TheCorporation

by Jesus Gonzalez

  Alan looked at the four remaining devices. He could place one inside Debbie’s desk. What could it hurt?

  He opened the top desk drawer, found a space, and slipped one of the devices inside and closed it. With three explosive devices placed within the data center itself, that should be enough to blow up the IT department sufficiently. The tape library was housed in a secured room on the fourth floor, and this afternoon’s offsite run wasn’t due to be picked up until after four p.m. when the courier arrived. By then the entire building should be blown sky high. He was hoping the explosive device Michelle planted in the women’s room near Computer Analysis on the fourth floor, which backed up against the Tape Library, would be enough to sufficiently destroy it.

  Alan glanced at his watch. Ten after twelve.

  He closed his briefcase. Sat down in Debbie’s cube to wait.

  The door to the data center from the IT office opened. Footsteps sounded on the white tiled floor.

  Mark Hodges stood in front of him outside Debbie’s cube.

  Debbie White and Bob Gutenberg, one of the day shift IT techs, were glaring at him.

  “Get up,” Mark said.

  Alan feigned surprised. “What’s wrong?” He made no effort to get up.

  “He said, get up!” Bob said. He reached inside the cubicle, grabbed Alan by his arm and hauled him to his feet.

  Alan let himself be hauled up; to resist was to give himself away. “I don’t understand,” he said, fighting like mad to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

  While Bob kept his grip locked on Alan’s arm, Debbie walked over to the server rack closest to her cubicle. She reached down, rummaged among the cables beneath, and brought out the explosive device. She held it up for him to see. “What’s this?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alan said, suddenly feeling a stab of fear penetrate his stony veneer.

  “I was watching you from my cubicle,” Mark Hodges said, his tone flat, devoid of emotion, like a robot. “We’ve initiated video surveillance of the data center. There’s hidden cameras all over here. I watched you put this under two of the server racks.”

  Debbie walked over to the second server rack and pulled the other device out. She walked back, the second device on her outstretched palm. “What is this?” she asked. Her voice was robotic-like, too.

  “I have no idea,” Alan said.

  “You do,” Mark said. “You placed it there.”

  Bob grabbed Alan roughly. Mark grasped his left arm and the two IT staff members steered Alan toward the data center exit. Alan protested. “What the hell’s going on?” His voice rose and he tried to keep the fear out of it. “I didn’t do anything! Get your hands off me!” He struggled, tried to pull away. Mark and Bob held him tight. An arm looped around Alan’s throat and he panicked. He lashed out with his feet but Debbie kicked him solidly in the muscle of his right thigh. The cramp was enormously painful. Alan doubled over from the intensity of it, unable to control himself now as Bob and Mark hauled him to his feet and half-dragged, half carried him out of the data center.

  They steered him down the hall past the security booth near the rear door of the building toward the back elevators. “You need to be punished,” Mark said. The IT manager had the strength of an ox. His grip was vice-like, powerful.

  Alan tried to get the upper hand on his pain management, and when the elevator door opened he tried to make another break for it. It was no use; Bob and Mark had the upper hand and they hauled him inside and the elevator doors whisked shut quickly and then they were heading down into the basement.

  WHEN TIM CUSAK stepped into his office Tuesday morning after a glorious three day weekend he was surprised to find his staff inside it, seated at his desk or standing along the wall and window of his office, waiting for him.

  Tim placed his briefcase on an empty chair, puzzled. “What is this, a surprise party?”

  Tim’s secretary, a short, stocky woman named Leah Bailey, stepped forward. “You weren’t at the company picnic Saturday.”

  “Trish and I went to Las Vegas for the weekend,” Tim said. “I told you that a month ago.”

  Carl Ford, one of Tim’s Analysts, sounded off from where he was standing near the window. “You didn’t show up Monday. We were looking for you.”

  A prickle of unease ran up Tim’s spine. He felt the skin on the back of his neck gooseflesh as he suddenly realized that his employees looked...well...different.

