remember." Walt pulled a 250-gram vodka flask from his pocket. "Here, drink straight from the bottle—otherwise the magic won't work."

  "Magic?" Alex took a swig, surprised.

  "Damn right! Thought this was just biology?" Walt chuckled.

  "I don't know..."

  "And you won't." Walt's eyes glowed red again. "Tell me, Alex... do you respeeeect me?.."

  * * *

  Alex woke from the cold. "When will they turn on the damn heat?!" he thought, eyes still closed. Except this time, it wasn't just the heating—the bed felt unusually hard.

  Opening his eyes, he looked around. Right... a park bench—not the best mattress... His head pounded, mouth tasted like a sewer, and his stomach threatened to revolt. An empty vodka bottle lay nearby.

  Some night... why'd I drink so much? And in this park of all places... The thought triggered yesterday's memories—his short-lived "revolution" and its predictable end.

  Yeah... Vic, that bastard... Should warn the others later. But first—get home, soak in a hot bath before catching pneumonia...

  Near the store, he ran into Walt beginning his daily panhandling rounds.

  "Ah! Brother! Looking rough." Walt grinned. "Need a beer? Fix you right up."

  "No, Walt, I'm good," Alex said.

  "Come on! My treat!"

  "Not this time." Alex walked on firmly.

  "I'll wait..." Walt murmured almost inaudibly before approaching other pedestrians.

  Head down, Alex trudged onward. Life had thrown him a curveball... What now? But problems exist to be solved. After all, look at all those fallen leaves—someone's gotta sweep them up? He wouldn't starve, and they'd see what came next. Life... was long.