HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

by Edited by Peter Giglio

  “I think you’re misunderstanding,” said Mr. Swanson. “I didn’t say that this was mandatory public display of affection. Rest assured that I would never demand that you dry-hump a co-worker. Goodness, no. I’m saying that if you felt the desire, and both parties consented to the act—or even three or four parties; we’re not judgmental of lifestyle choices here—it would be okay. Stress relief is very important to the work/life balance. But of course nobody will ever ask you to cheat on your husband. I promise you that.”

  “Oh. Okay. Still...”

  “This is just in the testing phase. We’ll try it for a week or two and see what happens.”

  “It’s not something I ever want to see.”

  Mr. Swanson frowned. “If you all object to progress, it won’t be a problem to return to our old methods. I was perfectly fine with the eight-to-five workday in the office and the hour lunch. I was simply trying to make things more pleasant for my employees.”

  “No, no, I appreciate that,” said Helena. “I apologize. I agree that we should test out this new policy for a couple of weeks to see if it works.”

  “Excellent. And now, somebody in this room has a very special anniversary!” said Mr. Swanson, winking at me as his administrative assistant brought in a tray full of cupcakes.

  The next two weeks were uneventful. Despite the new freedom, very little happened. At one point my two youngest co-workers, Charles and Lori, made out in the break room while I was getting a cup of coffee, but they quickly became uncomfortable and stopped.

  I saw no groping of any sort, though it’s possible that some happened while I was working from home.

  The next meeting was on a Monday, and those of us who worked from home on Mondays were told that we had to switch our scheduled work-from-home day that week. That wasn’t an issue. We’d been told when the program began that there would be instances where this might happen, and it was perfectly reasonable to expect to have meetings where everybody in the department was in attendance.

  As we walked into the meeting room, there was a long hunting knife on the table in front of each one of the chairs. We took our seats and said nothing, though of course everybody looked at the knives.

  “Nobody abused the public displays of affection policy,” said Mr. Swanson. “I’ll be honest, I thought for certain that I would have to reprimand somebody for penetration, but it didn’t happen, and I think we’re all happier with the policy in place. And I’m pleased to inform you all that violence is now acceptable."

  Everybody was silent as Mr. Swanson picked up one of the knives and stabbed at the air. “I shouldn’t even have to say this, but of course any fatal wounding is completely forbidden and will result in immediate disciplinary actions, up to and including termination of employment. If you’re going to stab, stab an appendage, such as an arm, and not a torso. Let’s not let this get out of hand. A rule of thumb is to ask yourself ‘Can my co-worker continue to perform his or her job duties?’ If the answer is ‘no,’ then stop stabbing. Any questions?”

  Helena raised her hand.

  “Helena?”

  “Can we opt out?”

  “Of being a stabber or stabbee?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, nobody is going to make you stab anyone. That’s simply not the way things operate around here. But, naturally, with this new policy some people are going to get stabbed who don’t want to be. Nobody is going to voluntarily get stabbed, right? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I want to opt out.”

  “Sorry. If you opted out, then everybody would opt out, and then we’d have a new policy with nobody participating. It was extremely difficult to get this approved by Human Resources, and they don’t like to think that they’re wasting their time. Just give it a try for two weeks.”

  We left the meeting, taking our knives.

  “Ow!” screamed Gerald, as Charles slashed him in the back. “You can’t do it when I’m not looking!”

  “Mr. Swanson didn’t say anything about that.”

  I had to admit, seeing Gerald get slashed like that did improve my morale, and everybody was in a cheerful mood for the rest of the day.

  The next day, Gerald stabbed me in the arm. It hurt, and I wished he hadn’t done it, but I saw the joy it brought to my co-workers and realized that sometimes the happiness of one person is not as important as the happiness of the group.

  And then there was an incident. Charles and Lori had a spat, and she stabbed him thirty-two times using three separate knives. He was taken to the hospital, but it was only a token measure, because he was quite clearly dead when the ambulance arrived.

  We were called into the meeting room. This time Mr. Swanson was not smiling.

  “I’m very disappointed,” he said. “Particularly in you, Lori. There always has to be somebody who ruins it for everybody else, doesn’t there?”

  Lori wiped some blood from her cheek and looked deeply ashamed.

  “Clearly you can not be trusted with this much freedom, and so, effective immediately, we are returning to the old ways. I apologize, but the responsibility rested with you.”

  And now we work eight-to-five every day, in the office, in our suits and ties. Everybody is a little sad. You can sense it in their expressions, their eyes, and the way people suddenly burst into tears for no reason.

  I feel almost chained to my desk, like a prisoner.

  We had so much, almost too much, and now it’s gone.

  Though, admittedly, I get a lot more work done now.

  Jeff Strand is the author of a bunch of novels, including Pressure, Dweller, and Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary). He is amused by authors who quit their day jobs to write full time and then pretend that they’ve never worked harder in their life. Uh-huh. Right. You can visit his Gleefully Macabre website at www.jeffstrand.com.

