TheCorporation

by Jesus Gonzalez

  She put the volume down on the end table by her chair and glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after ten. Today was the first day of a weeklong vacation she was taking from work; she worked as a storekeeper for Acme Warehouse, a large distribution center outside Sedalia, Missouri. She’d been with the company for well over twenty years and had five weeks of vacation built up. She’d put in for this time back in January, filling out the vacation spots she planned to take on her boss’s calendar with a red sharpie pen. All the people in her department did that. Her boss would then plug those vacation days into the computer and note them on his calendar so he could plan ahead to provide for coverage. This had been the standard operating procedure since her employment with Acme began.

  She stood up, stretched, and headed toward the front door. It was rare that she received visitors during the week. Her home was situated off a dirt road about two miles from Route 10 which fed to Route 118, which in turn took you to the Interstate and to Sedalia, the closest town in her vicinity. Lynn’s home was on forty acres of land she’d bought in the early eighties when she and Jerry were still married. They were now divorced, her daughter was grown up, married, and was living in Kansas with her husband and two children and Lynn rarely saw her now. Her son, Eric, had been killed in a motorcycle accident shortly after he’d turned twenty-one, over fifteen years ago.

  Figuring the visitor was probably a neighbor, Lynn didn’t bother taking a glance out the window before she opened the front door. Therefore, she was surprised when she saw Kate Thomas and Bob Danielski, two co-workers from Acme, standing on her front porch.

  “Well, hello! What brings you two out here?”

  “We’ve come to collect you and bring you to work,” Bob said.

  Lynn blinked. “What?”

  “You weren’t at your station this morning,” Kate said. Lynn noticed that her friends seemed different. They were rigid, wooden, devoid of emotion. “Carl sent us here to collect you.” Carl Boyer was their shop supervisor.

  “I’m on vacation,” Lynn said, trying to explain her absence. “Carl knows about it; it’s on his calendar.”

  “We’ve come to collect you and bring you to work,” Bob said.

  Lynn’s eyes darted between the two. There was no sign either of them were joking with her. They both looked deadly serious.

  “Well, I’m on vacation,” Lynn said, trying to inject more firmness in her voice. “If he has a problem he can call me.”

  Bob and Kate stepped forward and grasped the screen door, pulling it open. Lynn stepped back, momentarily stunned. When they grabbed her arms and pulled her out onto the porch she panicked. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

  “We’ve come to collect you and bring you to work,” Bob said. He had a firm grip on Lynn’s upper arm. He looked like Bob but he wasn’t Bob; this was not the man she knew and had worked with for twelve years.

  Lynn tried to jerk away from their grip but Kate brought her arm around and locked it around her throat. Lynn struggled, trying to fight them off, on full panic mode now. “Get off me! Get off me! Help!”

  “We’ve come to collect you and bring you back to work,” Bob said as he and Kate dragged Lynn McMurphy kicking and screaming to a black SUV parked behind her Jeep Cherokee in the gravel driveway.

  MEL HOWARD WAS still fuming. He’d been on the phone almost non-stop throughout the weekend talking to lawyers, insurance agents, and cops. His Homeowner’s Insurance was due to send a Claims adjuster to his house today, and so far the cops hadn’t done shit, even after Mel had given them the names of the people that assaulted him and destroyed his property. Sue had decided to stay home today to help him deal with the mess. She was in the charred office now doing her best to clean out the burned out bits of furniture. The police had already taken crime scene photos, the insurance company had sent somebody out to take photos, and all that was left now was to clean up and prepare for rebuilding.

  Mel was at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee. His head still hurt from the blow he’d received when that HR buttwad whacked him on Saturday. Mel had left a rambling message on the voice mail of his supervisor telling him what happened and that, in no uncertain terms, he was quitting and suing the shit out of all of them. That had been his way of taking the bull by the horns; once he’d done that he felt better. He was going to take care of this problem. He was now in control of his destiny. He would not let them fuck with him any more.

  The phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Mel said. He got up and scooped the phone up. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Howard?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Jim Murphy from Farm and Home Insurance,” Jim said. Mel could hear the shuffling of papers in the background.

  “Jim! How are you doing? What’s going on?” Mel felt cheerful and happy and he hoped that came across in his voice. It felt good to get the wheels in motion and start taking care of things.

  “Farm and Home will be issuing a letter of denial for your claim,” Jim said.

  Mel felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His limbs felt suddenly slack and heavy. He leaned against the wall, cradling the phone to his ear, trying to come to terms with what he’d just heard as Jim continued. “Pursuant to Section Eight, paragraph sixteen, sub-paragraph b, Farm and Home Insurance is not required to pay for damages caused by willful flaunting and disobedience toward your employer and, therefore, is not liable for damages caused by disciplinary measures your employer may undertake to—”

  “What?” Mel roared. “What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind!”

  Jim continued. “—to correct you and get you into some form of probationary period. So, with that in mind, Farm and Home will be issuing a denial of your claim.”

  “There’s nothing like that in this fucking policy!” Mel yelled. “That’s insane! What kind of an insurance company would put such bullshit in their policy? You can’t just go around putting that kind of shit in there!”

