The bus rumbled exasperatedly away down the long stretch of sizzling road, and she was left in echoing isolation. The finality of her decision became more apparent as the coughs and gags of the rusted fossil faded from earshot. She took a deep breath of the torrid air; it raked at her lungs like a sheet of needles, and the stagnant heat bore down like a coat of lead.
From its zenith, the sun stared down unrelentingly on the desert below, silhouetting avian specters from overhead. The woman looked skyward; vultures had already begun to play their waiting game. She noted their lack of subtlety as they circled above and made their caws as though they were heckling.
It happened nearly subconsciously now, but she looked down and found that familiar silver case in her hand again. The itch was normally patient, subdued, and even docile for a time, but that uncomfortably commonplace urge that nagged at her could be overwhelmingly persistent. Before anything else, she needed a cigarette. It had been hours, and she'd been good. The woman slung the case open, and a row of expensive smokes greeted her. She plucked the left-most from its home, shut the thin box, and placed it back in her breast pocket. With her other hand, she retrieved her lighter and set the stick aflame.
After a particularly long drag, she adjusted her attention to the business ahead of her. Just as she suspected, her stop had marooned her on the edge of a "town" in the middle of the American Southwest. Not only was she hours away from anything resembling a city, she'd be in a place described as, "charmingly rustic and quaint."
She judged herself to be roughly walking distance from the thick of town, or at least from something more than gas stations surrounded with sizable patches of Mann Co. billboards. Much like the vultures, her new employers had a profound flair for self-evidence. Wasting no more time, she marched on; the road ahead was lengthy. Ridiculing her bosses would have to wait awhile, or perhaps only until she met coworkers.
After ten minutes of trekking, she had reached Teufort's main road, and the heat had noticeably diminished to a near bearable state. There were two broad lanes for vehicles, and the sidewalks were spread with a few yokels going about their lives. With a leisurely, but businesslike, stride, she coasted down the pavement and observed the sights.
The town itself was indeed "quaint," but that was putting it nicely, she'd admit. She was almost surprised she hadn't seen a saloon, but the most striking feature of the frontier hamlet was its pacing. There was no rush, no urgency. It was as though time were some kind of after-thought, like it hardly mattered. She pondered how the people could actually get any kind of work done with the near glacial speed of their parading. The main road was lined with little shops: family owned and "All-American."
The town gave the façade of friendliness. Teufort was unaccustomed to newcomers it seemed; the disturbed and quizzical looks she received made it stark. Apparently, women in tailored pantsuits were like the local jackalopes. They were only heard of in stories but never actually seen. A smug smile almost crept to her lips, as she wouldn't be seeing them again, or, to put it more accurately, they wouldn't be seeing her.
As the woman scanned her surroundings, she straightened her silky, crimson necktie. She wore a burgundy suit with a black pinstripe pattern. A fitted dress shirt the color of ivory was nestled beneath the suit jacket. The suit was meticulously kept and tailored perfectly. It, no doubt, cost a small fortune, but the impression the suit gave out-weighted any expense.
It didn't take very long for the woman to gain a fair understanding of her new residence's topography, but she wanted to go over it again. She mentally mapped as she went and noted points of interest. When she was satisfied, the woman shot a glance to her wristwatch. She'd planned initially to be early, as is the professional standard and as a personal tenet. She shook her head, realizing she'd have to follow the breadcrumb trail of billboards, advertising fanciful headgear, to get to her destination.
The sun was beginning to retreat to the earthy bosom of the horizon, and the sky began to darken. The woman found herself on a lonely stretch of road with the diminishing light to her back; her shadow mimicking every move, but empty and numb, as though it were comatose. Signs dotted the roadsides more and more frequently, all happily assuring her that she was nearing her goal.
She came upon the massive factory complex in a matter of minutes. It was a concrete bastion, goliath in size, and walled in chain and stone. A forest of smokestacks jutted up like needy hands clawing toward the heavens. They spewed forth sickening geysers of oily-black fumes like ink blots staining paper or blood in the driven snow. This was an industrial cathedral: a shrine to capitalism.
She grimaced then paused at the double-door entrance. Reaching into her pocket, she took out her balaclava. The fabric was soft in her hands and warm burgundy in color. It was trustworthy. Her old friend invited her for a welcoming embrace. She pulled the mask over her head, obscuring her face. The woman's posture eased, and she tucked away any remaining blonde tendrils that strayed from the mask's constraints. The agoraphobic feeling of exposure retreated, as though she could finally breathe again.
With that she entered.