Fired (From Beginning to End, Parts 1-16) (1176 hits)
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Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (View user info) at 2006-05-05 18:16:09 EDT
Before I finish this series up, I'd like to say thanks to the people who have stuck with it, despite me unnecessarily dragging it out over a year. You guys rock.
Parts are separated with (Part#). You can zip to an individual section by typing CTRL+F, Part#. For example, jumping to the end of the story would be CTRL+F, Part16.
Just over 33 pages in Word.
~~~
(Part1)
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.
(Part2)
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..."
(Part3)
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.
(Part4)
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.
(Part5)
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.
(Part6)
"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.
(Part7)
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.
(Part8)
"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.
(Part9)
"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.
(Part10)
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.
(Part11)
Michael slumped to the ground as the door swung open, closing his eyes as his body went limp, the lumpy wetness of the bloodied body below him breaking his fall. He tried to steady his beating heart, as the footsteps of heavy combat boots drew ever nearer, an Asiatic assailant on the way. His lungs burned with fear as the pain of atrophy halted the flow of soothing air, drowning in a room where breath was all around him, like a fish below water.
And the footsteps marched closer.
There was but one pair, heavy but deliberate, the subtle saunter of a man grown too comfortable with his job. Even while the moans of the dying filled the atmosphere around him, he slunk forward, ever pressing forward.
Finally, the footsteps stopped, mere feet away from Michael's still form. There was a metallic click, one that sent a slight snap down Michael's spine, and then a shot. Somewhere across the room, there was a gasp, as a rush of air left a man's body for the very last time. And with that, the footsteps continued on, the only other sound another click, presumably as the gun's safety was turned off once more.
Michael tensed as the soldier edged nearer, praying his convulsion was not noticeable, and that that line of sweat he felt trickling down his brow was only in his mind, a trick played by the insanity of imminent death. Just as he could take no more, there was a push on the inside of his leg, and the soldier tripped, crashing to the ground in a heap of bones and muscle.
"Chikusho!" cursed the man, muttering under his breath as he clambered to his feet. Michael's eyes snapped open as he heard a telltale click, and sure enough, the man was fumbling with the safety, as he raised the gun to fire at Michael.
He rolled to the side just as the gun went off, the bullet uselessly burying itself into the deceased body below. With a curse of surprise, the soldier threw his gun to follow Michael's movement, but by that time, Michael's own rifle was up and aimed. With a rapid ratatattat, the soldier was down, spitting blood as a crimson pool began forming on the carpet.
But before Michael had a chance to breathe, the door to the third floor flew open, and three more soldiers filled the empty space between the frame. Without hesitation, he dove over a cubicle wall just as they open fired, their guns spitting bullets like watermelon seeds on a hot summer day. The monitor sitting on the cubicle's desk began to sizzle as a slug ripped apart its complex circuiting, electricity flowing free into the stale office air. A mug shattered, spilling pencils and pens across the floor, the ink that once ran through their veins now leaking wordlessly.
Michael hefted the rifle once more as he stood to rise above the cubicle wall, as he performed his best Rambo imitation on the open door. Hammer upon gunpowder rang through the midday sun, as Michael screamed with blind intensity. However, once he opened his eyes, he saw that not only were there no dead bodies, there were no bodies at all. The soldiers had vanished, before he had even taken a shot.
The room was silent as Michael contemplated what to do. He strained his ears to listen for any noise in the room, any clue at all where the soldiers might have gone. But all he heard was the wails of those who refused to die, lying wounded in their own remains.
Then the barrel of the rifle was around his neck, as the soldier began choking the life right out of Michael. He twisted and turned, flailing like a fish out of water, trying with all his strength to break free of the cold steel's pressure, but the soldier was simply too overpowering.
As spots broke before his eyes, Michael jerked his arm downward, grabbing a Kimber from his toolbelt. He fired behind him, inadvertently causing the soldier's privates to go AWOL as the physical gun met the metaphorical. The soldier's arms went limp as the rifle fell from his grasp, his basic will to live now spattered on the ground between his legs.
