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All characters in this book are fictitious. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.
©2019 J. R. Handley
The pounding in Sergeant Alexis Monroe’s head was matched by the sound of boots marching across the tarmac of Homey Airport. The outside world called the place Area 51, but to Alexis, it’s where the military sent her to disappear. Shifting her duty belt, which was digging into her hips, Alexis trudged through another day at her new command. On loan from the Army, she felt detached from the sea of Air Force personnel.
Alexis was proud of her service in the Army. A pioneer, she was one of the first women through the elite Army Infantry School. She’d idealistically enlisted into the Army after graduating college, seeking to strike a blow for female empowerment. Her quest for glory hadn’t turned out how she expected.
Every phase of Alexis’s journey was marred by political correctness and cries of sexual bias from her peers. She believed, beyond doubt, that when she graduated at the top of her class she would garner an assignment that would bring her validation. Alexis had been sent to jump school, then to the Non-Commissioned Officer Academy. Her next step should have been orders to lead from the front. Instead, she was given duty as a rent-a-cop guarding a sprawling warehouse complex.
Alexis swallowed her disappointment at night and chased it with whiskey. Every morning, hung over, she swore to go dry. She couldn’t seem to keep that promise. Her sunglasses became an unofficial part of her uniform, and none of her superiors cared enough to object.
First, she’d been tasked with checking IDs at the dining facility. Then, she checked IDs at the gate. Now, she was assigned to check IDs at an old hangar that was turned into a warehouse. She’d been told not to look inside the warehouse, not to ask questions, and simply keep the stuff inside, inside, and those outside, outside.
Her domain was the guard shack. Two doors, a tiny desk, an uncomfortable chair, an old rotary dial phone, and a legal pad were her only companions. The phone never rang, and she never had to log a name in the legal pad. In the month she had stood this watch station, no one had ever stopped by her post to gain entry. While boring, this did allow Alexis to covertly sneak a drink from the flask in her cargo pocket.
Alexis had become bolder. Usually, she only took a sip or two once her twelve-hour watch was starting to wind a close. Today, she had started early. The more swigs she swallowed, the more interesting the forbidden door became.
“No entry. Authorized personnel only,” said Alexis.
She’d never actually said it to a living person. This time, she was saying it aloud to herself. With a chuckle, she locked the door leading into the guard shack and turned to the entry door into the warehouse.
“Sergeant Alexis Monroe, respectfully requesting permission to enter this stupid warehouse,” she said aloud. With a quick pivoting action, she responded to her own request. “Permission granted!”
The worn, brass colored doorknob she expected to be locked turned freely in her hand. As soon as the door pushed open just a crack, the doorknob ripped from her hand as the door sucked open. The sound of the door slamming against the metal warehouse wall was muffled by the many wooden objects inside of the sprawling expanse in front of her. Stacks of boxes, creating walls and aisles, stretched as far as she could see.
Scared the guard on the other side of the warehouse may have heard the door slamming, Alexis pulled the door shut and stepped back into her guard shack. Her shaking hand pulled the flask from her leg and she took another long swig. The warmth of the fluid gripping her from the inside calmed her nerves. Looking to the phone, she flipped to the front of the legal pad. There were three handwritten phone numbers: base security, her guard shack phone number, and the other guard shack phone number.
Alexis dialed the other guard shack. It took forever with the antiquated rotary dial phone. When she was finished dialing, she waited. It rang seven times before someone answered.
“Good evening sir or ma’am,” — the person on the other line let out a long yawn — “this is Sergeant Owens at Guard Shack Sierra Two.”
“This is Sergeant Monroe at Guard Shack Sierra One, did you hear a loud crash?” said Alexis.
“Monroe, seriously, don’t wake me up again,” said Owens. “I’ve been standing this post for six months and nothing ever happens. No one ever comes here. There are never any noises. Just relax and catch up on your girlie magazines.”
Owens hung up before Alexis could respond.
What a dick, Alexis fumed.
Turning back to the door, Alexis tightly held onto the doorknob as she turned it this time. When the door cracked open, air began to hiss before the pressure equalized. She gingerly let the door go and stepped into the dimly lit warehouse. The smell of musty wood filled her nose as she scanned the expanse in front of her.