Corporate Punishment

An itchy grey suit, a sentimental watch, and a pistol tucked into his belt. This was all the old man had left to lose on this tour. The train sat idle, large and bright like the lush valley housing its tracks. For Clint Rogers, the juxtaposition between the machinery and the greenery was too painful to ignore. He stood among fat cats with skyward noses and fox skin scarves. They blabbered, excited to board. He overheard them swapping obnoxious tales of their financial exploits, future construction plans, and designer drugs. Wafts of unnecessarily expensive cigar smoke tainted the air. He felt crowded by a cacophony of nonsense. Clint’s face soured; a trait he was both too old and careless to hide. He looked down at his own attire and hoped it was enough. He had emptied the remainder of his savings on an untailored suit, and it itched. He’d used other less than legal means to acquire a seat on board this “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity”, as Fresh Horizons had put it in their tenacious marketing. Clint was a wolf who’d risked everything to don the sheep’s skin. It was worth the price of justice.

A woman cleared her throat over a speakerphone, prefaced by a microphone gargle. “Ladies and gentlemen,” her voice hummed, soft and sensual. “We humbly apologise for the slight delay, but we are ready to board now. Welcome. . .,” she paused for cliche effect, “to the deluxe Fresh Horizons countryside tour!”

There was a feigned smile in her apology; Clint could hear it. He could picture the woman too, reading the words from a script plastered with disclaimers and the Fresh Horizons logo. As if reaffirming his disgust, the announcement turned into a tirade of sponsorship thanks. He shook his sleeve to reveal the time and huffed as he noted they were two minutes and twenty-five seconds behind schedule.

He silently found his way to his seat, brushing shoulders with cheery dignitaries. They meandered inside in dribs and drabs. Clint aggressively grabbed his own wrist, noting the minute going into the third behind schedule.

“Nothing to be done about it,” he told himself, slowing his breathing, but frowning nonetheless.

“Relax, old chap!” a voice crudely chimed in. Clint tensed and shot up his head as if someone had interrupted the first bite of a meal. It was some wall street spitfire in a three-piece suit, chuckling with whiskey-soaked breath.

“Excuse me?” Clint snarled. He noticed a woman stop talking to shoot him a concerned glance. A third passenger also stopped loading their luggage to look on. Feeling more eyes resting on him, Clint shifted his composure like a thespian donning a necessary personality.

“I, er, excuse me,” Clint held his hands up and forced them to shake weakly. “You startled me is all, young man.” The words bitterly slathered his tongue as they left his mouth. The ‘insipid senile man’ was his best bet for appearing harmless. He hated the fit of the role, but he dared not risk ruining his plan before the wheels had even begun to chug. The young man shrugged with a huff as if he were laughing off a punchline he didn’t quite understand. With a knee wobble, he moved over to another group of people. Clint was well over seventy, making his frailty believable. The other eyes turned away with the same carelessness.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard!” The familiar announcer stepped through the curtained veil of the adjoining carriage. She wore a navy uniform and stiletto heels. Her hair was tightly tied in a ponytail, and she wore a large name tag that said “Deborah”. As she spouted through the generic safety protocol, she gestured mechanically, smiling incessantly like a cursed doll brought to life with the purpose of being perpetually happy. Clint offered the occasional smile and nod, folding his hands on his lap and folding his back more than he needed to. It was only until a recognisable name came up that he shook free the charade and listened with enamored intent.

“. . .And so please give a very warm welcome to our very own CEO, Mister Gavin Hawthorne!” Gavin emerged from the veil like a soldier returning home. The applause that met him was even greater. Clint had served over forty years in the Navy and never once received such appraisal for entering a room. Gavin clasped his hands together and gave a few short bows with forced laughter, snatching Deborah by the waist as he waved with the other. She pursed her lips into the best smile she could muster.

“Thank you all so much!” Gavin clapped gently to simmer down the crowd. “Thank you, wow!”

He placed his hands on his hips and sighed like a proud parent, taking in the sea of snooty faces with the grin of a salivating wolf.

“Thank you all so much! What a surreal honour it is to be embarking on Fresh Horizons’ latest adventure with each and every one of you.” Clint pressed his fist into his leg to silence his tapping foot. He checked his watch.

“I’m so excited to be revealing our latest site in the heart of this beautiful valley.” His smile dropped and he put on a rehearsed brave face. “As I’m sure you all know, there was an overcomplication with regards to the previous site.” The crowd hung their heads. Some nodded, some whispered, feigning respect, muttering how much of a tragedy it truly was, before returning to popping appetizers into their mouths.

“But we can assure you, as our investors, you come first!” Gavin’s crooked smile emerged again.

“With Fresh Horizons, you are our family. And we take care of our own!” The passengers delightfully erupted into applause once more. Clint fought every instinct to not join in.

“Thank you all so much, we sincerely hope you have an incredible trip, and I one for one can’t wait to show you what our plans are for Site B!” Through whistles and cheers, Gavin waved, winked, and dispersed back behind the veil. Clint pulled up his sleeve again.

