Partyville USA: Part 4-2
Normal
0
MicrosoftInternetExplorer4
In time Roland emerged from the office, finally adjusting his crotch to his satisfaction as he opened the door. His coworkers were still sprawled across the empty carpet in various degrees of recumbence. A few of their marathon conversations were still halfheartedly alight, but seemed to be staggering by the minute as people struggled to find ways to keep talking.
“Everyone,” Roland said with as much projection as he could muster “if you could all gather around, I think it’s important that we try to talk this through.”
He waited for his coworkers to raise themselves up and congregate around him.
“Come on now” he said when nobody budged “I know this is a very dark time for all of us, but I think it’s important that we talk about things.”
Again, nobody budged from their mats or conversation circles.
“Look, just because -”
“Oh give it a rest drunkie” a voice grumbled from somewhere. Throughout the office came a few weak laughs.
Roland stood stunned. His posture tightened and his guts twisted. Still nobody paid attention to him, and resumed their modest conversations. Inside Roland his sickness began to grow prickly and venomous. Across the hall, laying prone on a mat he saw Luanne listening to Beverly muttering something. His muscles tensed readily and he marched around the mats towards her. When he reached her his hand gripped around her arm.
“Come with me” he said. With great effort she pushed herself up off the mat. Again his hand seized around her arm and he dragged her back into the Conference Room.
“Roland, no” she said, meagerly trying to free her arm from his grip “not in there.”
Roland said nothing and pushed open the door. Once inside he swung her against the conference table.
“Roland, please” she said, with heavy, entreating eyes fixed on him “I don’t want to be in -”
“What the fuck did you tell them?” Roland interrupted as he shut the door.
“What?”
“What the fuck did you tell them?” he repeated, trying not to say anything too loudly.
“What are you talking about?” she said, trying to contain herself as she edged towards the opposite side of the office, away from the open door to Wallace’s office.
“You’ve got a big fucking mouth, you know that” Roland seethed, storming right into her face.
“Roland please” she said, holding back tears “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you didn’t hear that, just then,” Roland said, crossing his arms “and it didn’t ring any bells.”
“Roland…” Luanne said as she crumbled against the desk.
<p style="line-height: 200%;" class=”MsoNormal”> “Give it a rest drunkie” Roland said, losing control over his volume “What the fuck did you say you gossipy whore?”
“I didn’t say anything!” said Luanne “Baby, please, I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“You’re positive then,” Roland said “well then how do they know, huh? How the fuck do they know?!”
“Because they can smell it on you!” Luanne said, finally breaking down. She sank to her knees “you’ve reeked of booze for the past day!”
Roland stood silently, rage tearing through his body. His fingers dragged against his palm, eager to take action.
“Baby, please” Luanne choked. Roland stood over her, trying to resist urges. He was distracted, however, from commotion coming from back in the office. He swung around and opened the door to see his coworkers standing and nervously stepping towards the hall, where, very softly, they could hear the sound of metal being beaten. It was coming from the door, from behind the door.
Gradually the sun arced over the building and Roland stealthily returned to Wallace’s office. Once inside he sat in the chair and stared for a while out the window, towards the horizon. He reassured himself that the barricades would hold, that it would take nothing short of a wrecking ball or a particularly large battering ram to undo the mountain of office furnishings piled and braced against the door, as well as clotted insurmountably in the area immediately outside. Still, even these self-assurances failed to quiet the demons nipping at the corners of his mind. He lifted himself off the chair and knelt before the windows. He clasped his hands together in front of his face, closed his eyes, and began to pray.
“Dear Lord,” he said “Although your reasons for what has happened here remain a mystery to me, I humbly beg that your mercy shall finally be revealed, that this suffering shall not grow total. I pray that there will be a deliverance from this evil, and that you will not allow the light to fade. Amen.”
He opened his eyes hopefully, searching the world outside for a sign or symbol that his message had been received. However, despite his hope, the world outside remained reticent and unresponsive. Slowly, his hands separated and descended to his sides.
And beneath him, the floor continued to groan. There was no relief from it. Nowhere in the office you could be without hearing it at all times. Roland began to feel that it had hands, that it was a thousand hands pressed against the floor, trying to feel his heat on the other side. The sound was slow and patient. It was certain.
Down the hall, the door had inched opened, and was pushing against the desks barricaded against its swing. For an hour the door didn’t budge from the desks heavy and sturdy bodies. It was too dark in the hall for any employees to see what was happening. They could only hear the slap of hands on the door, and through the slit, they could hear the sound with a thin clarity.
