Fired (Parts 1-9, plus the brand-new Part 10) (1234 hits)
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Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (View user info) at 2005-12-21 18:24:59 EST
I was looking back over My Uber today, and I happened to get caught up in reading the Fired series over again. By the time I got to part 9, I realized what a douche I was for not having properly finished it. So I set to work coming up with a Part 10, and hopefully, we'll have parts 11 and beyond to follow, if people still care.
I'm reposting Parts 1 through 9 here so that people don't have to go back and find them if they've forgotten the storyline so far, with Part 10 following chronologically at the end. If you only want to read a specific section, I've labeled the chapters as (Part #), so you can use Ctrl+F to zoom to that particular part of the story.
Enjoy.
---
(Part 1)
It was late one Friday afternoon when the memo began showing up on computer screens around the office building.
In one particular cubicle, Michael Rutherford was getting ready to pack up and go home, a long and utterly unproductive work week finally over. He had just put on his jacket and was about to put his computer on standby for the weekend, when a cheerful synthesized voice proclaimed a new e-mail.
Sighing, he took off his jacket, and sat back down at his workstation. Perhaps he might not be going home as early as he had thought.
Upon opening his inbox, he was surprised to see the last-minute message was from Willard Thompkins, the eccentric CEO of the upstart software company where Michael was employed.
Not only was Michael puzzled to see such a direct link from the CEO to a lowly peon like himself, he was also perplexed at the sudden reappearance of the reclusive billionaire.
After leasing the 30-story building that Michael now worked in, Thompkins hired a couple executive managers to finish the rest of the hiring process, then retired to God Knows Where to let the company start up, backed by his investment. He hadn't been seen for several months, and as far as Michael knew, this was the first time he'd even given a direct order since the company began.
Confusion aside, Michael clicked on the new message, displaying the following text:
"To: All Employees
From: Willard Thompkins
Subj: My Retirement
It was three years ago this Monday that I founded this company, giving it the necessary life to become the successful young business it is today. At the time, it seemed like a brilliant idea, a profitable idea, an idea that would prove to be very beneficial for me if only I poured in a couple dollars and hours. Several years and a couple billion dollars' worth of stock options later, I'd say my instincts proved me right.
But now that I have the return investment, I really see no reason to continue with this sham. I know nothing of technology; it confuses me, and seems more like a hassle than a blessing. And so I've decided to retire from the rat race, and go live a simple life, perhaps on a tropical island purchased with the money you faithful employees have earned for me.
This leaves the question of what to do with the company. Should I simply quit, and let you figure it out amongst yourselves? Should I fire you all, and simply shut down the business? Or should I just sell it to the Japanese? They've already put in an offer that's quite tempting, but I have a better idea. It's actually based on all three ideas, so I think you'll get a kick out of it.
Effective immediately, all employee positions are terminated. Marketing, engineering, security, the whole lot of you. You are to leave all company property on the premises, and leave without a fuss. Should the need arise, I have the police on standby. Anyone attempting to remain behind will be arrested and thrown into prison for trespassing.
But that's not to say your future at this company is entirely over. For you see, this is where it gets interesting. Any employee who wishes to return to this building on Monday shall be presented with the challenge of a little contest of mine. The wager? Well, there will be a piloted helicopter awaiting on the roof of the building. Inside that helicopter will be one billion dollars, the prize for whomever reaches the top first.
Of course, there will be some rules. They're really not that hard to understand, so I'll just list them here.
-Doors open at 8am. Anyone may enter the building after that time, but not before.
-Cheating is encouraged. Use whatever means necessary to beat your fellow employees to the top. And I do mean any means, including weaponry. Guns, knives, baseball bats, your wits...whatever you feel comfortable with. The building will be under martial law for as long as the police remain clueless. And considering the donation I just contributed to the policemen's ball, I have a feeling you all should have a good hour-long head start.
-There will be moderators. And by moderators, I guess I should say armed guards, whose only objective is to stop any and all contestants from reaching the top. They are trained to kill. Oh, and I guess I should mention that they are all ex-members of the Japanese military, so they also extremely trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat. I wouldn't want it to be too easy for you, now would I?
Other than that, anything goes, and I wish anyone hoping to participate good luck. Make this interesting for me. I'll be watching.
Willard Thompkins, CEO"
Michael had grabbed his coat and was out the door before his swivel chair stopped spinning. He had to go out and buy a gun.
~~~
On the 30th floor, a man looked out his window at the scurrying employees in the parking lot, and laughed.
(Part 2)
It was after a quick stop at the bank that Michael found himself in a gun shop, fingers tapping the glass nervously as he stared into a display case. Did he want the convenience and portability of the Beretta 9mm, or the raw power of the FN police issue 7-round single-barrel? He imagined the shotgun would be good for the masses of people he'd undoubtedly encounter, but in all the chaos, would he really be able to utilize it, let alone find time to reload?
He had both palms flat on the glass, his head downward in thought, when the owner of the gun shop came over.
"Anything I can help you with?" asked the stocky shopkeep.
