This Is the End (7 page)

I can’t remember what we had on the fourth floor; I think it was Research and Development, maybe it was accounting? The lights are all off. The portal is black; I try the handle and it feels like there’s something blocking it when I try to push it open. Standing on my tiptoes, I look down and try to see if there’s something in the way. Why would there be something in the way?

Fuck it; I need to get to my office. I need to figure this out. But first I need clothes and coffee and food. God, I would kill for a cup of coffee right now. I stop trying to look through the little square window and keep moving. Hand over hand, it feels like I’m climbing Everest. I keep moving until I get past the landing for the fifth floor; the landing just above me reads a big
6
, and then I see the door to my floor and smile.

I put my hand on the handle and push down. It clicks but doesn’t move and for a few seconds I freak out. “Maybe they locked me in the building.” I push forward a little harder and it opens. I smile wider. I missed my office.

I want a triple espresso. I want my comfortable, expensive, tailored clothing. A shower. Food—God, I’m going to order so much stupid food and I’m not even going to finish it, just throw it away. I want to take a shit. Then I want to find these assholes and do something very bad to them.

I move into the main portion of my lobby and even before the lights begin to come on, I can see the outline of my couch and Carol’s desk. The small trace of ambient light gleams off the polished doors to my sanctuary. I hear the click of energy flowing into tubes and diodes as the room is flooded with piercingly bright light. I instantly wish they hadn’t turned on.

It takes a few seconds to figure out what it is I’m looking at. It takes a few seconds for my brain to categorize, to put the picture together: the colors, the smell, the bone-grey and blood-like dirt and shell casings bright as crushed copper roaches. It takes a few seconds for me to figure this all out.

When I do, I turn around and dry heave on the door.

3.

My brain turns around in circles.

I’m in the landing again.

I’m rocking back and forth.

I don’t want to go back in there.

I don’t like my office anymore.

This has to be a joke.

This is a cruel joke that Phil and Janet played on me. Maybe, maybe Robert had them killed; maybe I’ve been framed. I don’t want to go backing there. Sitting here in the dark, the floor is cold and hard on my ass, even with the plastic diaper and lab coats.

Then I hear it. Something moved behind me. I look at the wall in front of me; the lights are still on in the lobby and I can see someone move past the opening of the window.

I watch the shadow on the wall in front of me. This is a huge joke. I launch myself up and turn around. There’s nothing there. I look into the window, scan left to right, and still nothing. The lights flicker out making the window a black rectangular hole again. I slip myself down off the tips of my toes to the cold concrete, look down and shake my head.

Maybe I’m losing it. I haven’t had anything to eat yet; I feel shaky enough as it is and the dry heaving didn’t help much. I’m just seeing things. Then I hear something faint from the other side of the door, like breathing but it’s quiet. I bend down and put my ear to the door. I can’t hear much but there’s definitely something making noise on the other side of the door.

I bet this is part of the joke. I bet they’re all standing around waiting for me to open the door again.

“
We totally got you
,” they’ll say and I’ll feel like an asshole and everyone will laugh and then I’ll fire them all. They’ll all laugh again and so will I, because I’m not joking. Then it will get very silent. I will continue to laugh.

More noise is coming from the other side of the door; I hear something that sounds like shuffling or scratching, like someone’s dragging something across the floor. There’s no way they are locking me in the fucking stairwell. Something hits the door with such force that I stumble back. I look at the door. It happens again. I look into the window.

The lights turn on and I nearly fall down the stairs. The door bursts open and I move backwards. The silhouette of the man standing on the landing doesn’t look right. I try to figure it out; looking from left to right, he’s missing an arm, his right arm. His face is grey and he’s missing an arm.

“This isn’t fucking funny,” I scream at him.

He says nothing. He comes at me. He’s dragging his left leg; he’s missing his left foot.

“Cut the fucking shit,” I yell at him but he doesn’t stop. I’m ready though. I’ve had enough of this. He stumbles after taking another step with his stump and comes crashing down the stairs missing me completely and slams into the landing below. I grab the door before it has a chance to close and pull it shut behind me.

