I Was Hired to Maintain a Weather Station That Doesn't Track Weather

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or Amazon music. Be sure to click follow to get notified every time a new episode is released. There is a special place in hell for the assholes who finish off the coffee, then put the empty pot back on the warming plate, causing it to dry out so completely that it's shatters from the heat. The offending asshole in particular is adult, my co-worker. I say co-worker,

but we've never actually met in person. It's an interesting arrangement here at the Normandy

Line Weather Monitoring Station, which we simply call Normandy. I work the graveyard shift from midnight to noon. I guess that's more than a normal graveyard shift. But with it being only the two of us, we have to split the hours down the middle. And since my shift starts at midnight and goes all night, having coffee at the ready is a must. Sometimes I want to just kill adult. Like wrap my hands around his neck and strangled the shit out of him. Tonight is one of those nights,

but kind of hard to strangle someone you never see. Which means I have to resort to our notes system. And, of course, he's left one. Hey, bro. Sorry about the coffee pot. Got distracted. You know how it goes. I already made the request, and a new one should be delivered tonight. If not, you know how to get a hold of management. Well, you know how to leave a message

“for management. You ever wonder if they'll pick up the phone one day? Wouldn't that be wild?”

Talking to someone on the other line? God. One was the last time I spoke with anyone. I mean, I got you, bro. But these are notes. Not voice to voice. You know what I mean? Anyway, bro. Sorry again for the coffee pot. Have a good one. Have a good one. Have a good one. Yeah. Like that's going to happen without coffee. I mean, I already feel the fatigue setting in. And I've been on shift for what? Ten minutes? Fifteen? It'd be great if they had a clock in this

place so I could know for sure. I mean, it'd be great if there were a lot of things. Like a full kitchen, not just a coffee maker and a microwave. I'd love to cook up some steaks every once in a while. Instead, I get to heat up frozen dinners for all three meals. Breakfast or lunch or dinner time, it doesn't matter. They're all dinners in the freezer. Saul's berry steak with mashed taters, pen-a-pasta with chicken, be enchiladas with rice and corn, orange chicken and vegetables.

The list goes on and on and on. Every night, the freezer is fully stocked with all sorts of meals that aren't eggs and bacon and pancakes. I'm sure that's fine for adult, since he works new into midnight and can have his own breakfast before he starts his shift. But me? I want real maple syrup. I want donuts. I want French toast with strawberries and whipped cream. Okay, yeah, sure. I'm dreaming when I say I want that. I know that if management did provide breakfast,

it would be toast or struodles and maybe if I'm lucky. Some frozen country sausage. But I'm not lucky, am I? I'm the guy saddled with the graveyard shift at the Old Normandy

Line Weather Monitoring Station. Good old Normandy. You know, I have never monitored the weather

once since I've been here. That's not my job. Now, I'm here to make sure all of the equipment

“runs so it can monitor the weather, where that's what management has told me in their brief and”

infrequent communicates. And by communicates, I mean sticky notes. They don't even bother to use a note pad or anything like adult. Nope, they scroll something on a sticky note like. Please stop knitting holes by the antenna support or your caffeine intake is at an alarming level so we are cutting your coffee with decab from now on or screaming into the dark of night when I get you any special privileges. Please stop. It's annoying. Stuff like that.

At least the person writing the sticky notes has good penmanship. Very neat and tidy. Perfectly straight lines of text. They had to have practiced that for years. It's impressive.

have a damn clock. But I know it was written before midnight. That's easy to deduce.

“Management has had plenty of time to get me a replacement. In fact, I'm slightly annoyed”

that they didn't make it a priority. Yes, sure, my caffeine intake is a little high, but they fixed that didn't they? And if they want me to have even less caffeine, well, all they have to do is add more decab grounds to the mix. Shit, they could weave me off caffeine all together without me even knowing. Now can't they? It's cheap coffee. So it's not like I'll taste the difference. I look about my space, frustrated by the lack of concern management has shown.

There's the counter with the microwave, the broken coffee maker into small sink. Under that is a cabinet with supplies like coffee cups and sugar packets, paper towels and cleanings break. That's sort of stuff. Next to the counter is a set of plastic shelves. These hold snacks like ships and nuts and trail mix and protein bars and fruit cups. They help offset the monotony

of the frozen dinners at least. The bottom shelf holds cases of bottled water. Finally, we have

the fridge. It's a weird one where the main compartment is the freezer, and the top smaller compartment is the actual refrigerator part. It's mostly so I can store leftovers and keep some bottled water in the fruit cups cold. But every once in a while, they'll throw some pudding in there or even a carton of milk. One year, I'm guessing around Christmas, since it was cold as hell outside, there was egg knock. That was spectacular, but it only happened once. Not sure why they didn't do

it again. Then, up against the next wall is my cot, or our cot, since adult must use it too. It's where I wake up at the start of every shift and go to sleep at the end of every shift. It's neatly made when I get to it, but I highly doubt that Dolph does that. Management must come in during the switch over to clean up, make the cot, and stock the freezer. Not that I've ever seen them do that. I must really con-count when my shift is over.

