By John Andreini
“The Future is our Business.”
The company slogan was painted in bold block letters on the front of the white monolith looming some fifty yards away from the main Norplex Biotech office complex, the notorious Building 47. It was an airplane hangar-sized structure the length of two football fields, with blackened windows except for one small portal in the metal front door, the only visible entrance or exit. Exhaust pipes and vents reached up from the roof like small minarets, security cameras spied from every corner, yet the purpose of the building itself was a total mystery to Norplex employees. Alan Dunhill, a wiry introvert with hemorrhoids and a dim view of working for a government contractor, had been an account manager at the company for three years, and had scrutinized Building 47 from his office window daily. Like everyone else, he knew nothing about what went on in there, other than the company’s boilerplate non-explanation of ‘top secret government contract work.’ The words ‘top secret,’ as opposed to the mindless, mundane government contract work Alan did, was usually enough to blunt further employee questions.
Distant, depressed and occasionally delusional, Alan’s day began with edibles and coffee and ended with alcohol and sleeping pills, with nothing more nutritional in between than what the company vending machines offered. Eternally weary from sleeping only four hours a night, Alan used the remaining dark hours worrying about the world going to hell and why his partner Jamal wore expensive cologne to tend bar. He took meds for his history of delusions, which helped him appear normal and living in the same reality as everyone else.
“Earth to Alan.” One of Alan’s junior accountants Eric Mills, known as ‘Red’ for his wild shock of flaming hair, stood behind Alan holding a folder. Alan turned in his chair, trying his best to mask a startled look and pounding heart.
“What’s up, Red? Tired of watching porn?”
“Hilarious, man.”
“Just a reminder they call this ‘work’ for a reason. You have something for me?”
“What the hell goes on in there, bruh?” Red asked, staring out the window at Building 47. “What do you think? You ever see anyone go in or out?”
“No, I haven’t, because I’m working.”
“Right.” Red held out a folder and Alan took it. “Someone told me they experiment on humans in there. AI shit.”
“I don’t have a clue. It’s classified and way above my pay grade.”
“Yeah, but it’s messed up. For all we know they could be creating robotic killing machines or worse.”
“Thanks for getting the Beacham Account finished…three days late.”
“You’re welcome.”
“The building’s probably used for storage.”
“If that was true, why keep it a big secret? It’s something sinister for sure.”
“Red, could you please go pretend to do something productive.”
“Yes, boss.”
Alan listened to the lazy clop of Red’s shoes on the floor fade away, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Building 47. Damn Red.
A few days later, Alan received a disturbing email.
Brock Schneider
VP Accounting Dept.
Norplex Biotech, Inc.
Hey Alan,
Need to go over a few things with you. Bring everything you have on the Beacham Account. Does tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. work? Great. See you then.
B
Alan lowered his head into his hands and stared at the letters and numbers on his keyboard. There were certain immutable realities in the universe, the sun rising, death, and Brock Schneider never calling you into his office unless you’ve fucked up. His boss’s management style was as simple as could be, “Don’t bother me and don’t make me look bad.” It’s probably printed on a coffee cup somewhere in his office, thought Alan. A Christmas gift from one of his kids. He pulled out his phone and poked in a number.
“It’s Alan.”
“I can read,” answered Jamal.
“What’s the matter?”
“I got called in to work an event at the bar tomorrow night, my supposed night off. And I am really pissed.”
“We were going to meet Tyler and Janine at The Sanctuary.”
“I know. I’m not happy.”
“If it’s any consolation, I have to work late tonight. The Brockasaurus wants to see me tomorrow about a problem client and I have to get a ton of shit done before then.”
“Fine. I’ll just watch The Real Housewives of Dubai by myself.”
“Sorry.”
“Just don’t expect a recap.”
“You’re being a bitch now, you know.”
