“What?” Toby asks.
“Hang for a sec.” Matt says, holding up a finger. He slowly moves through the hall until he comes to a closed, plain door and stops. “It’s coming from in here.”
“What is?”
“That smell,” replies Matt as he opens the door. A red light, straight from a hooker’s district, shines from inside and bathes his entire body. Matt’s eyes go wide, and he starts to laugh.
Toby comes to the side of the door as Matt enters. A musky scent wafts from the room, and Toby’s nerves are soothed. Both the floor and walls are bare, and there’s not a single object save for a waist-high table and a body.
Matt hurries to the table, laughing all the way.
“What is it?” asks Toby, praying they haven’t found a corpse.
“Dude, come here,” Matt says with a wave. “Check this out.”
Toby approaches with trepidation, but once he rounds Matt, the tension in his muscles vanishes, and he can’t help but smile and shake his head in disbelief. On the center of the table, spread eagle, is a blow-up doll. Her vinyl arms are outstretched in a welcoming embrace. Her legs are wide and inviting. Her mouth is formed in a perfect “O”, and her lips are full, red, and expecting. As Toby stares at her and the musky scent in the air grows stronger, he feels the urge to rub one out in the bathroom.
“Wanna tag team her?” Matt asks, unfastening his belt. “You can even pick which end you want.”
“I’m not screwing a blow-up doll,” says Toby. His words are hollow at this point since he’s pretty sure he’s about to give it a go.
“Might be the only tail you get for a while,” Matt remarks. His pants and boxers hit the floor.
Toby ignores the fact that Matt now has an erection in hand. “What do you mean?”
“No one around here is going to fuck the janitor,” he says. “At least, no one better than Suzy here,” he adds, slapping her on the ass.
Matt flips Suzy over so her legs dangle to the ground and her arms prop her up on the table top. A second later, he’s got her mounted and is working himself into a steady, humping rhythm. He slows to angle Suzy’s head toward Toby’s crotch. “She wants you, brah.”
Toby can’t deny it, nor does he want to. He can’t stop gazing into her painted eyes. He reaches out and strokes her hair. Her vinyl skin, smooth and supple, bends to his touch.
“Oh yeah,” Matt grunts. His face turns red. His jaw clenches, and his hands impose a death grip on Suzy’s narrow waist.
Something explodes. A wet spray hits Toby’s cheek, and he jumps back. Matt’s eyes roll back in his head while a stupid, happy smile remains fixed on his face. A red blot appears on his chest, spreading and staining every fiber of his white dress shirt.
“Matt?”
Matt doesn’t answer. He falls forward on Suzy. She holds him for a moment, then pops. Matt crashes to the ground. Blood pools around his chest while some leaks from his nose and mouth.
Horrified, Toby retreats two steps. “Matt? Matt?” he says, half expecting his words to miraculously heal his friend. “Get up, man. This isn’t funny.”
Toby catches a shimmer of light in the corner of his eye, and he turns to see two Freddie-like aliens slither out of a cubby in the wall—a cubby that Toby is certain was not there before.
The two aliens approach, chirping and chortling. The smaller of the two offers some direction to its companion, all the while holding a nondescript cube. Tall Freddie, so recently and aptly named, crouches next to Matt’s body, and using his rearward tentacle, hoists Matt up by the head so the two are more or less the same height. Tall Freddie then adjusts Matt’s name badge so it’s plainly visible and gives a thumbs up. There’s a click, a flash, and Matt’s body thumps to the floor.
“Oh god,” Toby says, wishing he could turn invisible. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.”
Freddie was right. This isn’t a zoo. It’s a preserve. But it’s not for conservation; this one’s for hunting.
Chapter Nine
Toby eyes the exit. It’s only twenty feet away, but the pair of Freddies are in the way, and he’s worried that if he bolts for the door, they’ll think he’s charging them. And if they think he’s charging them, he’s pretty sure he’ll be blown away. Then again, if he sticks around they might shoot him anyway.
