There are many reasons to want a job, the gray haired old man thought. Course there were people who viewed jobs as a means, not an ends in themselves. These fellas chose their job not out of love for the work they would do, but for the way they were able to put food on the shelf and increase their standard of living every paycheck. Not many investment bankers enjoy working ten hour days, the elderly man supposed, but almost all of them enjoy earning six or seven figure salaries each year. Garbagemen don’t all have a burning passion for collecting trash in their hearts, the brown eyed senior considered, yet they do have a near universal need to fulfill their basic physiological needs. Conversely, thought the old man, there are those who forsake a comfortable life style for the love of their job. To some, he thought, what they do from nine to five is as important if not moreso as what they do from five o one to eight fifty nine. For these people, their need to work in a specific role is practically as strong as their need for oxygen. There is no right option among these two choices; both philosophies have their pros and cons.
With this in mind, Peter considered himself blessed. Ever since he was a young boy, Peter loved helping people. When he was in fifth grade, Peter would always try to talk to his fellow classmates and make sure they were ok. Whenever he would find a boy or girl who was depressed, he’d ask them what was wrong and try to make cheer him or her up. If that failed, Peter made it his personal mission for the day to right whatever wrong was plaguing his depressed classmate. That was the type of person Peter was fifty years ago, and he remained that kind of person today. As soon as he graduated high school, Peter applied to join the Charlotte Police Department. He specifically requested a job as patrolling officer in the poorer district of the city, and swiftly gained a reputation as the go to man if you were having trouble. His sympathetic disposition and gentleness when it came to dealing with trauma quickly earned him a reputation as the golden boy of the CPD. However, his experience serving in the force soured one evening, when he was unable to prevent a mugging victim’s death. Over the years, several similar incidents has taxed his psyche, and late one Saturday evening, he submitted a one hundred and fifty word letter of resignation to the chief of the Charlotte Police Department. There was an unpleasant incident. Peter wasn’t exactly unafraid to use his firearm in the line of duty, but… well, the incident was complicated.
The person Peter shot wasn’t exactly innocent; in fact he was covered with the blood of some unfortunate family when Peter encountered him. But the man who Peter killed, well, something wasn’t right with him. There was a crazed look in his eye, and even though the autopsy revealed nothing unusual, both in the body and brain of the suspect, that crazed look haunted Peter, made his job unbearable. He was thirty seven at the time, thirteen years too young to gain retirement pay. To make ends meet and to have something to do, Peter spent the next five years as a bartender, a job which he felt was a bit more relaxing, although not nearly as well paying. He loved to listen to his patrons stories, and they in turn loved to open their hearts to him. On his shifts, the bar was never empty, and neither was his tip jar. However, around this time his mother fell ill, so he had to once again retire from his job and move in with her in Raleigh, as his family could not afford a caretaker. He stayed with her as a de facto wet nurse for nearly nine months, before she passed away in her sleep from a brain aneurysm.
Unemployed and with no residence besides his mother’s home in Raleigh, Peter became depressed. Fortunately, his depression ended a month after his mother’s death. An old friend of Peter’s from the time he worked at the CPD had been appointed in charge of Bensen University’s Campus Police, and offered him a very generous position that came with housing. Peter was over-joyed. He never went to college himself, but from his time as a bartender he had come to appreciate the cheery optimism that seemed to be specific to university students. It seemed that in a world where one often had to choose between a gilded jail cell or frugal freedom, fortune decided to bless Peter with a third option. The following years became the best in the former bartender’s life. Bensen’s campus was beautiful, and the people who attended the school were beautiful. Each and every student refreshed Peter’s spirit, from the struggling poet to the confident political science major, he loved seeing generations of bright young kids develop into well rounded mature adults. As for the students themselves, most came to know Peter as the man to go to whenever someone had a bit too much to drink, or when they had a problem they didn’t want to spread around campus.
