WHAT DOES THE OFFICE of a post-apocalyptic corporation look like? What kind of clerical work is required for the violent acquisition of cities? I imagine secretaries faxing massacre authorization forms to overworked, coffee-addled warlords. Executive despots shouting at underperforming militia recruiters. What kind of papers are on their desks, held down by human skull paperweights? What is their salary in a world without money, where status is a parade that few have time to watch?
Walking into the foyer of Branch 2, I am not sure if my questions have been answered. It appears to be vacant, lacking any furniture, office supplies, or motivational posters. The only decor is the flat-screen TVs that line the walls at regular intervals, broadcasting Axiom’s gritty modern reboot of the LOTUS Feed. Abstract imagery and lulling platitudes have given way to aggressive propaganda, louder and simpler, eagles and gold bricks and grim patriarchs spreading protective arms over wives and children while blinking text shouts ACT NOW!! That subtle wrongness, like a computer trying to parse human emotions.
Abram looks disoriented. He glances left and right as if searching for something familiar.
Julie has had enough. “Abram.” She raises the gun just a few inches, perhaps hoping Sprout won’t notice. “Tell me what we’re doing here.”
“Looking for Warden.” His eyes keep darting; he doesn’t appear to notice the gun either, or maybe he doesn’t care. “I need to know what happened.”
He runs to a freight elevator. Julie lowers the gun and follows him, apparently convinced by the fear in his eyes.
He presses the top floor and punches in a code on the keypad. There’s a discouraging beep and nothing happens. He shakes his head, muttering inaudibly, and works his way down the buttons until he reaches one that’s unrestricted: floor twenty, thirty floors from the top.
The elevator rises, and the inertia spikes my nausea. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that tug of gravity on my guts, a sensation never felt in nature except by prey, the mouse’s final, thrilling ascent before it meets the beak. I hear the strangers in my basement pacing around, agitated, muttering vague words of warning or threat, but I push the door shut. Not now. Not a good time.
We watch the floor numbers creep upward, the anticipation heightened by the sluggish pace. Julie exchanges her pistol for her shotgun, and Abram eyes his old weapon.
“I don’t know what we’re going to find here,” he says. “You might want me armed.”
“If I do, I’ll arm you.”
“You really think I’m going to make a break for it now? Here?”
“We’re inside your employer’s headquarters in the town where you grew up. Hard to imagine a better place for you to turn on us.”
He looks at her with what appears to be genuine incredulity. “Were you asleep all those times ‘my employer’ tried to kill me? Or when they broadcast my wanted poster on national television? I thought it was pretty clear I’m fired.”
As we pass floor ten, the overhead speaker emits a harsh pop, and a stream of customer service jazz trickles into the elevator. “Anarchy in the UK” on glistening sax and synthesizer.
“Nothing’s clear,” Julie mutters. “Nothing’s been clear for a long time.”
On floor fifteen, still five floors from our destination, the elevator slows. My stomach bobs back to its usual position. Then the doors open, and it sinks again.
Standing in a dim hallway outside the elevator is a man in a gray shirt. Black slacks. Red tie. Fine formal business wear rendered slightly unprofessional by ragged edges, a few stains, and incongruous work boots.
Something slams into my basement door but I lean against it, holding it shut. I said not now!
The man smiles politely and remains outside, as if waiting for a less crowded ride.
“Get in,” Abram says.
The man gets in. Sprout shrinks back into a corner.
The man is shorter than me. His hair is lighter than mine and his eyes are a different color. The elevator fills with the syrupy smell of his cologne: cotton candy and rancid butter.
“Miller,” Abram says.
The man watches the door close, then watches the floor number.
“I remember you. You were Warden’s assistant.”
The man turns and grins at Abram, revealing perfect teeth that bear no resemblance to the crooked congregation in my mouth. “Hello, and thanks for visiting. I’m the general manager of Branch 2, an extension of the Axiom Group. How can I help you?”
Abram stares into the man’s improbably vivid blue eyes. “What happened to Warden?”
“My predecessor was involved in activities that do not reflect the values of this company,” the man says through a motionless grin. “Some restructuring was necessary.”