Michael turned to run from the cubicle, then jumped back as a menacing blade slashed the open air before him. The second soldier entered the cubicle, wielding the knife with the flash of the greatest of sushi chefs, spinning the metal back and forth hypnotically at a speed rivaling invisibility.
Michael shot the man between the eyes before he could take another step.
Suddenly, the gun was kicked from his hands as the final combatant revealed himself from the darkness, fists and feet flailing in what appeared to be a hand-to-hand challenge. Michael inadvertently blinked at the man's speed, and got a face full of knuckles for a prize.
He cringed as the pain went shooting up through his gums, and the soldier took this chance to simply backhand Michael across the cheek, sending him spinning as the sheer force of the blow lifted him off his feet.
Blood slipped from his lip as he opened his eyes, just in time to see the man jump in the air above him. He rolled aside to avoid the crushing stomp, grabbing the soldier's leg as soon as he landed. With a jerk, Michael flung the man to the ground, where he rolled on top of the man and began pummeling with all the strength he could muster.
A kick sent him sprawling off, tumbling backwards until he finally came to rest in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the outer walls of the office building.
Both men scrambled to their feet, bracing themselves in traditional formation as round two began. The soldier dashed at Michael, his right fist cocking back to deliver what would be a bone-crushing blow.
He swung, finding only air as Michael sidestepped the blow, and in turn gave the man a roundhouse kick to the back. The extra momentum sent the soldier flying into the sheets of glass, which shattered upon his impact, raining glass in a chandelier globe before his body tumbled out into empty air.
The fall from the second floor wasn't enough to kill the man, this Michael knew, but he wasn't surprised to hear the sickening snap of bone breaking on concrete. Peering downward, he saw the man's leg bent upwards at the knee, causing the toe of his foot to rest comfortably in his navel.
"Ooh, I bet that's something he never thought he'd kneed," smirked Michael, laughing at his own horrific pun. And then he was off, to see what the third floor had in store for him.
(Part12)
He was kind of disappointed to find the third and fourth floors relatively empty, save the random body or two. Seems most of the carnage happened on the second floor, and now it was just down to stragglers.
Michael scored big on the fourth floor, however, when he found the body of Dave Schuman, the janitor on his floor of the building. He'd spent several nights working late talking to Dave, comparing the difficulties of one side of the business world to the other, and things of the like. One time he'd even taken Dave out for a beer, after Michael had gotten sick at work and Dave had to clean up the mess he left behind.
But it wasn't the death of an old acquaintance that thrilled Michael, it was the ring of keys still clipped to Dave's belt. Looking around he quickly stooped down and relieved Dave of his precious, shoving the ring into his pocket as he scurried toward the stairwell door.
Again the stairs were quiet as he moved lithely up to the fifth floor. One sixth down, Michael thought to himself as he peered through the tiny glass window in the door. Ominously and unfortunately enough, the small pane of glass was splattered with blood, making vision impossible. So with a cautious deep breath, Michael grabbed the handle and took a peek inside.
Dogs. Dobermans. Big ol' scary fuckers with teeth. Whatever you want to call 'em. And there were four of them, all of 'em looking hungry and mean. Michael didn't know if the blood on their snouts meant they'd had their fill or not already, but he really didn't want to chance it.
Closing the door silently, he took one more deep breath, then reopened the door. Slinking into the room, the dogs paid no attention to him, too absorbed in finishing their meal. Cringing at the soft click as the door slid shut behind him, he was relieved to find the dogs still uncaring of his presence. He prayed it would stay that was as he began his long trek across the floor.
Jingle.
Michael stopped, as the sudden metallic noise echoed throughout the cubicles. Taking another step, the jingle returned once more, making Michael freeze, wondering what the hell exactly was going on, that God would hate him this much.
Looking up, Michael saw all four dogs had lost interest in their meal, and were now staring intently at this sack of meat that had walked into their territory. At the first growl, Michael pulled out a Kimber and shot the dog closest to him, before throwing himself over a cubicle wall, just as another Doberman slammed into the thin felt-covered plywood.