“Fuck you, asshole. I hope you’re seriously hurt. And don’t expect me to pay any of the fucking medical.” I begin to say something further but realize that, as I’m looking at the man in the suit lying on the landing below, he’s getting up.

He’s crooked. Men aren’t supposed to be crooked like that. I pull the door closed. This isn’t right. He makes his way back up the steps; one at a time, he pulls himself up towards the door, then the window. My grip goes tighter on the handle, pulling it impossibly close to me. I start looking for the lock.

The door slams again but this time the sound is accompanied by shattering glass; I pull my head up to look but don’t realize that his arm is through the window until it’s too late. He grabs my throat. He lets out a moan. Hot, fetid breath hits me in the face. My stomach bottoms out again and I want to retch.

I can’t breath. He’s grabbing me; I have to let go of the door. His hands are so cold, digging into my neck. I can’t scream.

I smash the door into him. His grip breaks and pulls away from my throat, leaving burning finger marks along the sides of my neck. He falls back down the steps and I hear him smack into the landing again. Pulling the door back closed, I look around. There’s a gun lying on the couch next to man that doesn’t have a top to his head anymore. A Bible is on the floor.

I run to the couch and grab the gun. I have fired a gun five times in my life which was the sum total amount of times I had to go to a firing range so that I could carry the pistol in my car. I wouldn’t say I’m the best, but I know how one works.

From behind me I hear the door open. I turn around, the man is there. He’s wearing what looks like the remains of a suit and what’s left of him is big, muscular. He looks like he could have been on my security detail. His face is tattered and ragged. I can’t make out his features to know for sure. He’s moving towards me, pulling his dead appendages behind him. His clubfoot makes him unsteady; his left arm is pealed back and covered in shattered glass and scars. There’s no blood.

I pull the gun up on him and check quickly to make sure the safety is off and pull the trigger.

Click.

I look down at the gun then back up to him; he’s still coming, drool or fluids of some kind drip out of the corner of his jaw. I would say mouth, but that’s not really a way to describe it.

I pull the trigger again and again there’s another click.

Fuck.

He lunges at me. He hits me. We roll.

He tries to bite my face; I shove my hands into his neck to push him back and it feels like I’m grabbing at sausages. His neck collapses and I feel spine. Black, sticky fluid begins to run down my arms, covering them to my elbows. The smell is nearly unbearable. My throat and abdomen are gagging in tandem, sending waves of heaves up my body like water. The man clicks his teeth at me, clacks his jaws open and closed. I squeeze harder until I take hold of what I know has to be his spinal column. I turn and pull and then I hear a very uncomfortable thick crack.

His eyes roll back into his head and he slumps down on top of me. I push him off. I roll away. I’m covered in black to my shoulders.

I scramble away, looking for something to wipe my arms off with. I see Carol’s legs sticking out from behind her desk. I look when I know I shouldn’t. She’s wearing a skirt and from her feet to her stomach she looks pristine; from her stomach up there is an empty hole. She doesn’t have a face anymore because she doesn’t have a head. I pull at her skirt and it comes off; I wipe my hands off and throw the skirt back on top of her.

Leaning against the door to my office, scanning the room, I can feel my body start to shake. The adrenaline dump is making the room spin. I brace my body with the corner of her desk and pull myself to the door controls.

“Come on, come on, fucking work,” I say to the finger scanner as I lay my index finger on the little glass. I can see the laser inside is still working, see the little crisscross of red light on my finger tip.

“Come on,” I scream at the screen. Then I hear the lock click behind me. The door to my office opens and I crawl inside and wait to hear it close again. The room springs to life, power comes back on. Lights flicker, screens load. I hear computers boot up. I’m shaking uncontrollably now, every muscle in my body is tensing and releasing all at once.

I look around and see the room spinning. Then I see the barrel of a gun. I hear a click. I see boots.

“Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here?” asks someone—sounds like a woman. The barrel of a gun is very cold. Never knew that before. I can’t answer back, I’m so tired. I look over and there are more feet.

“Help me. Please?” I manage to ask. My throat is closing up, can’t stop the shaking.