Looking up, Michael stared at the man for a moment, trying to get a read on how he should approach the question. After a few more seconds, he cautiously began.
"Uh, yeah, maybe you can," said Michael, lifting his hand to scratch the back of his head. "I'm looking for something small and lightweight, but with a lot of power. Oh, and I want it to be easy to reload, if that's possible."
Rubbing his chin, the shopkeeper replied, "Well, buddy, that's a mighty strange request. Can I ask why you need it?"
Michael tried to stay calm as he felt the tendrils of the trap begin to close around his neck. As the sweat started to bead on his forehead, he spat out, "I, I...I own a jewelry store. We, uh, got robbed a couple nights ago. I thought I should get something to keep the place a little safer."
With a suspicious glare the storekeeper looked at Michael, his eyes analyzing every square inch on Michael's flushed face. With his eyes still trained on Michael, the storekeeper bent down, slid open a panel in the display case, and pulled out a large pistol.
"Try this. It's a Kimber .45. It should do the job you're talking about," said the man, handing the gun to Michael.
"Yeah, this'll do," said Michael, gripping the pistol tightly as he waved it around a bit. "How many bullets does it hold?" he asked almost absently.
"Eight. That a problem?"
"Yeah, maybe," Michael said with a frown. Glancing at the shopkeep, he stated bluntly, "Better give me two. It gets mighty hectic in my store's neighborhood."
"I hear you there. You know they're eight hundred each, right?"
"That shouldn't be a problem. Ring 'em up."
"Well you know there's a five day waiting period on gun sales nowadays. I can't legally just hand them over to you, you need to file a..."
Cutting him off, Michael pulled out his wallet and asked, "How much did we decide on? Twenty-six hundred?"
With a swift punch of a button the cash register rolled open, a soft "ping" echoing throughout the air.
"That should do fine, sir," replied the storekeeper with a broad smile, taking the money from Michael's outstretched hand. "I'll just fill out this paperwork for you, and you can be on your way."
"Thanks," said Michael as the man handed him a brown paper bag with the two guns inside.
Michael turned to leave, but the shopkeep called him once more. Spinning back to face the man, Michael now saw four little cardboard boxes sitting on the glass counter.
"Sir, you almost left without your ammunition. We wouldn't want that, would we?" said the shopkeep, still smiling.
"Uh, no, I guess not," sputtered Michael, taking out his wallet once more. "How much do I...?"
"Oh, no, sir, these are free of charge. Call it a gift, so maybe you'll keep us in mind the next time you need a firearm."
"Well, thanks," said Michael, sweeping the boxes into the paper bag. Heading towards the door, he said "I'll see you later, I guess."
"I'm sure you will, sir. I'm sure you will."
~~~
As Michael sped away, the storekeeper stepped away from the window and headed over to the phone, putting the binoculars down on the counter as he walked. Hitting number nine on the speed dial, he sat through two rings before a curious "hello" sounded on the other end.
"Hey, Mark, it's me, Tony. Listen, I got a license plate I need you to check on for me..."
(Part 3)
Pale rays of the early morning sun streamed through the windows of the garage, where Michael sat at his workbench, diligently cleaning the pistols he had bought three days earlier. He wanted to be absolutely sure they were in tip-top condition, so he had awoken around four to make sure everything was prepared.
Satisfied with the glimmering sheen of the guns, Michael carefully set them down on his workbench, as he began searching for something in which to carry them. After searching around the garage for a moment, he spotted his old leather tool belt hanging limply from a nail. Smacking it against the wall to shake the dust off, he brought it over to his workbench, where he slipped the two Kimber .45s through the loops on the sides, and tucked his extra boxes of ammo inside the various pouches.
Michael carried his equipped tool belt inside the house, where he placed it by his wallet on the coffee table near the front door. He absolutely had to remember to take it to work.
But first, it was time for a shower and a shave.
~~~
Outside, parked on the street there was a van. It was a white van, an ordinary van, no distinguishable marks about it. No one would ever think to look twice at it, nor the binocular-covered eyes peering out from the shadows behind the partially lowered front window.
~~~
Two blocks away, Michael's co-worker and occasional drinking buddy Tom was also getting ready to head off to the office. Key in hand, Tom walked into his den, where a gleaming glass cabinet awaited, a polished Remington 870 shotgun just waiting to be set free.
A few moments and a twist of the wrist later, Tom was stowing the 12-gauge into the trunk of his car, before hopping behind the wheel and backing down the driveway.
~~~
Elsewhere, a sharply dressed woman was finishing her make-up, before tucking her compact back into her purse. Then she put her eyeliner inside. Her lipstick. Her nail polish. A breakfast bar. Finally, a leathery whip, metal balls clacking softly at the end.
~~~
Somewhere else, a man sneaked silently into his son's room, rummaging around until finding the boy's baseball equipment. Removing the wooden bat from the duffel bag, the tied-and-trousered man begins to leave, still slinking as quietly as he had entered. Almost as an afterthought, he slipped over to his son's bed, where he kissed him softly on the forehead and whispered what could have been a final "I love you."