With a cry Michael hit the ground, a stab of pain hitting him near the hip. For a second he thought he broke his hip, until he dug into his pocket and pulled out the ring of keys.
"Fuck!" he yelled angrily, tossing the keys over the cubicle wall, where they landed on the other side with a loud jingle. "Fuck!" he bellowed again, just in case he hadn't made himself clear.
And then the dog was over the wall, landing next to Michael before turning and diving for Michael's throat. With a thrust of his arm he grabbed the dog's neck and held it back, the beast's snarling jaw snapping mere inches from his nose. Bits of foam sprayed from the dog's mouth as its utter hatred for Michael and any other human alive manifested itself, the taste of blood the only thing on its mind.
Unfortunately for the Doberman, the only blood it would be tasting was its own, as Michael put a pistol under the dog's jaw and fired, splattering doggy brain matter all over the ceiling.
Throwing the limp body aside, Michael made sure he had everything and took off, bolting through the doorway of the cubicle on his way to the stairs. He ran along the windows, a clear aisle to the corner of the room, where he would have to take a right and run another sprint to the door in the middle of the wall.
The third dog made its appearance then in front of him, rounding a corner before dashing down the aisle towards Michael. The two beasts never wavered as the other charged forward, one wielding forty-two deadly pearl knives, the other, an L-shaped piece of steel loaded with six periods, the ultimate punctuation.
Grabbing his Kimber in both hands, Michael swung his weapon just as the Doberman leaped, the butt of the gun colliding with the Doberman's skull. The impact sent it flying sideways and through the thin glass window, where it plummeted oddly enough, forty-two long feet to its death.
And Michael never stopped running.
Hitting the corner, Michael turned and fled towards the door, taking a quick look back to see the last dog hot on his tails. With a final burst of speed he made it to the door, throwing it open and ducking inside, just as the Doberman lunged. With a roar of intensity Michael grabbed the inner handle and pulled, yanking the door shut with all his might.
He wasn't in time to stop the Doberman from getting through, but he was in time to make sure not all the dog did. With a sickening splorch, the door slammed shut on the Doberman's thin neck, separating the carnivorous canine's head from the rest of its body.
Before the severed head died, it let loose one final yelp, a noise that haunted Michael more than anything he had seen earlier that day.
He turned and went up the stairs.
(Part13)
By the time he got to the twelfth floor, Michael was beginning to get a little bit worried. He hadn't seen another living, or for that matter dead, creature since he left the fifth. For a moment Michael wondered if perhaps he had traveled back in time, to last Saturday. It would certainly explain why he couldn't find a trace of another human being.
He crept slowly across the rows of cubicles on that floor number twelve, his Kimbers drawn for any sudden movement. But it never came.
He reached the door with no hassle, no trouble at all. He was just about to open the door and head up to floor thirteen when something small and bronze caught his attention on the floor. For a second he thought it was a bullet casing, but upon picking the object up he found it to be a tube of lipstick. Twirling the cylinder of vanity between his fingers, he gave a "whatever" shrug and continued onward.
Upon reaching the thirteenth floor, Michael was slightly taken aback by the door, which was propped open. That in itself was slightly odd, considering the nature of the day, but Michael found what was going on past the doorway just a little bit more unusual.
In the middle of the main aisle of cubicles, there lay a man. He was dead. Michael could tell by the rather large puddle of blood that had accumulated around his bloated form. That by itself might pass for strange on the street, but in this office, it took the woman rhythmically gyrating on top of the man to pass for really fucked up.
She seemed lost in the moment, taking whatever sick pleasure she could from violating the recently deceased, though Michael wasn't sure exactly how much violating was being done, besides the kind being forced upon his already confused little brain. Then again, he really didn't want to think about the mechanics of the act. He audibly gagged when she reached down with her finger, running it through the puddle of blood, and rubbing it against her exposed cleavage.
That was when she looked up.
She smiled, the exact facial opposite of Michael's disgusted grimace, as she stopped thrusting and rose to her feet. Michael was temporarily relieved to find her wearing pants, so at least she hadn't been doing what he thought she was doing, but still...
"That was fucked up," he blurted.