  It was their attitude. Their expressions. The way they looked at him.

  It was as if the lights were on but nobody was home.

  “What’s going on here?” Tim asked, thinking the worst. Somebody died, the company is being sold, we’re all being outsourced—

  Dale Goodman, who was hefty and bearded, spoke up from where he was sitting at Tim’s desk. “You weren’t at the company picnic and you didn’t show up yesterday. That’s all.”

  Tim felt himself relax. It was a misunderstanding. They’d been so busy lately with all the projects that they must’ve forgotten the message he’d emailed them a month ago, telling them he was taking Monday off and that he and his wife, Trish, were going to

  Las Vegas for a long weekend. No big deal. “You had me worried there for a minute. I thought something bad had happened.”

  “Something bad did happen,” Dale said. “You weren’t at the picnic.”

  Leah piped in. “And you weren’t here yesterday.”

  They were playing this joke a little too far. Tim stepped around his desk. “Okay, so I wasn’t at the picnic Saturday. Big deal. I hope you all had fun. Now I’ve got a lot to catch up on, so if—”

  “You were supposed to be at the company picnic,” Ed Rodriguez said. Ed had been in the Quality Control Department longer than Tim had been with the company. “All employees of Trident were required to be there.”

  “Really? So when did it become mandatory I give up my personal time to go to a company picnic?” Tim said this intending it to be a joke; it came out in a sarcastic tone that was not lost on any of his employees.

  Leah frowned. “Personal time?”

  “What’s that?” Dale asked.

  Tim regarded his employees, that creepy feeling coming back to him. The thought that there was something wrong crashed back into his system and he could now tell that they weren’t joking; something was terribly wrong. He took an involuntary step back. “Okay, you guys are freaking me out here.”

  “There is no personal time,” Ed said.

  “Having time to yourself is prohibited by the company,” said Barbara Newstein, another of his analysts who was standing by Ed and Carl.

  “All of your time must be devoted to the company,” Leah said.

  “You were supposed to be at the picnic,” Dale said.

  “You violated company policy by not showing up.”

  “Not showing up to the company picnic was a flagrant disregard for company loyalty.”

  The litany built to a crescendo and Tim held up his hands. “Okay, let’s cut the crap!” He tried to raise his voice, to sound authoritative, but it came out sounding weak and scared. “You need to stop this now!”

  Tim felt the presence of another person enter his office and he whirled around, surprised to see Francesca Rogers and Paul Hetfield, his superiors. They bore the same glazed, bland looks as his employees.

  Tim was stunned. “What’s going on here?”

  Francesca’s gaze was direct yet showed no emotion. “You didn’t show up to the company picnic.”

  “You didn’t show up to work yesterday,” Paul Hetfield said.

  Francesca and Paul took a step inside his office.

  Tim took a step back.

  Ed and Barbara grabbed Tim’s arms, pinning them behind his back. He felt Barbara’s breath on his ear as she said, “You must be punished for violating company policy.”

  That broke Tim Cusak’s fear and he thrashed madly in an attempt to escape.

  His employees and superiors sw
ooped in and his punishment began.

  AND SO IT was happening all across the country.

  In New York City Matt Wagner lay tied up underneath his desk, a gag placed over his mouth. One of his eyes was bruised and swollen shut and his nose was still throbbing from the punch to his face. Twice, Matt had tried to escape and both times he’d been subdued and severely beaten. His supervisor told him that if he tried to escape again, they were going to throw him out the window. Matt had heard four screams coming from outside that sounded like people falling to their deaths from the surrounding skyscrapers onto Seventh Avenue below. Around him, everything continued as normal; phones rang and were answered, computer keyboards clacked as people typed into them. Matt’s personal line rang a dozen times last night then finally fell silent and Matt wondered if his wife and daughter were safe.