Toby edges around the room and hopes his slow movements won’t distract the aliens from their kill. Small Freddie continues to chirp, all the while constantly playing with and adjusting Matt’s name badge. Tall Freddie, on the other hand, stands and looks down on the kill with an air of satisfaction. A few more seconds pass, and Toby has managed to creep nearly halfway around them both. Then Small Freddie looks up and makes eye contact.
Toby freezes. Before his brain can decide whether or not that was a good idea, Small Freddie speaks. “Go on, little jannie,” it says with a shooing of hands. “Go get big and strong, and earn lots of promotions.”
The alien whips out a device about the size of a deck of cards, and a rectangular portal appears in the room. It’s nearly seven feet tall, two dimensional, and gives off a cool, blue glow.
Toby’s thoughts escape his lips. “Holy shit.”
Tall Freddie grabs Matt by the arms and drags him through the portal, disappearing completely. Small Freddie makes a beeline to the wall cubby they were in, scoops up a few things, and disappears through the portal as well. The portal flickers before vanishing, leaving Toby alone.
“Holy, holy, shit,” he says, running his fingers through his hair.
Toby darts out of the room and spins around in the hall, unsure where to go. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he says, thinking out loud. His mind wanders to Clarice, to Boris, to Melissa, to all the nameless others in the office that are about to have a bad, bad day. “I’ve got to warn them,” he says to himself as he runs down the hall. A smirk crosses his face, and he shakes his head. “I’ve got to stop talking to myself, too.”
The elevator, once again, proves too slow, and Toby launches himself down the stairs. He reaches the fourth floor and flies down the hall, hoping, praying that he doesn’t become the next kill. Thankfully, he reaches the double doors to the cubicle farm without incident and bursts through.
Toby halts. The farm is empty, and the smell of fresh morning coffee hangs in the air. A breeze from a nearby floor fan blows past him, and for the moment, the fan’s motor is the only thing he can hear. Toby holds his breath, and his prayer for any sign of life is quickly answered. Muted laughter pours over the cubicles from the other side of the office. With a sharp sigh of relief, Toby investigates.
It takes only moments to find where everyone is. They are all in an elongated conference room, each seated around an extended, U-shaped desk while a sole presenter stands near a screen with a pie chart. The man is dressed in a suit fitted for someone three inches shorter than he, making his bare, wiry arms and legs even more pronounced than they would have been in proper attire. In his spidery hands, the man grips a keychain with a laser pointer attached and constantly makes a little red dot bounce around both his presentation and the room.
Toby goes for the door, but as soon as he does, one of the room’s occupants takes notice of him through the window and beats him to the punch. The door cracks open and out pops the head of a rotund man with one of the worst comb-overs Toby has ever seen. The man motions to a small table to his left and says, “Get the wastepaper basket underneath, but leave the doughnuts and juice.”
Toby does neither and pushes by, intent on addressing them all ASAP.
“What is the meaning of this?” the presenter says, a burning scowl upon his face. “This is a private meeting.”
From the back of the room someone calls out, “Isn’t that Clarice’s new boss?”
“No way,” someone else says.
“Actually, I think he might be,” chimes in a third.
The presenter’s face loses its crimson look and is replaced with a hint of dread. “Clarice?” he says, looking to the far co
rner of the room. “Now where the devil did she go?”
Toby looks to his right to where an empty chair is. He’s not sure if that was indeed where Clarice sat, or what advantage having her here might be, but since he has nothing else to use at the moment, he decides to play the VP card in the hopes it will get people to listen. “She’s running an errand for me,” he says, interjecting as much authority as he can in his voice. “Do you have a problem with that?”
The presenter’s face pales, and he fumbles over his words. “My apologies,” he says. “The janitor uniform threw me off, sir.”
Toby straightens and brushes off his shoulders. “Never mind the uniform,” he says. “I need everyone’s attention right now.”
“Of course,” the man says, bowing and scooting sideways. “I would always yield the floor to you, sir.”
“Okay, everyone, listen up,” he says, composing his thoughts so he can slip into the role. “What I’m about to say may scare you, but it’s important you know what’s going on. Matt is gone-”
A collective “eep” comes from the crowd.