"Aw c'mon, we all have our little fetishes, our little quirks that get us off in that extra special way," she said, shouldering her purse as she walked towards him. "Mine just happens to be blood."
"Well if blood's your thing, prepare for an orgasm that'll rock your world," said Michael, drawing a Kimber and pointing it at the woman's head.
With a flash a hand dove inside her purse, pulling out a cat'o'ninetails that whipped forward faster than Michael could blink, jerking the pistol out of his hands.
"Nuh uh," she said, a devilish smirk creeping across her lips. "No guns. You wanna make me bleed, you're gonna have to do it with your bare hands, big guy. Oh, and can I have my lipstick back?"
Michael looked down, barely even recognizing he still held the small metal tube. He raised his head to speak to the woman once more, only to find the bottom of a size 6 leather pump spinning towards his face.
With a gasp, he crumpled to the ground, dodging the blow in the nick of time. But the woman continued her spin, lowering her kick to knee level, where she connected with Michael's chest as she completed the three-sixty.
He stumbled over backwards as the breath left his body, like the carbonation leaving a shaken bottle of soda. He coughed as she dove on top him, her face coming to rest only inches from his gasping mouth.
"How long has it been for you?" she asked seductively, as she grabbed Michael's balls loosely in her fist.
"Bitch!" Michael hissed, his teeth clenching in the sheer fury and resignation only the truly tested possess. "What're you talking about?"
"How long has it been since a woman's been on top of you like this? Judging by the twins down here," she said, tightening her grip as she felt around. "...I'd say at least two years."
Moving closer to Michael's lips, she spoke the words in a whisper, only barely loud enough for him to hear:
"What are you...some kind of pussy?"
Through the mind-numbing pain of this woman playing jacks with his testicles, Michael could only think of one comeback, but luckily for him, it was universally accepted as the best.
"Fuck...you," he spat, pulling the other Kimber from his belt and putting a bullet in the woman's thigh.
He couldn't decide whether the resulting scream was of pleasure or pain, so he rolled her off and shot her again, this time in the other thigh.
"You are one crazy bitch, you know that, right?" he said, standing over her with a look of disturbed contempt.
"Doesn't it turn you on?" she whispered, as her face started going pale. "Don't you just feel a rush of energy each time you hurt someone? Isn't it marvelous?"
"No," stated Michael, as he went over to retrieve his other pistol. "It doesn't. In fact, the only pleasure I'm gonna get from this..." he said, as he jerked a monitor free from its cords in a nearby cubicle. "...Is that you'll finally shut the fuck up."
"Meet the glass ceiling, bitch. You're finally breaking through," he said, as he slammed the heavy block of plastic and glass down on the woman's head.
Rummaging through the woman's purse, he found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Lighting up, he looked back at the still woman, gestured with the cigarette, and asked, "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
(Part14)
From there, the voyage to the top of the building was a blur. Michael raced up the floors with the speed and intensity of steam escaping a kettle, never stopping, never pausing for breath as his chance at a billion dollars slowly slipped through his fingers.
Floor 16, 17, 18...the numbers spun past faster than Michael could keep an eye on. Soon he was on the twentieth floor, just in time to see the stairwell door slowly swinging shut.
Shooting forward, Michael grabbed the door and threw it open, bursting into the room with the fearlessness of a tiger.
The man never stood a chance.
By the time he turned his head to investigate the pounding footsteps, Michael had a Kimber raised, pointed at the ceiling above him.
With a resounding CRACK, Michael pistolwhipped the man, the force of his backhand sending the man flying against a cubicle, its weak wooden walls snapping much like the man's neck just had.
Of course, Michael didn't see this. He just kept on running, and never looked back.
Back to the stairs. 21, 22, 23, the flights flew by like days in a schoolchild's summer, never hanging around much longer than it takes to blink.
He had almost made it across the 24th floor when something went horribly awry. Well, not awry, per se...but it definitely was not a good occurance.
The bullet zipped past Michael's neck, embedding itself deep into the door to the stairwell before him. With a jump, he stopped and turned, unholstering a Kimber as he spun.
