He then snaps the pen in half and sucks down the ink for all he’s worth. The bitter liquid coats his tongue and makes bile rise in his throat. He pants for a few moments, and as his concentration returns, he smiles.
Toby stumbles getting to his feet. He leans against the wall before spitting into the toilet. “Jesus,” he mutters. “That’s nasty.”
The toilet in the other stall flushes, and Toby hears Boris call out. “What you say is nasty?”
“Nothing,” Toby replies. In a panic, he tries the handle. Nothing happens. The remains of his lunch float in the bowl, a telltale sign to his deception. Toby backs out of the stall and closes the door just as Boris comes out of his.
“It sound like you sick,” Boris says, eyeing Toby suspiciously. “Maybe you need trip to infirmary, yes? Maybe I take you there to make sure you have not contaminated whole office.”
Toby holds his hands up and steps back a few. “No, no,” he says, talking as fast as he can. “That’s won’t be necessary. I’m a little overwhelmed is all.”
“Coward like you, is not surprising.”
“Right. That stamp committee, you know, has me worked up,” Toby says.
“No, I do not know about stamp committee. What is this you’re talking about?”
“Stamps,” Toby says, trying to remember anything and everything Clarice had said on the matter. “We’re making new ones. Designer stamps for the professional businessman on the go. It’s really important.”
“I would know if something is important,” Boris counters. “I would be told to protect such a thing.”
“Right, well, the project starts tomorrow, so that’s when Freddie was going to tell you,” Toby replies. Despite the plausibility of the lie, Toby prays Boris won’t check up on it for a while. It’ll never hold under scrutiny.
“You say these are designer stamps?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Designer stamps sound like something medals given for to keep safe.”
Toby shrugs. Medals being handed out in the corporate world are nothing he’s ever considered, let alone heard of, but then again, this place is anything but normal. “Probably,” he finally answers. “With some luck, we’ll all get one for doing a good job.”
“You say you want medals?” he asks, advancing on Toby. “You say because you know my Melissa likes medals, don’t you?”
“Seriously,” Toby says hands back up defensively. “I’m not after your girl.”
“You think I’m stupid?” Boris says, advancing. “That you think I don’t know how beautiful she is?”
“No—”
“Then you say she is ugly?”
“No!” Toby says. It’s a little more forceful than he intended, and as soon as he says it, he gives a quick prayer that the steroid-popping freak in front of him doesn’t charge.
Boris doesn’t. Not yet, at least. He narrows his eyes and one hand drifts to the gun on his belt. “Then what are you saying?”
“All I’m saying is that maybe they’ll give medals,” Toby replies, backing up until the hot air blower on the wall is digging into his side. “You can have all the medals if you want. You’ve probably earned them.”
Boris stays where he is, folds his arms, and grunts. “You better not be trying to trick me,” he says.
“I’m not. I swear.”
“Then I go talk to Melissa,” he says. “She will be excited to hear I get new medals.”
Boris leaves without further word, and Toby falls back against the wall with a great exhale. His mouth still feels slimy and nasty, and he briefly considers rinsing it out. Ultimately, he decides against it. He needs to get away from the scene of his crime and get back to Clarice’s apartment. There, they can get this escape plan of hers underway, not to mention he can always rinse his mouth out at her place as well.
Toby cracks the exit door open and looks out. Freddie is nowhere in sight. Neither is Matt or anyone else he knows. He slips out of the bathroom and hugs the wall as he moves through the dining area.
He’s about to make it out of the cafeteria when a tap on his shoulder roots him in place. Toby spins around and standing a few feet away is a female Mr. Squid— a Mrs. Squid. Or maybe it’s Miss. Or Ms.
Regardless of the prefix, Toby is reasonably sure it’s a girl since she’s dressed in a white shirt with a light pink jacket, and slick, feminine looking black pants. In her tentacles she’s holding a small book with Preser Tech’s logo printed across the front.
