Intruders

Sammy Reader:

It's around midnight. The full is high in the pitch-black sky, shining its ghostly glow.

"Did you know that the moon's light is actually light reflecting from the sun," I told Oliver, kicking him in the shoulder.

"Nope," Oliver yawns. His head slips off his hand and almost bumps into the car's window.

"That's the fifth time tonight," I think.

The both of us are sitting in Oliver's mustang which is parked around the corner from the entrance to Newman's Chemical.

Dressed in a blackish-blue hoodie and long pants, he asked me why I was wearing a dark-red jacket. I told him it was the darkest thing I had. He shrugged his shoulders and drove the two of us here. We got here around seven p.m and since then, have eaten all the snacks Oliver brought, have taken a few naps, and because my legs were starting to fall asleep, I have turned myself upside down. Right now, I'm shooting a bunch of fun little facts at Oliver.

"Hey Oliver," I say.

"Yeah," Oliver answers.

"Did you know the process in which bread is toasted is called the 'maillard reaction'?"

"No. No, I did not."

"Hey, Oliver."

"What?"

"Did you know that the infamous Mr. Potato Head toy was the first-ever toy to be advertised on t.v.?"

"Is that so?"

"Hey, Oliver."

"Hmm."

"Did you know that in 2005, a fortune cookie company named Wonton Food actually correctly foretold the lottery number, resulting in 110 winners?"

"That's interesting. Wait, what? Really?"

"Hey, Oliver. Did you know that--"

"Sammy," Oliver says, "Please, oh please, no more fun facts! They're putting me to sleep."

Oliver sighs and shakes his head while rubbing his eyes.

"Sammy, we've been here for five hours. Five hours! Can we go home now? It's getting late, I'm tired, and I really don't want to fall asleep in my car again. Besides, I'm certain if you keep telling me fun facts, your head will fry."

Looking down at me, Oliver moves forward a little to pat me on the top of the head. I laugh and slap Oliver's hand away.

"Stop that," I say, turning myself right-side up. As soon as I'm sitting down again, I look at the entrance, only to see it's empty like the last five hours. I hope that if the thief was going to show up tonight, he or she would have done so by now.

"Maybe there isn't going to be a robbery," Oliver says. "At least, maybe not tonight. We can try coming back tomorrow night."

"Yeah," I say with a sigh. "I guess we should head home them. I mean, we both have school tomorrow."

With a nod of his head, Oliver reaches for the key already in the ignition. As he's about to turn it, I stop him.

"Hold on," I say, noticing an oncoming vehicle. "Someone's coming. Look over there."

"What is that," Oliver asks, "Is that a van?"

Driving up from the other end of the block is a white van, with the headlights on low. Slowly driving up to the front of the company, the van goes right past it. It turns the same corner we're hiding and passes us.

"Nevermind," Oliver says, reaching for his key again and once again, I have to stop him.

"Hold on," I say, still eyeing the white van. It drives to the end of the block and then turns left.

"The van," I say, looking at Oliver. "It turned left. Not right, but left."

"So?"

"Oliver, that isn't a street. That way leads to the back gate of Newman's Chemical, where all the shipping and delivery are done."

"Wait, the back gate?"

The two of us turn around to look at the street again before we look at each other. We both nod our heads and I finally let Oliver turns the key. As his mustang roars to life, he turns around and we follow after the van. Coming up to the back gate, we find it quickly closing and with no van in sight.

"He got inside," I shout, "He got inside! He's an employee! He must have some sort of passcode!"

"Wait, wait, wait," Oliver says, putting up his hands. "Hold up. How do we know this isn't just some late-night employee? I mean, you said this is where all the shipping and delivery are done, right? Maybe this could be a late-night delivery."

"No," I say, firmly shaking my head. "I know for a fact that since the chemicals have gone missing, Mr. Newman doesn't allow for any late-night delivery. No, the person, the driver, he or she is the culprit. They used the passcode to get in."

"Well I don't suppose you have your own passcode," Oliver says, pointing over to the keypad. "Because if you don't, then I think our stakeout is over for real this time. I mean, not unless you want to risk some cuts by climbing over the barbed wires on the top of these fences."

Despite the late night, I can still clearly see the shining, sharp barbed wires. Thinking it over, I decided to look at the keypad. Getting out, I walk over to it.

"Hmm," I say, examining the keypad closely. It's a simple keypad, one with numbers on top of yellow lights. As I lend in closer, I notice something off about some of the numbers.

"Grease stains," I say, rubbing one of the buttons. "They're fresh."

"What are you looking at," Oliver asks, scaring the daylight out of me. Jumping back and holding my chest, I punch my best friend in his shoulder.

"Ouch. What was that for?"

"For almost killing me," I reply.

"I just asked what you're looking so intensely at us. Speaking of which, what are you looking so intensely at? The keypad? What, did the boss write a spare passcode underneath?"

"It's not the keypad I'm looking at," I say, "It's these grease stains on the numbers I'm looking at. Look at this."

I point out the stains to Oliver.

"There are grease stains on four of these numbers. Fresh grease stains. My guess is that they're from the driver when he pressed them. When he pushed the buttons, grease got on them, and as he pushed more buttons, there was less grease leftover."

Nodding his head, Oliver and I look at the stain.

"9-2-6-1-6," we both say, pushing in the code and watching as the gates open.

"Oh," I say before getting back into the mustang. "And by the way, that's dumb."

"What is?"

"Writing a spare passcode under the keypad," I answer. "No one does that."

"You'll be surprised," Oliver replies, driving into the company.

It doesn't take us long to find the van. It's parked next to an open loading door with barrels of chemicals already next to it.

"There," I say, "We have our culprit. We have undeniable solid evidence. Let's call the police."

Oliver reaches into his pocket but while he does that, I get out.

"Hey, wait, what are you doing?"

"Checking something out," I say, running past the van and right through the loading door. Finding myself in a dark hallway without any lights, I try and listen for anything.

"There should be some noise," I think, "If someone is moving the chemicals from here to the van, then there should be noise. At the very least, the sound of someone grunting."

I tip-toe through the darkness, feeling my way around while still listening for anything. Eventually, I find an open door in the dark. Entering it, I now find myself in what looks like a laboratory.

There are counters in the lab, each covered with clipboards with papers on them, test tubes and test-tubes holders, each filled with different chemicals, beakers, flasks, and a bunch more.

"What is this place," someone says from behind me. Almost falling, I catch myself and turn around. About to scream, I stop when I see Oliver. I punch him in the shoulder again.

"Ouch," he says, rubbing his arm.

"Will you stop doing that," I yell, holding my chest, trying to keep my heartbeat from going too fast. It takes a few seconds but my heart rate finally returns to normal, a somehow steady pace between 60 and 100 beats per minute. Once it's back to normal, I look back at the lab.

"So again," Oliver says, "What is this place?"

"It must be one of the company's labs," I reply.

"Must be," Oliver repeats. "What, you've never been in here before?"

"I'm an intern. I get coffee, organize papers, and occasionally remind people of important meetings. I don't get to come in labs like this one."

"Well can you at least read this," Oliver asks, grabbing and handing me a nearby clipboard.

"What? No. I'm not looking at these. These are the company's notes! I'm not allowed to read these."

I push the clipboard away but Oliver pushes it back. With a roll of my eyes, I cave in and peek at it.

"Hmm," I say, looking through the notes written here. With the notes here, side-by-side with the charts and data, I look up at Oliver.

"This can't be right," I say, re-reading the notes. "No, this can't be for real. Seriously?"

"What? What is it? Hello? Standing right here?"

"Oh my god. Is this for real?"