"Put that down," said the man, still standing in the shadows of the stairwell. "I would have yelled, but you don't really seem like the type of man who would stop for a chat, now do you?"
Something in the man's voice got to Michael, somehow compelled him to listen. He lowered his pistol, though he didn't put it fully away. Something about this guy he just didn't trust, and his white-knuckled clench on the gun's handle showed it.
"There we go," soothed the man. "Now we can get down to business."
"We both want that money. There's no denying that," continued the darkened figure. "And the fact of the matter is, I'm going to get it."
"Over my dead body you are," spat Michael.
"Well, I hope it won't have to come to that. I like you, you're a good guy, that whole bit. You shouldn't have to die, not when you can just walk away. I'd like to refrain from killing you, but if you make me, I will. After all, I..." he trailed off.
"Hold on a sec," he said, turning back into the stairwell.
With a thunderclap, his gun echoed down the stairwell, as a woman screamed, before two more shots silenced the escalated tomb once more.
"After all," he began again, facing Michael. "...I am one fucking crazy son-of-a-bitch."
"So Michael...am I gonna have to shoot you or not?" asked Tom, stepping forward into the light.
(Part15)
"What's the matter, Michael?" Tom asked. "Surprised the big bad shadow killer is your bestest buddy Tom?"
Michael looked confused, unsure how to answer that particular question. He started to reply, then shut his mouth once more, the words leaving him. Finally he said, "Well, no, not really. I mean, who else could it have been?"
"Well, it could have been me," said a voice other than Tom's, as another figure stepped out from the stairwell. Tom turned to face the man behind him, and was immediately leveled by a backhanded pistol to the face. His body crumpled to the floor, blood gushing from his unconscious form as he went still.
"Tom!" yelled Michael, stepping forward to aid his friend.
"Ah ah ah..." said the newcomer, shaking a darkened finger at Michael. "That's close enough. Don't make me use this," he said, raising his pistol into the light.
Michael froze mid-step, the gun glinting menacingly in his eyes. Taking a couple paces back, he raised his hands, swallowing as he said "OK, OK, you got it...Now what do you want from me?"
"And here I thought that answer would be obvious," stated the man incredulously. "I want what all of you want. I want whatever's at the top of this building."
Something about the man's words stuck in Michael's mind, and he had to think for a second before it came to him. "What do you mean, 'whatever' is at the top of the building? Don't you know?"
"I'll be perfectly frank, Mr. Rutherford, I have much clue as to what's up there as to who this man I just knocked out is. But then again, that didn't really stop me from blowing up his car, did it?"
Realization dawned on Michael's face, his eyes turning red as he spat "It was you! You nearly killed Tom! You're the one from that white van!"
"Quite simply, duh."
"Well then who the fuck are you? Why the hell won't you leave me alone?" asked Michael, now more irritated by this man than anything else.
"Oh, come on. I would have thought you'd have guessed by now, but obviously not. So Mr. Rutherford," the gun store clerk said, stepping into the light. "...Recognize me now?"
"Holy shit..." breathed Michael. "How...?"
"You weren't the only one to buy a gun from me that night. All in all, I made more money last night than I did last month, all from people like yourself, who were willing to pay just a little bit more if I waved that silly waiting period. So when you came in and did the same, I had a buddy of mine at the station trace your license plate. From there, it was just a matter of following you. Once I saw what was going on here, I knew I had found something big."
Michael was stunned, absolutely appalled for allowing himself to be played in such a fashion.
"There's just one thing I don't know. There's something at the roof of this building, something that all you people are willing to kill for. You might as well tell me what it is, I'm going to find out anyways."
Realizing what the man said was true, Michael sighed, slumping his shoulders. "A billion dollars..." he whispered.
"Whoa-ho! That's quite the prize. I'd probably kill for that much, myself." Raising the pistol at Michael, he said, "Now how about some proof?"
Just then, the sound of helicopter rotors filled the background, their muffled roar distracting both the clerk and Michael from their standoff.