  In Sedalia, Missouri Lynn McMurphy shook her head in an attempt to fight off fatigue. She’d been standing at her spot on the production line for the past eighteen hours and had only been allowed four hours of rest. Her feet hurt so bad she couldn’t stand still; she had to keep moving from one foot to the other to ease the pain, and she was barely aware of her tears as they coursed down her face. It felt like her feet were bleeding; she could feel a warm wetness in her socks. Her co-worker, Annette Ramsey, lay on the floor in a crumpled heap. Lynn hoped her friend wasn’t dead—when she’d passed out late last night, Lynn had tried to help her but Bob Jones, who had always been a pleasant guy to work with before, grabbed the back of Lynn’s shirt, hauled her to her feet and told her to get back to work. They wouldn’t let Lynn help Annette because it would hamper productivity. When Lynn finally burst out in rage that they could shove their productivity where the sun doesn’t shine, Bob had hauled off and slapped her hard in the face with a closed fist that bloodied her nose and blackened both her eyes. That was six hours ago. They still hadn’t dragged Annette away to see if she was okay, and Bob hovered nearby to make sure she didn’t slack up on her work.

  In Denver, Colorado, Mel Howard appeared before Judge Carmichael on several felony and misdemeanor charges of assault and battery, assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and disturbing the peace, among others. Mel’s face was battered and bruised. He was still wearing the clothes he was wearing yesterday when those fuckwads from work had showed up at his house, and he stank. After being kidnapped by those HR assholes from work, Mel had managed to escape, but first he’d socked Mary Barnhill in the face, breaking her nose from the sound of it. He’d gotten four blocks before he was captured by the police and taken to jail, where he’d remained until this morning.

  Judge Matthew Carmichael looked frustrated and worried as he flipped through papers. Mel’s Defense Attorney droned on that Mel had been improperly and unjustly treated, that the city had no right to side with his employer—correction, former employer since Mel had tendered his resignation—on these criminal matters, and that Mel should be released and the charges dropped, but Judge Carmichael dropped a bombshell before Mel’s attorney could finish. “I would love to release your client, but I can’t.” Judge Carmichael closed the sheaf of papers, looking grave. “According to this new statute passed by Congress over the weekend, Mr. Howard’s employer has the right to forcefully demand that Mr. Howard return to his duties as an employee even if Mr. Howard tenders his resignation under the ‘at will’ provision of this state’s employment laws. I know that flies in the face of all common sense, but—”

  “No shit it flies in the face of all common sense!” Mel shouted.

  His court-appointed attorney nudged him. “Be quiet,” he whispered.

  “I hate to do this, but I am going to order that you not be released from custody until I can find out the constitutionality of this new statute,” Judge Carmichael said. He looked worried and disturbed. “I promise you that I will write a brief this morning in challenge of this statute and—”

  The Prosecuting Attorney stood up. “Permission to approach the bench, Your Honor.”

  “Permission granted.”

  The Prosecuting Attorney approached the bench and handed Judge Carmichael a sheaf of papers. “This is a temporary order from the Governor requesting all temporary stays be ignored until the Federal Branch passes this bill in Congress.”

  “I would think the State Supreme Court will have—” Judge Carmichael began, not even looking at the papers.

  “The State and Federal Supreme Court’s decision will have no bearing on this statute as it is written.” The attorney for the city was handsome, dapper even, and he was wearing a blue suit.

  “Section S, Part IV, paragraphs A1 through A5, subheading 4b state that if Amendment 4895 of the United States Constitution is passed, Section 8, paragraph 5 cannot be overturned by the Supreme Court on the Federal or State level. Amendment 4895 was passed overwhelming by the Senate and House last week, the President signed it into law on Saturday. Therefore, the city recommends that Mel Howard receive his punishment and then be taken back to his place of employment as—”

  Judge Carmichael pounded his gavel. “I’ve had enough of this! I’m not listening to any more of this drivel until I and my staff research this issue more!”

  A dozen well-suited men and women who had been sitting in the spectator section of the court rose to their feet and began approaching the bench.

  Mel turned around, confused. Judge Carmichael pounded his gavel. “Sit down! Bailiff! Call security!”