  Monday Shutdown

  Vince A. Liaguno

  The mind slips as the nameless company drones surrounding me

  click across keyboards in a staccato rhythm of terrifying efficiency.

  Their faces are rendered featureless by too much artificial

  fluorescence,

  corporate versions of children of the damned.

  We sit centered between the razor-sharp outlines of cubicle cages,

  tethered to the technology like one of Gacy’s crawlspace boys.

  Wires and cords and plugs wrap around our ankles like groping,

  grabbing zombie hands

  trying to pull us down into the corporate graves dug by our own

  digits each day.

  I’m color-blinded by all the black and white but mostly gray,

  grateful for the occasional spray of red across the pavement down

  below our glass tower.

  Another manic Monday rises from the beauty of the weekend

  like a fire-spewing Godzilla looms over a shoebox-version of

  Tokyo.

  I’m slowly being choked by the colorless, odorless air shooting

  through slatted vents,

  the noxious remnants of the synthesized souls of a thousand

  terminated employees.

  I can feel their presence everywhere, spectral spatters of the

  unemployed that

  haunt and taunt and flaunt their disembodied potential all around

  me.

  There is much to fear in this bland corporate land,

  from the iron fist of the supervisor to the iron lung of the office

  itself.

  Even paper shredders and thumbtacks have taken on an ominous

  countenance

  in the wake of that unfortunate business with the garbage

  compactor and the intern.

  Occupational hazards abound in surreptitious forms all around us.

  From the dangers of toxic gossip to the terrors of office politics,

  the slithering supervisors watch and wait for our fuck-ups and

  fumbles.

  Like we
rewolves in tailored suits and Armani neckties, they hunger

  to pounce on their prey.

  My officeland is but one strain of the corporate American disease,

  an amalgamated outbreak of greed and ambition,

  like bird flu and leprosy thrown into a blender and served over ice

  in matching sterilized mugs emblazoned with the company logo.

  So monstrous is this disease of mad mercantilism that hushed

  whispers

  of “Don’t drink the Kool-Aid” waft over and above the burping

  water cooler.

  I’ve seen the aftereffects of Kool-Aid consumption;

  the ugly transmogrification from automaton to robot wrangler.

  Staple-sort-file, stack-collate-pile,

  these are the monotonous rhythms and repetitions of our shift

  work sentences.

  Shackled by this snarling corporate beast by the necessity of living,

  my fellow droids and I survive to subsist on meager stipends doled

  out like crumbs to ravenous gulls.

  Monday begins the cycle that never seems to end.

  I’m drifting deeper, deeper into stupor from the strain of stress and

  the stress of strain.

  I fear this land and its shuffling occupants, minds and hearts

  hollowed out and empty

  like the insides of pumpkins at Halloween.

  My head dips and there are introductions: Chin, meet chest. Chest,

  chin.

  My eyes blink like lazy camera shutters, half-heartedly committing

  the images of officeland

  to some floating piece of reluctant memory chip in the nether

  regions of my mind.

  My eyelids flutter, then flicker out like the lights of a fog-

  enshrouded Antonio Bay.

  I’m lost to the abyss of the Monday shutdown, spiraling into a

  stream of unconsciousness

  where the horrors of officeland are muted and filtered through a

  heavy gauze

  of self-preservation and delusion and fairytale clichés that evoke

  blissful hallucination.

  Behind my mind’s eye, I’m emancipated from this corporate

  murder set piece.

  Deep within the Monday shutdown, I’m Laurie Strode with a

  knitting needle;

  I’m Alice with a machete to swing. I’m every final girl rolled into

  one,

  with lung capacity to spare and lucky four-leaf clovers and an

  arsenal of chainsaws

  to castrate the faceless slasher of my officeland nightmares.

  But like Laurie in the bedroom doorway and Alice in the canoe, the

  work week jumps up

  for one more popcorn-in-the-air surprise. And like Nancy in her

  dream state,

  my officeland Freddy finds his way into my Monday shutdown,

  with a glove full of cold corporate blades to cut out my heart and

  slice at my soul.

  I’m a defeated dream warrior now, with veins sliced out of weary

  arms like strips of bacon

  that my corporate master uses to jerk me around like a puppet on

  strings.

  Even in the repose of the Monday shutdown, there is no escape

  from this cruel life sentence.

  Through vacant eyes, I cling to the hope that it’s five o’clock

  somewhere and pray for Tuesday.

  Vince Liaguno is the Bram Stoker Award-winning editor of Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet (Dark Scribe Press 2008), an anthology of queer horror fiction, which he co-edited with Chad Helder. His debut novel, 2006’s The Literary Six, was a tribute to the slasher films of the ‘80s and won an Independent Publisher Award (IPPY) for Horror and was named a finalist in ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Awards in the Gay/Lesbian Fiction category. His latest editing effort, Butcher Knives & Body Counts (Dark Scribe Press, 2011), is a collection of essays on the formula, frights, and fun of the slasher film.

  He currently divides his time between Manhattan and the eastern end of Long Island, New York. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC).