"Shit!" bellowed Michael. "Someone made it to the top already!" he cried, rushing to the window and looking up. The clerk was right behind him, taking the pane next to Michael to gaze at hope slipping away.
But the steady whirring was not coming from the roof. For as the two men watched, a blue helicopter descended in front of them, the word "POLICE" stretching across the back.
"Oh shit," breathed both men.
But before either of them could say another word, a tremendous whoosh whistled through the building, as a stream of smoke billowed from somewhere higher up the building.
Explosion!
With a deafening boom, the helicopter burst into a fiery supernova as the smoke trail connected, sending a burning heap of metal plummeting to earth. All windows above the 16th floor shattered in the wake of the resulting shockwave, sending both Michael and the clerk flying backwards.
~~~
Michael was the first to get back to his feet. Shaking his head to clear his ears, tiny bits of glass flew in all directions from his hair, tinkling to the ground like tiny balls of hail. Looking over to the other man, he saw the clerk still writhing on the ground, clutching at his ears as blood poured through his fingers.
Walking over to the man, Michael felt pure hate stream through his veins, the misery and tiredness of the day transforming into unadulterated rage. His fists were clenched as he stood over the man's body, before placing his right foot on the man's neck, pressing ever-so-slightly.
"You tried to kill my friend. Twice," he spat, pressing harder. The man snapped from his stupor, staring Michael in the eye with unbridled terror. He tried to shake his head, to plead with Michael, but Michael's firm plant kept his head still.
"Then you tried to kill me," Michael said through grinding teeth, pressing harder.
Beneath him, the man choked and gasped for breath, clawing at Michael's leg with both hands, to no avail.
"And it wasn't even your game to play!" finished Michael with a roar, stomping down and crushing the man's windpipe.
Watching the man's tears stream from his eyes as his face went blue, his final moments apparent, Michael still felt nothing but anger. Grabbing the man's body, he dragged him to the open row of windows, the broken glass pittering softly as the man's dead weight pushed it aside.
Knowing the man only had but a few seconds to live, he leaned in nice and close, whispering the man's final blessing:
"Now die."
With a harsh push of the leg, Michael sent the man tumbling out the window, where he would fall over two hundred feet to his final destination of Concrete Parking Lot.
Looking back one more time at Tom, Michael turned and ran, nothing left to distract him from getting to the top of the building.
(Part16)
The thirtieth floor. The last obstacle between Michael and a helicopter with a billion dollars.
Having no idea what to expect, Michael tentatively approached the stairwell door, intent on taking the briefest of peeks through its tiny window. From there, he could assess what he was up against, and go from there. If he even decided to go at all, that is.
Slowly he crept towards the door, his head just below the paned glass. Carefully he inched his way up, his eyes almost level with the window, when the door opened.
There stood one of the Japanese mercenaries, staring down at Michael, a rifle held at ease in both hands.
Michael gulped.
"Mr. Rutherford...please come in," said the soldier in broken English, stepping aside.
"Uh..."said Michael, not sure what to do. "OK..." he finished, putting the Kimber he had instinctively drawn back into its holster, still keeping a hand on it.
Stepping into the room, Michael was blown away.
...at the sight of all the changes that had been made to the floor's structure.
First and foremost, all the walls had been torn down, leaving only empty space, except for the occasional support beam. The resulting cleared area had been made into a makeshift military base, with machines and weapons and just about anything else one would need to start a small war. Machine guns, C4 explosives, even a bazooka or two, in addition to radar and a whole wall of video monitors.
And then there were the soldiers. Over fifty of them, all of them looking very serious, and very unwelcoming to the pale, bloodied man walking through their ranks.
But soon Michael and his guide had reached the lone metal staircase climbing along the side wall, leaving the silently fuming soldiers behind. At the top of the staircase there was an open hatch, the daytime clouds floating lazily overhead.
Michael had just put his foot on the first step when the soldier stuck out his arm, putting his hand on Michael's chest, effectively stopping him in place.
As Michael turned to the man, he again said in broken English, "Your weapons, please."
Looking down, then back at the man, Michael gave a disbelieving stare, then slowly removed his tool belt, handing it to the man. The soldier then marched away, leaving Michael to ascend to the roof.