Normal
0
MicrosoftInternetExplorer4
Roland didn’t move from the office for most of the day. Like his coworkers, he was too exhausted to do anything beyond sit and try not to think about anything. Gradually the sun began to fade beneath the clouds, and the air began to cool. As Roland sipped the last of the Scotch, he heard tiny sounds coming from below, just barely audible over the groan from below. He sat up in the chair, trying to listen, but only catching brief, fervent snips, indistinct as to being of human origin or otherwise. He heard one last noise, then nothing. His arms shook as he stood himself up and began taking steps toward the window. The street had almost fallen into his line of sight when a great explosion roared up the windows. The noise startled Roland who staggered backwards before tripping and landing hard on his back. He gasped from the impact. His legs were shaking and felt thin and drained. With a slight stumble he picked himself up. As he got to his feet a second explosion burst from the street, followed seconds later by a third. He started walking again towards the window. Through the cracked door he heard the doors creak open. Footsteps crept warily to the windows. Someone said “oh god.” Roland stepped quietly towards his chair, next to which sat the bottle of scotch. He bent over to pick it up but his legs wobbled and gave.
He fell on the floor with a light thump. His heart raced as he listened to hear if any of the voices in the conference room had heard it. Another explosion shook the windows.
He heard the voices react and stood up. He delicately set the near-empty bottle back inside the painting, then turned and tip-toed to the shattered window. He gripped the metal of the frame to steady himself and then glanced down. Smoke was beginning to pour up, but underneath he could see that the abandoned cars below had begun exploding. Through the smoke he could see a charred body on the street surrounded by broken glass and bent shards of metal, as a light snow of ash settled upon it.
Through the door he heard weak voices speaking from the open doorway.
“The cars are exploding” said one of the voices at the window.
And down the hallway, there were now audible honks and cracks. The swing of the door began to widen in the dark. Behind it now pushed a long, winding arm. It pressed against the door, never growing tired. With limitless strength it crushed the desk against the wall. The wall itself weakened and began to crumble. The pile cracked and shifted. From the dark of the hall chairs tumbled from the pile into the thinning sunlight.
When Roland heard the voices recede from the conference room, he stepped to the painting again and opened it. All that was left inside was the nearly-empty scotch and a bottle of gin that was slightly less empty. He grabbed the gin, unscrewed and tossed the cap through the open window and then tipped the bottle to his lips. His stomach curled from the impact of the gin, and he started coughing. He tried his best to cover his coughs, and to resolve them as quickly as he could. He attempted to clear his throat with one last cough, but afterwards his throat still constricted and he started coughing again.
As he finally stopped, he heard a flutter outside the window. He turned his head toward it as he coughed up the last of his coughs and saw a pigeon noisily flap in through the window. It landed on the carpet and took a few paces. It jerked its head around and Roland could see that it had no left eye, just an oozing, infected lid surrounded by peck marks which were punctuated throughout its body. It jerked its head towards Roland and looked at him with its remaining eye. Roland sat against the wall, tilting the last of the gin down his throat, returning the bird’s stare. It continued to stare, and hacked a sound. It sounded like it was attempting to coo, but only manage hard, jagged syllables. Roland stared at the bird, his fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle.
“Fuck off” Roland groaned at the bird. It looked around the office cluelessly, still attempting to coo. Roland’s brow tightened as the bird resumed pacing around. His fingers clamped on the gin bottle’s throat and he hurled the bottle at the pigeon. It flapped its tattered wings and dodged the bottle, which shattered on the carpet. Roland lifted himself up.
“D’you hear me cocksucker?!” he yelled at the bird, stumbling towards it “get the fuck out of here!”
The pigeon waited a second as Roland staggered towards it before flapping back out the window. Roland collapsed to his knees, the right of which landed on a small chunk of glass. He reeled backwards and slammed on the carpet. His head smacked against the carpet, which sent a heavy, shaking tremor through his aching skull. Roland howled in pain, unable to stop himself. As his eyes opened he saw the large overhead fan, sitting motionless. His knee throbbed from the sharpness pinpointed below his kneecap. Wearily, he tried to lift his hand to his knee. He felt his shaking fingers land on the glass. As delicately as he could, he tried to shift the shard, which enflamed the pain in his leg. His fingers slipped strengthlessly to his side. He looked at the fan, and began to choke and blubber towards it, til slowly his eyes cinched shut.