Peter was not a pushover, he enforced the University’s zero tolerance policy for alcohol in the underclassman dorms as strictly as the next officer, but he hardly ever would write up a student if he suspected they had been drinking off campus or at a fraternity longue. Instead, whenever he saw a student who wasn’t doing well, alcohol related or otherwise, he would stay with him or her until he or she felt better, or until someone more capable than himself could take over. Students and Faculty members alike had a great deal of respect towards him as a result, and would tolerate little rudeness towards him. Peter had fallen in love with Bensen University, and Bensen University had fallen in love with Peter. The days turned into months, the months into years, and the years into decades. This night Peter had been assigned to patrol the grounds outside of freshmen dorms. He loved being assigned to the freshmen dorms, they were the nicest looking and offered a chance for him to meet new faces. The more stressful workload that came with having to deal with freshmen didn’t bother him as much as it bothered the other campus officers; he relished the opportunity to make himself useful among those newer to the school. It was a warm evening, so he wore his uniform minus his cap and sweater, and instead of his boots he put on some sandals(In a show of benevolent neglect, most of Bensen’s strict employee dress code didn’t really apply to Peter.)
It was roughly seven o clock when he noticed the lights in Porter Hall go off. Peter smiled to himself, Porter Hall may have been the nicest place on the entire campus, but even the most perfect college residence hall wasn’t immune to some flaws. The flaw he had in mind was the electronic lock system, or rather one specific side effect that came with the technology of the future. Bensen had outfitted Porter Hall with state of the art electronic locks that could read student and faculty ID cards, even through a thick leather wallet. The card system allowed for more convenience than a metal key would, and saved the university a ton of money. Typically, if a student lost a metal key Bensen University would have to spend fifty dollars replacing the key and an additional hundred dollars changing the lock(after all, there was always the risk of someone else coming into possession of the key.) With the electronic lock, the costs of making a new key dropped dramatically, and there was essentially no need to change the lock. After all, if a student lost their card, all he or she would need to do would be to contact the residence hall manager. The manager would deactivate the lost key simply by clicking an option on the computer. The student would then have to pay three dollars, and after a brief lecture on the importance of being organized, would get a brand new electronic ID card. The system was much cheaper and way more convenient than the old physical lock system. Being an elderly gentleman, Peter knew that perfection was hard to grasp, even at Bensen, and the system had one critical flaw that he had dealt with many times since the electronic locks were implemented. Simply put, during a power outage no students could get in or out of the buildings.
Doors that were locked were remained locked, and only doors whose lock systems had been disengaged by the keycard could be traveled through. Unfortunately, the latter category was few and far inbetween, primarily because the doors automatically locked themselves five seconds after opening. Bensen knew this would be a problem when they had the tech department install the system, and had a contingency plan for such an event. When the techies had installed the electronic locks, they also put in physical locks that could be opened by a metal key. Copies of this key were distributed among the campus police, and in the event of a power outage the officers would run over to each dorm and unlock the doors which were keeping the students in or out. Peter had a bad left knee due to being older than most campus officers, but he tried his best to hurry over to Porter Hall. What he saw there confirmed his suspicions, a crowd of freshmen were loitering outside of the main entrance, joking and laughing about their current predicament. Peter causally strolled into the crowd and walked towards the door. He used his playfully loud and deliberately airy tone to announce his presence.
“Y’know, I heard y’all were supposed to be pretty darn bright, but I sure can’t see a damn thing from here.”
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The students laughed at Peter’s small joke, and moved aside to let him unlock the door. With a simple turn of his key and a small click, the door opened.
“Alright, now y’all sit tight here, I’m going to go save the rest of you poor freshmen.”
The Security Officer’s face didn’t even change a bit when the crowd of freshmen began clapping and cheering loudly and wildly. Peter dexterously fetched a flashlight from his utility belt, turned the device on and strolled into the hall. Porter Hall was usually very nice looking, but damn if the lobby didn’t look spooky in the dark. The plaster busts of Porter would cast eerie shadows upon the marble floor, and the brown leather sofas in the main lobby looked downright sinister when juxtaposed with the pasty white walls. Putting his free hand on the gold painted railing of Porter’s main staircase, Peter walked down a floor to the basement level, which in a short period of time had gained the dubious reputation of not only being the most rowdy win in Porter Hall, but of the entire Freshman Campus.
