Eric scooped up his nine-year-old daughter and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be home this afternoon, alright?”

“Can we play fairy-tea-party when you get home?” Jess asked.

“Of course we can!” He faked the enthusiasm for his daughters sake. “But right now, Daddy has to go to work.”

Setting her down, Eric ran a hand over her head, tousled her hair and turned for the door. His wife, Abigale, stood between him and the exit wearing the fluffy, blue bathrobe he’d gifted her for her thirtieth birthday. She looked amazing, even with her wet hair wrapped in a towel on the top of her head. With a distinctive sway to her hips, she took several steps towards him. “You weren’t about to leave without properly saying goodbye, were you?”

Eric dropped his tool bag, pulled her into a bear hug and softly pecked her lips. He knew what she wanted, but he was already cutting it close on time. “I’m running late. This evening, I promise!” Releasing her, he picked up his tool bag.

“But you’re always too tired in the evenings!” She pouted, giving him a glare that he’d seen with alarming frequency in recent days.

He gave a final I’m sorry look just before closing the door. Sadly, his wife wasn’t wrong. Ever since the factory shifted to mandatory overtime – to fulfill the new wave of contracts – work had left him exhausted. Giving her the attention she deserved felt impossible.

Eric took the steps two at a time from his apartment to the sidewalk then scrambled into the first available taxi. As the car pulled away from the curb and into the flow of traffic, he saw the driver through the rear view mirror – an older man with a bushy red beard. Eric could feel the obligatory small talk approaching.

“Busy morning?” The cabbie asked in a thick Irish brogue.

Eric let out a long sigh. “It’s about to be. I’ve got a fourteen-hour shift ahead.”

“Dang. Well, you’re not the only one. Those new humanity cops are busy too. I seen at least four of their vehicles racing up and down the roads this morning.”

Eric whistled in surprise. A few months ago, he’d noticed the new law enforcement agency operating in the city but he’d ignored it. Just another waste of taxpayer dollars, he told himself. Meanwhile, the politicians were promising the HRA would reduce the city’s homicide rate to zero, for good.

“Did you hear what they’re actually doing?” the Irishman went on.

“No. Has anyone?”

The new force’s official name was The Humanity Reclamation Agency, but everyone just called them humanity cops for short. No one seemed to know what was so special about them, but they were becoming as common as the normal police. In some cities, they’d even begun replacing the standard police departments entirely.

The rest of the commute passed in idle conversation as they made their way through rush hour traffic. When they arrived at the factory, Eric payed the cabbie and stepped out of the taxi. Staring up at the entrance, he wondered if the union had sent them a reliable crane operator, or if the new guy would randomly disappear like the last one did.

***

Eric lowered the mask of his welding helmet and tapped the end of an electric rod to the edge of the metal plates. As the blue arc flashed into existence, he began the delicate task of manipulating it to fuse the plates together. A single defect, even a few millimeters of lumpy fusing, would ruin the piece.

Trying to focus on the weld, his attention drifted to the image being reflected off the polished metal plates. A moment later, he recognized the alarming image for what it was – a pallet suspended from a crane, moving along the ceiling above him. Metal barrels weighed down the wooden pallet, their awkward size requiring a perfect suspension system to keep them in place – a suspension system that currently looked like a tangle of straps and tethers.

His body tensed as the load passed directly overhead, watching for even the smallest indication of something going wrong. But as the load kept going and moved farther away, he forced himself to relax and take a deep breath. Unfortunately, what little relief he felt was quickly replaced by a sinking feeling in his gut. It didn't seem possible for a crane operator to be worse than the last guy, and yet he’d just seen the proof. Even the last guy knew to never move a load directly over someone.

Returning his attention to the weld, he realized what the distraction had cost him. The line of fused metal wasn’t merely a little lumpy, it had cooled too fast and pulled the plates out of position. This obviously wouldn’t pass inspection, and he’d have to reset the plates to do the work all over again. It took several minutes to break the weld, grind the edges, and reposition the pieces. With everything set and ready to repeat the process, he heard a clanking noise from above.

Snapping his gaze straight up towards the noise, another crane load of barrels had moved over him but this time they weren’t moving slow or steady. The crane jerked to a stop, causing the load to swing. A barrel shifted, one of the straps lost tension and slipped, allowing the pallet to tilt. Two heavy steel barrels tumbled right over the edge, falling towards him.

Several workers throughout the open workshop yelled in alarm. Others dove for cover. Eric threw himself back, tripped on a power cord and fell flat on the cement as the steel drums slammed into his work area, flattening the weld machine and his toolbox. The hard impact of steel against cement echoed through the building and left a ringing in his ears.

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Eric patted himself down to make sure he was still in one piece. His workmates rushed over to see if he was alright. After the initial panic and repetitive ‘are you ok’ questions, everyone began to calm down and started looking at the pancaked work area. Apparently the barrels had been empty but the workers gazes were drawn to the red explosive hazard labels on their sides. Slowly, as if mentally linked, they all turned to face the crane operator as he descended the ladder from the control station to ground level.

The five-foot nothing, brown-haired man didn’t appear to be a day over eighteen, a kid compared to most of the other on-site workers. ‘Johnson’ was stitched on his uniform and his expression looked like that of a kid recently roused from a nap.

