Despite my late start, I never once considered a scenario where I’d be greeted by a bouncer doling out single-sided job applications.
Still, I decide to go with it and see where it leads. Carrying my form to one of the tall round tables surrounding the dance floor, I take in the mob of job seekers, most of them middle-aged, all of them wearing the same tired, glazed look. Other than dragging themselves here, no one appears all that motivated to do anything more than wander around in a daze.
“Numbers one through twenty—come this way!” I turn toward the voice shouting from behind me. My gaze landing on a man I’ve never seen, but who definitely bears the dark swarthy look of a Richter, scrutinizing the group he just summoned as they slowly file past.
I stare down at my slip, the hand-scrawled 27 in the upper right corner placing me in the next group to be called.
Should I go?
Should I fill this thing out and see where it leads?
Will I live to regret it?
Will I live?
I bury my face in my hands, unsure what to do. Comforting myself with the thought that at least I don’t have to worry about Dace and Xotichl. Even though they probably ignored my protest and came here the second I left, I’m sure they turned back the instant they saw this.
My thoughts interrupted by a woman asking to borrow a pen. Her eyes so tired and with wrinkles so deep they seem to recede into her skull.
I dig through the contents of my bag. Locating a pencil, I hand it over and say, “Not exactly a pen, but I doubt they’ll care.”
Without a word, she takes it from me. Her hand shaky, jaw clenched, as she concentrates on the simple task of writing her name.
“So, what kind of jobs are they offering?” I ask, desperate to get a handle on what I’m about to get myself into.
“Dunno.” Her voice is as flat as her gaze. Returning the pencil, even though, other than adding her name, the remaining boxes are blank. “Heard it offers free room and board. ’At’s all I care about.”
She slumps toward the stage where she waits for the next group to be called. And while I’m still no closer to knowing what this is about, it’s safe to assume that this so-called job fair is not what it seems. The Richters aren’t exactly known for their altruism—there’s always something in it for them. Still, there’s only one way to be sure.
I fill out my form with a false name and address. Having a little fun with the ruse until I reach the part where the questions start to get weird, asking things like: Any diseases? List them here.
And just under that: Maximum weight you can easily lift?
Though the one that really disturbs me is: This job requires you to be gone for an indefinite period of time. List the names of all those who might miss you. If necessary, feel free to continue on the back of the page.
What the heck kind of job is this?
A moment later, when my group is called, I unzip my hood from its hiding place in the collar and sling it over my head. Then I slump my shoulders, crumple my application into my hand, and join them. Giving my best impersonation of a lonely, defeated, downtrodden person with a talent for weight lifting and no serious diseases. Which is not nearly as easy as it seems.
I merge with my group. Shrinking deeper into my hood when I pass the stage where the Richter with the microphone studi
es us with a sharp eye before waving us down the hall that ultimately leads to the demon-guarded vortex beyond.
Shuffling along with the rest of them, I manage a few covert peeks at my fellow job seekers. All of them bearing the same glazed look, reminding me of the patrons who sat at the bar the first time I came here. How they looked like they’d been teetering on their bar stools for the better part of the day—if not the better part of their lives. Numbed from the endless stream of alcohol pickling their brains.
A new group of applicants join us, and it’s not long before several more are told to follow. Too many years spent under the Richters’ control have left these people hopeless, desperate, and all too eager to trade the hell they know for one they can’t even imagine.
A muffled sound comes from the front, and while I can’t quite make it out, its tone is familiar in a way that sets me on edge.
I rise onto my tiptoes, straining to see over the tops of too many heads. Getting a glimpse of yet another undead Richter, before the bodies surge forward and I’m forced to slouch along with the rest of them. Bearing the sort of poor posture Jennika sought to break me of as a kid, I slip the pack of cigarettes into my palm and shove the athame up my right sleeve. Ready for any number of possibilities, since I have no idea where this might eventually lead.
We trudge down the hall, heading straight for the wall that disguises the vortex, where we’re stopped by that same undead Richter I glimpsed a moment ago. From what I can tell by peering over several rows of shoulders, he’s in charge of inspecting the applications and deciding who gains admittance.
But after watching a bit, I realize it’s really just a ploy intended to heighten the tension. Make people yearn for admission, then breathe a sigh of relief once they’re in. From what I can tell, no one’s rejected. No matter how they fill out the form, the Richters will find a way to squeeze ’em dry before they discard them.
When it’s my turn, I hand over my application and stare blankly ahead, trying not to cringe under his scrutiny. All too aware of the sound of warning bells ringing in my head, urging me to run—to ditch this place and never look back. Imagining all the horrible ways this could blow up in my face.
My heart begins to race. My weight instinctively shifts onto my toes. Driven by my most primal instinct to save my own skin no matter the cost, I’m just about to flee when that creepy undead Richter grabs hold of my chin and tilts it toward his. His gaze probing mine while his dry, papery, undead fingers squeeze so tightly it hurts.