  Author Website: www.VinceLiaguno.com

  Accountable

  David Greske

  Etched in the smoky glass of Allied Brokerage—a goliath of shining steel and polished granite—was the motto We Never Make Mistakes…Ever. The statement was carved into the marble floor of the lobby, painted in bold, gothic lettering across the walls; it was even on the bathroom stall doors where anyone doing their business couldn’t help but see it.

  Carter Beck, an immaculately dressed man of thirty-six with ocean-green eyes that made the women swoon and the men jealous, pushed open the weighty door and walked across the lobby toward the elevators.

  “Good morning, Charlie,” he said to the guard.

  Charlie gave a monosyllabic grunt and didn’t bother to look up from his paper to acknowledge the greeting.

  The guard’s chilly reception surprised Carter. Charlie was always in a good mood, sometimes annoyingly so. “Have a great day, Charlie. We’ll see you later.”

  “Hope so,” Charlie replied.

  Carter rode the elevator with two guys from Compliance. Although he thought Hank and Brent were boneheads, they always tried to include him in their conversations. This morning they stopped talking and stared at the floor, averting eye contact with Carter when he entered the cab. They even seemed to move away from Carter as digital numbers ascended.

  Electronic security kept the doors to the work area locked, and magnetic keycards were needed to enter the premises. Carter set down his briefcase, fished the ID badge out of the side pocket, and touched it to the plate next to the door. He waited for the flashing light to turn green. It didn’t.

  “Huh,” he said, furrowing his face into a mask of confusion.

  He touched the ID card to the plate again. Still the door wouldn’t unlock.

  The elevator pinged behind him and the doors slid open.

  “Hey, Ken,” Carter said, waggling his ID, “can you key me in?”

  “You know we’re not supposed to do that,” Ken pointed to the etching on the glass. PIGGYBACKING IS A MISTAKE. REMEMBER: WE NEVER MAKE MISTAKES…EVER!

  “Come on, Ken. Everybody does it. I saw someone let you in last week. Don’t make me go to Property Management just to get a temporary card.”

  “That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding?”

  Ken shrugged, stepped in front of Carter and placed his badge on the square plate. The door clicked open and Ken glided into the office.

  Just before the door closed, Carter stuck his foot in the jamb. A jolt of pain radiated through his ankle causing him to wince as he staggered into the office. “That’s the third time in the two weeks my card hasn’t worked. You think they’re trying to tell me something?”

  No one looked up from their work to reply.

  Carter shook off the pain and made his way through a conglomeration of cubicles like a bee weaving across honeycomb, saying “good morning” to those he passed. He slid behind his desk, turned on his computer, and realized not a single co-worker had returned his greeting. Even Paul, his cube-mate for the past five years, kept his head down.

  Carter leaned forward and whispered, “Paul, what’s going on? It’s like a morgue in here and everyone’s acting weird.”

  Paul peered up from his work, glanced over his shoulder, and whispered back, “The boss got a call from a client last night. A mistake was made.”

  Carter’s eyes widened as the Company’s motto slammed into the front of his brain. We Never Make Mistakes…Ever! “A mistake? Who made it?”

  Paul was about to answer when Carter’s phone rang. The sudden, shrill chirp made everyone jump, and, although it seemed impossible, the room grew
even quieter. Carter looked at the name flashing on the LED screen just above the dial pad. It was the boss.

  “Thank you for calling Allied. My name’s Carter. How may I help you today?”

  “Beck. My office. Now.” The line went dead.

  Carter hung up, swallowed hard. “The boss wants to see me.”

  “Good luck,” Paul replied.

  Carter pushed himself away from his desk, stood, and meandered to the boss’s office. He felt the stares of co-workers as he slowly moved, heard their whispers and even a couple of nervous laughs. He took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and, opening the door, stepped into the chief’s domain.

  The office was a square space with a large window facing the east. Blinds were drawn to block out the morning sun. Consequently, a pattern of dark shadows cut across the room, making it look like a secret chamber from an old black and white horror movie. The single potted plant in the corner was in dire need of water and transplanting, its large variegated leaves drooping to the floor. A guest chair stood next to the dying plant, but the ratty and lumpy cushion needed replacing.

  Jeffery Hansen, the boss, sat behind a gigantic oak desk. Exotic, erotic, and mysterious designs and symbols carved into the wood appeared to move and sway in the dimly lit office. A plate of green-tinted glass covered the desk’s top. A black phone sat on one corner of the desk; an ancient adding machine on the other; and a computer monitor in the center. When Carter entered the room, the boss pushed himself away from the desk and stood, and Carter swore he heard the chair give a sigh of relief as three hundred pounds were lifted from its springs.

  “How long have you been with us now, Beck?” Hansen asked. He was an egg-shaped man with eyebrows resembling a pair of wooly caterpillars above a pair of rat-like eyes. Except for a crown of wiry gray hair, his head looked like a cue ball that had spent too much time in the sun. Jowls hung from his cheeks like raw steaks and they shook every time he moved or spoke. A bulbous nose sat above his pencil-line of a mouth.

  “Five years,” Carter mumbled.