Taking a deep breath, Michael shook his shoulders, then climbed the final fifteen steps to destiny.
He was immediately greeted by Willard Thompkins, the CEO himself. He walked toward Michael with open arms, looking sharp in his business suit despite the rustling winds all around them.
"Mr. Rutherford, congratulations! You win!" he cried with a hearty laugh. "Twelfth floor accounting, right?"
"Uh, yeah, right..." said Michael, confused.
"Good, good. I always liked you boys, you did good work." Turning away from Michael, he called back to the helicopter, "Jerry, start the bird, we're leaving soon."
With a shrill whine, the engines came to life, causing the winds on the roof to pick up even more.
"Hold on a second, Michael, there's something I have to take care of," the eccentric CEO said, pulling out a walkie talkie.
Pressing the button, Thompkins said, "General Yakasoto, gather you and your men around the stairwell. I have some final instructions for you before I go."
Pausing for a moment in distracted thought, the CEO gave a slight amused nod, before tossing the walkie talkie aside.
"First rule of business, Michael," he said, reaching into his jacket once more. "Only look out for yourself."
As Michael looked on in puzzlement, the CEO walked by him to the open hatch, as he finally dug out what he was searching for in his many pockets. Michael gasped as his boos pulled out a hand grenade, slipping his finger into the ring as he peered down the hole.
"General, is this all your men?" Thompkins called above the din of the helicopter.
"Yes, sir!" came the response.
Pulling the ring, the CEO yelled back bluntly, "You're fired!"
And with that, he tossed the grenade into the hole, walking away calmly.
Even above the roar of the helicopter, Michael still heard the sickening splat of blood and body parts hitting the wall after the boom of the grenade.
Trying to hold back his disgust, he turned to his boss for an answer, some kind of explanation for the mass murder he had just committed.
Sensing his employee's stare, the CEO replied, "Witnesses, Mr. Rutherford, witnesses. There were simply too many, knowing simply too much. Plus," he said with a slight guffaw, "Now I don't have to pay any of them!" he said, continuing with his laughter.
"But I guess you're wondering what happens now," he continued. "Am I going to kill you too, or are you getting on that helicopter and getting your money?"
"Well, Mr. Rutherford," he went on, walking towards the helicopter. "The money's right here," he said, reaching inside and pulling out two very large briefcases. "One billion dollars, in one million thousand-dollar bills. I'm a big fan of cash, aren't you?
Unfortunately, this money is not for you. For you see, you were not the first employee to reach this rooftop. Confused? Well come now, what more is an employee besides one who is paid to work for the company? I think I fit that description, don't you?
So if you'll excuse me Mr. Rutherford, I'm going to get on my helicopter, with my money, and as one might say, get the fuck out of here. Good day and goodbye, and thanks for all your years of service. You've been one hell of an employee."
With a sly wink, he clambered inside the helicopter and shut the door, locking it with a loud metallic clank. The aircraft began to take off almost immediately, leaving Michael to gape helplessly as his prize was ripped away from him once more.
As the helicopter slowly left the roof of the building, Michael looked around desperately for something to stop it with, a gun, a grenade, anything at all! Coming up with only the small rocks that littered the roof's surface, Michael chucked them as hard as he could, the small projectiles bouncing harmlessly off the thick metal surface. Collapsing to his knees, he felt his strength leave him, all his day's effort for naught.
"Allow me," said a voice behind him.
Spinning around, Michael saw Tom emerge from the hatch, bleeding from a gash on his forehead. In his hands, he wielded one of the massive bazookas from the floor below.
Hoisting the beast onto his shoulder, Tom focuses on the helicopter, aiming carefully before throwing the trigger guard back with a dramatic flick.
"It's been nice working with you, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go," he said coldly, pulling the trigger.
~~~
"So what now?" asked Tom, as a burning thousand-dollar bill fluttered past his ear.
"Well, I don't think we're going to be able to get out of this," said Michael, standing at the edge of the building and looking down at all the police. "I think it's safe to say we're fucked."
