The phone was dead.
It was just as well, Jason thought as he lay in the surprisingly comfortable if narrow drawer bed. He had wanted to call anyone back in Night Vale to find out what was going on but not a single telephone he tried had a dial tone. As weird as this was, all he could figure was he had been banished. Punishment for ignoring a warning was apparently being forced to start a new life in Desert Bluffs. The Night Vale Justice System was truly cruel.
However comfortable the strange bed was, sleep just wasn't obliging and he got up to look at the assignments he was meant to be working on. Ms. Ward wanted him to type up the handwritten classified submissions and organize them alphabetically by what was being offered or sought. He located the submissions by following a trail of clues left in a series of notes around the building and spent most of the night typing. He was surprised how many people were selling dried pasta sculptures.
By the time he finished that dawn was nearing and he looked to the rest of his errands. More fact checking, at noon he had to pick up a macaroni sculpture Mr. Barker purchased, then there was a press conference being held by the mayor he had to attend with Mr. Powell and take notes. It didn't say what the press conference was about but he imagined it would be interesting if it was anything like Night Vale press conferences.
He'd only seen one in the past, mostly because he had been walking to work when his car broke down. The mayor had been standing on the steps of City Hall shouting about the terrible influence of black helicopters on Night Vale's youth while throwing handfuls of grape jelly at the reporters in the front row. He would try to convince Mr. Powell to stay near the back just in case.
With a yawn he made his way to the break room for coffee and something to eat. Though he'd seen a couple other interns working in their respective areas, they hadn't encouraged conversation and neither seemed to take breaks. He enjoyed his coffee and some of the fresh doughnuts. He would have to get a nap later. There should be time after the press conference. The lack of rest was starting to catch up to him but it wouldn't be long before the town came to life and he'd be able to take care of all the jobs involving running around for the writers.
Maybe just a quick nap… He thought as he looked at the clock. Business hours were seven in the morning to eight at night according to the sign on the door and it was only a few minutes past five. The coffee wasn't bad but it wasn't enough to combat his exhaustion, either. He returned to his desk and stretched out in the bed. This time sleep was quick in coming.
"That is not a productive use of time, Mr. Warren."
His heavy eyelids reluctantly obeyed the command to open and he took in the condescending smile of Ms. Ward. He yawned and sat up, bit back some less than complimentary thoughts about productive writers and tried to formulate a more acceptable response. "A tired brain is not productive, it makes mistakes."
She gave him a grudging nod. "Did you get anything done to warrant sleeping late?"
"Yes," he said more sharply than he intended as he grabbed the stack of papers he'd spent most of the night deciphering and alphabetizing for her. "I just hadn't gotten this to your desk yet."
"Try to have your work delivered promptly next time." She suggested as she took them and headed back to her workspace.
I loathe that woman. He grumbled silently to himself. Once more he trudged to the break room and downed two cups of coffee as quick as he could before pouring a third to sip at his desk while he woke up and planned out his errands.
Aside from the obsession with being productive and temporarily living at the office, this job wasn't bad. At least he didn't have to deal with a constant stream of strange and irritable customers. Of course he did have to deal with the strange and cheerful people around town... It was almost as bad.
He was on his way out of the building when he caught sight of his reflection and immediately turned for the bathroom. He looked awful. There were no razors so there wasn't much he could do about stubble but he washed his hair in the sink and dried it as quick as he could, glad it was too short for tangles.
He reminded himself to ask when they got paid so he could buy some new clothes. By the end of the day he was quite certain it would be hard not to look like a hobo. He wasn't sure what they expected, though. It was hard not to be bitter about losing the nice clothes back home but there was no telling what would happen if he went back for them. He might end up in the Dark Box, permanently erased from history.
Once he was as cleaned up as he could get he headed out to see if he could find the man he was supposed to interview for Mr. Barker. The problem was this man sold hot dogs from a cart he pushed around town. Of course people were helpful and pointed him in the direction they saw the man going when he passed by but it still took the better part of the morning to catch up.