Several workers stalked towards him, armed with pipe wrenches and sledgehammers. Veins pulsing and fists clenched, Eric walked faster than the maddening crowd, intent on beating them to the kid. Johnson finally seemed to realize the situation he was in and quickly backed away, ending up in a corner, his sleepy visage replaced by obvious panic and desperation.

A sharp deafening noise cut through the air, forcing everyone to cover their ears. It was the bosses’ air horn, turned up for maximum volume. As the noise echoed to silence, the shift manager moved between Johnson and the crowd, his gaze practically daring them to take another step. “Early lunch break, everyone! Now get the fuck out before I fire every last one of you!”

He glared at the mob, bearing what Eric guessed was the man’s best tough guy look. Some glared back, no doubt wanting to give Johnson what he plainly deserved, but as the moment passed, one by one, they dropped their tools and shuffled towards the exit.

Eric threw off his welder’s mask and kicked the doors open as he stormed out. Several minutes later, sitting on a bench across the street from the factory with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, Eric couldnt stop thinking about it. If I’d been even a moment slower, I’d be dead. Abigale wouldn’t be able to pay the rent. In a few months, she and Jess would be homeless. In a year… His mind flashed from one horrible image to another, ruining his appetite. He stared at the factory entrance, wanting to believe his boss would do the right thing and fire the guy, but what if he didn’t?

After several minutes debating one bad option after another in his mind, Johnson emerged from the workshop and hurried down the sidewalk. He still wore his issued work uniform, meaning the boss hadn’t fired him. Judging from the boys smug expression, the boss hadn’t even threatened to do so.

With barely a thought, Eric dropped his half-eaten sandwich in the trash bin and followed Johnson. Somehow it felt like the natural solution, a third option he hadn’t considered. The boy just wouldn't come back after lunch and everything would be alright. And if I do it right then no one will know anything about it, just another worker who quit without saying anything.

The kid made a beeline down the sidewalk for a block and a half. At the last alley before the intersection, he disappeared between the tall red-bricked buildings. Eric jogged to catch up and turned into the alley. He found himself at a vacant loading dock behind an abandoned retail store. Dumpsters, discarded shopping carts, and bits of rubble were everywhere. Crows pecked at some spilled trash as a mangy cat ran down the far end of the alley.

A loud sniff from behind a particularly large dumpster caught Eric’s attention. Treading lightly, he stepped past the corner to investigate. The kid stood facing him, bloodshot eyes unfocused as they drifted one way then the other. His left hand a piece of paper rolled into a tube. In the palm of his right, two rows of white powder lay ready.

Eric didn’t care what variety of drug it was or what excuse the kid might give. Knowing the guy was a junkie only made it easier to reach down and pick up a loose brick off the ground.

At first the kid didn’t respond, apparently not realizing what was about to happen. But as Eric drew back for the initial blow, Johnson’s eyes went wide. He threw his hands up to shield himself, far too late. The brick connected with the kid’s face, tearing a bloody streak across his eyes and nose. As Eric stalked closer, the kid stumbled back several steps, falling against the wall. “Please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for it to-”

Eric kicked the kid in the gut to knock the air from his lungs, then gripped the front of Johnson's uniform and slammed the brick into the kids head, over and over as hard as he could. A minute later, the boy hung limp in Eric’s grip. Patches of skull bone were visible through torn skin, the face impossible to recognize.

Heart pounding like a sledgehammer, Eric’s hand bled from the hard edges of the brick where it had torn into his own skin. But despite everything, his emotions were calm. He’d never done anything like this before, but it felt perfectly natural. As he looked down at the dying body, he knew he’d done a favor for himself, Abigale, Jess, and even his coworkers and their families. Work might be difficult for a few days without a crane operator, but at least they would all be safe. Then maybe the union would finally send them someone who wasn’t an accident waiting to happen.

He let the body drop to the ground and tossed the brick into the dumpster. After a few moments of wiping blood off his hands and making sure he hadn’t dropped anything, Eric strolled out from behind the dumpster. What he saw next froze him in his tracks.

A man blocked his exit through the alley, scanning Eric up and down with a casual eye while a sipping from a coffee cup. He wore a uniform that vaguely resembled that of a police officer but with no name, rank, or insignia. Lowering the cup from his mouth, he asked “Didn’t I just bring you in last week?”

Despite the mans casual tone Eric’s attention focused on the only details that seemed to matter, the very real pistol on the officer’s hip and the taser gun in his hand. Fear began to take over as he wondered if the cop knew what had happened a minute ago, a mere ten feet from where he now stood.

Eric didn’t wait to find out. He ran for the far end of the alley, hoping to find another exit onto the street. Three steps into his escape, taser wires hit him from behind, the electrical current overpowering his body, forcing him to spasm and twitch. Mere seconds felt like an hour under the pain. When the current ceased, Eric fell to his knees. Unable to stay upright, he managed to roll forward and onto his side so he could look back at his attacker.

The officer stalked closer, stopping an inch outside of arm’s reach, taser gun still tight in his grip. This close, Eric could see the words on the dull-colored badge on the man’s belt - The Humanity Reclamation Agency. Eric tried to show his hands so the cop would know he’d given up. Instead, the HRA agent pulled the taser trigger again, shocking Eric into unconsciousness.

With Eric limp and unresponsive on the ground, the officer pulled out his cell phone and hit the redial button. “This is 421. Yes, two for the facility. One’s a regular. The other’s a code red with probable brain damage…”

***