Mac's alarm screamed long before sunrise. He didn't bother snoozing it anymore. Time didn't mean much when you were between jobs — one rejection email away from starving hope. He silenced the clock, rolled over, and stared at the cracked ceiling of his one-room apartment, its paint curling like old skin.
Another day, another dozen applications.
Outside, Nebraska City still pretended to hum with life — street vendors hawking overpriced food, delivery drones whining above gridlocked roads, and LED signs preaching slogans about "growth opportunities." Mac knew better. Growth had been eaten years ago by inflation, automation, and men in polished suits. Now, every job board looked like a war memorial.
He checked his mail — three new replies.
We regret to inform you...
We've decided to move forward with another candidate...
Your qualifications are impressive, but...
He didn't bother finishing the third one.
Mac brewed instant coffee, half water, half powdered milk. His younger sister, Aimee, was still asleep on the couch, tangled in a blanket. His brother, Josh, had left early for warehouse shifts. They'd stopped asking Mac when he'd find something stable. Everyone was tired of pretending the system still worked.
By noon, he was downtown, stapling paper resumes on bulletin boards that nobody read. Most storefronts were either boarded up or staffed by androids behind flickering glass. Every corner had people arguing about phantom job offers, about secret hiring agencies, about "red-sealed letters" that supposedly changed lives.
Mac ignored them. Desperation made people see miracles in spam.
That evening, while scrolling job listings on his old laptop, his inbox pinged.
Sender: Crimson Cross Employment Division
Subject: Employment Opportunity — Immediate Placement Available
He frowned. Never heard of them. The email header was too clean — official crest, holographic watermark, no grammar errors. Not the usual scam.
> "Dear Mr. Mac,
Our evaluation process has selected you for direct recruitment under the Crimson Cross Otherworldly Employment Program. Participation is mandatory upon acceptance. Failure to comply within 14 days will result in auto-enrollment.
Position: Field Associate (Rotational)
Compensation: Full medical, housing credit, and transdimensional hazard pay.
Commencement Date: To be determined.
Notice: Terms and risks apply.
Regards,
Human Resources — Crimson Cross Division"
There was no link, no button, no number. Just a red sigil below the signature — a cross enclosed in a circle of thorns.
Mac sat back. "Otherworldly employment"? Sounded like one of those VR scams or cryptic cults from Reddit. He deleted it.
---
Two weeks passed.
The letter came physically this time — black envelope, embossed with the same sigil. No sender address. Inside: a short parchment-like sheet, folded twice.
> "To our chosen applicant:
The first pull begins tonight.
Remain calm. Obey instructions.
Crimson Cross ensures your service will be rewarded.
Remember: Employment cannot be declined.
– Division of Transference"
His stomach tightened. The paper smelled faintly metallic, like blood. A thin static pricked his fingers where he touched the ink. He dropped it.
The room dimmed for a moment — lights flickering, power surging. Aimee yelled from the couch. "Mac! Power's out again?"
But when he looked outside, the city was still lit. Only his apartment had gone dark.
Then came the hum.
Low at first, like a subwoofer buried beneath the floor. It climbed through his bones — a vibration too deep to be sound. His phone buzzed uncontrollably, screen flashing crimson symbols he couldn't read. His laptop burst into static.
And then everything bent.
The walls rippled like fabric. His shadow stretched across them, twisting, fracturing into pieces. He tried to stand, but the floor tilted sideways. Air turned heavy, syrup-thick.
A whisper filled his ear:
> "Employee identified. Transfer initiated."
The world imploded.
---
When he opened his eyes, the sky was wrong.
It wasn't night or day — just a dull red haze that pulsed faintly, like a living heart. The air smelled of ash and rust. Mac lay on cracked stone, surrounded by skeletal trees whose branches clawed at the sky.
He was wearing the same clothes, but his left wrist bore a faint red mark — the Crimson Cross sigil, glowing faintly beneath the skin.
Ahead, a metallic sign creaked in the wind:
"Welcome to Ashen Wastes – Zone 4 Employment Sector."
A voice echoed from nowhere, calm and cold:
> "Employee #00792 – Mac Donovan.
Assignment: Courier.
Objective: Deliver parcel to the boundary marker, 140 miles north.
Rules apply."
A box materialized before him — small, rusted, sealed with crimson wax.
Then the rules scrolled into the air like smoke:
1. The road ahead will not remain the same twice.
2. The sun never sets here — but if it dims, hide.
3. Never open the parcel.
4. Walk forward. Do not turn back.
5. Completion ensures continued employment.
Mac's throat tightened. His heart hammered.
He took one hesitant step forward — the air shimmered.
In the distance, something moved.
A shape — tall, limping, dragging chains across the road. It paused, then tilted its head toward him, sniffing.
Mac gripped the box tighter. His fingers bled where the edges cut him, but he didn't let go.
He started walking.
One mile. Then two.
The wind screamed like a dying animal. Figures watched from the treeline — pale, eyeless, whispering in static. He wanted to run, but the voice returned:
> "Deviation detected. Maintain forward trajectory."
By the twentieth mile, he no longer felt time. Hunger faded. Sleep blurred. The red sky never dimmed — until it finally did.
Dim.
Not dark. Just less red.
He froze.
The rule whispered through his mind: If it dims, hide.
He dove behind a cracked signpost, clutching the box. The world fell silent.
Then came the footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Chains scraping stone.
It stopped just inches away.
Mac held his breath.
A hand — blackened, skeletal — brushed the edge of the sign. It lingered... then moved on.
When the light brightened again, he crawled out, shaking. His wrist mark flickered once, faintly pulsing — as if the sigil itself were watching.
He didn't know how long he walked after that. Hours? Days?
At mile 140, the road ended in a broken spire — a boundary marker. He placed the parcel down.
The voice returned, colder this time:
> "Delivery confirmed. Employment retained. Key issued."
A small, rusted key appeared in his palm.
Before he could question it, the ground fell away.
He woke in his apartment, drenched in sweat. The letter lay burned to ash beside his bed.
A faint scar glowed red on his wrist.
Outside, the morning sun rose — ordinary, warm, comforting. But in the distance, a billboard flickered.
CRIMSON CROSS – WE'RE HIRING.