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Michael Morris attended East Texas State University (now Texas A&M in Commerce) where he earned a B.A. in 1985 and an M.A. in 1995. His most recent publications include poems in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Lynx Eye, The Concho River Review, Illya's Honey, and stories in Dogwood Tales Magazine and The GW Review. His most recent online poetry publications include pieces in Liberty Hill Poetry Review, The Mid-South Review, Chronogram, Contemporary Rhyme, and Haruah. Poems and stories are forthcoming in Glassfire Magazine, Subtle Tea, and T-Zone. He has worked as a secretary, technical writer, janitor, and tutor. He teaches English at Eastfield College, and lives with his wife and children just outside the Dallas area.

Hard Light by Michael Morris

The lighting was terrible at the guard desk where Wilson Bell sat struggling to read the book he'd brought with him. The station also had no electrical output, and thus no radio. To the accompaniment of the low burr of the heating unit and the beeps and dings of the nearby elevator, Wilson had to sit in a big padded chair and hold his book under a single light with just a little more wattage than needed to make out the pages. He could see enough to read, but he felt sleepy. Now and then, a car drove past the large office building on Belt Line, but the street was so far from the front window that anything going by looked like something from a movie, detached and unimportant.

At least it's quiet, Wilson thought.

He'd been on this post for about two weeks now and, except for the problems reading, he was getting used to the routine. His hours were similar to those he'd had when watching the cars at Turpin Motors. And here he was inside instead of having to sit in his car, which was pretty good since the weather was turning cold.

The regular lights were on a timer, set to begin fading out about seven and being completely dark near sunset, a good two hours before Wilson came on duty. The morning guard didn't mind because they were usually coming back on about the time he came in. He was a good ten years older than Wilson and didn't read the paper until people had gotten settled in their offices. But he spent much of his morning greeting those who came in as they came in the door, and so never noticed the problem.

There were two evening guards who worked part-time and traded off weekends. One was a kid right out of high school who told Wilson plainly that he had no intention of reading anything ever again if he could help it. When Wilson relieved him, the kid always complained about being bored, unless he had been able to find someone to talk to on the phone.

The other guard was a college student studying computer science. He brought a laptop computer with a good battery each night to work on programs he wrote for classes and to play games. He was usually very sullen and acted as if there was too much light anyway.

Wilson looked at his watch and was relieved to see that it was nearly one o'clock. Time for rounds.

On the ground floor were the guard desk, a cafeteria, and the small office for the building manager. The second and third floors were used by an insurance company. The next four were occupied by a growing business that developed software for telecommunications companies. Floors nine and ten were occupied by various doctors who specialized in everything from cardiology to infertility. On the eighth floor was a scattered group of small businesses that changed so frequently that some were gone before a sign could be made for the door.

Doing rounds seemed a futile exercise to Wilson since there were two entrances to the building, and anyone entering either one had to pass by the guard station before getting on the elevator, which Wilson would have heard. But since he was required to note in his log that he had made rounds, he felt obliged to actually walk each floor every hour. The process was more a matter of Wilson stretching his legs than securing the property.

After checking the cafeteria and insurance company, Wilson entered the offices of Yokojohn Data Engineering. Though he carried it by force of habit, Wilson did not turn on his maglite but grasped it by the bulb end in his left hand, like a sawed off baseball bat. He held a magnetic entry card in his right. His eyes took little time to adjust to the dim hallways. He walk was slow and deliberate. He was in no hurry.

He heard the non-rhythmic clicking of someone working at a computer keyboard and stopped, as if the command to retrieve files also caused legs to cease motion. For a solid minute, Wilson neither stepped forward nor made a motion to hide. The typing continued, whoever it was oblivious to Wilson's presence. Could someone have been working late that he missed on previous rounds? Certainly the person did not come in while Wilson was on duty. All after-hours workers were required to sign in at the guard desk, but no one was officially in the building except for Wilson.

Finally, he started forward, sliding his feet across the carpet like a flea hiding in dark hair. He put the card in his shirt pocket and transferred the maglite into his right hand. As he got closer the clicking seemed to be coming from around a corner, in one of the ornate offices, not from one of the cubicles laid out on the floor like a rat's nightmare grid. Soon Wilson found himself standing under a nameplate outside the door of the further most office. The nameplate read, "P.W. Yokojohn."

Because the light in the office was not on, Wilson surmised that the person inside was likely not the president of the company. Another clue that Yokojohn might not be working late was that when the typing stopped, there would be a short pause and then a muttered word or two of profanity before the clicking would begin again. He glanced in just long enough for his thesis to be confirmed. The confirmation was a gun resting on the table beside the mouse which was being engulfed by a hand wearing a surgical glove. Wilson also saw the body of the young man he had relieved on the floor in the corner of the room, the chest area of his uniform covered in blood. It was the computer science student.

Wilson was frozen again. He couldn't just walk in, ask for some identification, and expect a logical explanation. He was afraid to move, though, lest he make a noise that would cause the burglar to exceed his quota of dead security guards. Sooner or later, however, Wilson knew that the man would either find what he was looking for or not find it, and walk out the door. He wasn't likely to jump out the window.

So Wilson crept away, again sliding his feet. When he reached the door leading from the business to the elevator, he looked back for a brief moment. As he did, he reached a hand out to press the release button on the door. He missed. His finger hit just above the plastic square marked "EXIT," and the static electricity he generated made a loud pop.

