The graveyard shift where the security guard thought he saw aliens
Working the graveyard shift at a massive logistics center is usually defined by a very specific, suffocating kind of silence. It is not exactly peaceful; it is more like the absence of humanity. The facility is a sprawling maze of concrete, steel beams, and cavernous warehouse space that feels hollowed out once the sun goes down. My nights are typically populated by nothing more than the low, mechanical hum of the industrial cooling systems, the erratic clatter of the vending machines as they settle, and the occasional scuttle of a mouse darting across the loading docks. I had been working this beat for a couple of years, so I was used to the routine. My partner for the night was Gary. Gary had only been with the security firm for about six months, and usually, he was a pretty standard guy. He was quiet, kept to himself, and did his rounds without much fuss. But tonight, the atmosphere in the tiny, windowless security office was thick with a strange tension that I could not quite pin down. We were wedged into that cramped room, which smelled faintly of stale floor wax and cold microwave pizza. From the moment he clocked in, Gary was a live wire. He had clearly been hitting the breakroom coffee pot hard, probably knocking back four or five cups of that burnt, bitter sludge they stock for the night shift. He was jittery, his leg tapping a frantic rhythm against the metal leg of his desk, and his eyes had a manic, wide-awake quality that made me feel uneasy. Every few minutes, he would grip the edge of his desk so hard that his knuckles looked like they were going to pop through his skin. When the security lighting in the main parking lot flickered—which it did constantly because the facility management refused to pay for a repair—Gary would gasp audibly, his whole body jolting as if he had been shocked. I was trying to focus on a day crossword puzzle, searching for a six-letter word for a type of fabric, but it was impossible to maintain any train of thought. Gary kept staring at the wall of flickering security monitors, his gaze darting from one grainy, black-and-white feed to the next with an intensity that was bordering on obsession. He wouldn't leave me alone. Every time I tried to write a letter, he would lean over my shoulder, pointing a trembling finger at one of the blurry, low-resolution views of the back lot near the loading bays. He whispered that there was a secret signal hidden in the way the lights pulsed. He genuinely thought the short-circuiting electrical fixture was a complex message from an extraterrestrial source. I sighed and tried to keep my tone calm, explaining for the third time that the bulb was simply dying and that it was a known issue the maintenance crew had been putting off for weeks. He wouldn't listen. He insisted that the shifting shadows cast by the large commercial dumpsters were actually the silhouettes of aliens moving toward the building. He was convinced we were being watched, or perhaps even probed. I told him he had definitely had too much caffeine and that he needed to sit down, take a deep breath, and calm his nerves before he worked himself into a panic attack. I tried to sound like the voice of reason, but he was beyond listening. He started pacing the narrow room like a caged animal, his boots squeaking against the linoleum. He was convinced that he had been chosen to make contact. He told me he felt a calling, that he had to go outside and confront the visitors face-to-face. I tried to reason with him again, pointing out that even if he went out there, he would only find a stray cat or maybe a raccoon scavenging for scraps in the trash, but he wasn't hearing any of it. He reached under the counter, grabbed his heavy-duty, industrial-strength flashlight, and clicked it on with a sharp snap. He stood there with his jaw set, acting as if he were on some kind of high-stakes mission to save the planet from an imminent invasion. I told him he was being incredibly silly and that if the night manager caught him acting this way, we’d both be out of a job. He didn't care. He was locked into his own reality now. He turned, pushed through the heavy security door, and vanished into the darkness. I immediately swung my chair around and pulled up the feed for the back lot on the main screen to keep an eye on him. I watched as his small, nervous frame moved through the vast expanse of the asphalt. He was shining that massive beam of light in every direction, sweeping it across the fence line and the storage containers with wild, panicked movements. He looked ridiculous, like a child lost in the woods with a toy. Suddenly, the automatic sprinkler system, set on a timer to hydrate the patches of grass along the perimeter, hissed to life with a loud, mechanical spray. A massive blast of water caught Gary square in the chest. He let out a strangled yelp, his flashlight went flying from his grip, and he lost his footing on the slick, water-covered pavement. He went down hard, arms flailing as he tried to find purchase on the wet ground. It looked like he was wrestling with a phantom, kicking his legs and swiping at the air as the sprinkler continued to rotate, drenching him completely. I couldn't help it; a loud, uncontrollable laugh burst out of my chest, even though I felt a little guilty for finding his misfortune so funny. It was the absurdity of the moment, the contrast between his grand mission and the reality of a lawn irrigation system. I watched him scramble to his feet, dripping wet and shivering, and sheepishly retrieve his flashlight. Ten minutes later, the door creaked open, and Gary walked back into the office. He looked like a drowned rat, his uniform sticking to his body and water pooling around his boots. He didn't say a word. He looked utterly humiliated. He marched over, tossed the wet, flickering flashlight onto the desk, and slumped into his chair without making eye contact. He finally muttered that it was just the sprinklers, his voice devoid of any of the excitement he’d had earlier. I didn't push him. I just reached into my locker, pulled out a spare dry towel, and handed it to him. He took it silently, and I turned back to my crossword. Working the graveyard shift is never dull, but I think I prefer the quiet nights.