Someone kicks me in the head.

Thank you.

4.

“Who are you?” asks the woman who held the gun to my head earlier. She’s standing in front of me and I’m strapped to a chair, arms and legs bound tight. My left eye is incredibly swollen; I can barely see out of it. Boots kicked me in the head.

“Who the fuck are
you
?” I ask back, and then regret saying anything as her open hand slams against my face.
Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the fly
, says my brain. I shake my head and try to focus again.

“I’m the one asking questions here, so I’m gonna ask you again: who are you, how did you get in here, and what are you doing here?”

She’s not very pretty. Hard lines mark the corners of her mouth—“Frown lines,” Janet used to call them. Her eyes are cold and hard. She has short hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her clothes look like they fell off the back of a truck bound for a survivalist dyke convention. I run my tongue over my lips trying not to laugh at my own joke and taste blood.

“I need water. Please, some water and then I’ll tell you,” I say back and brace for another slamming fist. To my surprise I get a bottle of water with a straw instead of another smack.

“Here,” she says and I take a small sip. The water is cold and tastes like blood mixed with nothing, but it helps. There’s another person standing next to her. He’s skinny and wearing similar clothing. He has guns.

He looks just as tired as she does; his eyes are just as cold, black and empty. She pulls the straw and bottle away from me and I try to smile the five thousand dollar smile at her. I don’t think it’s going to work. I don’t think my smile is worth that much anymore.

“I own this building,” I begin to say but Skinny cuts me off.

“Nobody owns buildings anymore, asshole,” he says but she puts up her hand and Skinny obeys.

Good. Now I know who’s in charge. I look at Skinny and make sure he knows I’d like to snap his neck. I probably couldn’t, at least not in this condition. But still, it’s the thought that counts.

“Can I finish?” I ask them but really, I’m still staring at Skinny. Nobody moves. I don’t get another hand in the face. Skinny looks the other way, out towards the windows.

“Good. Like I was saying my name is Jeff and I own this building. Maybe you’ve heard of me: Jeff Sorbenstein? I was
Time
magazine’s Man of the Year last year.”

I see her face soften; Skinny is still looking out the window, completely
not
paying attention. Then he spits on the floor.

“Hey, what the fuck, do I come over to your house and spit on your floor?” I say to his back.

He turns back to me and laughs and then comes in real close. His breath is hot and smells terrible.

“Listen,” he says, “for all intents and purposes, champ, this
is
my home so if I want to spit, shit or anything else on the fucking floor, then I fucking will. Got it?” Then he turns around and looks back at the woman and asks, “Right, Kel?”

The woman is staring at me like she just put two and five together and now it’s her turn to get fucked. She’s probably thinking about how much shit she’s going to be in or, more likely, how much money she can get out of me. I try to smile at her again but she’s fumbling with her holster, then she’s pointing her gun at my head.

“You’re a monster; you’re the fucking monster that did this,” she says in a whisper, eyes wide.

Great, just my luck, anti-technology freaks. My building has been overrun by anti-tech heads.

I look up at her and ask, “What?”

Her hand is shaking; her finger is resting on the side of the trigger. She’s pushing the gun into my forehead—leaving a mark, a small circle less than the size of a dime is being slowly drilled into the middle of my head and I’m about to die for the second time in my life. Skinny looks surprised; he’s trying to ask her questions and I close my eyes, waiting for the sound, waiting for the heat of the bullet.

“Kel, what the fuck are you doing?” asks Skinny. I can hear the shock in his voice. Something’s not right. I open my eyes and Skinny is looking at her like she’s completely lost it, like he’s the sane one. She’s the one I have to talk to, try and reason with. Jesus, I got cancer, froze myself, got screwed over by my lawyer and ex-wife who then left me for dead and now I have to deal with this.

“He’s the one that did this,” she says back to him. Her eyes are rimming with shock and tears.

Skinny looks confused; he glances at me then back out the window and then, as if an actual light bulb went off in his head, he finally figures out what she’s trying to tell him. He lunges at me; his eyes are filled with rage.