The Sins of Man

Connectivity was the type of company that called all its locations a “campus,” but when Kane looked around, he saw it for what it was: a former regional airport fifty miles south of his home in St. Louis converted into the main delivery hub for a consumer goods company, the old runways now a massive parking lot surrounded by fences and security checkpoints more appropriate for Homeland Security. Beyond the fence line was a small forest of red maples, their bright branches the first hints of the Ozarks to the south. After exiting his truck, Kane often rested his forearms on its roof and stared into the forest, trying to find the exact spot where, if he walked into the tree line, he could no longer be seen. He wondered if this same thought was what his ex-wife Alice was thinking during those last months of their marriage, when she often stood by the back of the house and stared into the yard: where and how will I disappear completely?

He locked the door, trying to mentally leave Alice in the cab of his truck where, under the front seat, he had been driving to and from work with his loaded Beretta. He was an ex-military man, always on time for his shift, never permitting himself to linger too long on the woods. He entered a makeshift lobby, stepping out of the oppressive Missouri heat and into the climate controlled airplane hangar that Connectivity had converted into a clean, sterile work space the length of a football field, and the only sound was the steady and unlocateable hum of electronics. On this end, there were a dozen Eagle’s Nests, each the size and shape of a shipping container. Kane strode to Nest #6, took the three wooden steps to the entry, keyed in, waited for the light over the keypad to change from red to green, and pulled the door open.

“What’s the word?” Kane asked. Schroeder, his Eagle’s Nest partner, turned from the monitors. He too was ex-military, with the ruddy complexion of a man who had lived too hard for too long. For ten hours, they shared this windowless box lit almost entirely by the glow of computer and television monitors on all of the four surrounding walls. The floors made of vulcanized rubber hushed their footsteps, and up in the corner opposite the doorway, a Febreze Car Vent Clip worked its magic, filling the room with a chemical “fresh citrus” smell of overripe fruit. Schroeder tilted his chair back.

“Ozarks have been quiet today,” Schroeder said. “All week, actually. Control thinks the militia might have another attack planned.”

“An organized one?”

“That’s the rumor.”

“An attack on the planes, or on us?”

“Honest, buddy?” Schroder said. “No one knows.”

“I thought we took this job to avoid that shit.”

“I took this job for the donuts. Got some pretty good donuts here.”

This was not hyperbole. Outside, on the hangar floor near the restrooms, there was a long series of banquet tables, covered by thick white tablecloths, stocked solely with donuts and coffee. Sugar and caffeine: the guys loved it. Kane’s favorite was the S’mores, a donut filled with gooey marshmallow, chocolate icing on top, and sprinkled with finely powdered graham crackers. Best goddamn donut he’s ever had.

“Manifest?” Kane asked.

“Thirty-six singles,” Schroeder said, passing a clipboard to Kane. “Then a whole bunch in Oklahoma. Here’s to continued good luck.”

Kane took his ergonomic chair, slipped headphones over his ears, and adjusted the slim microphone to a place just below his chin, out of his line of vision, keeping the six monitors in front of him visible. His first Drop Mission was in Mississippi. Pretty easy. He checked his monitors, verifying fuel levels, drone weight, merchandise integrity, FAA schedule, weather forecast, and the last maintenance test (logged at 1634 yesterday). Then, clearing all flight security and safety checks, Kane used the flight stick to ease his drone onto the runway. He was eighth in line. From inside his Nest, he couldn’t hear or...