Word count: 200

No spoilage

Lockdown

The local newspaper – situated on the top floor of an ugly, old office building – turned out to be a bust. Loosening his tie, Dean angrily stomped into the empty elevator, frustrated by time wasted on a flaky reporter and his insane ramblings on Spring-heeled Jacks who could apparently teleport, and ate only carrot cake with ground-up, human tongue. The idiot had suffered him through elaborate charts before Dean managed to get the hell out.

One floor down, the elevator opened to let in a red-headed secretary-type with her hair in a bun and a stack of folders under her arm.

Two more floors and the elevator lurched to a stop and the lights blinked and crapped out. Dean grabbed the young woman's arm before she could fall off her heels.

"Thanks," she said, looking up at him. He smiled reassuringly at her, then headed over to the emergency phone. Stan the mechanic told them he'd have them out in an hour. Two, max.

"Looks like we have some time to kill," Dean said to his companion in lockdown. He slouched against the wall and crossed one foot over the other.

"Looks like," she said, and licked her lips.

Dean grinned.