The door shut as a billion voices cheered a sickening cry.
~~~
The drops of water still ran from Michael's hair as he heard the honk from the street. Quickly throwing on some clothes and grabbing a jacket, he ran downstairs, where he pocketed his wallet and slipped his tool belt under the veiled safety of his unworn jacket.
Michael rushed out the door, only stopping when his hand was safely on the door of the waiting car in front of him. He opened the door and jumped inside, stowing his bundle on the floor before slamming the car door behind him. Looking toward his driver, Michael gave a solemn nod, indicating he was ready.
Tom returned the nod, and then looked forward, his eyes focused intently on the road before him, and certainly not on Michael, nor the white van slowly turning out to follow them.
Neither Michael nor Tom spoke the entire trip, as they both contemplated how they would proceed throughout the day, judging possible scenarios, and hoping neither of them would ever meet once inside that building.
It was the most awkward carpool of their lives.
(Part 4)
The streets were surprisingly empty as Tom's car sped stealthily though the city, toward the ominously looming building in the distance.
About a block from the office, Tom pulled over, killing the engine in the process.
"Get out," he commanded, his elbow resting on the window ledge, his eyes still staring directly ahead.
Michael looked confused as he gathered his jacket from the floor, before reaching for the door handle. He paused, turned to Tom and tried to speak, but Tom cut him off before he could say a word.
"Listen. I don't know if you thought we were gonna be teammates or something on this, but I plan on doing this alone. I don't wanna have to be looking after your ass in addition to my own, 'cause let's face it, it'd come up."
"Tom, c'mon, if we don't team up, we may end up...you know...enemies."
"Well maybe, but I'm not having the both of us killed due to some silly pact. One of us is gonna win that money, Mike. I'm gonna see to that. Now get out of the car," he finished, a stern tone in his voice.
"Tom, I can't just..."
With a swift motion to his boot, Tom pulled out a knife, secretly hidden in a sheath around his calf. Pointing it at Michael, he growled, "Get out of the car, Mike. I don't want to kill you before this thing starts, but I'll do it if you force me."
His left hand raised defensively, Michael fumbled around with his right for the door handle, finally gripping it and pushing it open. Grabbing his jacket and tool belt, he got out of the car and shut the door. With one last look at Tom behind the wheel, Michael turned and started walking down the sidewalk.
He had only gotten twenty feet down the road when he heard a soft "clank" behind him, like metal striking stone. Spinning around, he was just in time to see Tom's car explode, the entire vehicle lifting several feet off the ground as it burst into flames. A white van weaved around the wreckage, before zipping around the corner.
Michael had been knocked off his feet by the sudden detonation, but now he began to rise, a steady ringing sound filling his ears. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he started for the car, now burning steadily in licking fire.
"Tom!" he cried desperately through the choking fumes. "Tom, you bastard, are you OK?!"
He got as close as he could to the mangled frame before backing off, the searing heat forming blisters on his exposed skin. From where he stood he tried to see if Tom was still in the car, but the thick black smoke hazed his line of sight. But in the back of his mind, he knew Tom was as good as dead.
Michael wasn't sure if it was the death of his friend or the soot in the air that brought tears to his eyes, though he did nothing to hold them back. He stood there for several moments, watching the orange and yellow embers dance one last tribute to the man he had once called his co-worker, his friend.
Walking over to where he had stood during the explosion, he bent down and picked up his forgotten bundle. Tossing the jacket aside, Michael held the tool belt in his hands, staring at the twin barrels of glinting metal. A look of determination on his face, he slipped the belt around his waist, before removing the pistols from their loops. Taking one in each hand, he flicked off the safeties, a soft "click" following each motion.
With one last glance back at the flame-eaten vehicle, Michael took off running down the street, in hot pursuit of the mysterious white van that had killed his friend.
(Part 5)
Michael barely felt the ground beneath his feet as he tore down the street, bullet-filled pouches flapping at his sides with every passing stride. The pistols in his hands seemed to pull him forward, guiding him on the path to avenge his friend's murder. If it weren't for them, he felt he would not know where to go, as the street before him lay utterly desolate, with no clue as to where the white van had disappeared.
His breath ripping razor blades down his throat, Michael finally came to a halt at an open gate in the rear of a building. Somehow, he was not surprised that it was the shipping and receiving gate of his own company.
The dead body lying on the ground nearby was no surprise either.
Kneeling beside the cooling form, Michael instantly recognized the man. The stiff was John Sadman, one of the security guards employed at the office. He wasn't in uniform, but the ring of keys lying beside him seemed to show that John had been trying to sneak into work a little early this morning. But it looked like before he could punch in, a bullet to the chest had punched him first.
Michael deserted the body, guns raised in anticipation as he walked to the open gate. An open padlock hung loosely from the gate, a silver key, no doubt from John's key ring, stabbed through the middle. Removing the lock, he slipped inside, pushing the gate closed before locking it once more. No one was getting in or out of here without his knowledge.
Looking before him, Michael saw a few rows of empty parking spaces between him and the office building, and nothing more. A lone door punctured the flat surface of the building ahead, and he quickly moved toward it.