  “Section 12, paragraph 2 states that your policy can be amended or changed at any time without prior written notification, and at the discretion of the underwriter,” Jim said. There was no sense of glee in that voice; no sense of petty authority. It was as if Jim Murphy was reading from a script and that he didn’t care what he was reading, he was just doing what he was told. He was just doing his job.

  “What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “The letter of denial will be in today’s mail,” Jim Murphy said. “Have a good day.” The insurance agent hung up.

  “Goddamn it!” Mel yelled, slamming the phone down. He headed toward the hallway where the burned-out office was, just as Sue emerged from the ruins. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Farm and Home says they aren’t paying anything,” Mel said, striding past her. “I need to get a copy of our policy.”

  “Mel, the fire destroyed everything in the office,” Sue said.

  “Shit!” He looked into the charred remains of what was his office, noting that the oak desk that held his most important paperwork was reduced to rubble. He turned to Sue. “Now what the hell are we going to do?”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Maybe it’s one of the detectives,” Sue said as Mel threaded his way past her to answer the door. Mel hoped so; he had to vent his anger at somebody.

  He threw open the door and almost yelled in surprise when he saw Mary Barnhill and Jim Fern, the Human Resources representatives who’d beat him up and burned his office down. They were standing on his front porch flanked by the two same goons that had beat him. At the sight of them Mel fumed. “Get off my property!” he yelled.

  One of the goons opened the screen door and the other leaned in and grabbed Mel by the arm, pulling him outside. Mary and Jim stood silent near the steps that led down the walkway. “You didn’t show up at work today,” Mary said. She and Jim acted like they weren’t even here Saturday.

  “Get your hands off me!” Mel screamed at the goon wh
o was forcing him out of his house.

  “We’re here to collect you to return you to work,” Jim said.

  “Fuck you,” Mel muttered at them as he was led past the HR representatives. “I fucking quit!”

  “You didn’t show up to work today,” Mary said again, and the tone of her voice, the way she was behaving—the way all four of them were behaving—zapped all the fight out of him as he was forcefully led down the walkway to the same company car they’d shown up in Saturday. Surely, part of him thought to himself as he was marched to the car, this can’t be happening. This is insane, this is wrong, this is just...this just can’t be happening!

  But it was. There was no denying it. The two large goons that had kicked him around Saturday had him by each arm as the back door to the Mercedes was opened and he was shoved inside. “What are you doing?” Mel tried one more attempt at getting a sane answer from them.

  “You didn’t report in to work today,” Mary said. “We’re collecting you to return you to the office.”

  “Mel!” Sue was standing at the front door watching as the HR personnel from Wiedenhammer, Mel’s employer, led him to the silver Mercedes and took him back to work.

  WHEN JEREMY TYSON got the call from Timmy’s school he was between tasks at his job as an underwriter for Macro Industries, which maintained office space in a large building in Phoenix, Arizona. Timmy had gone to school this morning complaining that his stomach felt funny. Jeremy had checked his temperature but it was normal. Aside from the complaint, Timmy was behaving like a normal seven-year-old.

  Jeremy hung up the phone and reached for his jacket, which was hanging on a coat hanger on the wall of his cubicle. He turned to his co-worker as he put his jacket on and stood up. “I gotta go,” he said. “The school called, said Timmy just threw up. I’m gonna go take him home.”

  His co-worker, a guy named Ed Donaldson, said nothing. He was staring at his computer screen intently.

  Jeremy waited for Ed to say something. “Did you hear me? I said I gotta go pick up my son from school and take him home.”

  There was movement from the offices lining the northwest corner of the building. His boss, James Burton, stood in the doorway of his cubicle. “Trouble?”

  “My son’s school just called,” Jeremy said, picking up his briefcase as he prepared to leave. “He just threw up and they’re sending him home. I’m going to take him home and get him comfortable. I’ve got the papers for the McTilly Account with me and—”

  “You can leave the papers here,” James said.

  Jeremy was puzzled but didn’t think much of it. “Okay. I just thought I’d take them home and work on it there.”

  “You can’t go home,” James said.

  Jeremy blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Sit down,” James said. He took a step into Jeremy’s cubicle. James took an involuntary step backward.

  “You okay?” Jeremy asked. The look on James’s face gave him the creeps; he looked...well...like he wasn’t really there.

  “You will stay here and work,” James said, his blue eyes riveted on Jeremy. “You will not leave.”

  James didn’t know what to say; he was speechless. Great, James picks the perfect day to turn into more of an asshole than he already is. For a supervisor, James Burton was a hardass; all he thought about was work, but Jeremy tried not to let that interfere with his working relationship with the man. He kept his personal life away from the office as much as possible, and didn’t really divulge much to his co-workers. The only sign that he had a personal life was the framed photo of Timmy on his desk and some of his son’s artwork that he’d tacked onto the cubicle walls. There were no pictures of Timmy’s mother; he’d divorced Evelyn when Timmy was a year old and had full custody of him. Evelyn was like James, more into her job as a corporate drone at some bank than she was a mother to her only child.

