Story code: ST-000104
Part 2: The Yellow Box
Marisol lunged, slamming her right hand flat onto the corrugated lid of the third box before Davis could grab it.
The sudden, violent motion ripped through her lower abdomen like a serrated blade. She gasped, swallowing the sound behind tightly locked teeth, the metallic taste of copper flooding her tongue. The fluorescent lights overhead flared into a blinding halo as she fought to keep her knees from buckling under the sudden weight of the agony.
“I’m using that,” Marisol choked out, her voice a strained, breathless rasp.
Davis paused, his hand hovering over the cardboard seam. He stared at her pale knuckles, then tracked his gaze up to her sweating face. His brow furrowed above the thick frames of his safety glasses. He didn’t see a human being in the throes of sheer physical torment; he only saw a malfunctioning unit on his assembly line.
“You are actively packing nothing,” Davis said, his voice flat and perfectly calibrated to cut through the mechanical roar of the conveyor belts. “You have six consecutive empty scans. You are intentionally blocking the optical sensor. Release the box, Marisol.”
She pressed her weight harder against the cold metal edge of the table. Her left hand remained buried deep in the bunched fabric of her polo shirt, pinning it fiercely against her hip. Beneath the heavy denim of her work pants, a terrifying, thick warmth was soaking through the fabric. It was spreading rapidly, pooling at the top of her thigh. She needed the shadow behind the workstation. She needed the visual barrier of the cardboard. If he took the remaining boxes, the black dome camera hanging from the ceiling strut would have an unobstructed, top-down view of her lower body.
“I said release it,” Davis commanded.
He didn’t wait for her to comply. He twisted his wrist, using his superior leverage to rip the box out from under her trembling palm. Marisol’s hand dropped to the steel grating. The cardboard wall plummeted another twelve inches.
Now, the barricade only reached her mid-stomach. The unblinking dome of the camera above them seemed to swivel a fraction of an inch, a tiny red recording light reflecting off the endless rows of LED bar lights.
Her forearm tracker emitted a sharp, buzzing vibration against her skin. The tiny LCD screen flared a harsh yellow, the black digits dropping relentlessly. *00:15… 00:14…*
Davis tapped the screen of his tablet, his eyes scanning the cascading lines of sterile data. “Your Time Off Task is accumulating. You are thirty seconds away from an automated write-up. Are you refusing to work?”
“I need… to go to the restroom,” Marisol whispered, bracing both hands on the edge of the packing scale to stay upright. The icy metal bit into her palms. Another wave of cramps hit her core, so intense and absolute that her vision swam with dark, jagged static.
Davis sighed, swiping a finger across his tablet to bring up a new menu. “Your metric dashboard shows you utilized your ten-minute personal break allotment two hours and fourteen minutes ago. You don’t have any accrued emergency time. If you leave Station 4B right now, the system will log it as job abandonment.”
“Please,” she breathed, a cold sweat dripping down the back of her neck. “It’s a medical emergency.”
Davis looked up, his expression hardening. He stepped off the rubber anti-fatigue mat and moved to the side of her workstation, craning his neck to get a clear line of sight around the metal packing table. “Medical? Are you injured? Did you suffer a workplace impact?”
Marisol pivoted instantly, dragging her heavy right boot across the floor to keep her body squared entirely toward him and the table. The movement forced her injured core to twist. A wet, tearing sensation echoed deep in her pelvis. She squeezed her eyes shut, terrified to even look down. The damp heat was creeping past her knee now, sliding down the inside of her calf, trapped beneath the stiff fabric of her jeans.
“No impact,” she managed to say over the deafening clatter of yellow plastic totes rolling by on the belt behind them. “Just… sick. I need a bathroom.”
“If it’s not a workplace injury, I can’t trigger an override without HR approval,” Davis said. He studied her rigid, unnatural posture, his eyes narrowing as he took in the way she kept herself glued to the table edge. He looked back at his tablet, processing the logic. “You’re hiding behind the station. You’re scanning ghost labels to trick the scale. You’re aggressively refusing to step away from the belt.”
He looked back up, his gaze locking onto her. The data had finally generated a conclusion in his mind.
“You’re stashing product,” Davis said. It wasn’t a question.
“What? No!” Marisol shook her head violently, panic piercing through the haze of pain. “I don’t have anything.”
“You’re obstructing the camera because you have unauthorized inventory on your person,” Davis said, his voice dropping into the severe, authoritative tone of a corporate enforcer. “That explains the dummy scans. You were trying to build a blind spot to conceal a theft.”
“I’m not stealing!” Marisol cried, desperation tearing at her throat. “Look at the bins! Everything is empty! I just need to leave the floor!”
“Step out from behind the desk,” Davis ordered. He pointed a rigid finger at the wide yellow safety stripe painted on the concrete aisle. “Step into the walkway. Right now. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Davis, please, don’t do this.”
“Step into the yellow box, Marisol, or I am calling Loss Prevention.”
The warehouse roared around them, an ocean of automated indifference. Marisol stared at the yellow box painted on the concrete floor. It was three feet away. To get there, she would have to let go of the table. She would have to stand fully upright under the blazing fluorescent lights and the unblinking camera.
She took a shallow, shuddering breath. The intense pressure in her abdomen suddenly gave way to a sickening release.
A heavy drop of dark, crimson fluid slipped free from the frayed hem of her denim jeans. It fell in agonizing slow motion, landing with a soft, wet splat against the edge of the black rubber mat, entirely obscured from Davis’s current vantage point.
Marisol stared at the dime-sized pool of blood. Another drop fell, hitting the exact same spot, widening the dark circle.
Her forearm tracker vibrated violently. The screen flashed a brilliant, blinding red.
*00:00. Time Off Task Critical.*
Davis reached to his shoulder and unclipped his two-way radio. “Security, this is Sector Four Management. I have a 10-80 at Station 4B. Need a female guard for a physical pocket check. Associate is refusing to step away from the terminal.”
Marisol squeezed her eyes shut as a third drop hit the floor, soaking into the fabric of her sock. If she stepped out into that bright yellow box, the trail would follow her for everyone to see. If she stayed, the guards would drag her out.