Monster Control Inc. 11
In which our hero meets his new coworkers
The older man—Khang—gave me a curt nod. His eyes took my measure in one sweep, and I could tell he found me wanting. The younger guy—Swanson—was more enthusiastic, stepping forward with an extended hand.
"Eric Swanson," he said, pumping my hand with the overexcited energy of a Labrador puppy. "Heard a lot about you, man. You're the guy who took down that nest of vampires in Detroit last year, right?"
I blinked in surprise. "Yeah, that was me."
"Badass! And didn't you once kill a werewolf with just a flare gun and a Swiss Army knife?"
"That's... a little exaggerated, but—"
"Enough," Carlson cut in. "Swanson, Scrubb is not your new role model. Khang, show Scrubb where he'll be working."
"Yes, sir," Khang replied, his voice carrying the no-nonsense precision of a career military man. He turned to me. "This way."
I followed him out of Carlson's office, with Swanson trailing behind like an excited puppy.
"So, Race," Swanson said as we walked. "How many confirmed kills you got? I heard Chicago agents average like, twenty a year."
"It's not about the numbers," I said, though I was secretly pleased by his use of my nickname. "And it's more like five or six, depending on the agent."
"Eric," Khang's voice was quiet but firm. "This isn't a video game. We don't keep score."
"Sorry, Daus," Eric mumbled, properly chastised but still buzzing with excitement. "Just trying to make our new teammate feel welcome."
Khang led us to a desk in the corner, as far from Carlson's office as possible. "This is yours," he said simply. "Computer login details are in the envelope. Supply closet is there." He pointed to a door near the bathrooms. "Questions?"
"What exactly do we handle here?" I asked. "I was told it's mostly minor hauntings and lake spirits."
"Mostly," Khang confirmed. "Occasional werewolf during tourist season when they come down from Canada. Vampire nest once every few years. Standard stuff." He checked his watch. "I need to file reports. Swanson can answer any other questions."
With that, Khang walked away, settling at a desk on the opposite side of the room.
"Don't mind Daus," Swanson said, perching on the edge of my desk. "He's actually cool once you get to know him. Second-generation Hmong-American, former Force Recon sniper with the Marines. Can hit a werewolf's heart from a thousand yards."
"And what's your specialty?" I asked, unpacking my few personal items onto the desk.
"I'm still finding it," Swanson admitted. "Only been with MCI for eight months. Carlson says I need more field experience before I specialize." His eyes lit up. "But man, I've read all your field reports from Chicago. That thing with the ghouls in the sewer system? Legendary!"
I couldn't help but feel my ego inflate a little. At least someone here appreciated my work.
"So, what's the deal with the blonde at the front desk?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Julie, right?"
Swanson's expression shifted subtly. "Julie's awesome. Best admin we've ever had. Super efficient, keeps the whole place running."
"She single?"
Swanson hesitated. "Look, Scrubb, word of advice? Julie's off-limits."
"Says who? Carlson?"
"Says everyone. She's professional, we keep it professional. That's the deal." He lowered his voice. "Last guy who got too friendly with her ended up transferred to Anchorage."
I raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Carlson's super protective of everyone on the team," he explained. "And Daus treats her like his little sister. Trust me, you don't want to go there."
Great. I'd been in the office for less than an hour and already found the one woman I definitely shouldn't pursue. Which, of course, only made me more interested.
"Noted," I said, not meaning it at all.
By the end of my first week in Minneapolis, I'd established a few things:
The weather really was as bad as everyone said. Worse, actually.
Lars Carlson had the emotional range of a glacier and the warmth of an icicle.
Daus Khang was a consummate professional who clearly thought I was a dangerous idiot.
Eric Swanson was the only agent in the office who didn't treat me like a pariah—and the only one who actually respected me."
Julene Johnson was the most beautiful woman in the state of Minnesota, and she was almost certainly interested in the new guy.
That last point might have been contested by some outside observers, but I was picking up definite vibes. The way she sometimes smiled when I made a joke. How she always seemed to be at her desk when I took my morning coffee break. The fact that she hadn't explicitly told me to go away when I lingered by reception, telling her stories about my more impressive missions.
"So there I was," I was saying one snowy Thursday morning, leaning against her desk with my coffee mug, "trapped in the abandoned factory with three werewolves circling me and only one silver bullet left."
Julie typed something on her computer, her expression politely attentive but her eyes occasionally flicking to her screen. "That sounds very dangerous, Mr. Scrubb."
"Race," I corrected for approximately the fortieth time that week. "And yeah, it was touch and go. But I noticed the industrial chemical tanks above us, and I realized if I could just—"
"Mr. Scrubb," she interrupted gently, "I need to finish these requisition forms for Mr. Carlson before lunch."
"Right, sorry," I said, straightening up. "Don't let me keep you. I'll tell you how it ends later."
"I look forward to it," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
As I headed back to my desk, I caught Swanson giving me a sympathetic look. "Still taking your shot, huh?" he asked quietly as I sat down.
"What? No. We were just having a conversation."
"Uh-huh." Swanson glanced toward reception. "You know, she's too polite to tell you to get lost, right? Minnesota nice and all that."
"I think she’s interested," I insisted. "If there’s one thing I know, it’s women."
But Swanson looked unconvinced.
""If there’s one thing I know, it’s women." Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!
Scrubb is so cringe. The way he is written actually makes my skin crawl.
I don't want to read it, but it is so well written.
To the author: You bastard. Well done.