Jamal ended the call and Alan leaned back in his chair. It was 4:30 and he had a good three hours of work ahead of him. He pulled out his debit card and fed the vending machines in the break room in exchange for caffeine and sugar in edible shapes. Dusk gave way to night and Alan licked chocolate from his fingers before attacking his keyboard once again, aligning numbers, double-checking entries and mentally trying to anticipate and answer Brock’s questions. He was doing math in his head when he was startled by lights coming on at the entrance to Building 47. A civilian vehicle pulled up to the door. and in the dim light Alan could see a person get out of the driver’s side and walk around the car. Alan got up and went to the window for a closer look. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out and was escorted to the building’s single door. The low light made it difficult to see, but Alan thought the person being lead to the entrance looked like Eric the Red. He leaned forward and squinted as the two men stood at the door waiting. Red? It had to be. Finally, the door opened and the men disappeared into the mysterious structure. Why would Red be going into Building 47 at 8:20 in the evening? Alan jotted down a note and returned to his computer.
Brock wore a perpetual frown formed by a bristly white moustache that drooped at the ends like a cowboy sheriff, and a lip twitch that most interpreted as a sneer. He scanned the Beacham report and closed the folder. Alan wiped his palms on his pants’ legs.
“Everything looks in order to me. I don’t know what the fuck their problem is. Good work, Alan.”
It was the first compliment Alan had received from Brock in three years and he sat in stunned silence. “Uh, wow. Right. Thank you.”
“I’ve been impressed with your attitude over the last six months, Alan. You’re a much better team member than you used to be. Keep up the great job.”
Now he was totally confused. “That’s…uh, thank you. I—”
“I’ve got a meeting right now,” Brock said, pointing to his monitor. “We can chat more later because I have some news for you. Stay fired up.”
Alan jumped to his feet not knowing whether to salute or bow. “Thanks. Thank you,” he said, backing out of the room. Stay fired up? He didn’t know he’d been fired up in the first place. Dazed, Alan walked back to his office trying to understand what had just happened. His trance broke as Building 47 came into focus. Nothing had changed. The scene was the same today as it was yesterday and the day before. His meeting with Brock was perplexing, a glitch in the mundane matrix of his workday, but did it mean anything more than Brock was having an unusually good day or he had sex last night? Alan turned back to his monitor. The questions were giving him a headache.
The next day on his way to get a Sprite from the vending machine, Alan nearly collided with Eric at a blind corner.
“Eric.”
“Alan.”
“Hey, what did you find out?”
“About what?” asked Eric.
“Building 47.”
“Building 47. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Last night. I was working late and saw a guy go in Building 47 that looked just like you. Red hair. Around 8:30.”
“Go in Building 47? Why would I go into Building 47?”
“I don’t know….”
Eric folded his arms in the way parents do when a child is asking too many questions. “I was at a meeting last night at 8:30.”
“A meeting? At night?”
“I was going over some ideas I had for saving the Beacham Account with Brock..”
“The Beacham account? I thought that was all under control. I just talked to Brock about it. “
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Hey, I got a zoom meeting in…right now. We’ll talk more later. Don’t forget. The future—”
“Mr. Mills, everyone’s waiting,” came a voice from down the hallway.
Mr. Mills? No one called Red Mr. Mills. The guy he was just talking to was confident, articulate and focused. Red was none of those things.
That evening, Jamal lay on the vintage black leather sofa playing a game on his phone as Alan poured beers in the kitchen.
“You remember Red. I know it was him. I would recognize that hair from a mile away.”
“Sure. I remember him. We had a long drunken conversation about fascism that night of our party. But why would he be at this Building 47 at that time of night?”
“Good question. He claimed he was at a meeting with Brock, but that just didn’t sound right. The guy is lazy. He’s got less initiative than me. I don’t know, but he didn’t seem like himself today.”
“What did he seem like?”
Alan brought out two beers and sat in a nearby chair. “Like every boss I’ve ever had. Smug, over-confident, dismissive. It was like he had more important things to do than talk to me.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Red? No. Unless by important you mean downloading the latest version of Grand Theft Auto.”
“I don’t know. We got along well.”
“And just in case you’re wondering, I am taking my meds. Religiously.”
“Yes, you’ve been a very good boy about it.”
“And my last episode was three years ago, and there hasn’t been an incident since then.”
“Have you had your dosage checked recently?”
“No,” said Alan. Jamal shrugged. “But I’ve been fine. Do you think it’s not working?”
“I’m not saying that.”
Alan’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll call the doctor tomorrow. Okay? Now, can we be done with this conversation?”
Jamal got up from the couch and sat on Alan’s lap. “Don’t be upset. I’m sorry I’m being a pain.”
“Really sorry?”