As he neared the building, a lone shot pierced the air, causing Michael to momentarily jump before sprinting towards the door. With his back against the cool metal, Michael drew forth his guns and waved them around the area, trying to determine where the shot had originated. He found only nothingness.
He relaxed, lowering the guns to his sides, just as another gunshot sounded, followed by another, then another. Soon the early morning ambience was filled with the blasts of various gunfire, a veritable daytime fireworks display. Horrible yells of anguish and fury invaded Michael's ears, as he stooped trembling in front of the door, his eyes shut tight.
The terrible symphony continued on, as seconds turned to hours, Michael still unmoving in his fearful state, wondering when the ruckus would reach him, to find him shivering like a little kid.
Would he really want to go out that way? He pondered the thought momentarily, then decided if this was how it ended, he was going to go out guns blazing.
Springing from his crouch, Michael surveyed the area, guns drawn...and found nothing still, even as the gunfire still blasted in the background.
As he listened to the seemingly unending outburst, he realized that the shots were coming from the other side of the building. He had never been in any danger at all.
Cursing his cowardice, Michael found his curiosity get the best of him, drawing him to the side of the building. Reaching the corner, he peered around the side, expecting to find a scattered field of bloody and broken bodies...but found none whatsoever.
There was however, a white van.
Tucking one of the pistols into his belt, Michael slowly approached the rear door, his finger on the Kimber's trigger. With his free hand, he grasped the door handle, and slowly raised it. The door opened with a soft "pop," and Michael swung it open with a flourish, pointing his gun into the darkened space.
Before he could react, a shadowed figure in the driver's seat spun into view, gun in hand. The driver fired, and Michael fell to the ground, a vacuum of wind whizzing by his shoulder.
Not knowing what to expect next, Michael crawled under the van, trying to regain his composure. Above him, the driver's side door opened, and a pair of boot-covered feet dropped down, before sprinting along the side of the building. Michael repositioned himself to take a shot, but the boots disappeared around the corner before he could pull the trigger.
Michael scrambled out from under the automobile, hoping now the coast was finally clear. He brushed himself off, then turned his attention back to the white van. The door still was open, and he was intrigued by what could be inside.
With baited breath and leveled gun, he once again peered inside the gloomy vehicle...and was struck dumb by what he saw inside.
(Part 6)
"Tom?"
In the back of the van, the rope-bound figure began to squirm wildly, the gag in his mouth muffling his anxious cries. Hurriedly clambering into the vehicle, Michael reached forward, tearing the cloth from between Tom's lips.
"Jesus Christ!" spat Tom. "What are you doing here?"
"Saving your butt, and you can thank me later," replied Michael, as he began loosening the thick cords that held Tom's hands together.
A tense silence filled the filled the air, the mood of the time too complex for words. Despite the swarm of thoughts buzzing around his head, Michael continued quietly picking at the knots around Tom's wrists.
As the final strand fell from Michael's hands, he asked the questions that had been pinned to his tongued since the moment he saw his resurrected coworker.
"Tom...how are you still alive?"
Tom didn't look up from his task of undoing the binding of his feet. His hands picked clumsily at the tangles, a disheartened interest radiating from his pores.
"I knew we were being followed. That white van, or should I say this white van, had been tailing us the entire way. And with how messed up I expected this day to be, I knew it wasn't just chance."
Tom paused a moment, his efforts of freeing his feet failed. Pushing up his pant leg, he unsheathed the knife he had strapped to his leg, before setting to work hacking off the rope.
"As we drove, I realized whoever was driving the van was after you. It had to be, otherwise it wouldn't have been parked in front of your house. So when we got close enough, I decided to split up from you. If the driver wanted you, I would have no part in it. Like I said before, nothing is gonna stop me from winning this money."
Michael stared at Tom blankly, coming to the slow realization he had been betrayed. "But how did you..."
"Survive? I guess somehow the guy in the van got out without either of us noticing. By the time you got out of the car, he was waiting outside my door, just out of view. He forced me out at gunpoint, then quickly marched me back to the van. Just as he shut me in, I saw him throw a grenade at my car. I guess he wanted you to think I died in the explosion."
Michael's head bobbed slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if suddenly understanding it all. The only sound was that of Tom's knife, the steady hiss of the serrated blade slicing through the sturdy fibers.
"I'm sorry I did it, OK? I mean, we'd only shared a couple beers, I didn't think we were that close of buds. In all honesty, I wouldn't have missed you. You're just be one less pawn in the game today," said Tom.
With a snap, Tom finally cut through the rope, liberating his legs. Sticking the knife back into its holder, Tom climbed out of the van, squinting as the early morning sunlight burned his eyes.
"You saved my life, you know? That sicko, whoever he was, was threatening to shoot me if I didn't answer all his questions," Tom spoke, turning to look at Michael.
"Questions?" asked Michael, the new development overriding his building anger.
"Yeah. Stuff like how I knew you, where we were going, that sort of stuff. He seemed pretty professional about it, like he'd had experience interrogating people before."