"Great. You avoid death twice, nearly kill your buddy, and blow up a helicopter with a billion dollars, and in the end, you get to rot in jail. Fucking fantastic."
"Meh, maybe prison won't be so bad. We're going to have quite the rep."
"You keep dreaming the dream, dude. Maybe we should just jump. We're gonna fry anyways."
"What the fuck is wrong with you? I dunno about you, but I did not just go through today to puss out in the end! There is a way out of this, I know it!"
"Then what is it? How do we get out?"
"I'm thinking!" snapped Michael, walking to the hatch in the roof.
Several awkward minutes passed, the wind the only noise breaking the silence as Michael and Tom contemplated their possible futures.
"Strip," commanded Michael, finally.
"What?" asked Tom incredulously, rising to his feet.
"You heard me. Down to the underwear. We're getting out, and with a police escort to boot," he said, dropping his pants to the floor.
~~~
It was several hours later when the SWAT team found the 18th floor supply closet, where two bloody and battered men were found tied and gagged, in nothing but their underwear, pleading desperately through their muzzles to be set free.
Upon their rescue, the men told the story of how they showed up to work that day to find the building under seige, some kind of war between Asian soldiers and their coworkers. Before they could escape, they were attacked and captured, where they were tortured for the soldiers' amusement.
Their incredible story found its way into the hands of the media, as these stories always do, and almost immediately they were touted as American heros, ordinary men who found themselves in the hands of terrorists and found a way to survive. Faced with this, the police were forced to let the men go.
By the next morning, they were gone.
User Reviews
Submitted by littledan (user info) at 2006-05-14 09:52:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Great fucking story... The ending was a bit deflating, but it wrapped it up quite nicely.
Submitted by earth_collapse (user info) at 2006-05-14 09:11:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Happy fucking birthday!
Submitted by CookieLass (user info) at 2006-05-08 19:31:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I forgot how much I wanted to read the ending of this until I read it.
Good show!
Submitted by Phinch (user info) at 2006-05-08 19:11:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
AWESOME
Submitted by JSultan (user info) at 2006-05-08 04:30:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
cool...
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2006-05-08 04:24:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good job though I have to admit the ending was weak, the overall series was enjoyable and that's the main part right? To tell the truth I would have liked it better if they had jumped (only to be cloned from their blood splatters for part II!)
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2006-05-07 23:30:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I am sorry that I wasn't following this series as you wrote it.
Good work.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-05-07 22:33:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"Michael gasped as his boos pulled out a hand grenade..."
Boos?
I think that's the first grammatical error I've seen in the whole series.
Ending left me wanting more, but it seemed appropriate for the reasons you gave below. Well done, FAC.
Now do another series called "Hired!"
Submitted by Kale (user info) at 2006-05-07 12:13:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-05-06 21:10:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Though reading your posts make me feel bad when i bitch about hits.
Submitted by jojojojoan (user info) at 2006-05-06 20:58:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I have to agree the ending needs a little boost. But great idea for a story. You should get donald trump to play the boss man.
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-05-05 21:05:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I know what you were going for but "By the next morning, they were gone." needs more detail and such, the last section is just far too brief, as if you said "fuck it. no more of this, I'll write the ending in 3 minutes and be done with it forever."
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2006-05-05 20:54:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
To PFF: I can't believe after being banned for months at a time, you were still so desperate to be a dickweed on an internet forum that you came back. Go figure, you little twat.
To everyone else: Sorry the ending wasn't amazing. I figured they couldn't win the billion, because that's lame, they couldn't die, because no one wants to see the good guy lose, so they kinda had to draw, ie losing the money but still living. Once I got there, I had to figure out a way for them to escape while still remaining somewhat plausable. This is Fired, not Scapegoat. There will be no killing an entire city to escape. Hence, I guess lameness.
Submitted by professorfuckface (user info) at 2006-05-05 19:37:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Can't believe you milked 16 posts out of this you little nerd
Submitted by MonkeyingAround (user info) at 2006-05-05 18:34:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I expected more... though I still liked it. =/
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-05-05 18:24:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Ending sucked. Hard.