“Yes, really, really sorry.”
“Make up sex sorry?”
“Possibly.”
The cafeteria was an Edward Hopper painting, with one other despondent employee at the far end of the dreary, empty room slumped over his late lunch amid a sea of empty plastic chairs and crumb-topped tables. Alan was now questioning everything. Was there actually another person sitting in the cafeteria? Was he in the cafeteria or did it just look that way? He hated that he could be slipping after years on the same page of reality as everyone else. He couldn’t get in to see the doctor about his dosage for another week and he was anxious, worried about making a monumental mistake. Chair legs screeched on the floor like an injured animal and he turned to see one of the company’s security guards sitting down at a nearby table. Coriander Cobb. He’d been introduced to her when he first started the job, but it was such a beautiful name he’d never forgotten it. He picked up his lunch and walked to her table, her suspicious eyes followed him as he sat down across from her.
“Coriander Cobb. Your name is…I just love it. I always have.” Coriander kept a wary eye on Alan as she crunched potato chips from a plastic bag. “I’m sure you don’t remember, but we met when I first started working her three years ago.”
“You’re right. don’t remember.”
“Ah, well you’ve met a lot of people over the years so I’m not surprised. Alan Dunhill. Manager in accounting.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Alan Dunhill, but if I wanted to chat over my very limited and precious lunch break I would have sat at your table.”
“Yes, of course. I am sorry for intruding, but I just needed to ask you something.”
“And then you’ll leave?”
“I will leave.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“What goes on in Building 47?”
Coriander’s eyes darted around the room. “I don’t know. Are we done?”
“I swear I saw someone I know go into the building a few nights ago. He denies it, but—”
“Then what’s the issue?”
“He could be lying. Why the big secret? I mean, I just want to know that I’m not going crazy. Okay? I’m taking meds for a certain…condition, and-—”
“Do I look like a doctor?” Coriander’s facial muscles relaxed and she set down her sandwich. “Listen, all I know is that it’s used for some kind of government funded project with Norplex Biotech that has to do with artificial intelligence, biomechanics or some sciency shit like that. I swear to you that’s all I know, and there isn’t anyone below the “C” suite that knows anything more.”
“Okay, but this guy—”
“You can sit here all day and watch me eat, but that’s the limit of my knowledge about Building 47.”
Coriander took a huge bite out of her sandwich and the conversation was over.
The next morning, Alan was called into the office of Chief of Security Warren Bledsoe, a square-faced sullen man who looked like he needed to shave every three hours.
“Sit,” he told the confused Alan, who obeyed.
“I don’t know—”
Warren held up a hand until he was finished writing something down. “Sorry about that, Aaron.”
“Alan.”
“I’ll get right to the point, Dunhill. I’d like to know why you are so interested in Building 47. You’ve asked several people about it in recent days.”
“Two. I asked two people about it.”
“Why?”
The question struck Alan as odd. Every single Norplex Biotech employee wondered what went on in Building 47 and the rumors, which had been circulating for decades, were a source of company-wide entertainment. Why was he being singled out?
“I don’t understand what’s going on here. I asked two people about Building 47 and now I’m getting grilled like I demanded the secrets to Area 51.”
“No one is grilling you, Dunhill. Just asking. Building 47 houses a Norplex Biotech and U.S. government program that is top secret. It just arouses concerns when someone seems too interested in what’s going on there.”
“I’ve worked here for three years. I can’t tell you how many times during those three years I’ve had group lunches where Building 47 was the main topic of conversation. Every new employee wants to know about Building 47. If you don’t want people asking about it, tell them what the hell is going on in there.”
Warren’s phone pinged. He glanced down at a text, tapped the screen a few times, then slowly clasped his hands together and smiled. “Right. I think we’re done. You’re busy, Dunhill so I’ll let you go. Thanks for your time.”
The brush off was almost as irritating as the questioning. Alan got up and left, navigating the labyrinth of cubicles trying to understand his current situation, wondering why things seemed to be spiraling out of control even though he was taking his meds. How could he be sure of anything?
