Saturday, September 23, 2017

Flash Fiction Friday: Target Cox Junction Part I

Welcome back to Flash Fiction Friday, on a Saturday. This story is turning out longer than expected so I decided to break it into short weekly segments. Technically, in its entirety, this wouldn't be a flash fiction piece. Please note, the premise is from my imagination and is in no way suggesting any sort of impeding doom. Please also keep in mind it is a work in progress.

Target: Cox Junction 
Part I

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

Sockeye Ripton rubbed his temples, rose from his computer desk, and stretched. He finished reading the latest department memo about the continued threats to dam integrity. Various environmentalist groups attempted using legal action to get dams removed from the nation’s river. Ignoring the fact that dams provided affordable power and prevented floods, they were convinced free-flowing rivers in their natural state were more environmentally conscience, particularly to the salmon.
After the recent federal ruling to maintain them, the groups banded together threatening to perform the removals themselves. It was in honor of the salmon, they said. The memo included a photo of protestors blocking employees into a prominent dam. They were holding signs, shouting, and using inappropriate finger gestures.
Security was almost instantly increased at every location, including, Cox Junction Dam. Too quickly, Sockeye felt. Having worked for the federal government for several years, he was surprised at how quickly new agents were hired. Were background checks thorough enough in a short amount of time? But demand was at an all-time high.
His radio crackled.
“Socky, you making the rounds?” came the voice of Jay Bordman, who had been hired a couple months ago.
Pushing the talk button he responded, “It’s Sockeye; like the salmon.” He released the button, annoyed at the mispronunciation.
“I could call you by your other name, if you’d prefer,” Jay teased.
“Don’t.”
He never cared for his given name: Dickson Sockeye Ripton. He described his parents as rich hippies. Not live in-a-mansion-and-drive-Lamborghinis, but certainly not frugal. They loved nature enough to, apparently, name their son after a fish. Unfortunately, they didn’t foresee the consequences of their choice of his first name.
After relentless teasing and bullying in elementary school, the counselor recommended using his middle name. At the time, it seemed an equally ridiculous name. But to his surprise, Sockeye was so uncommon his classmates found it interesting, and things settled down. He decided to keep it. Unfortunately, Dickson was still his legal first name and it still appeared on most documentation.
Locking the office door behind him, he pushed the radio talk button again. “I’m headed out for the perimeter check, Bordman.”
“Roger,” squawked the return communication.
Sockeye’s boots echoed in the cement corridor as he made his way to the exterior door. Unlocking it with his coded key card, he swung open the door and was met with the autumn afternoon’s cool air, and the thundering roar of the water rushing through the dam’s gates.
Stepping out onto the maintenance catwalk, the door’s large deadbolt clicked into place. He expected this to be a routine walk, like any other shift. Cox Junction Dam supplied power to a small town, and no one was all that interested in a small cement structure. Once in a while, there was a classroom or family who came to tour it. Otherwise, it was the giant dam in the middle of the state that tourists flocked to.
Despite the remoteness, Sockeye like his job here. He like the small-town atmosphere and the fact that not much happened. Other colleagues would say a boring job doesn’t keep one on their toes, but Sockeye felt the opposite. He felt more connected to his routine and knew when anything seemed out of place.
He walked along the catwalk, his hand gliding over the cool metal railing. Everything was in its place until he arrived at the stairwell. A dead raven lay at the foot, its yellow legs sticking straight out from rigor mortis. Resisting temptation to kick it over the edge into the river, Sockeye scooted it aside. He planned to return with a garbage sack and take care of it.
Up the stairs he climbed, his heavy-duty boots rattled the metal-grated steps on contact. An enclosed ATV waited at the top. Normally, Sockeye would drive it across the concrete top of the dam to the other side, but today he felt like walking. 
Atop the dam was different than the lower level; Sockeye braced himself against the wind. A fifteen minute walk separated him from the opposite side of Cox Junction Dam. Concrete safety barriers ran parallel along the straightaway; vertical metal supports protruded in partitions here and there. He scanned back and forth as he patrolled the area, looking for anything out of place.
Shortly, he saw the edge of tall chain link fence that kept trespassers out of the restricted area. Nothing looked tampered with from here, but he had several more feet to go. Then, he could descend the stairwell on the opposite side, and make his way back to his office.
Sockeye reached the fenced gate, subsequently finishing his trek across the dam. He jiggled the gate, verifying it was locked in place, and let out a sigh of relief. The department memo had him nervous, although he shouldn’t be. It’s a small town, he thought.
After collecting himself, he headed for the stairwell by walking along the fence, pushing on the posts as he went. A repetitive mundane movement helped ease his tension. Each was solid, until he came to the fifth one. It wobbled when he pushed it, causing Sockeye to nearly lose his balance.
“What the hell!” he said.
(To be continued)
Copyright 2017 by Jennifer E. Miller

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