“-yes, Matt is gone. I couldn’t save him-”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” someone says.
“Thank you, but what I need everyone to understand is that unless we do something right now, we’re all next.”
“Oh God, we’re getting fired,” someone says.
“I can’t lose my benefits!” says another.
A hand shoots up. “What about our retirement?”
Then another. “Is this because he never filled out his 624-VL forms in triplicate when requesting new reams of paper?”
Three more arms raise, then six, and before Toby can blink twice, the entire room is a sea of hands reaching for the ceiling, and a game of “who can shout the loudest” is in full swing.
Initially, it’s too much for Toby to take in, and he stares, dumbfounded. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long for him get in gear.
“Everyone be quiet,” he says. But they don’t stop. The questions come harder and faster. The cork on his bottle of self-control bursts and anger fountains out in the most magnificent of displays. He grabs a nearby, empty chair and slings it across the room. The impromptu missile nails the projector, and they both tumble to ground with an expensive-sounding crash.
“Shut the hell up and listen!” Toby bellows. “Christ, no one is getting fired, but you’re going to die if you don’t shut up and pay attention! Do you hear me? You. Are. Going. To. Die!”
The room goes deathly silent.
The projector lies broken in two on the floor. A spark pops from its cracked shell, and the machine turns off.
Toby looks down at his fists and forces them to unclench. His fingernails have dug mini canyons in the palms of his hands. A few seconds pass, and it dawns on him that he’s breathing like a raging bull. He grits his teeth and forces himself to slow. He has to remain in control or else he’s not organizing anything; he’s not escaping anywhere. As he recomposes himself, a timid hand raises from the back row. “Yes?” says Toby.
“When you say, ‘die,’ do you mean we’re getting our hair done again?”
“I bet that’s why Matt got fired,” someone else says. “Probably missed his appointment with the stylist yesterday.”
Toby, stupefied, blinks. “Matt didn’t get fired.”
“Well, transferred.”
“He’s dead!” Toby shouts. “D-E-A-D, dead!”
Whispers float around the room, but the concern on the crowd doesn’t seem to be with Matt’s demise, but rather with Toby himself.
“They killed him!” Toby goes on. “He was shot. Killed. Blown away. Terminated.”
“So he did get fired,” says a petite blonde in the back. “I don’t see why you had to break the projector though. Is this some sort of team building exercise?”
“Maybe the projector is a metaphor for Matt’s job performance.”
Toby throws up his hands in disgust. “You guys are hopeless,” he says. “I’m getting the hell out of here. I suggest you all follow if you know what’s good for you.”
“We’re moving the meeting?”
“But this is such a nice conference room.”
“And we have doughnuts here!”
Toby groans. The urge to throw something else is nearly unmanageable, but there’s nothing heavy enough in arm’s length to satiate the desire. “No,” he says, redirecting his energy. “I’m leaving this place. The building. The company. In short, I’m going home, with or without you.”
Eyes go wide. Fear, panic, and disgust wash over the crowd of faces like a tsunami.
“Is he serious?”
“He can’t leave us like that, can he?”
“What could possibly be better than the office?”
“I’m not feeling very happy!” The last line sparks something in a few people, and they make a mad dash for the doughnut and juice table and scarf down both drink and bakery delight with reckless abandon.
Toby goes for the door, but a staying hand from the presenter keeps him in the room. “Get off me,” Toby orders, eyes narrowed.
“With all due respect,” the presenter says. “Maybe you should have something to eat and relax. You’re getting the troops nervous. It’s bad for productivity.”
Toby shrugs him off. “Screw productivity. Screw the troops. Screw the whole damn place.”
There’s a shriek in the room. “Someone make him a team player!”
Before Toby has even the inkling to figure out who shouted the remark, he’s tackled from behind. He hits the ground face first, but he doesn’t give in. He flips over like the master ninja he pretended to be when he was nine and strikes out. A hammer fist, his own, hits the inner thigh of a nearby office assistant, and the woman falls back, crying out in pain. A dingy, white-collared exec goes to stomp on his chest, but Toby beats him to the kick and drives the heel of his left foot into the man’s groin.
