Terrible Choice (2025)

“Where’s the new guy?” Tom barked breathlessly over the hammering and saws, his voice cutting across the din. Sweat slicked his brow as he planted his gloved fists on his hips, scanning the site.

Greg glanced up from his clipboard, pencil tucked behind his ear. “What do you mean, where? He’s not here?” His eyes swept the site as if the kid might sheepishly crawl out from behind a stack of plywood.

Tom shifted his stance, nodding toward the gate. “You said ten sharp. Haven’t seen him once.”

Greg’s frown deepened, clipboard pressed to his chest. “Strange. His old man vouched for him, he swore he was dependable.”

“Not so dependable if he’s a no-show,” Tom muttered, wiping at his face with a grimy glove.

Greg rubbed his jaw, unsettled. “No. Kid should’ve been here before I finished my coffee.” His gaze lingered on the silent gate as though the missing worker might finally stroll through. The gravel remained empty, still. “Well, just keep an eye out. I’ll talk to him when he gets here.”

Tom gave a grunt, lowering his voice as he stepped away.

“Sure, sure...but you know…” His whisper tapered off, swallowed by the grind of machinery. Then he walked on, boots thudding into the dirt.

—

He had been screaming since ten.

At first, he believed his voice might carry, that his raw panic could somehow pierce the world of engines and shouted orders. But at this scale, his lungs could only force out a mosquito’s squeal, smothered by the roar of labour.

The grass was a forest, blades arching over him like green girders. His shoes caked with wet earth, his hands raw from clawing stalks aside, he pressed on through clumps of soil that loomed like boulders. Every tremor sent his heart hammering—each quake the herald of a boot crashing down somewhere close, each step a wrecking ball that dislodged pebbles rolling at him like loose debris.

When at last he broke free into open dirt, relief shot through him. There they were. Giants. Tom and Greg stood together, their bodies monuments of flesh and denim, their voices booming and distorted by distance until each word was more thunder than speech. He lifted his arms, screaming until his throat tore.

“HEY!! I’M HERE! DOWN HERE! PLEASE!”

Greg only frowned at his clipboard. Tom’s laugh shook the air like distant machinery.

Then the sky darkened.

Tom’s boot rose, massive sole caked in dust and gravel. Each groove in the tread was a trench deeper than anything the tiny man had crossed. He stumbled backward, flailing, every nerve in his body aflame with terror.

“I-I’m here! Don’t-!”

The leather creaked as the sole flexed. Air punched out in a hot rush that nearly bowled him over. The boot slammed down just ahead, inches from crushing him outright. The shockwave toppled him into the dirt as dust avalanched over his body, choking, blinding.

Above, Tom’s voice rumbled, casual, cruelly indifferent. “Terrible choice for a new guy.”

And then he was gone, each stride erasing the tiny man’s cries beneath the grind of boots and the noise of the site. Left sprawled in the cavern of the footprint, the new hire wheezed for air, the mark of his near-death already filling with loose soil.