"And did you answer him?"
"No. He was about to squeeze the trigger when you busted in. Thank God."
"Right..." said Michael, looking down at the ground.
Neither spoke for several moments, the tension between the two coming to an uncomfortable high. Tom turned his back to Michael, the guilt and embarrassment of his hasty decision overcoming him. He was about to turn around again when he felt one of Michael's guns poking into the small of his back.
"Michael, what are you..." he stuttered, slowly rotating to face his colleague. "...Doing?" he finished, suddenly confused as he saw it was the handle, and not the barrel that had been touching him.
"Your shotgun was in the trunk when your car exploded, remember? If you're gonna win that money, you're gonna need a gun...and a partner," said Michael, smiling as he offered the extra pistol to Tom.
"That's pretty cool of you, but..." began Tom.
"No buts. You owe me one for saving your life. Now come on, I know a door we can use to get into the building," said Michael, still holding the Kimber out in front of him.
Tom looked at the gun, then at Michael, and finally to the top of the building, where he knew one billion dollars awaited.
Slowly, he reached out and took the gun, a slow but warm smile creeping across his face as he gripped the handle. With a nod, he motioned towards the building, as the two of them took off running for the back door.
(Part 7)
The back door slowly swung open, a moan of the walking dead emanating from its rusty hinges. A trembling Kimber .45 floated through the opening, dragging Michael's arm behind it. The rest of Michael followed soon after, his eyes peering cautiously into the dim light. The sunlight streaming in behind him was mostly useless, as a thick cloud cover had conquered the clear blue sky during his talk with Tom. With the exception of the door, the only other source of light was a lone 40-watt bulb hanging from a wire noose in the center of the room, and a soft orange glow coming from the far corner.
From behind, Tom gave an impatient shove, lightly pushing Michael's right shoulder. Startled, Michael jumped forward, his feet skittering across the smooth floor, striking something light and metallic before coming to a stop. The unknown object jitterbugged across the way, screeching and scraping as it moved along, until finally hitting the wall with a piercing "clank," followed by a hollow "clunk" as it toppled to the ground.
Michael froze, cringing as the echoes died in the enclosed room, only snapping out of it when Tom shoved him again, this time quicker and more forcefully.
"Way to go, bucket-head," said Tom from behind. "They'll never know we're here now, not after that, no-oh."
"Hey, shut up," shot back Michael, a fierce whisper hissing through gritted teeth. "If you hadn't pushed me in the first place, we wouldn't have to worry about it." He paused a moment, looking toward the door to make sure no one had heard. "And keep your voice down. We're trying to avoid getting shot, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah," said Tom, stepping around Michael and glancing around the room. "Where are we, anyways?"
"I think we're in the boiler room. That would explain the pipes and the funky smell," answered Michael, sidestepping nimbly around a puddle on the path.
But Tom wasn't paying attention. He had his head raised at an angle, his eyes off in the other direction as he raised his hand to his ear.
"What is it?" asked Michael, moving towards Tom's shadowed figure. When Tom didn't answer, he tried again. "Tom? Yoo-hoo, Earth to Tom?"
"Shhhh," hushed Tom. "Just listen."
Michael looked at Tom quizzically, then lowered his head, letting his concentration wash over the room and take everything in. He heard the venomous hissing of the furnace, the teardrops of crying pipes, and something else...something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"What is that?" whispered Michael.
"It's some kind of popping noise...maybe some kind of speaker, a radio transmission?"
"Could be," agreed Michael. "Sounds like it's coming from the hall...wanna go check it out?"
"Not really, but we don't really have a choice, if we're gonna keep going this way."
"OK. But make sure your safety's off," warned Michael, motioning toward the door. "Let's go."
The duo crept tentatively toward the door, pausing only when Michael's hand latched onto the handle. Tom gave a quick nod, and Michael swung the door open in a wide arm, moving aside so Tom could fill the portal. The hall was clear; there the two filed out into the bright light of the fluorescent lights, Tom taking the left side, Michael the right.
Immediately upon entering the hallway, they noticed how much louder the sporadic popping noise was, each boom leaving a resounding ringing in their ears. It no longer came off as the transmission interference Tom had thought it to be earlier, now it sounded like
"Gunfire," breathed Tom.
The two men spun towards the door behind them, just in time to see it slam shut with a miniscule "click" that somehow transcended the audio chaos firing behind them.
Michael lunged for the handle, praying it would turn, if only it would turn...but it had locked.
"Son of a..." muttered Tom. "I am honestly not surprised. This whole day, just one piece of bad luck after the other. My car blows up, I was kidnapped, and now I'm pinned in a dead-end by God knows how many gun-toting lunatics." Tom threw a weak punch at the wall, a soft "thud" reverberating through the wall. "Just great."
They both stood there silently for a moment, Michael scratching the side of his head as Tom rubbed the reddened skin on his stiffening knuckles. A soft click broke the silence, causing Michael to look up and see Tom checking the chamber of his gun for a bullet.
"Tom, what are you...?"