Loud, competing conversations greeted Alan as he stepped into O’Reilly’s Tavern on his way home from work and scanned the large open room. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a Tito’s neat. O’Reilly’s was two blocks from Norplex Biotech and frequented by employees, but Alan was hoping to drink alone with his concerns about his mental health as his companion. His wish was granted as he leisurely worried through three vodkas and untold handfuls of pretzels. His old friends Boredom and Intoxication told him it was time to go, and as Alan clumsily grabbed at the contents of his wallet, the bartender pushed a napkin with writing on it toward him.
“What’s this,” asked Alan.
“Lady at the other end of the bar asked me to give it to you. That’s all I know.”
Written in hurried, jagged pencil, the note read, Don’t take the job offer.
Alan turned toward the other end of the bar, but no one was there. “What did she look like?”
“Short, heavy-set black lady. Wearing some kind of uniform. Security, I think. That’ll be sixteen fifty.”
The hangover headache lasted past eleven the next day, despite four ibuprofen and two bottles of water from the vending machine. The mysterious napkin sat on his dresser at home and he was doing his hardest to focus on work when he got a text from Brock. Come to my office in ten, was all it said. What now? Alan’s head drooped as he contemplated the three dismal options. He was getting fired, he was getting fired or he was getting fired. Building 47 had been banished from his vocabulary since the last meeting with his boss. He wasn’t late with any reports that he knew of. Mia from marketing passed his cube.
“Hey, Alan. How’s it going?”
“I’m getting fired,” he replied. Her pace quickened.
Ten minutes later, Brock opened his office door at the moment Alan reached it. It must be worse than I thought.
“Come in, Alan. Please, have a seat.” Brock went around and sat in his chair. He was smiling, something Alan had never seen before and he was worried he might actually faint. “Alan, I have some good news. Gus Levin, second guy down from the CFO, he and I have been talking about you and what a great job you’ve been doing lately.” Great job? What was great about it? “And he agrees with me that you are ready for something bigger, something with more of a challenge, that will really let you flex your talents.”
“Talents?”
Brock pointed at Alan. “You, my friend, are getting a promotion.”
“A…promotion. Is this a joke?”
“No joke. No sir. And you know what is really going to blow your mind?” Oh Sweet Jesus, thought Alan. “You’ll be working in Building 47.”
“What? But that’s like…top secret. Building 47?”
“We’ve already gotten all of the clearances for you because, well, we were sure you’d say ‘yes.’ Whattaya think, Alan?”
“This is so unexpected. I thought….”
“Go ahead. You can speak freely.”
“I thought something bad was happening in that building. I know it’s crazy. Isn’t it? Something horrible the company was trying to cover up. You know?”
Brock got up, walked around the desk and hoisted his bottom onto the desk facing Alan. “I completely understand. It is a top secret facility and that can sound kind of scary, but it’s not. The position there is exactly the right fit for someone with your experience and attitude.”
“Uh, okay.”
“In fact, everything at your new station is already set up and ready for you. How about we move in tonight?”
“Tonight? My head is spinning, but sure. Why not?”
“Yes. Why not. Now go back to your cube and pack the things you’re going to need right away and we’ll move the rest of the stuff over later. So let’s meet at the front door to Building 47 around 8:30?”
“Eight thirty?” said Alan as he considered the odd time, but his moment of doubt quickly evaporated. “Thank you. Holy shi…. Thank you so much.”
“You deserve it, Alan. ”
Slivers of gold morning sun snuck through the bedroom blinds, forcing open Jamal’s eyes. He turned over and saw that Alan wasn’t in bed and it didn’t look like he’d been home that night. After a quick sweep of the apartment, and finding the napkin with the strange note scribbled on it, he called Alan.
“Jamal,” said Alan.
“Uh, where are you? You didn’t come home last night.”
“I didn’t want to call and wake you. I’m at work. Had to pull and all-nighter on the Beachum account.”
“An all-nighter? You’ve never done that before.”
“I was promoted. New job, new responsibilities. The company’s counting on me.”
“The company…? Alan, are you okay? You sound weird.”
“Really? I’m great. Better than ever.”
“Okay, but what about this note on your dresser? What does it mean?”
“Nothing. Some people just aren’t ready for the future.”
About the Author:
John Andreini’s short stories have been published by Back Channels Journal, Dark Fire Fiction, House of Zolo’s Journal of Speculative Fiction, Across the Margin, Literary Yard, Horla Magazine,Oregon’s Emerging Writers among others. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and two sweet black cats.