“Bring it!” Toby yells, ignoring two blows to his ribs to issue two more attacks of his own.
The crowd answers the challenge with incompressible jeers and cries. They mass around him, punching, kicking, and grabbing. Soon his muscles tire, and in a momentary lull, a portly man in a patched-up grey business suit belly flops on Toby’s chest. The air bursts from Toby’s lungs, and a dozen hands pin him to the ground.
“Get off me!” Toby yells.
“Give him the juice!”
“A dozen doughnuts as well!”
A woman wails in the background. “Can’t we just be happy and sing HR policies?”
Fingers clamp around Toby’s neck. Stronger ones force his mouth open enough for a plastic funnel to be inserted. Toby tries to spit it out, and all he gets for his effort is a flood of orange juice in his mouth. He chokes it down and coughs. The fruity deluge doesn’t stop. A seemingly endless stream of it comes through the funnel. And as Toby spits, splattering his face and shirt with both saliva and orange juice, he feels his will to fight fade. His muscles relax. A fog begins to settle over his mind, and he knows time is short. Memories of his bride, his princess, his son, are fading fast.
Toby spies a nearby ballpoint pen under the table. As he locks on to it with his eyes, he stops his protest and smiles. Seconds pass, and a warm, gooey feeling envelopes him. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard. Blood trickles into his mouth. Pain stabs through his head, but it’s only enough to slow the drugs, not stop their ill effect. He lies there, still smiling, and bites the inside of the other cheek as well.
Hands tentatively ease their grip, then let go altogether.
Toby doesn’t move at first. He stares at the ceiling and silently repeats Nikki’s name over and over. He sits up quickly and brushes off his shoulders, still clinging to his bride’s memory. “That was...embarrassing,” he says.
“You okay, sir?” someone asks.
Toby gives a playful scowl. “Not when there’s still work to be done.” He scoops up the ballpoint pen before taking to
his feet. The office crowd gives him room but still looks upon him with suspicion. “Don’t suppose there’s an éclair left, is there?” he asks, popping the pen into his mouth.
To his delight, the crowd collectively turns to the snack table. In that instant, Toby chomps down on the pen, splitting its plastic shell. He sucks on the broken ballpoint for all he’s worth. Ink fills his mouth and coats his tongue and throat. It takes every fiber of his being to hold a poker face and to keep from expelling the contents of his stomach onto those around him. But at least the warm fuzzies fade. At least he can picture Nikki’s bright smile once more, his children’s playful laugh.
“There’s an éclair right here!” someone cries out.
The pastry is quickly shuffled to Toby. He bites a piece off and hopes his Bic inoculation will last. “This is really good,” he says, chewing slowly. He pushes by the few people that stand between him and the door. “Continue the meeting,” he says. “I need a few reports from my office.”
“Very good, sir,” the presenter says.
The door closes behind Toby and the moment he is around the corner and out of sight, he spits out the masticated dessert. He grabs a handful of Bic pens from a nearby cup and breaks them open one at a time and sucks down their contents. Bile rises in his throat, and he chokes it down.
Out the double doors Toby goes, and he hurries as fast as he can without breaking into a full run. He rounds the last corner before the stairs and slows to a casual walk. At the far end of the hall, an office worker takes note of Toby. Thankfully, all the man does is wave before bending over and filling a plastic cup at one of the newly installed water coolers.
Toby smiles and sighs in relief. He continues to walk and rubs his temples in an effort to combat the insurmountable stress on his psyche. Something zips past his ear, and he looks up to see the coworker get impaled in the chest by a slender, black shaft that pins him to the cooler.
Toby screams, not out of fear or anger, but out of a sheer refusal to accept his fate. He charges down the hall, down the stairs, all the way to the first floor. As he runs through the lobby center, Melissa sits at her desk, smiling exactly how he’d left her the day before.
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