by Martha Carr
“The tunnel’s collapsing!” yelled Bach, throwing his arms over his head, instinctively, waiting for the fallen debris that never came.
The wall inches away from George Clemente fell away as if it’d never been there, revealing a determined group of men, already lunging for whoever was in front of them. The Watchers behind Richard Bach quickly passed him as they joined in the battle.
Bach saw his opportunity and pressed his back against the wall, sliding as quickly as possible away from the fighting.
“Fred Bowers,” gasped Bach, wondering if he was seeing things. The light was so dim it was impossible to be sure. “I thought you were dead.”
Fred let out a bloodcurdling scream as he lunged at Clemente, something shining in his hand.
Bach watched Clemente reach for his gun just as Fred sunk a knife deep into Clemente’s upper arm. Clemente let out a scream and dropped his gun. With his other arm he reached out and punched Fred square in the face. Fred’s head snapped back but only for a moment. He swung his knife again, slashing across the side of Clemente’s face, opening a wound down to the bone.
Helmut Khroll managed to shoot two of the Watchers before they were even able to get off a shot. A third Watcher took aim in the dim light and pulled the trigger as Fred shoved Helmut out of the way. The bullet entered Fred Bowers right below his clavicle. He let out an agonized cry and lunged at the Watcher digging the knife between the man’s ribs.
“For Maureen,” he whispered, as blood appeared on his lips and he coughed to clear his throat, spitting up more blood.
Richard stayed where he was watching in horror and fascination. He found himself hoping that no one would be left alive. That would be the best outcome for him.
“Fred!” said Helmut, as he rushed to Fred’s side, shooting at the retreating Watcher who as George Clemente disappeared down the tunnel in the opposite direction of Richard Bach.
Bach seem to realize that the fighting was coming to a close and soon everyone would remember that he was there. He regained his wits and scurried away, hugging the wall until he came around the bend where no one could see him and he took off in a sprint. He stumbled once, and fell, rolling forward and banging his chin against one of the clay bricks, leaving a bad scrape.
He quickly gathered himself and stood up, slowing down to a fast walk but still moving as fast as he dared. “I need to get the hell out of here,” he whined.
Eventually he found his way back to the door that led to the basement of the White House and was able to take the elevator up to the main floor and hurried down the hallway to his office where he always kept a spare change of clothes.
He stood in his closet, swallowing hard, willing himself not to throw up as he tasted the bile in his throat and cried for all that he was worth. “I need to find a new Rodney Parrish,” he sobbed, “the sooner the better.”
Back in the tunnel, Helmut Khroll helped Fred sit up and pulled out the bandanna he always kept close by, pressing it against the whole in Fred Bowers chest. It wasn’t long before the bandanna became soaked with blood.
“I thought we agreed that no one tries to save anybody else,” said Helmut, holding his friend.
“Did Clemente get away?” asked Fred, coughing as a fine red mist sprayed around the edge of his mouth and on to the front of his shirt.
“He did, but he’s badly wounded. There’s a backup team that will be looking for him as he exits the tunnel. They’ll have an easier chance of finishing the job because of you,” said Helmut. “Don’t die on me now, my friend. You want to be there when someone cuts off the head of the dragon. Maybe you’ll even be lucky enough that it’ll be you.”
“You were never a very good liar,” said Fred. “Don’t leave me here in this tunnel. After I’m gone, don’t leave my body here.”
Helmut’s eyes filled with tears and he squeezed them shut, wiping his face on his sleeve. “I’m a middle-aged journalist but I’ll do my best.”
Fred smiled with effort and said, “I’m going to die listening to one of your bad jokes, is that the way it’s going to go?”
“How about with a promise instead?” asked Helmut. “I promise I will make sure Clemente does not live out this day. No matter what I have to do, by any means necessary I will make sure that he is dead.”
“You know, for all the years that we’ve known each other I’ve never known you to make a promise that you didn’t keep. It was one of your most endearing, and one of your most annoying qualities depending on what the promise was. Thank you for that,” said Fred, as something gurgled in his throat and he struggled to breathe. He shut his eyes briefly and Helmut wondered if he was about to take his last breath when he suddenly opened his eyes wide and said, “Maureen,” a look of surprise on his face. He fell back suddenly as his stomach lurched and a wave of blood poured out of his mouth, and he took his last breath.
Helmut picked up the lifeless body, cradling it close and carried Fred Bowers into the bowels of the Cathedral where he was met by Bishop Crane.
“I’ll take care of this,” said Bishop Crane. “You have something to finish.”
“I have a promise to keep,” said Helmut.
Chapter 11
The cars were lined up neatly in the parking lot of the Baldwin funeral home. There was an overflow crowd and cars were parked along the neatly trimmed grass as well. Everyone wanted to come in to hear what had become of Management.
There were rumors that Management no longer existed, causing consternation for some and a secret glee for others.
A rumbling could be heard through the crowd about what it might mean to someone’s place of employment, or another person’s ranking in the community. There was already so much uncertainty because of the Great Relief.