"We're blasting our way out of here," he stated, snapping the chamber closed once again. "Now c'mon, or stay here to die. Your choice."
Michael knew instantly that Tom was right. With a nod, the two of them sprinted the length of the hall, coming to a stop just before the end, where a frenzied symphony of gunfire shattered the normally serene lobby setting. Michael stole a quick glance around the corner, and gulped as he saw the riot they'd be dealing with. He felt his eyes transfixed on the chaos before him; like a car accident, he could not look away.
Without turning around, Michael mumbled, "Hey Tom, are you really ready for this, 'cause it's pretty bad out there and..."
And Tom dashed past the corner of his eye, fireworks of golden light dancing inches from his pistol-wielding hands.
(Part 8)
"Tom, you idiot!" Michael yelled, watching his co-worker dash along the wall of the lobby.
The first bullet embedded in the wall a fingerlength from his nose, the first of many drawn to him by his sudden exclamation. Ducking back behind the corner, he could only catch his gasping breath as the newfound barrage of bullets prevented him from helping his friend.
---
It was only until he got halfway across the room that Tom realized the behemoth blunder he had made. Here he was, running across an enclosed battlefield with only five shots to his name, and Michael holding all the ammunition.
He would never make it back alive, he realized; his only shot was to make it to the receptionist's desk and hole out there until Michael could get to him with the ammo.
Gritting his teeth as he ran, Tom put on an extra bit of speed, as the circular entrenchment loomed larger in the distance. All the while, the various rounds of live ammunition pwinged and zinged around his flailing form, promising to destroy him if he paused for just one moment.
With only five feet left to go to his destination, a mustachioed man suddenly appeared in his way, raising a shotgun and effectively blocking Tom from salvation. Still running at full speed, Tom raised his firearm, and backhanded the man across the face with it, clearing a path. Every shot counted, and Tom wasn't going to waste one on a guy with a mustache. He was better than that.
Now the only obstacle at hand was the two figures currently residing behind the raised desk, operating back-to-back as they kept their sanctuary under control. Tom recognized one of them as Bill from the mailroom, and the other he vaguely recalled was a senior executive named Beth. Or was it Betty?
Tom decided it didn't really matter, as he leaped over the counter at full extension, colliding with Bill and forcing him into his female counterpart, as all three of them toppled to the ground. The woman ("Beatrice!" he remembered,) smashed her head against the opposite side of the desk, rendering her unconscious before she even hit the ground.
Meanwhile, Tom and Bill had landed in a heap, and both were trying to gain some sort of dominance of the other, veins bulging and sweat spraying in a winner-take-all battle for the safety of a base.
But as the struggle persisted, Bill eventually came out on top, kneeling on all fours with one hand pressing firmly on Tom's throat, the other gripping a Colt .45.
"Sorry to do this, buddy, but it's all about the money. You understand," said Bill as he shoved the gun's barrel against Tom's temple.
"I understand," rasped Tom, the pressure of Bill's hand against his throat making it hard to speak. "And since we're clearing the air, I'd like to say I'm sorry for this!" he blurted, driving his knee directly into Bill's crotch.
Bill let loose a small whimper, a lone tear running down the edge of his nose as he crumpled to the side. Rubbing his neck, Tom got to his knees, still hiding behind the safety of the desk. Picking the Colt from Bill's limp hand, he gave a sympathetic nod, before knocking Bill out with a blow from the butt of the gun.
With his main threat now safely out of the way, Tom scrambled over to check on Beatrice, who was faintly breathing across the way. Aside from a small cut on her forehead, she appeared to be fine, so Tom liberated her of the Beretta she had been using, and sat back to check the ammo count.
Tom's gun still had five bullets, Bill's only had three, but Beatrice checked in with nine, putting his total at seventeen. Seventeen lives he could ultimately have to take, if it came right down to it.
Peering over the surface of the desk, Tom saw the battle was still raging on. If anything, the fighting had only grown, as notoriously late workers finally found their way into the fray.
"Tom!" a voice carried over the din.
Tom looked towards the source of the noise, and saw it was Michael, still hiding behind the corner where he had started. Tom looked at Michael questioningly, wondering what he could possibly want at the moment. Michael was gesturing his head toward the swarm of angry co-workers, as he pointed to the desk where Tom stood.
After a couple seconds, it was clear Tom was confused, so Michael just sighed, and ducked back around the corner. Tom was about to duck back down behind the counter when Michael came bolting from the hallway, hugging the wall as he mimicked Tom's earlier scurry.
It all clicked as Tom rose to his feet, a pistol in each hand, keeping a watchful eye out for any threat to Michael.
Twenty feet away, a man with a Finesse shotgun turned towards Michael, a diabolical glint in his eye as he aimed at a target he could not miss. Tom clipped his kneecap with a round from the Beretta, causing the man to crash to the ground with a resounding thud, and a penetrating boom as the shotgun fired harmlessly into the ceiling. Maria from Accounting stepped forward then, a throwing knife perched waveringly in her hand as she looked in Michael's direction, but Tom sent her flying with a bullet between the breasts.