  Judge Carmichael, the bailiff, the lone Sheriff’s Deputy present in this particular court room, and Mel Howard and his court-appointed Defense Attorney were no match for the worker bees sent by Corporate Financial Consulting to enforce a provision of the new Labor Law that had been signed by the President of the United States over the weekend, a provision that was hidden beneath hundreds of pages of pork concealing the fact that the American Worker—everybody from Janitors to Architects, as well as retirees and those currently working—was now owned by their employer, and giving said employer carte blanche to do anything they wanted with them in order to maintain and improve company productivity.

  Which explained why José and Glenda Gonzalez, retired from the Automobile Club of Southern California for over a decade, were now working at the positions they once held at their old place of employment.

  The only difference was that José and Glenda once got paid a comfortable salary and benefits.

  Now they were lucky if they were allowed to go to the bathroom or take a nap.

  Glenda lasted thirty-six hours before her supervisor ordered building security to have her taken to the basement for punishment and re-assessment training after she collapsed to the floor in fatigue.

  José lasted eight hours longer.

  And so it went.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ALAN PERKINS HAD been correct about the immersion. When it was presented to Michelle that afternoon at two o’clock, they gave her the impression it was a form of privilege and pampering for the upper-level executive consultants as well as all the upper-level managers and executives. “Think of it as another perk,” Sam Greenberg told her as he led her down a well-lighted hallway in the basement of the building toward a door at the end. “Corporate Financial has a gymnasium, a swimming pool and sauna, a racquetball court, and an executive lounge and bar as part of its benefits package for all our upper level staff members. We also bring in personal trainers and other therapists. This is just one sort of therapy. It’s a form of anti-stress, light hypnosis designed to open certain parts of your mind and prepare them for high levels of thought and analytical thinking you will be performing as part of your duties to our team.”

  “So it’s like a high grade of psychotherapy geared toward your upper-level staff,” Michelle said.

  “Yes, very much so,” Sam Greenberg responded. “Ah, here we are.” He led Michelle through a pair of large doors that, in turn, led to a small waiting room. Another hallway branched off into darkness. There was a maroon-colored receptionist desk to her right; it was cur
rently empty. Sam led her across the waiting area toward the hall. “Linda is on assignment on the fourth floor,” he explained. “She’s a great hypnotherapist and many times she’s called up by Bruce or even Frank Marstein himself to tend to somebody at their desk. She’s very good at what she does.”

  Sam led her down the dark hallway and stopped at a door. He opened it and went inside. Michelle followed him.

  The room was small and well-lit. There was a potted plant in one corner and a comfortable-looking lounge in the center. “Lie down on the lounge,” Sam said. “I can get you started.”

  Michelle set her briefcase, laptop, and purse down on one side of the lounge and settled herself down. This is where it starts, she thought as she stretched out. Despite knowing what was going to happen, what Sam had in store for her, she wasn’t afraid.

  Sam was standing near the door fiddling with something on the wall. A moment later she heard gentle, soothing music pipe in from hidden speakers. “There we go,” he said. He turned to her, his features pleasant, smiling. “Simply lie down, relax, close your eyes. I’ve set the first wave in motion and this is just something to calm you down, get you in the mood. I’ll post a note on Linda’s desk that you’re here and she can work on the rest of your immersion when she returns.”

  “Okay,” Michelle said. She closed her eyes. “Will she actually come in the room?”

  “Probably for a little bit,” Sam said. “She’ll want to make sure I’ve put the right program in and have the settings adjusted right. Then she’ll be outside monitoring you.”

  Michelle thought about this as Sam left. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  The minute Sam was gone Michelle opened her eyes.

  She lay on the lounge, staying silent and motionless. The room was darkened. The music was low, soothing, and combined with the atmosphere in the room—temperature, the scent, which was smoothly intoxicating with a hint of jasmine. If she’d kept her eyes closed she was sure she would have gone under quickly. The mood was very relaxing, designed to put you in a dream-like semi-conscious state that would allow one to enter your thoughts and influence your thinking.