Gears grinding to a shrieking halt. A control panel flashing blood red. Putrid green mist seeping in from every recess.
An office elevator turned makeshift coffin. Convenient.
He dropped to his knee. His eyes, bloodshot and watery. His tightening throat, scratchy and raw.
Somewhere deep down the shaft below, rumbling. Loud, primitive, drawing close. Time wasn’t his only enemy now.
He slammed his sweaty palm against the row of flashing buttons one final time.
No response.
He slumped back against the cold metal of the elevator.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here.
They already gave him the day off.
The Weekday One Hundred 