I assume management moves me somewhere because I can't imagine Dolph being okay with me sleeping in this room for 12 hours. They must move me. They move adult, obviously. Unless he's allowed to go home. Is he? Does he have a home? Do I have a home? I should jot some of this down and ask management about it. At the end of the cot is a door to the small bathroom. There's a toilet, sink, cabinet for extra TP, and soap, and a dry shower. Yes, a dry shower. A step in,

and it cleans me and my clothes all at once by using some sort of compressed air or sonic waves.

“Management left a sticky note once, explaining it all. But I lost the note, and can't remember”

how it works exactly. On the wall opposite the tiny kitchen counter is the control board, a huge chunk of metal bolted together, and sporting dials and buttons and gauges and flashing lights. Flashing lights? A crap. I hurry to the specific panel and study the red light that is flashing over and over. There's no buzzer or alarm, so I know it's not a true emergency. But this still needs my attention right away. Okay, okay, let's see. I'm mutter as I grab the manual binder,

secured to the control board by a thin metal chain. Summing through the manual, I find the page for red flashing lights. Which panel is the light flashing? The manual asks me. Not in any voice, just with very neatly typed prompts with an well-organized grid of information. I check the panel name, which is perimeter fence, and trace my finger down the manual's page until I find that entry on the grid. Don't be alarmed, the manual says. I wasn't alarmed

until it told me not to be alarmed. If there is no audible claxon, then the red light simply means someone has approached the main gate. Depending on the time of year, you will want to dress accordingly and go inspect the main gate. More than likely, this will be a delivery fulfilling a specific

“unscheduled request. Huh, I wonder what that's all about. A delivery at the main gate?”

Does the Normandy have a main gate? I mean, it must, since it's in the manual, I let the binder drop and swing from its small chain. What time of year is it? How should I dress? I look down at my great jump suit. Will this be enough? Next to the control board is a second door, but this one doesn't lead to the bathroom like the other does. It leads outside. I should open it and see what's going on out there. For a weather monitoring station,

I have always found it funny that nothing on the control board actually shows me the weather.

I hurry over and open the door. Small flakes of snow drift down, and a frigid breeze whips in,

enough. Aren't there coats and gloves and boots for me to wear? I study my space. I know there's

nothing in the kitchen cabinet. If I can even call it that. The bathroom doesn't have clothes, only two towels and two washcloths. Where would I find a coat? Then I see the plastic box peaking out from under the cot. Oh, right, that's where it all is. I drag out the plastic box, pop it open and smile at the contents. Not only is there a winter coat, hat, gloves and boots, but next to all of that is a Hawaiian shirt and two pairs of khaki shorts. I push the

shirt and shorts aside and see a pair of flip flops too. But I don't need that stuff. I need the other stuff. Pulling out the coat and other warm gear. I get myself dressed and ready

to brave the outside, taking a deep breath. I clomp over to the door and open it once more.

The cold is bracing, but the snow is pretty. Have I ever seen snow before? I must have. I mean,

“I'm, um, I'm, how old am I? In my 30s? My 40s? I can't be in my 50s, can I?”

Doesn't matter. How'd I go? Closing the door firmly behind me? There's no main external light, only some small solar bulbs that line a path leading away into the bitter cold. The gate must be at the end of the path. Walking quickly because even with the boots of my feet are already freezing, I make my way down the path. I pass the main monitoring equipment, which looks more like a small power plant substation than instruments used for studying the weather. It must take a lot of

juice to predict when it will rain or snow or set record height temps. The buzzing from the equipment drills into my head as I hurry by. There's an unfailing at the back of my skull, a kind of blank space.

I rev my neck and keep going. Glad when I am finally far enough away that the buzzing no longer

affects me. The path branches a few yards along, but luckily there's a sign pointing me to the main gate

“on the left. I could go right, but the sign says, "No entry." So I won't be going that way.”

I hustle along to the left and after a few freezing minutes, I get to the main gate. A box is waiting for me on the inside. I don't even have to open the gate to accept the delivery. That's convenient. As I approach the box, I mumbled to myself. Please let it be the new coffee maker. Please let it be the new coffee maker. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for.

