The Archivist Pt. 1
A morning in Arkhangelsk.
The tram was late again. Or I was early. You can never tell because the clock ticks backwards every other tick, then catches itself. Like it’s covering for its own secrets. I stopped paying attention a year ago. Not the locals though, they watch it like they expect an apology. An apology for what I’m not quite sure, the sins of the old union and order of things perhaps? It’s not my issue, just another daily oddity I suppose.
I’m still not used to the smell of this place. Been here 6 months and I still haven’t blocked it out yet. The air sticks to you like a clingwrap, especially with the fog. Always the fog. It sticks to you, your soles, your coat. And it follows you, like a stray cat. You can’t escape it this far north.
Passed the usual bakery on my way to the platform. Lights on and no ones home. Same as yesterday. And the day before, and the week. Always smells like cinnamon but there’s never any bread. I asked the woman way back when I first got here, but she looked at me like I wasn’t of this world. I’m still struggling with the language barrier. One day I’ll return.
6:05
The guard nodded at me at the gate. It’s never the same guy twice. Turnover must be astronomical. When you can count repeat faces on one hand, it’s not worth learning names.
The air’s cleaner at the facility. Quieter. Far removed from the foreign city I lay my head in each night. Even by home’s standards, we’re deep in the sticks. Maybe that’s why I feel strangely at peace.
Warmth again. The humidity melts away as soon as I pass the inner doors. It shouldn’t be this humid—not this far north, not this time of year. But the warmth presses into my skin like a memory. For the salary, I let it. The housing allowance helps too.
417-6B
Welcome,
Zawisza, W.
Clocked in 6:27
Right on time. The floor tiles seem exceptionally loud today. Perhaps it was the dew hitching a ride on my boots as I made the walk from the station to the gate. Wet rubber hitting linoleum, in an industrial rhythm. One-two, one-two, squeak squawk, squeak squawk. Past the security booth down the hall with the chair still spinning. I’m not sure I saw anyone leave. Strange. The halls are quiet this time of morning, only a few researchers, librarians, team leads are in this early. I see…Tatiana, I think? She was a librarian who worked in my section. We talked a handful of times. Her boss was there too, least I think it was her boss. He looked like her boss, and it looked like she was talking to her boss too. Giving reports, something like that, hardly anyone gets in trouble here.
Corner took me by surprise. They’re way sharper than anywhere I’ve been in. They’ll break you if you’re not careful, like the architect’s, the engineers, even the contractors all had it out for any living soul who would eventually walk these halls.
The Soviet Union must’ve been absolute hell. Not the one you heard about, the one people lived through. I’ve walked these halls for about 5 months and never noticed this section actually narrows the further you walk it. You would never notice it otherwise. I suppose the fluorescents are dying or are a few days from busting, must be why I’m now noticing the hallway. Large bulletin board, preceded by two offices of people I’ve never met. Same couple of sheets as last week, with a fire-drill plan written in a language I only half understand. New schedule was posted. 7:00am-3:30Pm. Once I get promoted I can make my own hours. Nature of the job I suppose. It’s simple most days. Log this, scan that. We could run 24 hour days, but I’m sure nobody more important than I wanted to pay that electric bill.
|The Past Is the Foundation of Order|
No citation. No citation needed?
the elevator bay was quiet. Always was. The building seems to hold its breath in the artifact levels. The button stuck, you had to press like you really meant it. Like it owed you money. I waited.
I waited…
nine floors with an old freight elevator you tend to do a lot of waiting. Found that out week 3. Old girl was quirky like that.
foot hit something out of nowhere, and suddenly my foot felt warm. Is that coffee? Who leaves a coffee cup by the damn elevator? Half full, still steaming. I didn’t see anybody ahead of me. But I also didn’t look behind me, and maybe- just for a moment. I thought about taking a sip…
Thank you for taking the time to read this excerpt from the Archivist. This is part 1 of chapter 1. I wrote this whole chapter in about a day. I chose a stream of consciousness style of writing really just to get the ball rolling on the story. While this is a cosmic horror story, I want it to be grounded in absurd bureaucratic drudgery. It’ll make the real scares hit that much harder when events start breaking the pattern.
With that out of the way, I hope your hooked and want to come back for more. Next bits coming to you next week. Leave a comment and share this with someone who might enjoy it.