“I’m not sure I can take much more,” said a young woman with shoulder length hair, wearing the Management uniform of a navy blue suit and sensible shoes. There was a small pin of an American flag surrounded in gold leaf neatly fixed to her lapel.
“Management can’t be gone,” said someone else in the crowd. “It’s not like everyone died. This is only a glitch in the system and it’s not the first one that Management has had to face. That’s why I joined in the first place. They’ve been around forever. They’ll figure this out too. We just need to stay calm and find out what’s going on. Has anyone seen Richard Bach?”
The minutes dragged on without anyone stepping up onto the stage. The crowd was growing restless and the volume in the room picked up as everyone tried out their theory about what had happened to the world economy, to the leaders of Management, to the water supply and most importantly to their way of life.
“Is there anyone back there?” someone shouted from the crowd. Several faces turned around, giving the young man who had shouted a stern look. That wasn’t how they did things in Management.
“What are they teaching the young people these days?” asked an older man. “They don’t seem to have any manners. That’s what will bring us down in the long run. Every man for himself.”
Hiding in the wings behind the stage, sat Richard Bach, trying to will himself into going out on the stage and telling everyone, everything would be all right. He knew it was his moment to capture the leadership of Management. There was even a possibility that George Clemente was dead and no one would argue with him. Finally, he could control at least a small piece of the map the way he always wanted. He knew what would be best for everyone particularly himself. He promised himself he would be a benevolent ruler.
But fear had finally taken over for Richard Bach and he found he couldn’t move at all. The best he could do was not break out into sobs again, which felt like a victory. He was so close to tears. His wife had tried to comfort him but he had finally snapped at her and told her to go sit in the audience. She looked wounded and angry and slinked away.
He could hear the crowd getting testy and knew he needed to go say something but so far he hadn’t found the ability to stand up and move, just yet.
&n
bsp; None of the usual leaders in Management had appeared either. Richard wondered if something had gone horribly wrong and there was no one else.
Perhaps the Circle had managed to do what Management had tried decades ago and had wiped out everyone who mattered except Richard Bach. Richard wasn’t sure he knew how to lead without someone telling him what to do. In fact, he was certain right at that moment it would be impossible.
Just as he was about to stand up and slide out the side door and down the hallway, out into the night without saying anything he heard someone blow into the microphone up on the stage. The same person tapped the mic and said, “Excuse me. Excuse me. Please settle down and we can get started.”
Richard lifted his head and glanced around the side of the large speaker he was been hiding behind in the darkness to see who had come up onto the stage. He had an even mixture of relief and anger that someone had taken the limelight, once again at the very moment he might’ve claimed a better spot for himself.
In a pool of light that surrounded the podium stood Paul Whitaker, David Whitaker’s teenage son.
“What is Paul Whitaker even doing at a Management meeting?” whispered Richard.
He still wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to know he was at the meeting and stayed where he was.
“I’m sure it’s been a long day for everyone already,” said Paul. “So, if everyone can turn this way and settle down we can get started, and then you can get home to your families. After all, that’s what matters, family. Am I right?”
Paul raised his arms up and down as if he was rallying the troops, finally managing to get a timid applause.
“Is that the best you can do?” He raised his arms again, up-and-down, faster and faster. “Management has always stood for family,” he shouted. “That hasn’t changed. If anything, we’ve proven how important it is in times like these. Don’t know who to trust? Look to your family. Now I’m going to tell you another truth. Management is one big family.” He paused between each word of the last sentence.
“Fuck,” mumbled Richard, “now I’m going to end up working for him.”
“Everyone who is at this meeting tonight is who you can trust. Everyone who is at this meeting tonight is who will help rebuild what has been lost. We will be of service to each other and whether they know it or not, we will be of service to everyone out there,” he said, pointing toward the large double doors at the back of the room. He was practically shouting into the mic.
“Our family can be traced back for hundreds of years, through world wars, through famines, through petty dictators, through every kind of crisis you can imagine. Our current crisis, well, I see it as an opportunity.”
“Who are you? Who told you to speak to us?” shouted a middle-aged man wearing a red power tie.
“My name is Paul Whitaker and my family has been a part of Management for generations. For those of you who know the origin story of Management, you know that the people who founded it were small business owners who wanted to form an alliance with each other back when there was no such thing as a middle-class. We can learn from them and do the same thing again. We already know how to do it. We’ve been living it for years. It’s just that we had the luxury of others who took care of all of the back room mechanics. Now it’s our turn. We will do the heavy lifting. We will protect the family. We will make sure that everything runs smoothly, the roads get paved, that the water is safe to drink. That there is some kind of order.”
A spontaneous cheer went up from the crowd. He had to wait until the noise died down and he could be heard above the crowd even with the microphone.
Richard could see from his vantage point the smile coming across Paul’s face that was quickly wiped away.
“We will make sure that our streets are safe.”
“Yes!” shouted somebody from the middle of the crowd. Richard couldn’t see from where he was but he could tell that the mood was shifting and Paul Whitaker was inspiring the people.