By then he was outside the theater offering food to those leaving the previous show. He stared at the show listing in uncertainty for a moment. They were all live shows but mostly seemed to be training sessions for a company called StrexCorp, group worship of a Smiling God, and lectures on efficiency.
He wasn't sure how any of that was entertainment. Night Vale's theater was far superior with mime shows and blind poetry readings. Sometimes the performers even finished before the Sheriff's Secret Police took them away. He shook off the fond memories of the past and went to chat with the intensely optimistic man with the hot dog cart. He was barely able to focus on the questions as he wrote the bizarre answers. The man loved hot dogs and wanted to share his love with the whole town. He was excited because StrexCorp had decided to fund his cart and buy twenty more. They would be circulating the town twenty four hours a day starting next week.
He escaped the unnervingly wide smile as quickly as possible and hurried to pick up the sculpture for Mr. Barker. The address listed was for an office building. In the lobby was a woman holding a platter with a roasted turkey and vegetables. He approached the woman with her impatient grin and saw that everything on the platter was made with painted dry pasta.
"I'm so glad you showed up! This was getting heavy and I really must get back to work." She said with a faint overtone of frustration.
"Yeah, looks like it might. It's... really detailed..." He set the money that had been sent for the purpose on the edge of the platter and took the large, surprisingly weighty sculpture from her. She plucked the money up and took off toward the elevator at a quick walk.
Shaking his head, he headed back to the newspaper offices. It wasn't a short enough walk and he had to set the ugly thing down a few times to rest his arms. He was increasingly sure she used a bag full of sand as a base to glue all the pasta to. As creative as the piece was, he had no idea why anyone would pay real money for it.
Once that had been dropped off with the bizarrely appreciative writer he rushed to find Mr. Powell. He grabbed a notepad and pen on the way by his desk and next thing he knew he'd been rushed into the back of a company car as the older man drove as quickly as was safe to the city hall. They were almost late thanks to that stupid turkey.
The large, grandly decorated entry hall of the building was full of people and even though Mr. Powell pushed, wiggled and dragged Jason into the crowd they didn't even make it halfway to the front before the mayor on the balcony overlooking the people below called them to order.
Jason scribbled as fast as he could legibly as he ranted about the glory of Desert Bluffs and the Smiling God who gives warmth to everyone. Then he moved on to how great StrexCorp was and how some day, under their leadership, Desert Bluffs would destroy Night Vale.
He paused and bit his lip. They seriously believed that? They thought this horrible town would ever be strong enough to take over Night Vale?
Before he could get hold of himself he began to laugh. The faces that turned to him were, for the first time, void of smiles. This only made him laugh harder as the air around him began turning distinctly yellow. People tried to back away but there were too many and before long there was chaos, people collapsing and laughing all around him amid a yellow fog.
Jason fell to his knees as his vision began darkening, the lack of oxygen... so hard to get a full breath around the hysterical laughter... Then there was new movement.
The Sheriff's Secret Police, now wearing gas masks, flooded in and spread out, and pulled fleeing people back into the yellow air. A gas mask dropped over Jason's face and he felt another needle jab.
Slowly he regained control and forced himself to take deep breaths. The darkness receded and he struggled to his feet.
"Good job." The vocoder obscured voice of the Sheriff said from behind him. "I think you infected most important people in town."
"What?" He looked around in shock at the people sprawled unconscious around them.
"Wonder how long it will take for them to find the cure." The Sheriff mused. Jason swore he heard a hint of amusement in that voice... "Let's get back to civilization. You have a new job to get used to."
"New job?" He asked weakly. He couldn't argue, not with the Sheriff. He took the deep hooded robe one of the Secret Police handed him. "I'm..."
"One of the hooded figures." The Sheriff nodded, guiding him to one of the blue helicopters waiting outside.