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The box itself is generic page, like all cardboard boxes. There's no label or pictures or anything to indicate what is inside. I'm about to rip the top off so I can make sure it's the coffee maker I need so desperately. But a noise distracts me. It's like someone stepping on a stick. Talking the box under my arm, I'm moved closer to the gate. There may not be any signage on the box I'm holding, but there is a sign on the gate. High voltage. Stay clear. That's good to know.

I could be seriously hurt if I were to touch the chain link accidentally. I wonder if the whole fence is electrified. I turn and see small signs all along the fencing in both directions. The noise comes again, and I get as close to the gate as I can without hurting myself. Hello? Is anyone out there? I cry into the dark. Who's there? This is a restricted area,

“so you need to have clearance to even be here. If you don't have clearance, then you need to contact”

management. I listen hard, but there's no repeat of the noise. Nor is there any response to my statement. Probably a squirrel or raccoon. If it's called like this, then it must be winter. The critters in the woods surrounding the Normandy are probably hungry. I mean, I assume there are critters in the woods. I haven't ever seen any, but they have to be there. Woods have critters.

As I turn to walk away, a voice whispers.

Carson, is that you? I spin around and shout. Who's there? Show yourself.

“I see nothing in here, nothing. Counting to 50, which I think is protocol according to the manual,”

I wait. When I head 50 and nothing else happens, I shrug and walk back to the building, ready to be done with his damn cold, and get a fresh pot breathing. The warmth inside is like a welcome blanket of comfort, placed over me from a mother who loves me very, very much. I shut the door, set the box on the counter, and stripped back down to my jump suit. I shiver a little once out of the coat and gloves and hat and boots,

but the idea of fresh coffee warms me back up. I hurry to the counter and tear into the box.

Um, what the hell is this? I ask no one since there's no one to ask. It's not a coffee maker. It is an electric kettle with six boxes of tea surrounding it. Two boxes of green tea, two boxes of Earl Grey, and two boxes of peppermint tea. No coffee to be seen anywhere. But I can fix that. I have an electric kettle, which boils water. That's all I need to make my coffee. Nice try. I say to no one again. Setting the kettle on the counter, I fill it from

the sink and plug it in. A quick press at the button and it begins to heat up. I go to grab the container with the coffee grounds, but it's not on the counter. So I crouch down and open the cabinet, looking for the stored coffee grounds. I've shoved aside some cleaning spray bottles when I realized that the coffee isn't kept there. It's on the shelves. But I'm wrong. I hunt through the boxes of snacks and everything, but there's not a single bag of coffee left. Seriously? Did don't drink

all the coffee? Probably knowing that guy. But why didn't management send me more? What's up with all the tea? I check the box again and see what I missed. A sticky note all the way at the bottom. Your blood pressure is high. Tea will be better for you. The note says, "My blood pressure is high.

“Since when?" Then I remember that note about D-Cath. Right. Right. They want to limit my”

caffeine. I keep forgetting. Then I wonder if they mean me or if they mean adult. The supplies are for both of us after all. That has to be it. Damn that adult. I bet he ruined the coffee pot on purpose. But it has backfired on him and didn't turn on me. Whatever he thought he'd accomplish it didn't work. Now we have to drink tea. Damn him all to hell. Well, at least tea is warm. And I could use some warm right now. I go to pull the one chair in the place away from the control

board so I can sit and watch the water bubble. But I pause. The red light is on again. And it's the same panel. The main gate. Are you kidding me? I'm butters. I get dressed once more for the freezing weather outside. The kettle clicks and turns off. At least I can have tea steeping while I'm gone. I pour hot water over a bag of Earl Grey. Then I put on my gloves and head back out into the snow and wind. And the wind has kicked up. So is the snow. It's blowing sideways, making me

hunch over and clutch the collar of my coat tightly. The buzzing of the equipment stabs into my hand, making my teeth and skull vibrate in tandem. Unpleasant thoughts fill my mind. Thoughts of blood and bone. Thoughts of screaming and crying. I see a cabin. But not like one in the woods. Like an airplane cabin. It's somewhere in the sky, safe, and a piece of me longs to be there again. Again. What does again mean? But I'm past the buzzing equipment in seconds. And the horrible thoughts fade away

“as I get closer to the main gate. Hello? I shout as soon as I'm at the gate. Who is out there?”

