Cry of Jack in the Night
“Jack!” the call came over the coms, upsetting the quiet of the evening and a precariously balanced box of donuts.
A quick check of the board showed only one com active in the 25 acre complex. The grid pinged in sector 17, near chemical storage. Four, maybe five chimes, and the screen went dead.
The name had cracked with urgency, a cry for help. The tone bespoke familiarity, a knowledge that Jack would come and save the day, or night. The voice bespoke a member of the fairer sex, a woman, attractive perhaps; we all know ugly people sound different.
Boots hit tile floor with a new sense of purpose. A heavy hand gripped the weighty maglite, truly a formidable weapon. The belt sagged lower than it really should have for heroic deeds.
Denton knew full well he was not Jack. On a holiday weekend at 2 AM at an industrial complex half shut down for safety violations and accident investigations, he would have to do.
With one last bite of jelly-filled, he sped to a rescue he wasn’t sure he could effect.