Finally, Michael reached the desk, leaping over the counter with a brace of the arm. He collapsed to the floor almost instantly, but Tom remained on his feet, watching with curious intent as he saw a man with no weapon dashing directly toward him. He must have lost it in the confusion; there's no way a man would enter this insanity without some form of protection.
Tom thought about putting a hunk of lead between the man's eyes, but he wanted to see where this was going. The man drew closer, seemingly ignoring Tom, the anxious look in his eyes only focusing on one target: the elevator.
On both sides of the receptionist's desk there stood a pair of elevator doors, which somehow had remained unused during the entire ordeal. The man rushed right past Tom, finger outstretched, reaching towards the dull gray button resting at waist level to the right of the doors. With a soft click, the button pressed in, lighting up a luminescent orange.
Almost at once, a soft "ping" emanated from behind the doors, followed by another faint click.
Tom barely had time to think why the doors would have clicked when the twenty pounds of C4 wired inside the elevator exploded, blowing the heavy doors clear off their frame and sending him flying.
(Part 9)
"Have a nice little nap?" said a voice.
Tom groaned, keeping his eyes closed as he propped himself on his elbows. The marble floor was murdering his back, but its cool feel soothed the many bruises he had recently obtained.
"Not so loud, dude. My ears feel like they're bleeding or something..." Tom replied.
Michael didn't feel like pointing out the splatters of blood decorating Tom's neck and shoulders, so he let it pass. "Well," continued Michael coolly, "while you were out, the others took advantage of the distraction to slip up the stairs."
"How long was I out?" Tom asked, gritting his teeth as he finally opened his eyes to the blinding fluorescent lights.
"Only about ten minutes," replied Michael, absently brushing some debris away with the barrel of his gun. "But still, that's ten minutes they've got on us now. Some of 'em could already be on the tenth floor by now."
"Fuck."
"Pretty much."
The two were silent as they contemplated the situation, the threat of losing now significantly higher. They stayed that way until hurried footsteps sounded from the other end of the lobby, snapping Tom and Michael out of their respective ponderings. A man had just come to, and was now trying to make a break for the stairs, oblivious to the two figures staring at him from across the way. He was still clueless as a bullet from Michael's Kimber .45 pierced his left lung.
"What the hell did you do that for?" asked Tom, getting to his feet.
"You want another guy getting ahead of us?" snapped Michael. "Somehow I don't think that's a good idea."
"Well fine, but there's no need to be so pissy about it," shot back Tom.
"Why shouldn't I be? If you woulda just shot that guy, instead of being a little pussy and letting him go by, we wouldn't be in this mess! Christ, one fucking bullet, but no, you had to let him push that damn button!"
"He was unarmed! And besides, how was I supposed to know there was a bomb rigged to that thing?"
"Still, you shoulda just shot him!" cried Michael. "You were the one who was ready to shoot me, of all people, earlier this morning, and you couldn't take out one random dude? What kind of BS is that?"
"Hey, I told you why I did that. Don't you go bringing that whole mess up again," said Tom coldly, with a jab of his finger.
"Well maybe you were right. Maybe this whole 'working together' thing isn't working out. I'm tired of saving your ass, time after time."
"So you're saying we should split up?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying," spat Michael.
"Fine! Fine," blurted Tom, bending down to pick up his dropped pistols. "Here's your damn gun; its aim is off anyways. I'll just take the right stairway, and you take the left."
"Sounds great," said Michael, grabbing the Kimber from Tom's hand. "And it's not that my gun's messed up, it's that you suck at aiming. You and your over-hyped shotguns."
"Whatever," said Tom, turning towards the stairwell.
"Yeah, whatever yourself," muttered Michael, as he too walked away.
The men had just reached the doors to their respective stairs when Tom called across the room, "Oh, and one more thing. You had best hope we don't meet again. 'Cause this time, I will shoot you."
And with that said, Tom slipped inside the door, leaving Michael glaring at an empty wall. He scoffed, then spun and pulled open his door, slamming it shut with an echo that rang throughout the lobby, one last shot before the disordered room fell still.
(Part 10)
The stairwell was silent as Michael crept inside, the cool touch of the door's painted metal leaving his hand as he dared forward. Kimbers in hand, he slowly made his way towards the first step, peering upward as he carefully surveyed his surroundings. The stairwell appeared to be deserted, an unsettling notion as Michael considered the amount of people who must have already used these stairs. As he made his way up the first flight, all he could think was...
"Where is everyone?" he breathed.
He had counted twelve steps, about halfway up the first flight, when a door opened somewhere above him, its rusty hinges squeaking under the weight of the metal it supported. The noise echoed throughout the tower, filling Michael's ears as he pressed himself against the wall.
Pistol raised upwards, he took a step away from the wall, glancing cautiously upwards for any signs of activity. A flurry of motion from above sent Michael stumbling backwards, his collision with the wall almost as surprising as what fell before him.
With a sickening splat the body hit the bottom of the stairwell, its skin rupturing as its bones torn through the thin covering, sending a mist of crimson across Michael's face and shirt. From the floor of origin the door opened once again, its screeching hinges imitating the cry of the doomed man that never came.
