The Corporation

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EVERYTHING WENT LIKE clockwork the next morning.

After a restless sleep broken intermittently by visions of an infant Alanis calling her name as she lay on the floor in an empty office surrounded by humming fax machines and computer monitors that sputtered to life, Michelle woke up and quickly got dressed, applied her make-up, then gathered her laptop, purse, and the explosive-laden briefcase and left her hotel room. She left her suitcase behind, not knowing what else to do with her stuff. Her purse was slung over her shoulder and she hoped to at least be able to escape with it if she could. In fact, she would ditch the laptop if push came to shove. She had pictures of Alanis in her wallet; she’d never part with those.

Sam Greenberg and Gary Lawrence were waiting for her in the lobby. Sam smiled and nodded. “Good morning! Sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” Michelle answered.

“Good!”

They made small talk on the drive over. Michelle concentrated on slipping into the role. She’d applied the ear piece before she slipped into her business attire and she could hear Alan whispering to her from wherever he was, telling her he was getting last minute things ready from his location. She met Sam’s gaze in the rearview mirror as he addressed her. “Today is going to be a monumental day, Michelle.”

“It is?”

“We’re expecting sales to reach seventy percent again today,” Sam continued. “Productivity at our client companies is expected to be sixty percent. By week’s end, we’re planning on eighty percent.”

“It would be nice to reach one hundred percent,” Michelle said. Her fingers caressed the leather of her briefcase.

“Our goals exactly!” Sam said. He looked more alive than he’d looked in weeks. If Michelle had just met him for the first time she would think he was a normal human being. “We’re shooting for one hundred percent at the close of Phase Four.”

“When do you expect to commence with Phase Four?” Michelle asked.

“We’re shooting for within two weeks,” Gary Lawrence answered. He was sitting in the front seat this time, looking out the windshield ahead of him as Sam drove.

“Ambitious,” Michelle said.

“We think so,” Sam said.

“Will I still get to be involved with Phase Two?”

“Very much so.” Sam glanced at her again. “I expect you to be ready by week’s end. Thursday at the earliest. How does that sound to you?”

“Sounds great!”

“Will you be willing to travel right away?” Sam asked. “With the way things are moving, it will be prudent for you to jump right into your part in Phase Two and hit the ground running.”

“Absolutely,” Michelle answered. “I can leave from here if I have to.”

“No need for you to go home?” Sam was watching her subtly as he drove. Michelle could tell this question was a test of her loyalty.

“Nope,” Michelle said. “I have my business attire with me. I pay my bills online. My paycheck is deposited into my bank account, and I have somebody checking my mail at home. No need to go home right away.”

Sam smiled. “Good.”

The morning sun felt good on Michelle’s face as the car angled into the driveway of Corporate Financial Headquarters.

THE MORNING WAS going incredibly fast.

Michelle Dowling was in a stall in the women’s bathroom on the fourth floor. She had just placed one of the explosive devices in the toilet tank after waiting five minutes for a woman to leave the rest room. Michelle had sat on the toilet seat motionlessly as the woman did her business and took her leisure time in leaving. The minute the door whisked shut amid clicking heels that receded down the hall, Michelle got up, slung the briefcase up, and quickly got the device in the toilet tank. Then she exited the stall and approached the sink.

She inspected herself briefly in the mirror. I’m not looking too shabby despite everything I’m going through, she thought. She didn’t look like a terrorist, either. Rather, she fit the bill perfectly for a high-level female corporate executive.

Satisfied that her physical appearance was top-notch, she left the bathroom and headed back down the hall, briefcase in hand, back to the meeting in 4H.

It was the second meeting she’d undertaken this morning and things were going well. She’d already planted explosive devices in the bathrooms near the executive dining lounge, the one near Bruce Wellhorn’s office, and the first floor hallway near accounting. Now she’d planted the one in the bathroom by Conference room 4H. She hadn’t seen her mother yet and she didn’t know if she’d get to. It didn’t matter. She was going through with this. She was going to play her part in destroying Corporate Financial Consulting.