“Who-oo are you-oo?” she asks in a light, melodic voice. Her vowels draw out a good one or two seconds longer than Toby is used to, and it gives Toby an extra helping of the willies.
“Toby,” he replies. He’s not sure if Clarice would’ve wanted him to be truthful, but she had warned him not to draw attention, and getting caught in a lie right now would no doubt do exactly that.
“Toe-oo-bee?” she says, flipping through the book and periodically glancing up at him.
Curiosity latches on to Toby like a lion taking down a gazelle. As much as he wants to leave, he can’t. He has to know what she’s looking at. Toby takes a tentative step forward and takes a peek.
The book she’s reading is filled with pictures, all of them headshots of office workers. Though Toby doesn’t recognize any of the faces in the book, and despite the fact he can’t even begin to read the alien writing contained therein, he guesses she’s flipping through a yearbook or corporate directory of some sort.
“Where is Toe-oo-bee?” she says, handing him the book.
Toby looks at what she’s offering but doesn’t take it. “I don’t think I’m in there,” he says. “I’m new.”
“Ne-ew?” Mrs. Squid says. She flips through the pages, front to back, back to front, searching for something. On her third trip through, a small leaflet drops out and flutters to the ground. On it are six more headshots, one of them being Toby’s. Mrs. Squid picks the leaflet up and points to Toby’s picture. “Toe-oo-bee?”
Toby squints. Sure enough, that’s him. He has no idea when and where the picture was taken. He doesn’t remember having it done at all. But there’s no denying that’s him. “Yes, that’s me,” he says.
“Toe-oo-bee Ree-sha-ard Ben-net,” she says.
“Right. Toby Richard Bennet,” Toby says with a sigh. If there’s any reason for her not to know his full name, it doesn’t matter now.
“Toe-oo-bee is Vee-Pee?” she asks.
Against his screaming intuition, Toby answers the question as he figures she already knows the answer. “Yeah. Why?” he says.
Mrs. Squid doesn’t answer. She lets out a bubbling noise and using a red pen, circles Toby’s picture several times over before furiously scribbling a few notes in the margin.
“Bye, Toe-oo-Bee,” she says, patting him on the head. “Stay big.”
Mrs. Squid leaves, and Toby stands still for a moment as he tries to figure out what happened, but he comes up with nothing. Thus, he scoots out of the cafeteria and gets on the elevator.
He stares at the buttons, and his heart sinks. He’s not sure where Clarice’s apartment is. Eleventh floor, maybe? He decides to give it a go and hits the button. The elevator whisks him up, and Toby prays it doesn’t stop until it’s reached his floor.
The doors open on the eleventh floor, and Toby steps out. The hall looks familiar, save for the fact that there’s a water fountain down on one end that he doesn’t remember being there. But there’s also an alien nearby, stooped over and working on it, so Toby decides maybe it’s being freshly installed.
Toby heads to the right, toward the general area he thinks Clarice’s apartment is, all the while, he studies each apartment number as it goes by, hoping one will jog his memory. When that effort proves futile, he knocks softly on the first door on his left.
“Clarice?” he says. When no one answers, he knocks again and then moves on.
It takes four more tries, each at a separate apartment, before the door he’s waiting at opens. To his relief, Clarice
is on the other side and pulls him in.
“You took long,” she says once she’s shut the door. “Too long. Was worried. Thought you might not come back. Thought you’d leave me too.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Toby says. “Not as long as you can get us out.”
Clarice wraps herself up in her arms and rocks on her heels. “Always said that. Always. But it doesn’t change. He’s gone now. Gone.”
“I’m not leaving,” Toby states with force. Hopefully, it will settle the matter. “You’re the only one helping me.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Clarice breathes deep. A smile, clearly forced, spreads on her face. “You’re staying. I believe you. Really.”
Toby gives a smile of his own. “Good. Besides, you’re the one that left me, remember?” He tacks on a laugh at the end and hopes she doesn’t take it the wrong way.
