Page 5 of Hallow’s Crown

I get back in the truck, lock the doors, and pull out my notepad. I write, “GATE FAILURE,” then underline it three times.

From the direction of the house, a light flickers on, then off. I watch for movement, but see nothing. The wind picks up, and a chill slides down my back.

I try yelling. “Hey! Gate’s locked! Anyone there?”

The words die before they travel. Only the cameras hear me.

I start to pound the callbox but stop myself. No sense in breaking my own exit. I pull back, walk a circle, look for any angle I missed. I check the perimeter, but the fence is unbroken, topped with fresh barbed wire.

I take a long breath. I’ve been locked in worse, I remind myself. This is just a job. Someone will show up in the morning.

But the feeling in my stomach is not normal. It’s like being on the wrong side of a cell door, hearing footsteps echo on tile.

I get back in the cab and close my eyes. Try to nap, but I keep jerking awake, hearing the mechanical clunk of another door, the crackle of the electric fence. Once, I see the blue light of the camera flicker brighter, then dim.

Time passes. My phone battery creeps lower, still no bars. I eat a granola bar and sip bottled water. I keep watching the gate, expecting someone to show. No one does.

At some point, I try shouting again, just to hear my own voice.

“HEY! I NEED TO LEAVE!” Louder, “HEY!”

Silence.

I lose track of the hours. I blink, and the world is fully night. I blink again, and something is different.

The air is dead still. The cameras no longer blink, just burn steady and red. A shrill siren fills the silence before stopping. The house is completely dark.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until my teeth chatter.

I try the gate one last time. The light is now white, not red. The keypad gives a new tone, high and bright. I reach for the handle and pull, and this time it gives an inch. Then stops.

Beyond the gate, the world is black, no lights in any direction. Only my headlights and the cold white of the security system.

Something tells me not to try again. I get back in the truck and lock the doors, heart battering the inside of my chest. Opening the dash to try find something that will help, a single slip of paper slips out.

Thank you for your service, but unfortunately your contract has been terminated.

I sit in shock. For morning, for someone, for anything.

Nothing changes except the dread building in my gut.

Terminated. Not ended. Not completed.

Terminated.

Chapter Two: Bentley

The lower level of the sub-basement stinks of wet stone and industrial paint, even after two weeks of air cycling. Down here the humidity is strong, sticking to the skin, worming under the starched white of my collar. I descend the final landing of the underground tunnel alone, listening to the sharp echo of my own footfalls.

Three steps from the bulkhead, the door slides open at my approach and seals just as quickly behind. The pressure change pops my eardrums. There’s no light in the world quite like the stuff the Ministry pays for—crisp, hyper-white, the absence of all warmth.

The command center’s in start-up mode. Every workstation is manned, every monitor already running a dozen feeds. On the east wall, a technician calibrates the biometric locks. The screen runs blue, then green, then resets to black. Her uniform is the same as every other in the room: jet black, no markings, not a speck of dirt, each tailored to the individual’s body but designed to erase it. Ministry tradition. Identity is a reward, never a right.

I move to the observation desk. The chair fits my height exactly. My hands slide along the edge—no dust, no rough patch, no evidence of previous occupation. It sends a little tingle up my spine. This is my domain. My latest promotion through the Ministry of Design came with this house. A private place for me to perform the duties expected of me.

Propaganda. Psychological warfare. Information engineering. And perhaps the most important: assessing threats to The Silent and finding the right Ministry to deal with it.

Today, we play. It’s the annual Halloween Crown Hunt. And this year, we picked a prospect.