The clicking stopped. Wilson heard the burglar rise from the chair. He imagined he heard the gun being grasped by the gloved hand. The steps seemed so loud that Wilson wondered if he wasn't hearing the gun being waved in the air.

Wilson darted away. He made his way into a cubicle just as the burglar made his way out of the office and toward the door. Wilson slowly pushed a chair aside and crept under the thick gray piece of hard plastic serving as a desk. He stayed crouched beneath it like a shy child hiding from his parents.

The burglar went past, the gun an ominous extension of the man's arm. The man was about six-three, Wilson reckoned, with the body of someone who eats his work for most meals and finds it nutritious. The face, however, looked hard, as if the expression worked with weights to become hard. Beneath the dark clothing, Wilson saw arms and legs of rock.

Wilson heard the man go to the exit door and push the button. It opened with a light hum and the man stepped out. Wilson kept listening for the sound of the door closing and the release re-engaging. But the sound didn't come. Instead, he heard a barely audible sound of panting. The burglar was standing in the door contemplating whether or not to return to Yokojohn's office.

Then Wilson could hear a muttered string of cuss words and the quick gait of the burglar. He became a stone beneath the table until he heard the keys' rapid click-clack. He re-emerged slowly, not daring to release his breath.

On the desk, Wilson noticed a phone. He looked at it for a moment as if it had just then appeared. Then he picked it up and put a hand over the listening end. He dialed 911, counted to thirty in his head, then gently replaced phone in the cradle.

He dashed back to the wall outside Yokojohn's office. Gripping the maglite again by the bulb end, Wilson raised his arm as he flattened himself against the wall.

The phone rang. Wilson tensed as he heard the burglar stand up and emit a low dose of profanity. He expected the man to rush out, as he had before, but for a long, silent moment, it seemed nothing happened. This caused Wilson to wonder if he should hit the man high or low, since the shoulder (his original plan) might not present itself first. He crouched, but did not lower his arm except to have it follow his body down.

The barrel of the gun poked out like a snake feeling its way. Wilson saw the blind sight move back and forth until it was pointed toward the still-ringing phone. Wilson's breath caught, and he was certain the burglar would hear him. The barrel was still for a moment, then inched its way toward the ringing.

When Wilson saw the beginnings of the wrist, he swiped at the gun with as much force as half a swing would give him. The weapon tumbled away, the carpet absorbing the sound so that neither Wilson nor the burglar could be certain where it landed.

Wilson started to stand, but the burglar had stepped fully out of the office and kicked at his face. Wilson was able to raise his arms up just enough to deflect the kick with the maglite, but the drive made him fall backwards and drop the light behind him.

The burglar started to look for his gun, but with dim light was unable to make it out on the floor. He turned back toward Wilson, who was now running toward the maglite. Wilson stooped to pick it up just as he was tackled from behind. The man seemed as heavy as a column of granite.

They struggled together until the burglar was able to free a hand and punch Wilson in the jaw. Because he had used his gun hand, the man yelped in pain, only then remembering the blow that caused the loss of his gun.

Wilson was then able to roll his shoulder, throw the man off him and reach for the maglite. He grabbed it, but the burglar had his arms pinned to his side, just as Wilson turned. Wilson tried to head-butt his assailant, but the man dodged him twice.

Then Wilson managed to get his finger on the button of the light. He yanked his head hard toward his left shoulder and turned his wrist enough to shine the light toward his right.

The burglar let go and covered his face, stepping backward. Wilson swung the light sideways and heard the crack of a newly broken rib. The burglar fell to his knees.

Wilson held the light on the man as he retrieved the gun. "How can you see that?" the burglar asked in a gruff voice.

"I work here," Wilson answered, uncomfortably pointing the gun at the man on the floor. "Get up."

Wilson took off the man's belt and used it to bind his hands behind his neck. He cinched the buckle over the injured wrist.

"Hey!" the man complained.

Wilson then noticed that the phone had quit ringing because it had started again. He pulled his prisoner backwards as he went to answer it.

"This is the 911 operator. We got a call from this number. Did you have an emergency?"

Wilson told the voice that he had a break-in and that a guard had been shot. He was told a car had already been dispatched and that he should sit tight. Wilson then let her know the suspect was in custody and that he would meet the officers downstairs.

"This guy is also going to need some medical attention," he added.

After hanging up, Wilson unclipped the cord from the phone and cradle. He walked his prisoner back into Mr. Yokojohn's office.

"Sit down!" he commanded, pulling up a straight-backed chair obviously for visitors.

The burglar began to scowl, but Wilson raised the gun to his waist and the maglite above him. "If one doesn't work the other will." The burglar obeyed.

Wilson used the phone cord to tie the man's feet beneath him, the ankles hooked around the legs of the chair. Then he put the gun and light on the table. Outside, he could see the police car in the parking lot, an officer going toward the locked front door.

Wilson slowly tipped the chair forward until the burglar was kneeling awkwardly and his face was inches from the slumped head and bloody chest of the guard who once studied computer science. Then Wilson turned on the office light.

"Is this necessary?" the burglar asked, wincing at the sudden brightness.

Wilson fought the urge to slap the man on the back of the head. "Ask him," he said, nodding toward the dead man. Then he picked up the gun and his maglite, walked to the elevator, and went to meet the police.

THE END