Bad Impact
By Kalvin M. Madsen
A low hum drifted into the valley, barely noticeable at first, but it grew louder, sharper and menacing. Heads tilted upward, searching for the source. Then it appeared—a pale form on the horizon. Its sleek body glinted in the sunlight with buzzing rotors slicing through the quiet sky, hovering behind blinking optics like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.
-Beep — Beep-
-Whirl-click-
“Target locked. Descending.”
-Beep-
-Whur-
“300 meters.”
Beep — Whirl.
“Target is good."
-Whur-
“100 meters.”
Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep.
“50 meters.”
“Oh my go-”
Beep B-
- - - - - -
error44CONNECTIONLOSS
- - - - - - - -
“Good impact.”
The employees of Platform 15 worked slower than usual that day. In fact, many of them were preoccupied, staring in terrified anticipation at the sky.
The lift operator, Wendy, dropped a beam onto a cooling pump. She claimed something in the clouds caught her eye, and she accidentally threw a lever. Edward, the gas-pump supervisor, set the transfer rate to 43% instead of 63%. This error alone slowed the production of the plant by nearly 10%. Edward said he was distracted by something in the sky. Conor at the exhaust-management station injured his head after leaning back too far in his chair. A total of seven other employees were similarly distracted and were observing the sky instead of their duties.
Extract, the company that owns the oil platform, sent out an executive.
Paul and Marcus stood side by side, leaning against the balcony railing on Platform 15 during their break. There was silence until Paul, his gaze fixed upon the lightly clouded sky for what felt like an eternity, finally broke the stillness with a hushed voice.
"What if one of them comes to us?" Paul murmured.
Marcus hesitated to respond. Caught in his own growing paranoia, he fought an urge to check the sky once more. A moment later he found his placid response.
"Come on, man, don't dwell on it. Platform 17 was just unlucky," Marcus responded dismissively, trying to brush off Paul's concern.
"Unlucky? We made a choice to be here. Maybe we should consider quitting. Once the war is over, our experience will make us valuable. They'll have to hire us," Paul suggested.
Paul's attention shifted towards the eastern sky, his eyes widening as he pointed with certainty.
"Look!" he shouted.
Marcus followed Paul's gaze and then delivered a swift slap to the back of his friend’s head. "That's a plane," he stated, trying to reel Paul back to reality.
"No, it's a loiter!" Paul insisted, his voice growing louder, his knees trembling as he instinctively backed away from the railing.
Paul's burgeoning hysteria prompted Marcus to spring into action like a sailor sealing a leak. He held his friend steady, his hands gripping Paul's shoulders with a reassuring firmness.
“Relax, man. I can see it. That is a passenger plane.”
Paul began to relax, and his breathing settled after a rush.
“What about a hit from my oxypen? There’s a nicotine one too if you would like.”
Paul shook that idea away. “It shouldn't be like this, Marcus. We took these jobs for security.”
“Financial security, buddy,” Marcus said as Paul got to his feet. “But no one is safe now. Bomb hit a playground last week, remember? In Grove Park?”
Paul remembered. Twelve dead.
“I don't want to think about that,” he said, looking up at the sky again. The plane had vanished behind a cloud.
“Stay here and breathe, I’ll get you some water,” Marcus insisted, already walking off.
“Platform 17 is just three miles from here.”
Marcus stopped. The morning’s news came back into their minds. Images of P. 17 being struck by an unmanned military drone and erupting into a ball of gooey flame and thick black smoke, rolling into the sky like a volcanic eruption.
Their eyes locked briefly in shared anxiety. Then, like a snap, Marcus wrested himself away to fetch water. As he disappeared around a corner he cast a furtive glance at the sky, his gut churning with dread.
Upon his return, Marcus found Paul looking into the sky with wide, dry eyes.
“Paul,” Marcus said, handing him a cup of water.
Paul shook himself back into control, then took the cup without expression. He took a clumsy sip, with a few drops escaping to his work shirt. “We work in oil, Marcus. I’m not a soldier. I shouldn't be looking at the sky like this.”
Marcus placed his hand on Paul's back and rubbed it in firm circular motions to comfort him. “No soldiers at the park either,” Marcus said.