“Had to leave. Had to,” she says. “Had to refund. Had to purge the unclean. Can’t sit back down. Sitting down means more food. More food and no ink. Bad combination. Very bad.”
“Yeah, I know,” says Toby. “What do we do now?”
Clarice takes his hand and leads him over to the bed. She pushes him back until he sits. “I…I don’t have a plan,” she says, stumbling. “Not a new one. Just sex. Sex has to work. It must. There’s no other choice.”
“Clarice,” Toby says, tone lowering. “I’m not sleeping with you. So if this is some sort of game—”
“Not a game, not a game,” Clarice says. She grabs his hands and holds them tight. “I can’t think of anything else. Please. You have to screw me. Have to.”
“No.”
“You’ll like it, I promise,” she says, not letting him pull his hands back. “We’ll be good together. Good mates for one another. That’s what they want to see, don’t you get it? We’ll be special. I’ll be special. That’s what has to happen.”
Toby instantly takes to his feet. “I knew it,” he says, anger building. He scolds himself for trusting her when she’s clearly as cracked as the rest. “You only want to get knocked up so you can get one of those pink tags, right? You’re as bat shit crazy as everyone else.”
Clarice jumps back and crouches, hands out. “No, no, no,” she spits out. “No sex. Fine. Fine. I was hoping, is all. I was hoping you’d changed your mind. But you won’t. You won’t. I still want to get out. I still need your help.”
Toby crosses his arms, forces himself to give her the benefit of the doubt, for the next sixty seconds at least. “You said we need one of their keys, right?”
Clarice nods.
“Then think, Clarice,” he says. “How do we get their keys? Can we take one of them down?”
Clarice falls back against the wall and sinks to the floor. “No. Can’t do that. Too strong. Too many of them will come and come fast.”
“You know this place,” says Toby. “What else can we try?”
Clarice buries her face in her hands. “I don’t know.”
Toby looks at her with sympathy. He’s still wary at her insatiable desire to breed, but he’s also convinced that she wants to get out. As such, Toby sits back on the bed with a sigh and hopes they can come up with something viable. “What are our assets?” he asks.
“Not much,” she says, face still buried. “We don’t have much here. Only what you see around. And in the office. Have some paper there. And pens. But those won’t open portals. Those won’t help us escape.”
Toby looks around the apartment until his gaze falls on some clothes Clarice has on the floor. He squints for a moment until he realizes one of the pants she has tucked in the corner is a pair of black parachute pants from the 80s. “God, those are old,” he mutters. “Can’t remember the last time I saw those.”
Clarice glances over to what he’s looking at. “Most things are,” she says. “New is rare. New is fought over. I don’t get new things. Don’t want them either. Makes you stand out.”
“How long have you been here?” asks Toby.
Clarice slowly shakes her head but doesn’t say a word.
Toby takes a deep breath and exhales sharply. “Well, that’s one thing we got then, and plenty of.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Time,” Toby says with a grin. “Lots and lots of time.”
The look on Clarice’s face says she’s not sharing his attempt at humor. “No, no time,” she says. “No time at all.”
“What do you mean?”
Clarice stares off to the side. Her eyes widen, and her face drains of color. “No time to waste, Clarice,” she whispers. “Has to be now. Has to. Has to. Just hold still. Hold still and it will all be over.”
Worried, Toby leans over and puts his hands on her shoulders. “You okay?”
Clarice snaps back and hits her head on the wall. The shock seems enough to bring her back to the present. “Need more time to prepare,” she says, digging her nails into her arms. “More time. More. We’re not ready for tomorrow.”
Toby keeps his eyes locked with hers. “Okay,” he says, gently taking her hands in his. “We’ll get more time.” He’s not sure what she means, but as she relaxes at his words and his touch, he decides that must be a good thing. “How do we do get more time?”
Clarice pulls away and rocks. “There’s a way. But only one way. But two is better than one, and one is better than gone.” She starts to hyperventilate and spends a few moments struggling for control. “I can get us more time,” she finally says.
“Then do it.”
