Typing Pool

Typing Pool
By Scott Wilson
Word Count:522

Amber typed as if her life depended upon it, with the speed and accuracy only a professional could. A sharp snap popped behind her. It sounded like a ripe watermelon dropped on the office floor, splattering the back of her blouse. She could not chance making a mistake, so she ignored it and kept typing.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, threatening to run into her eyes and blinding her with the stinging, salty stream. Amber did not wipe the droplets, nor break her concentration further by shaking the sweat away. She focused on the short hand scrawled on the notepad on her desk and kept typing. Ten pages down and at least twenty more to go before she could relax. There was no way she was going to make a mistake.

Pop. There was another distracting noise; this time to Amber’s left. She did not know what was going with the other people in the office, but she was professional. She would not let these noises distract her from one hundred percent accuracy. As focused, as Amber was, the sticky juice made her blouse cling to her back and it began to irritate.

A quick succession of four more sharp sounds, kind of like the sound of a cork coming out of a bottle rang out behind and to the side. Amber almost lost it, especially when another discharge of sticky juice sprayed her face and left hand. Again, she regained focus instantly and continued tapping away without error or any sign of slowing down.

Someone stood up at the desk next to Amber and quickly walked past. They slipped on the juice of the floor and crashed into Amber’s desk, knocking her notepad to the ground. Amber began to panic, she could just see the short hand, luckily it landed the right way up. She manuovered her leg from under the desk into the walkway, ready to flick the page over with her points.

As Amber flicked the last page over another noise exploded next to her foot, covering her foot but missing the notepad. She finished typing the last sentence and sighed under her breath, just loud enough to let out the tension but not so loud that the boss would hear.

“Well done, Amber,” the manger said, stepping over the body next to Amber’s desk. “One hundred percent accuracy in record time.”

Amber wiped the sweat from her brow and glanced briefly at the carnage around the office. The other temps lay dead at their desk, a single bullet hole in their forehead and an arterial spray decorating the floor and walls.

“I can’t stand slovenly or sloppy workers,” the manager said, putting his revolver back in his shoulder holster. “Make sure you clean up this mess before two please. I’ll have some more dictation for you to type up then.”

Amber looked at the clock, gulping as she saw it was one thirty. The manager smiled, then locked the door behind as he left the office.

THE END