I see no box or other deliveries. I listen hard for the noise I'd heard before. But there's only the wind. As far as I can tell, I am all alone. I wonder if there's a malfunction with the gate. The manual should tell me. I'll head back to the. What's that? What are those? I lean in as close as I dare to the gate and look down at the snow. Trampled snow. There are boot prints right on the other side of the gate. But that would make

sense, right? Someone delivered the box with the kettle and the tea. Except I see boot prints

coming and going from one direction. And a second set of boot prints coming and going from a

different direction. I need to check the manual. I run as fast as I can, barely noticing the buzz and burst into the building. Headed straight for the dangling manual. Picking it up, I flipped to the index in the back and looked for what to do if there is an intruder. But would it be considered an intruder, even if they haven't gotten inside the fence? It doesn't matter. I find an entry for what to do if there is a breach or attempted breach of the perimeter fence line. That should

do it. Plipping to the right page, I frown at the instructions. If there is an attempted breach

and wait. All will be well. That's not very helpful. All will be well. How can they know that?

The building shakes as what sounds like an explosion rocks everything. Then I hear gunfire outside. "What is happening? What is going on?" I shot. My answer is allowed hissing. I spin about trying to find

“the source. Is that gas coming from up in the corner of the room? Why would? Why would gas? Why?”

My head is fuzzy and my lungs hurt a little when I sit up on the cot. Wait. Why am I on the cot? Did I fall asleep? Oh no, I need to check the control board and make sure nothing is lit up on the instrument panels. Jumping up from the cot, I have to pause as the room spins. I suck in some air and stumble over to the control board. Nope, everything is in the green. Well, sort of.

One light, the one for the main gate, I think, isn't lit at all. It's not green or red, just blank.

I tap it a few times with my finger, but it stays dead. Weird. But an easy fix. We have spare bulbs in a drawer under the control board. What we did. When I pull up in the drawer, it's empty. Not a single bulb is in there where there should be dozens in small paperboard boxes. I'll have to leave a note for management. Someone forgot to refill the drawer. Or maybe dulled did something to the bulbs. I wouldn't put it past that guy to take them outside and break them all just for fun. That's a very

dull thing to do. Could there be some bulbs outside then? The guy has the attention span of a net, so he must have taken them all out and forgotten some. Probably covered in snow by now,

“and most likely ruined a useless, but I should check. It's my job to check, right?”

Yeah, it's, uh, my job. What's my job again? As I try to think through the dilemma,

I go to the door and open and slam it quickly. Damn, it's cold outside. When did it get so cold? You'd think a weather monitoring station like the Normandy, would at least tell me what the weather is outside? I find a coat, hat, and gloves under the cot and put them on. I seem to be already wearing boots, so that's good. Once outside, I race around, hunting for small, white, paperboard boxes like what the bulbs would be held in.

Not an easy task with snow blowing in all directions, making thick drifts everywhere I look. Damn it! I shout into the wind. Then I noticed that the horizon is starting to lighten. Is it dawn already? How have six hours gone by? I just started my shift. A pain pierces me right behind my eyes, and I have thoughts of someone whispering in the dark. I hear strange noises in my mind. Gunfire? Not that I know what gunfire sounds like. Do I? To feed it at not finding any of

adults' bulbs, I trudge through the snow back toward the building and the warm tea I made. I did make tea, right? Once inside, I strip off the coat and gloves and hurry to my mug. The tea is ice cold. Ice cold tea and dawn rising outside, coupled with my waking up on the cot means I have lost some time.

“Hours apparently. It happens not in a long while, I think, but I am almost sort of positive”

that it has happened before. No, I sure hope management has impisted me, falling asleep on the job is bad. My stomach rumbles and I start some water boiling again while I look in the freezer for something to eat. Chicken low-main? Yeah, that sounds good. I pop the dinner into the microwave, dump and rinse my tea mug, then pour some hot water over fresh bags. The microwave dings. Dinner is ready. I'm peeling the plastic off the dinner when I swear I hear a knock at the door,

but that can't be right. "Bars, sir, is how you?" A voice whispers from the other side. The microwave dinner falls from my fingers and splatters all over the floor. Someone is out there. "Sir, if you are in there, please open up. Where are you to?" I scream as gunshots echo through the door. There's a thumb, then a heavy sliding noise from the other side. Oh dear, did someone get hurt? I rushed to the door, but I've barely taken three steps when I hear a hissing in the room.