“You won’t like it,” she replies. She drags her nails across her arms, drawing blood in the process. “Oh god, it hurts. But we’ll survive. We’ll make it.”
“Clarice!” says Toby, grabbing her attention once more. “I need you to hold it together.”
Clarice shudders, shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m trying. I’m trying, really.”
She looks away, but Toby is quick to take her chin in his hand and turn her face toward his. “Listen to me, Clarice,” he says, softly but firmly. “We’re getting out of here. Now get with it. If you have to do something to get us more time so we can escape, then do it. Do whatever the hell you have to do as long as it means we get out of here alive, okay?”
Clarice bites her lower lip and pushes herself up and onto her feet. “Okay. Okay. Okay. You’re right. I can do that. Will do that. You wait here, and I’ll go. Might take a while, though. So stay put.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Be sure you don’t,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Watch TV. That will be good. You don’t want to get caught in the halls. Trust me on that.”
“If it’s not safe, then why are you going out there?”
“Safer for me than you,” she says. “Much safer.”
“What exactly are you going to do?” he asks.
“Don’t ask,” she says. “Best you don’t know, because you don’t want to. But it’ll help. Please remember that. Always remember that. I’m only going to help us, save us.”
With that, Clarice slips out the apartment, and Toby considers her words. She’s a total crackpot, but then again, who wouldn’t be after spending even a week in here?
Not wanting to think about their predicament any further, Toby grabs the remote from the nightstand and props himself up in bed with a few pillows.
As he lays there thinking, he gets a whiff of the perfume that’s sitting on the dresser across the room. Blood diverts to his groin, and it takes considerable mental fortitude for Toby to push away his animal urges and flip on the TV when he knows the bathroom is a few paces away.
Chocolate bars dance across the screen, and a catchy jingle plays in the background. Toby’s mouth salivates. His stomach rumbles. The commercial ends, and Toby absently flips the channel. It lands on a station playing Star Wars: A New Hope.
Toby settles in bed. He’s always liked this movie, and even if he’s seen it a hundred times before, he’s more than willing to see it a hundred times again. He watches t
he screen as the Millennium Falcon gets pulled into the Death Star.
“They’re not going to get me without a fight,” Han says on screen.
Toby yawns and gives Obi-Wan’s next line in perfect unison. “You can’t win. But there are alternatives to fighting.”
As the battered spaceship is pulled into the Death Star and heavy music grows in his ears, Toby’s eyes drop before closing altogether. Sleep quickly follows.
Chapter Six
Clarice rocks inside ill-lit basement and hugs herself. The mailroom door is a few feet away, but she can’t bring herself to go in. The musty air has brought back a flood of unwanted memories, and it’s all she can do not to turn tail and run.
The memories are ones of her being chased through these dark and twisted basement halls, memories that end with her hiding behind a makeshift barricade inside a tucked away storage room. Deep down she knows there’s more to the memories than that, but for the sake of her fragile psyche, she doesn’t dare drudge up the details. She has work to do, and dwelling on the past will only cripple her for hours.
“They’re not chasing you, Clarice,” she whispers. “Not at all. We’re safe now. Safe. The past can’t hurt us, not anymore.”
Clarice looks down at the manila envelope she has clutched against her chest. The papers inside are bursting from the open top. She’s not sure what’s written on them since they were simply a stack of notices she found in the cubicle farm and never gave them a second glance, but that’s not important. She’s not mailing anyone. They are merely a needed sacrifice.
Clarice gives three light raps on the door and bites one knuckle as she waits for it to open. It doesn’t take long. The door cracks open about four inches, and in the darkness beyond, Clarice makes out the beady eyes of a mailroom clerk looking at her.
“What?” the man says.
“Need supplies,” Clarice says. “Envelopes, labels. Things like that.”
“We have none,” he replies.
The clerk goes to shut the door, but Clarice, anticipating such a quick rebuff, jams her foot in the door. “There’s more,” she said. “Have some things that have to get mailed to HR. Important stuff. VP stuff.”
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