She composed herself by taking a deep breath, then entered conference room 4H, ready to do business.

ALAN PERKINS WAS sitting in an empty chair near a computer terminal in the data center, briefcase at his feet, wondering how Michelle Dowling was making out.

It was after twelve p.m. and most of the data center staff were at lunch, which was ironic when he thought about it. Alan had heard through various news sources of some disturbances throughout the country—arrests, spats of violence at the workplace. He had no doubt that workers all over the country were being forced to work through their lunch hour and that those who defied orders were being punished somehow. Of course, Corporate Financial employees, even those who hadn’t yet been immersed, were immune to such treatment since they were the ones orchestrating this massive takeover.

The IT manager was holed up in his office, his attention riveted to his computer and that’s exactly where Alan wanted him. The IT manager, a burly middle-aged man named Mark Hodges, was a perfect Corporate Financial pawn; dedicated, loyal, attentive, a complete corporate zombie. He was so dedicated to his task, so taken in by Corporate Financial Consulting, that he had no inkling of anything outside of his realm of Information Technology or Corporate Financial business. Therefore, he had no idea Alan was in the data center. Alan had arranged for one of Mark’s employees, Debbie White, to let him in and meet with her regarding the client he was working with. Debbie was not only completely overtaken by Corporate Financial, she was easy to manipulate. After fifteen minutes of discussing strategy and IT protocols, Alan had asked Debbie if she would run upstairs to Computer Analysis and ask Larry to run some reports and Debbie had scampered off, leaving Alan alone in her cubicle.

And now the rest of the IT staff, except for Mark Hodges, had gone to lunch.

Alan stood up slowly, listening for any sound of activity within the data center. Mark’s office was actually outside the data center, in a cubicle within a room of three other cubicles. There was a window along the wall of his cube that looked out into the data center so he could oversee things. Alan had taken a quick peek inside at Mark and noticed that the IT manager’s attention was wholly directed toward his computer screen, like he was mesmerized. Alan knew that look well; Mark would be absorbed for hours.

Alan opened his briefcase and quickly took out two of the explosive devices. He peeked around the corner of Debbie’s cubicle quickly. The network servers lined ten rows along the inner wall. The entire room was standard-issue data center: white walls and floor, raised flooring where the servers were, climate controlled room. Alan darted over to the server rack furthest away and knelt down. Thick cabling littered the floor of the rack to snake down beneath the raised flooring and he pushed one of the devices inside, beneath the lowest positioned server. He pushed it as far back as it would go so it would remain undetected, then quickly darted over to another server rack five rows down and did the same thing. This was a little more tricky since the window to Mark’s office was visible. Alan could see Mark’s back, his attention riveted to the computer as he worked. One false move and Mark could see what he was doing and come inside the data center. Alan quickly shoved the device underneath the cabling along the floor of the rack, then stood up quickly and took a few steps back. Neither device was visible at this level. They would remain undetected.

Alan turned his attention to his briefcase. He had four devices left. He’d planted one in each toilet tank in the men’s room beside the data center, Customer Service, and General Accounting. He’d also planted one underneath Richard Long’s desk when he met with the Account Executive this afternoon. Richard hadn’t noticed, either. Alan simply opened his briefcase on his lap as he sat down and then, the briefcase’s contents facing him, he’d slipped one of the devices out and casually slipped it beneath Richard’s desk as Rich rattled on about the company’s performance and numbers.

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

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

Alan glanced at his watch. Ten after twelve.

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

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

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

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

“Get up,” Mark said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have no idea,” Alan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leah frowned. “Personal time?”

“What’s that?” Dale asked.

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

“There is no personal time,” Ed said.

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

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

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

“You violated company policy by not showing up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Francesca and Paul took a step inside his office.

Tim took a step back.

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

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

His employees and superiors swooped in and his punishment began.

AND SO IT was happening all across the country.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Permission granted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

José lasted eight hours longer.

And so it went.