Fire and Brimstone

Prologue:

There weren't always dragons in the Valley, but with the rediscovery of the once believed fictional species, the population of dragons breading in the late 21st century was contributing to a new plague on humanity.

Freya parted the blinds at 6 AM sharp of her San Jose loft, a cup of earl gray in hand, and peered out the window. During this inch of the civilized timeline, looking outside before you hop into your car was ideal.

Wouldn’t want to get mowed down by a dragon, she thought bitterly. Her brow furrowed and she took a zip of her honey-sweetened tea, her heart thumping in alarm at the up snores of her sleeping boyfriend in their bed. He’d fallen asleep wearing his flame-resistant protective suit, the globe shape helmet that looked like it belonged to an astronaut perched on the bedside table.

Freya left the room and pulled a butter croissant out of the oven and flipped on the TV. CNN was reporting about failing to contain an unknown species of dragons roosting in the crevices of Silicon Valley. The rediscovery of this once believed species was due to a botched experiment at Berkly that cut a rift in the space-time continuum and had allowed a legion of transdimensional creatures of a celestial nature to plague the modern world. Dragons were the most threatening. Freya felt a pair of rubbery hands on her shoulders.

“You’re up early?” Juan asked planting an ash-smelling kiss on Freya’s lips. “You don’t have to be at work until 9.”

“I know, but with this new dragon thing I like to get an early start before something weird happens.”

“But that’s what we’re here for,” Juan said pointing to his flame-resistant suit.

“I should get you a name tag that says Dragon-Slayer.”

“Don’t you mean Dracoterribiliesrexlacerta Containment Unit?”

Juan had taken the gig at a whopping $300 an hour, which barely made a dent in a world where fuel prices for those who couldn’t afford an electric car had settled to an even $30 a gallon. Juan had served at the D.T.C.U. for over a year.

“I’m off,” Freya announced giving a small sarcastic jovial two fists in the air.

“You make it sound so glum,” Juan countered.

“Just trying not to get incinerated is all.”

“You’ll be fine, you’ve got your fire extinguisher in your car?”

“You bet.”

“And your office?”

“They have one under every desk.”

As Freya drove through the streets of San Jose in her 35-year-old sedan, with hyperinflation and the cost-of-living skyrocketing with this new discovery of dragons, existing was for the shrewd. Her eyes fell, as she waited at a stop light, on a group of people dawning magenta robes holding displays about the end of days, and more specifically “the beast is here it has risen out of the water”.

Freya rolled her eyes and zoomed into a parking garage that charged her $65 to park her car for the day. As she stepped into the elevator the familiar smell of burning and ash filled her nostrils to her own discontent and caused her to gag a little. Freya Lorenzo was a columnist at Silicon Valley Metro, a free weekly newspaper where she usually offered dating advice. However, as of the last 6 weeks with “Dragons Moving to the Valley”, this seemed to be the subject that her boss Patrice, the editor-in-chief, demanded of her.

Situationally depressed about what was to come, Freya closed her eyes and cradled her face in her hands. The smack of a stack of papers hitting her desk irked her into alertness.

Patrice’s hardened face, and chin-length chestnut bob quivered. The points on her freshly starched brown pantsuit a sharp contrast to Freya’s floral-patterned knee-length sundress heightened her even more astute demeanor. Both of their brown eyes locked in a moment.

“Whatever it is that you think that you’re going through, I suggest you shake it off. Last week I published an edition that was so thin it may as well have been a one-sheet. Readership is up, and I suggest we prove the reason for us to continue to capitalize.”

Freya ran a hand through her curly dark hair.

“I’m guessing, the “save a tree send an email” article that I published last year fell on deaf ears,” Freya drawled flipping through the pages of detailed accounts of more fire, brimstone, and ash.

“Anyway, girl you know what I mean,” Patrice said softening up and putting a hand on Frey’s shoulder before stalking away, her squared heels clogging on the floor become more muffled as the nest of cubicles filled with a combination of suits and ties, sweatpants, and tee shirts. The smell of espresso and lattes filled the room.

“Flammable too,” Freya muttered to herself smacking the papers back down on her own desk, turning to face the floor to ceiling windows adjacent to the valley.

As if on cue the snap of shattering glass blew through the workspace. Freya felt the shards of glass pour onto her shoulders, fortunate for her had they had been replaced with an anti-cut mineral. Instinctively she covered her head as the fire alarm went off, and the smell of Ash intensified.

“Places everyone!” Patrice called over the gabbling that had now turned into frantic screams.

Freya dove under her desk and grabbed her fire extinguisher and peered out onto the floor where a roll of flames laced the room.

Patrice raced to an adjacent wall where a large red button was fixed and slammed it with the palm of her hand that emitted a very loud high-pitched frequency before neatly placing ear plugs into her own ears. All the other employees grabbed their ears and moaned in agony, followed by a shrill high-pitched cry of what looked to be small… Dragon. The creature had landed in the office that was on the top floor was only about four feet tall weighing 150lbs and began to thrash around throwing desks and cubicles askew before darting like an arrow out of the window that it had shattered next to Freya’s cubical amidst the flap of leathery wings that nearly six feet each.

Patrice smacked the red button on the wall silencing the room, and adjusted her suit, before stalking back over to Freya. “Nix the research,” she said with a jovial smile.

“You my dear, have a first-hand account!”