Son of a fucking bitch not my head again as blood streams down my face, wiping my eyes to try and clear blood from them i do what only a dispatchy can do,..... realize no one waiting cares about what's wrong with us and just that they are waiting and want to complain. Groping around in the center storage of my stock picker i find a old rag..... sanitary , not exactly, will it do yes. After wiping the blood of my face and with prize in hand a shit, i mean quality item of stock I grab the pistol grip and push it to lock , blitzing down the isle way looking to the side as i fly by coworkers and stock at maybe 2-3 kilometers a hr as boringly they just put electronic limiters after the last guy drove of the dock.

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Getting to the loading bay i step off my speed demon of a picker and unclip my harness i grab our handheld scanners and scan the barcode on my paperwork and scan the chair to make sure its the right item, odd something seems off looking around the dispatch is devoid of noise usually we have the same 10 abhorrent songs playing on repeat yet dead silence ,speakers must be acting up again yelling out the costumers name I look around to see whom responds but there is no one around me the entire dispatch is empty and layered with a incoming fog slowly rolling over everything a thick white voluminous cloud ,I look towards the safety rails where costumers usually wait and see something out of my worst nightmares.