“Sutler School, our school has remained open throughout the crisis. That will not change. We will lead the way in showing the community that if we work together, we can face anything. Nothing has to change about our way of life. They can only take that from us if we give them permission. We’re not going to do that!”
The crowd cheered again. Richard Bach felt himself calming down. Someone else was going to take the reins and he could once again follow right behind the newly appointed reigning champion of Management in Richmond Virginia. Even if it was a kid.
“Go home, and be of service to your neighbors. Keep an eye out for who might make a good addition to Management. We have new ranks to fill. Keep an eye out for who should be recruited to Sutler. That’s how you can be of service to this family.” Paul paused for a moment.
“Let me caution you as well.” Paul held up his hand to silence the crowd and waited until there wasn’t a sound and everyone was waiting to find out what they needed to do in order to be safe in the world.
“Keep an eye out for those who challenge our way of life and threaten an orderly existence. They are our threat. We need to know our enemy so that we do not have to suffer through one emergency after another. We can contain a crisis if we can see it coming but that will take all the eyes and ears that we have in this room, and then some.”
“What will we do once we ferret them out?” asked a woman sitting in the front row.
Paul smiled and laughed. “We are not killers. We believe in justice. Didn’t I just say we believe in order? Everything will be handled fairly and a team will make a determination, not one individual. We will make decisions based on what is good for the group. We will make sure that no one individual is able to harm the entire group, either.”
Not everyone was taking his speech as good news. Nestled in the back of the room, sitting on one of the folded chairs in the next-to-last row was a mole, waiting to report back to the butterfly project.
Jake Whiting was doing his best to appear as if he was a part of the crowd instead of feeling a sick panic coming over him while he listened to Paul Whitaker. He had been warned by Ned Weiskopf about what he might hear but he never expected to hear from someone so young. Someone his own age.
He wasn’t even sure what he would report back. No exact plans were given, only a theme of spying on your neighbor. He wanted desperately to leave and get as far away from that room as possible but leaving too soon would only draw attention to himself.
Instead, he quietly texted Ned, telling him that it looked as if Paul Whitaker was going to take over the world, or at least Richmond.
‘He’s resurrecting Management, as we speak. Everyone’s fired up about going back to business as usual. What you want me to do?’ he texted.
‘Hang tight,’ came the response. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘You sure about that?’ Jake typed. ‘Crowd’s pretty juiced. I’ve already heard a few nasty lines about your mother that I’m not going to repeat.’
‘If Management gets a toe hold anywhere at all, then all of this was for nothing. I’m on my way.’
“I’ll be here,” mumbled Jake, putting away his phone.
Paul had stepped down from the stage and was busy shaking hands, getting slaps on the back, smiling at everyone and reassuring them that everything would be alright. People had formed a line and were waiting patiently for their turn to shake his hand.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” said an older woman, nervously.
“We’ll do this together,” said Paul, smiling as he held her hand between his.
“I really need to go,” he shouted over the crowd, as a groan went up collectively from the line. “I’m sorry but I have to attend to some business. This is a critical time and I can’t afford to wait. I’m sure all of you understand.”
Paul gave a broad wave to the crowd and stepped up onto the stage, still waving his arm and smiling as if he were a politician. He stepped backstage and walked directly toward Richard Bach and stopped in front of him.
He let out an exasperated sigh. “I suppose it’s better that you didn’t appear,” said Paul. “Better no one sees you like this,” he said, sounding disgusted. Richard stood up straightening out his jacket, hoping he didn’t look as if he been crying in the last hour.
“It’s been a long day,” said Richard.
“It’s not done yet,” said Paul. “We need to secure the reserves that upper Management put away of all the food and water. So far the rank-and-file has not discovered that the warehouses exist and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“What happened to your speech about family and share and share alike?” asked Richard, rolling his eyes.
Paul slapped him hard across the face.
“Let’s not keep going with stupid remarks. You’ve been a director long enough to know how this works. We’ll make sure everyone gets enough. There’s no need to go overboard. People only need to know what we need to tell them. Do you know how to get the warehouse secured or should I asked someone else?”
Richard could hear ringing in his ears and was so startled he found it hard to focus for just a moment. It was as if no one made it into the upper ranks of Management without being a bully and bullies always needed someone to focus on, and it was usually Richard.
“Of course I do,” he said, a little more meekly than he would’ve liked.
“Good. See that it gets done tonight. We don’t know how long this crisis will go on and I want to make sure that those who can do us the most good, never go hungry. Make a list of who still exists in upper Management and make sure I’m the only one who sees it. Don’t worry, Richard,” Paul said, pity in his voice, “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Everybody needs someone like you.”
“I already have a job. Maybe you’ve heard but I work for the President of the United States.”
“And now you work for me as well,” said Paul. “I’ll make sure you’re compensated for this too.”
“Hello Paul.” Ned Weiskopf stood in the doorway that led to the hall and out into the parking lot. He had slipped in without anyone noticing him.