Monster Control Inc. 9
The Frozen Heart of Nowhere
CHAPTER 4: Welcome to the Frozen Heart of Nowhere
The Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport was a testament to Minnesota's passive-aggressive approach to winter. Outside, a blizzard raged with enough fury to make a yeti reconsider its life choices. Inside, cheerful murals of lakes and forests in summer sunshine mocked travelers with what they were missing. Signs welcomed visitors to "The Land of 10,000 Lakes," conveniently failing to mention that nine thousand of them were currently frozen solid.
I trudged through the terminal, carry-on bag slung over my shoulder, MCI transfer paperwork clutched in my hand. The flight had been bad enough—turbulence the entire way, seated between a snoring businessman and a kid with an uncanny talent for kicking my kidney every thirty seconds. But now I had to face the reality that waited outside: Minnesota in November. My personal version of hell, except hell had the decency to be warm.
My phone buzzed with a text from my new supervisor:
Weather too bad for pickup. Take Uber to office. Address in your email. Welcome to Minneapolis.
Welcome to Minneapolis. Right. It felt more like "welcome to prison" or "welcome to your colonoscopy."
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and headed for ground transportation. The blast of arctic air that hit me when the automatic doors opened felt like a physical slap. My breath turned to fog, and my ears immediately began to ache with cold.
Minnesota. In November. I was being punished, all right.
The Uber driver, a cheerful Somali man named Hassan, seemed bafflingly unaffected by the weather. "First time in Minneapolis?" he asked as I huddled in the back seat, shivering despite my coat.
"Yeah," I grunted.
"You pick a good day to arrive! They say it'll warm up tomorrow. Might get all the way to twenty degrees!"
He laughed like this was a joke. I wasn't sure it was.
"So what brings you to our city?" Hassan asked, navigating through snow-covered streets with casual expertise.
"Work transfer," I said shortly. "Not my choice."
"Ah, I understand. Many people come to Minnesota not by choice." His smile remained undiminished in the rearview mirror. "But many grow to love it."
"I doubt that'll be the case for me."
"We shall see! Minnesota has a way of changing minds."
I stared out the window at the snow-blanketed city. Downtown Minneapolis looked like any other mid-sized American city, except whiter—both in terms of snow and, I suspected, demographics. My breath fogged the window as I watched people hurrying along sidewalks, bundled up like arctic explorers. Everyone walked with the determined stride of people who knew exactly how much the cold could hurt them if they lingered.
"Here we are!" Hassan announced fifteen minutes later, pulling up to a nondescript office building on the edge of downtown. "Good luck with your new job!"
I tipped him well—partly because I wasn't a complete asshole, and partly because he'd somehow managed to navigate through the blizzard without killing us both. Then I stood on the sidewalk, squinting up at my new professional prison.
Monster Control Incorporated's Minneapolis office occupied the third floor of a converted warehouse that now held various businesses. The sign in the lobby listed it as "MCI Security Consultants," sandwiched between an accounting firm and a graphic design studio. I shifted my bag, squared my shoulders, and headed for the elevator.
The MCI office was smaller than I'd expected, even knowing it was the company's least important branch. The reception area was cramped, with fake plants in the corners and outdated magazines on a small table. Behind the reception desk sat a young woman with straight blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, fair skin, and the kind of blue eyes you could drown in. She looked up as I entered, and for a moment, I forgot about the cold, my exile, and even Elise Spindelnot.
Because damn. And I mean, seriously, damn!
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, her voice carrying just the faintest lilt of a Minnesota accent.
I set my bag down and tried for my most charming smile. "I'm Horace Scrubb. The new transfer from Chicago." I paused, then added, "Most people call me Race."
The blonde goddess looked confused. "We were expecting a Harold Scrubb."
"Horace," I corrected.
"I apologize for the confusion, Mr. Scrubb. I'm Julene Johnson, administrative assistant for the Minneapolis branch." She stood and extended her hand across the desk. "Welcome to Minnesota."
Her handshake was firm and professional, but I felt a spark. Definitely a spark. Our eyes met for a moment longer than strictly necessary—or at least, that's how it seemed to me.
"Thanks," I said, holding her hand perhaps a beat too long. "And please, call me Race."
She withdrew her hand and gave a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course. Let me tell Mr. Carlson you're here."
Julene picked up her phone and pressed an extension. "Mr. Carlson? The new agent from Chicago has arrived. Horace Scrubb." She paused, listening. "Yes, I'll bring him back."
She hung up and stood, smoothing her modest knee-length skirt. "This way, please, Mr. Scrubb."
"Race," I reminded her.
"Most people call me Race."
Relationships that start with lies seldom end well. But still, some people keep trying it. This repeated attempt at establishing a false reality is totally in keeping with my experience of those kinds of people.
I've acquired more than a few nicknames over the years and none of them were invented by me. Nicknames are a kind of verbal meme; they stick because they point to the truth and they do it in a convenient, memorable and amusing fashion.
Whenever I read MCI my first thought is a quote from C S Lewis: “There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it." Race does almost live down to his name, I wonder if names can have an effect on SSH.