  Jeremy gripped his briefcase. “Sorry,” he said. He made to walk past James. “But my kid is sick. I’ll take a sick day.”

  James blocked his path and Jeremy almost bumped into him. “You will stay here and work,” his boss said, his voice flat, machinelike.

  “Stop messing around,” Jeremy said. He could detect a hint of pleading in his voice.

  “You will stay here and work,” James said, and then suddenly Ed Donaldson was joining James, and the other people in the office were crowding outside the cubical, blocking Jeremy’s path. They were all watching him silently. Jeremy felt a chill race down his back as he regarded them all. They all looked like James; their expressions were flat, stoical, wooden. What the hell is going on?

  “You will stay here and work,” Ed said, stepping up to Jeremy.

  “You will stay here and work,” Sarah Ahn, the department secretary said as she stepped into the cubicle.

  “You will stay here and work,” Sally Maneketti, one of the Senior Analysts said as his department began to crowd into his cubicle.

  Jeremy yelled and tried to shoulder his way past them but they grabbed him. Rough hands gripped his arms, his hands, an arm locked around his throat and the only thing Jeremy Tyson could think about as he was pulled back into his cube and shoved into his seat was his son, Timmy, and hope that his little boy would be okay.

  WHEN JOSÉ GONZALEZ peered through the peephole of the front door at the sound of the doorbell, he didn’t recognize the two well-dressed individuals standing on the front walkway of his modest ranch-style home in Fountain Valley, California. Assuming it was a pair of Jehovah Witnesses, he answered the door, preparing to tell them he wasn’t interested.

  “Yes?” he asked, his voice pleasant.

  “We’re from the Automobile Club of Southern California,” one of them said; she was young, female, attractive, dressed professionally in a blue suit. “I’m Karen Haller, this is my associate Barry Haskins.”

  “Oh, what do you know!” José brightened at the mention they were from the Club. He and his wife, Glenda, had been retired from the club for eight years. “I used to work for the Club.”

  “We’re from Human Resources,” Karen said, and at first José didn’t think anything was wrong with her mannerisms or tone of voice—that would come later when he was separated from Glenda later that day and imprisoned in the Data Center of the insurance giant’s basement. “We’ve come to collect you and return you to work.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Barry opened the screen door and, before José was aware of what was happening, they were grabbing him, pulling him outside. “Come with us,” Barry said.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” José was beginning to be frightened.

  “José, who is it?” Glenda came to the door; she’d been in the back bedroom that used to belong to their adult son. José, Jr. was now married and lived out of state. When she saw what was happening, she panicked. “What are you doing? Let go of him!”

  Another pair of well-dressed HR Representatives approached the house. They walked past the struggling José and walked up to the screen door. When Glenda saw them approach, she slammed the front door and screamed at the top of her lungs. José was only dimly aware as he struggled in the grips of the young woman and the man who were dragging him away from his house that the two other people were battering their way into his house. “Help!” he yelled, hoping somebody was home in the neighborhood this morning. He opened his mouth to yell again and a fist crashed into his face. The blow brought him to his knees; his vision went blurry. God help me, he thought as strong arms grabbed him and half-dragged, half-carried him to a waiting car where he was thrown into the back seat. His last coherent thought before he began to really panic was he hoped Glenda could hold them off long enough to call the police.

  AND SO IT happened around the country as thousands of people who had the day off, were retired, or had recently quit their place of employment were forced back into the labor pool.

  Four hours later a report went out to Wall Street that productivity had risen sixty percent. Analysts were excited. The economy was pic
king up. Companies announced that they were planning to add more people to the work force. The value of the dollar rose twenty percent. Stock and bonds rose sharply. Board members and executives were happy at this news.

  Buried among the ongoing news reports that day were the scattered reports of a rash of kidnappings and assaults. Those that were reported received scant notice, a few paragraphs in daily newspapers and on news websites at best. And because these crimes were only reported on local news outlets they didn’t receive national attention. To those who were unaffected by the Reign initiative it was business as usual. After all, crime was pretty much common in places like Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Detroit, Chicago, Kansas City, Dallas, Denver, Los Angeles—basically any big city.

  For law enforcement agencies, day care workers, and health care providers it meant something more. It couldn’t be explained, but as police officers responded to calls of kidnappings and assaults, and talked to witnesses who described friends and neighbors being carried off by people in suits, or as day care workers and teachers tried to reach parents frantically, or as doctors butted heads with administrative personnel regarding emergency treatment for patients who were brought in for a wide array of problems, one common thought was on all their minds: something is going horribly wrong.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MICHELLE DOWLING KNEW that things were happening, that Corporate Financial was really getting things in motion as she sat in the back seat of the Lexus Sam Greenberg was driving through the suburbs of Berkeley heading to the mountains.

  Michelle was dressed in a tan business suit and a white blouse. Her carry-on bag was in the seat next to her; her overnight bag stashed in the trunk. She glanced at her watch: it was four-thirty p.m. Pacific Time, Monday afternoon. Normally after spending a day traveling she’d be dog-tired, but not today. She was too wired.