My eyes glanced up at the corner, and I think I see mist, but maybe it's... maybe it's... maybe... I sit up in my cot, my head throbbing, my eyes dry and stinging. All of that is better than how my lungs feel. Coffee doesn't help and only makes things worse. My throat feels like I have been gargling glass. Wait, isn't there some peppermint tea? I groan as I stand up. Man, I do not feel good. I panic about falling asleep on the job,

but I couldn't have been out for more than a minute or two with how exhausted I feel. Staggering over to the counter, I get the tea going. My stomach grumbles,

I must have not eaten much. While waiting for the water to boil, I grab a chicken low-main

out of the freezer and plop it in the microwave. Images of noodles splattering all over the floor fill my mind, and I have to lean on the counter to stay upright. What was that? Did I drop a dinner

“and then clean it all up? I don't remember cleaning it up. The microwave dings and the water”

finishes boiling so I grab my food, pour water over the peppermint tea bags, and decide that maybe I'll eat outside. Some fresh air will be good for my lungs. But when I open the door, I'm surprised to see that not only is it cold outside, but the sun has risen. I step out into the frigid air, and take in long full after long full. It's cold and makes me shiver, but it feels so good on my throat. Should I put a coat on? I take a bite of noodles and think

about going back inside when allowed clacks and rings out. That can't be good. I step back into the building, but the sound of hissing in the smell of something awful makes me instantly retreat back outside. Good thing too, because the door slams shut and I hear it locked. Man, I sure wouldn't want to be inside right now with whatever that gas is leaking everywhere. I'll have to alert management that there's an issue. The clacks and keeps blaring, and I'm about to take another bite of noodles

when something down by the main gate explodes. It might actually be the main gate itself. Oh shit! A yelling scramble about as I try to figure out what to do. I need the manual, but the manual is inside and I am not! Damn it! Then I see shapes down by the gate. People shapes. They are rushing through the fence line. We've been breached. I drop my noodles and hurry around the buildings so I can hide from the intruders. There's suddenly so much gunfire. Was there a

gunfire before? Earlier in the night, I laughed to myself because it's sure not night anymore. A quick glance in the sky shows me a sun almost directly overhead, but that would make it almost

noon. My shift ends at noon. I need to get inside. The second I come back around the building,

heading for the door and hoping it's not still locked. I hear someone call out. Carson. Sir, Mr. President, we're here for you. Several armed men in tactical gear are running toward me. I jump into the buildings door and grab the handle. Still locked. Wait a minute. Why did they shout? President Carson. Stay where you are. We're coming to you. One of the meals. I don't have much choice. I'm dressed in only my jumpsuit. There's snow on the

ground and the door into the Normandy is locked. I throw my hands in the air as the men reach me. Don't shoot. I just work here. A yell. The men look confused, but shake it off quickly. President Carson, thank God we finally found you. Come with us. We're here to take you home. Home? I am home. I'm not in my chin at the door to the building. I live in there. The eggheads told us they might have messed with his brain. One of the men says.

Possibly a split inside. This could get tricky. Listen. Whoever you are, my name is Carson. Yes,

“but I'm the president. Just a boring old maintenance worker, I think. I shake my head. I should”

really contact management and sort this out. The first man whose spoke shakes his head, too.

You are a president, adult Carson, and you were abducted by the. He doesn't finish. Mainly because his head turns to miss. Blood and bones splatter my face, and suddenly hands are grabbing the, dragging me away from the building and toward the main gate. A man screams and falls on my right. Another one. On my left this time just drops. The two in front spin toward me and I see holes in their foreheads. The two behind me stumble against me knocking me to the ground. There's pressure

inside my head. It builds and builds and builds until. What the shit is this mess? I ask as I pick myself up off the ground. Then I see the carnage around me. The main gate is down. There are dead bodies all around me. Some clacks in his blaring. My stomach is grumbling. What the hell did Carson do? I can't blame the bro for my empty stomach, but the play sure didn't look like this when I got off shift last night. Getting up, I wiped the dirt off my jumpsuit and head toward the

building. I hand grabs my ankle, and one of the men I thought was dead looks up at me.

“Presented Carson, you have to run. Carson? I reply. Bro, my name is Dalt. Carson has the graveyard shift.”

The man tries to speak, but it's hard for him to do that. What with all the blood boring out of his mouth? Many dies. I'm not surprised. That was a lot of blood. I look around at the mess inside. Thanks Carson. Just thanks. I say and shake my head as I walk back into the building. It's not like Carson to leave things looking like this, but maybe the bro had a bad night. You know what I mean? We've all been there, bro. Hopefully, there is a sticky note inside from management explaining shit.

Oh, and maybe they've delivered the replacement coffee maker. I could really use a cup of coffee. My throat is a little raw, and I feel like I barely slept last night.

attacking the Normandy was stop calling me Carson though. My name is Dalt, Dammit.