Porter Hall had random room assignments, and tried to mix athletes and artists alike, but sometimes the demographics of the new class simply would not lead to as well balanced of a mix as the directors of student housing would have liked. Porter Basement, or as they liked to call themselves; PB, had ended up hosting quite a few freshmen from not only the basketball team, but from the football team as well. Peter had found that among college kids, the status of being an NCAA athlete in a major sport was not unlike that of being a god. If the residents of PB were gods, they were very much benevolent ones. Sure, Peter had to come by at least once a week to tell the boys to tone their shenanigans down, but he never had to confiscate any illegal substances and he hardly ever ran into much resistance. The athletes may have liked having a fun time more than most people at Bensen did, but they weren’t completely irresponsible. Of course, rumors would pop up every now and then of their exploits off campus, but Peter wasn’t paid to monitor what people did off campus. As he walked through the lower halls, he wasn’t terribly surprised to see that no one was in any of the dorm rooms. The football and basketball athletes had a pretty rigid practice schedule, and they typically wouldn’t be done practicing until nine in the evening at the earliest.
Even then, the “Work Hard Play Harder” atmosphere of Bensen led few people to sleep in the basement of Porter before eleven. Still, Peter’s many years with Bensen University had taught him that not every athlete would go out at night, that it was still possible for a football practice to end early. That’s why he made sure to check every floor whenever there was a blackout, just in case there was a deviation in the well established behavior of Porter Hall’s more rambunctious residents. After all, Peter knew he sure wouldn’t be too pleased if he was trapped in a dark basement for hours and hours upon end. It would seem that the only real benefit of checking out Porter’s basement was the brief exercise that walking down the twenty or so steps provided the elderly adventurer. The vacant silence of the hallway didn’t frustrate Peter, he was pretty happy that he could still predict how the school and its student would behave even after all these years. Whistling a tune he had heard on the radio the other day, he went back up the stairs and headed over to main floor’s residence hallways.
This time he found a few giggling freshmen stuck in their rooms, and after exchanging a few jests about the current situation, used his key to let them out. Peter spent about fifteen minutes after this opening all the doors in the first floor hallway, then headed back to the main staircase to climb to the second floor. Peter had energy uncommon to most men in their seventies, but the constant climbing up and down the staircase was taking a toll on his bad knee. When he got to the second floor lobby, he decided to take a break and relax on one of the leather sofas that were right next to the staircase. He had worked up a sweat, so he took a red handkerchief from his maintenance belt and wiped his forehead. Despite his body being sweaty, and despite the throbbing of his left knee, a smile slowly spread on his wrinkly old face. Peter had talked to many premed students during his time at Bensen, and he remembered a conversation he had with one particularly knowledgeable young lady. Apparently, working up a sweat helped to release chemicals in the brain that induced a feeling of happiness. Peter didn’t know the precise mechanics behind the biological function, but he did know that despite the amount of work he had just done and the amount of work he would have to do, that he was genuinely happy. He was in such high spirits, that he almost failed to hear a soft squeaking sound coming from the second floor girls hallway. At first he thought the sound was merely the product of his imagination, or perhaps his hearing, which hadn’t been nearly as sharp these days as it once was.
Gradually, steadily, he became aware of the noise. It sounded like a mouse at first, then became louder, and louder. Finally, his eyes shot open in alarm. The noise wasn’t a mouse, but almost certainly the cry of a student.
Peter cleared his throat.
“Hey, hello? Are you ok?”