Meanwhile, Michael had just opened his eyes, afraid to know what liquid had just sprayed across his face like the foam of a crashing wave. Looking down, he saw the fine red liquid dotting his white shirt, almost as if he had been pinpricked a thousand times. Leaning forward to look at the body not ten feet away from him, Michael struggled to hold back the vomit at seeing the man's flattened form, a pool of nearly brown spreading along the floor.
Not being able to stand the sight anymore, he flew up the rest of the first flight, only coming to a pause because the second was blocked. Or rather, wasn't there anymore. Somehow, half that particular flight of stairs had been obliterated, leaving a wide, ragged gap that Michael knew he would never be able to clear.
"Sonuva..." he trailed off, gazing skyward to check out the rest of the stairwell. Looking closely, he could see the same had been down to the fourth floor, and most likely the sixth. In fact, it seemed like every stairway to an even-numbered floor had been torn apart, leaving only the odds.
But why, why would they do such a thing, Michael wondered. Unless...
"He wants us to travel every single floor..." he murmured.
With a flourish he flung open the door to second floor offices, eager to cross the building and get to the other stairwell to test his theory. But he had only taken one step when he noticed the carnage that lay before him.
Bullet holes sprinkled the walls like constellations, as cubicles lay crushed and demolished, painted red with the blood of so many helpless employees. All around him, the moans of the terminally wounded filled the air, those who had been lucky enough to survive the war on floor two, yet unlucky enough to be able to move afterwards. As he moved across the barren wasteland, he saw men in suits, women in professionally attired skirts, people clothed for casual Friday, and a couple people that didn't belong.
Kneeling down to examine one such stranger, Michael reflected back to the email that Thompkins had sent out, the one that had explained all the rules. And this man, this Asian man, dressed in full combat gear...this must have been one of the Japanese combat soldier s Thompkins had hired to moderate the event. And judging by the assault rifle still strapped to the man's soldier, there must have been a lot of permanent banning done by this particular moderator.
Slipping the rifle off the man's shoulder, and fumbling with the clip, Michael found the weapon still had half a clip left. Razing the man's pockets, Michael found two more full clips, which he promptly slipped inside his tool belt.
He had just adorned the rifle to his own shoulder when the door to the stairwell behind him began to open, and the angry barkings of what Michael could only assume to be Japanese emanated from within.
User Reviews
Submitted by c1ndy (user info) at 2006-03-19 03:22:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
cool
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2006-03-19 03:06:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Younger siblings need to be tuned-up, every now and then, to keep them running properly.
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2006-03-19 02:43:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
So apparently when I left home for UCSC, I left myself logged in at home. And now my dumbass younger brother is trying to be mysterious or something by leaving queer reviews.
So ignore that.
He'll probably keep doing shit like that until I release Part 12, because he likes the series or something, I dunno. In any case, any out-of-cancer-context comments should be ignored.
The self-+2 is a dead-giveaway.
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2006-03-18 22:19:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This comment and the one before isn't funnyascancer. Somehow I got logged in as him. So don't think he's an ass because you might (hopefully you don't) think that he wrote it himself, he didn't. So there story kicks ass hard and just wanted that explained.
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2006-03-18 22:14:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
A young one whom you know and it kicks ass hard.
Nothing more to say
Submitted by viciousthawts (user info) at 2006-03-18 08:10:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is an incredible story. Is part 11 out yet?
Submitted by spedmonkey (user info) at 2005-12-31 20:08:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Yay.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-12-22 10:03:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
YES!
I have been WAITING For this.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-12-22 08:52:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by jagmcmanus (user info) at 2005-12-22 07:56:30 (#)
Ranking: -2
I thought this was gonna be shit but its awesome
Am I missing something here? I enjoyed these before and still find them quite awsome.
Submitted by jagmcmanus (user info) at 2005-12-22 07:56:30 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
I thought this was gonna be shit but its awesome
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2005-12-22 07:37:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fricking awesome.
Can I have the next 10 installments NOW please?
Submitted by Falconer (user info) at 2005-12-22 06:58:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2005-12-22 06:38:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
K-ching!
Gold
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2005-12-22 06:20:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
WTF! I'm not reading all that!
Ah fuck it, I've got nothing better to do.
Submitted by junyer (user info) at 2005-12-22 03:44:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 thumbs up.
Submitted by CookieLass (user info) at 2005-12-21 23:00:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I cannot believe I managed to finish all that.... glad I did.
Submitted by Agentmorneo (user info) at 2005-12-21 19:25:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Devote your life to lengthening this and finishing it. Well worth the read. +2
Submitted by Oxymoron (user info) at 2005-12-21 19:20:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome!! What a great read it's been so far, looking forward to the continuation.
BTW. You're not a Postal worker are you?
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-12-21 19:14:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Holy Ratfuck, Batman, I ain't readin' all that.
Good job.
Submitted by punkerrjess (user info) at 2005-12-21 18:47:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Holy crap so long but so worth reading