stainless doors blocking their exit, repeatedly hitting the elevator call button, which refused to light up.
The speakers came to life and announced, “The garage levels are temporarily closed for maintenance. Please remain where you are on B7.”
“Maintenance?” yelled a man with a bushy mustache from the marketing department. “I need a cigarette!” He waved his unlit smoke at the nearest speaker in protest.
Within moments, the mustached man had gathered a gang of irate smokers. They banged on the auditorium doors, lighters in hand. “Let us out!” they shouted. Poor nicotine-addicted souls.
Cyril slinked further into the alcove by the bathrooms. He wanted to be well out of the way before the pitchforks came out. He had expected some employees to be a bit on edge, but the rapid escalation was shocking. These people were supposed to be the best of the best in their respective departments. What an embarrassment.
James and the dark-haired woman crouched behind the buffet, also away from the angry mob. They used the white catering table skirts to hide themselves from view, like children in a blanket fort. Cyril craned his neck over the blueberry muffin tower and saw his friend was visibly shaking. Crap.
It made Cyril second-guess his decision to send James that extra text. It was meant to be a heads up, let him in on just enough details so he would have less regrets and more creature comforts in the new world. Cyril knew sending the text was against the protocol, but he couldn’t help himself. He had been so excited; he had wanted his only friend in the world to become a Believer, to prepare for everything to change. But it looked like the message had had the opposite effect and unhinged James.
8:30 a.m. “Stand back,” the voice on the speaker instructed, as the doors to the auditorium hissed open with hydraulics.
The crowd in the antechamber collectively cheered and shuffled in. James hoisted himself out of his hiding spot, his face weary, his hair ruffled from fingers plucking wildly at his temples.
A screen had been set up in the stuffy auditorium, as was customary for GenetiCorp meetings— the blank blue glow fueling the anticipation in the room. The masses eagerly took their seats. Cyril positioned himself in the row behind James and the woman so he could eavesdrop.
9:40 a.m. The crowd had grown restless and Cyril with them. The claustrophobic auditorium was at capacity and the air was sticky with agitation, though Cyril’s panic differed from his co-workers. It had been more than an hour since they had been seated inside the auditorium and still no word from the Master. What was he waiting for? Zero Hour had come and gone. The lack of contact made Cyril unbearably nervous.
He tugged at the collar of his shirt and undid the topmost button. He was starting to worry that the Master had put someone incompetent in charge of the final moments. Cyril took a deep breath and tried to remind himself that cell towers didn’t penetrate this deep into the concrete bunker and that the auditorium on B7 didn’t have access to the GenetiCorp walkie-talkie frequency. There were only the loudspeakers, which remained nerve-rackingly silent.
“I swear to God, I’m going to report this company for human rights violations. It must be ninety degrees in here!” James said to his lady friend. Several other staff members murmured in agreement.
A mutiny was brewing.
Cyril found that kind of anti-company sentiment maddening, especially from James. He ought to be grateful.
9:50 a.m. The Master’s voice boomed through the PA, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen. My apologies.”
The room quieted and all eyes faced forward. The Master’s stark white lab coat gleamed against the computer blue backdrop.
“You are probably wondering why I asked you all here this morning and more importantly why I kept you waiting for such a time.”
People in Cyril’s row whispered in consensus.
“I assure you today is a very
The speakers came to life and announced, “The garage levels are temporarily closed for maintenance. Please remain where you are on B7.”
“Maintenance?” yelled a man with a bushy mustache from the marketing department. “I need a cigarette!” He waved his unlit smoke at the nearest speaker in protest.
Within moments, the mustached man had gathered a gang of irate smokers. They banged on the auditorium doors, lighters in hand. “Let us out!” they shouted. Poor nicotine-addicted souls.
Cyril slinked further into the alcove by the bathrooms. He wanted to be well out of the way before the pitchforks came out. He had expected some employees to be a bit on edge, but the rapid escalation was shocking. These people were supposed to be the best of the best in their respective departments. What an embarrassment.
James and the dark-haired woman crouched behind the buffet, also away from the angry mob. They used the white catering table skirts to hide themselves from view, like children in a blanket fort. Cyril craned his neck over the blueberry muffin tower and saw his friend was visibly shaking. Crap.
It made Cyril second-guess his decision to send James that extra text. It was meant to be a heads up, let him in on just enough details so he would have less regrets and more creature comforts in the new world. Cyril knew sending the text was against the protocol, but he couldn’t help himself. He had been so excited; he had wanted his only friend in the world to become a Believer, to prepare for everything to change. But it looked like the message had had the opposite effect and unhinged James.
8:30 a.m. “Stand back,” the voice on the speaker instructed, as the doors to the auditorium hissed open with hydraulics.
The crowd in the antechamber collectively cheered and shuffled in. James hoisted himself out of his hiding spot, his face weary, his hair ruffled from fingers plucking wildly at his temples.
A screen had been set up in the stuffy auditorium, as was customary for GenetiCorp meetings— the blank blue glow fueling the anticipation in the room. The masses eagerly took their seats. Cyril positioned himself in the row behind James and the woman so he could eavesdrop.
9:40 a.m. The crowd had grown restless and Cyril with them. The claustrophobic auditorium was at capacity and the air was sticky with agitation, though Cyril’s panic differed from his co-workers. It had been more than an hour since they had been seated inside the auditorium and still no word from the Master. What was he waiting for? Zero Hour had come and gone. The lack of contact made Cyril unbearably nervous.
He tugged at the collar of his shirt and undid the topmost button. He was starting to worry that the Master had put someone incompetent in charge of the final moments. Cyril took a deep breath and tried to remind himself that cell towers didn’t penetrate this deep into the concrete bunker and that the auditorium on B7 didn’t have access to the GenetiCorp walkie-talkie frequency. There were only the loudspeakers, which remained nerve-rackingly silent.
“I swear to God, I’m going to report this company for human rights violations. It must be ninety degrees in here!” James said to his lady friend. Several other staff members murmured in agreement.
A mutiny was brewing.
Cyril found that kind of anti-company sentiment maddening, especially from James. He ought to be grateful.
9:50 a.m. The Master’s voice boomed through the PA, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen. My apologies.”
The room quieted and all eyes faced forward. The Master’s stark white lab coat gleamed against the computer blue backdrop.
“You are probably wondering why I asked you all here this morning and more importantly why I kept you waiting for such a time.”
People in Cyril’s row whispered in consensus.
“I assure you today is a very
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