Paul sighed. “Lindsey worked on 17, Marc.”
“I know.”
Paul nearly folded over in sorrow but propped himself up with his hands at his knees.
“Oh god,” Paul moaned.
“I’m stressed out too, Paul. I wish they could give us the day off. But the platform can’t shut down. And even if they tried, we would be part of the skeleton crew.”
Paul heard none of it. It passed by him like his chance to stop a tear dripping from his tearful eyes.
After a moment of stillness, Paul found his gaze drifting back to the sky. It was a canvas of blue with thin clouds that went across like careless drifters. Further north, the clouds were one massive blanket with frayed edges, fully lit by the sun. Along the frayed edges Paul observed the glacial pace of the cloudy continents and island puffs as they broke from the large body. Then, a small anomaly appeared among these cottony bodies — dark and inscrutable, like cancer in a microscope slide. At first, it was nothing more than a faint speck, easily dismissed as an illusion or trick of light. Yet, as Paul's gaze remained fixed on the spot, it crystallized into something tangible.
A tremor of anticipation coursed through him. His heart began to pound like a wild drum. His eyes narrowed as his breathing synchronized with his accelerating pulse. Emerging from the far-off cloud was an airborne object that transformed Paul’s anxiety into fear.
Paul couldn't handle it; he was teetering on the edge of mania, trapped in a war with his own tempestuous emotions. One-half of him yearned to seize Marcus by the collar and heave him over the railing to let gravity take its unforgiving course. An equally persuasive voice urged him to take the same plunge into himself. If he had a gun, he would shoot it wildly into the air and scream at the top of his lungs. He thought of the bullets hitting the fuel pump and the entire place exploding before an invading military drone could crash itself into the platform.
“Paul!” Marcus shouted.
Paul found himself clutching Marcus’ shirt collar in a death grip, with drool slipping from his mouth. He let Marcus go immediately and recoiled in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his breathing slowing again.
Paul peeked at the sky. The plane he thought he saw was gone.
Marcus felt anger mixed into his paranoia, becoming a turbulent storm of emotions that clouded his judgment and heightened his senses. He needed a break.
“You should take the day off, Paul. You're making me nervous.”
“I’m sorry, Marcus. I don’t know what that was.”
Marcus was not interested in the apology. He had already made up his mind.
“I’m going to speak to the platform manager. You need rest.”
Paul felt split again. He desperately wanted to leave but felt no sense of control. He looked to the sky again. He didn't notice when Marcus left.
The executive came around the same time Paul was being escorted from the platform by two company medics. The representative saw the disheveled employee guided off by both arms, with sweat on his brow and at his armpits. The representative grunted and continued his inspection.
The medic assisted Paul into the back seat of the car, and they drove off toward the highway.
The executive insisted no employees waste time looking at the sky during his inspection. He ordered Marcus to close all the window blinds on the platform as Paul was driven away.
A white drone descended from the clouds, its electronic signals beeping and scanners whirring. The drone’s camera lens sharpened into focus and its sophisticated targeting system locked-on while its wing flaps aligned with the target.
Beep - Whirl
Click
“Something’s wrong.”
-Whur-
“Descending.”
Beep - Beep
Click
“Targeting error.”
Click - Whirl
“It is going off course.”
“Camera Focus.”
Whirl.
“It’s going for that car.”
“300 Meters.”
Beep - Beep
Whirl-
“It’s locked onto the car.”
“Override. Override.”
Beep - Beep
Beep — Whirl.
“100 meters.”
Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep
Beep B-
- - - - - -
error44CONNECTIONLOSS
- - - - - - - -
“Bad Impact.”
“Send another.”
****
Kalvin M. Madsen was born and raised in Los Angeles and resides in Pasadena. He works as a journalist for Local News Pasadena, covering community stories and local culture. Kalvin grew up in Malibu alongside his five brothers, raised by his father, actor Michael Madsen. His stories have appeared in publications such as The Pomona Valley Review (“The Charlatan,” 2020) and Felix Magazine (“Home is Where the Machines Are” and “Cat,” Summer 2023).