No one responded, and the horrible noise got louder. The guard began running as fast as his bad knee would allow for. He quickly unlocked the door to the girls hall, and sprinted towards the source of the cacophony. It was dark in the hall, and he fumbled over a few chairs and hit into a few open doors on the way, but if the contact with the debris in the hallway hurt Peter in any way he certainly didn’t seem to show any symptoms of pain or injury. As he got closer and closer to the source of the noise he smelt a combination of vomit and something metallic. The smell became so bad Peter nearly had an opportunity to taste the turkey and hummus sandwich he had at lunch for a second time.
Taking a gulp of air and covering his nose, Peter continued running towards the noise.
“Hey! Are you alright?" he cried. "What’s going on? Don’t worry, I’m coming!”
Finally, his efforts to track the source of the noise led him to the outside of the girl’s bathroom. Peter could make out two silhouettes laying down by the entrance. He shined his flashlight on the silhouettes. The light revealed an apparently unconscious young brown haired woman, her body faced down on the floor wearing a track uniform and some cleats. Crouched right besides her was a small little co-ed, sobbing hysterically while holding the hand of the girl in the track suit. Peter had to cover his mouth with his left hand. The track girl had a stream of red vomit coming out of her mouth. In sharp contrast to her motionless body, a small line of blood steadily flowed down to the athlete’s left foot. Brown eyes followed the bloody stream from the foot to the thigh, and noticed a pair of purple scissors grotesquely jammed in the poor young lady’s thigh. The scissors were almost childlike in their appearance, and in truth were more of a lavender hue than a purple. Yet, in the current situation, the scissors looked like a deliberate mockery of innocence, a condescending defilement of purity. His brain surged with pain and tried to escape from his skull. Peter had seen some sordid scenes as a cop in Charlotte, but none of them were as chilling and nausea inducing as the one before him.
Despite his sense of vertigo, Peter remembered his CPR training and placed his index finger on the girl’s neck. The athlete’s skin was cold to the touch, and Peter’s fingers weren’t moved a millimeter from where he had first put them. The incoherent screaming of the kneeling girl subsided, replaced by all-too-coherent shrieks.
“He’s right behind you! He’s right behind you! He got her, and he’s going to get me!”
Peter’s heart nearly exploded. He twisted his head around in an instant, and saw…. nothing. The only thing he could see was the lonely Porter hallway, with nothing but some furniture in the distance.
“He’s STABBING you! He’s KILLING you! WHY AREN’T YOU RUNNING?” ejaculated the girl.
Peter slowly shook his head, his mouth gradually opened. Peter wanted to say something to the crying girl besides him. He wanted to comfort her, even while his brain struggled to make sense of the profoundly bizarre scene before him. Yet while his mouth was open, and though his bottom jaw moved up and down, Peter couldn’t say anything. The crouching girl’s body kept shaking violently, her and only hysterical delusion came from her mouth. All he could do was hug the hysterical young woman as she continued to bob up and down, her little fingers twitching uncontrollably. To his amazement, he realized that he was shaking the girl in his arms. With one last hysterical scream, the crouching crying girl passed out in his twitching arms.
Peter picked the unconscious yet breathing girl up. His left knee ached more than it ever had before, but slowly, steadily, he walked the ragdoll-like woman over to the couch in the lobby and lied her down as gently as his shocked reflexes could allow him to. Peter disobeyed his body’s screams to lie down, to wait for the madness to end. He moved back to the fallen athlete as fast as he could. With a bit of the initial shock over, he took a better look around. His brown eyes noticed nothing out of the ordinary, but his nose was even more acutely aware of the smell of blood and vomit. Peter had no delusions about the condition of the woman before him. There was only one thing left to do before he called the rest of the guards. He turned the motionless girl over, On the tv, when the cop would run across a dead woman he’d clean her mouth and close her eyes. Peter figured he should do this, that if he couldn’t save the girl he should at least make her look somewhat respectable. When he turned her over, he could have cleaned her mouth. It wouldn’t have been much of a challenge, he had some paper towels on him. He never did. For while there was blood on the girls mouth to clean, there were no eyes to close.