“Why do you keep checking your watch?” Clint’s eyes widened. A child? He turned to see a young girl, barely seven, sitting across the way, dangling her legs on the edge of her seat. There weren’t supposed to be any children on board. 

“I’m just excited to see the site,” Clint said with a genuine and warm smile. Her curled blonde hair reminded him of his grandson.

“I’m not excited!” she sighed at the ceiling. “Where are all the animals going to go?” 

“That is a very good question,” Clint said. His heart thumped as he checked his watch. “This isn’t right,” he muttered softly. This isn’t how it was meant to happen. Why? Why was there a child on board?

“Please excuse me, young lady,” Clint shimmied along his seat and propped himself semi-upright with a hunch. “I must use the restroom. Don’t ever grow old, it’s a trick!” The little girl giggled as the old man mosied off beyond the veil, curious as to why he was tapping the small of his back.

“Pardon me, sir, but no passengers are allowed beyond this point,” an impolite hand clapped against Clint’s chest. It was Deborah, plastered with teeth whitener as real as her friendly demeanor.

“Oh, I do apologise!” Clint murmured, wobbling his hands. “I was looking for the restroom, you see? Don’t ever grow ol-” The woman kept her hand raised when Clint shuffled a step forward.

“Sir, I do apologise, but I am more than happy to direct to the passenger lavatory?” Her voice spoke as a question but her hand gestured like a statement. The other hand clasped his shoulder like an urbane usher.

“Oh my, is that Mister Hawthorne himself?” Clint exclaimed, ensuring he was loud enough for the man to hear.

“Hmm?” Gavin looked up from a scotch glass and a magazine. He leaned forward and smacked his lips, maintaining his cross-legged look of superiority.

“Sir, while Mister Hawthorne always appreciates his investors, he has asked that for this portion of the trip-” Gavin stood up and hissed a hush at Deborah under his breath, like belittling a dog’s behaviour.

“Come now, Deborah!” his crooked grin returned as he neatly buttoned up his suit. “That is no way to treat our investors.” He brushed a hand through his hair and swaggered over.

“Of course, Mister Hawthorne,” Deborah shied away and met her hands at her back. Clint maintained his flabbergasted facade.

“As I live and breathe, the man himself!” Clint met Gavin’s hand with a tremble. As if in reciprocation, Gavin softened his grip and lowered his stature; a knee-jerk reaction after years of smooching up to older bigwigs, Clint figured.

“Always a pleasure to meet an admirer, Mister…?” Gavin began, gesturing towards his leather seat enveloped in mahogany.

“Adams,” Clint said. “Bill Adams. Of Juniper Industries,” he spewed assuredly on the spot.

“Well!” Gavin began, crossing his legs again. Clint sat down in a timid manner. “I’ve yet to hear of Juniper Industries but I’m always interested in seizing opportunities!”

“That’s pleasing to hear,” Clint said. “We are fairly new, only a year old, but have made more than enough of. . .” Clint eyed Deborah, who quickly turned away and glued her eyes to the wall. Clint leaned in, almost apologetically.

His voice turned to a rueful whisper. “The subject of my business is a rather sensitive topic, Mister Hawthorne. I was wondering if the present company might be excused?” Deborah said nothing and stood still. To Clint’s relief, Gavin seemed more intrigued than cautious.

“Deborah, my dear,” Gavin’s tone took on a more condescending nature. It was clear that Gavin had adjusted just fine to the wide success of his company and the financial perks that can change the man who runs it. “Won’t you check on the passengers? I’ll come by and collect you when Mister Adams and I have concluded our business here.”

Deborah nodded, meek and unquestioning. 

“And Deborah?” Gavin sang. “Not until I fetch you, understood?”

With another feigned smile and a small curtsy, she disappeared behind the veil.

“A drink, Mister Adams?” Gavin’s business voice returned as he boastfully brandished his 1887 Glenfiddich bottle. Clint was not at all surprised by the excellent brand and year. He looked at his watch.

“Why not?” Clint sighed and rubbed his hands together. Gavin smiled as if he had just read the old man like a book.

“Nothing to be nervous about, my good man,” Gavin chuckled. “I understand it can be quite daunting coming face to face with, well, the face of Fresh Horizons”

Clint snickered to himself, louder than he expected. Gavin looked baffled but awkwardly joined in on the cackle.

“Mister Hawthorne,” Clint composed himself, then downed the half glass of scotch. “My name is not Bill Adams.” Clint’s eyes deadened. He sat upright and his wrinkled face folded into a grimace. This was Clinton Rogers, furious and untethered. 

Gavin freed a light chuckle. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure I follow?”

Clint reached for his back. He snatched and pointed the pistol. “Scream and I shoot,” he established, checking his watch. Gavin’s heart sunk and his face flushed pale. He choked on saliva in several attempts to protest.

“Now see here,” Gavin finally spluttered out.

“Quiet,” Clint said, retrieving a silencer from his blazer pocket and screwing it onto the pistol.

“Why is there a child on board?” Clint asked. Gavin flexed his eyebrows.

“Are you. . .what is this exactly?” Why---” he stopped talking when he felt the tip of the pistol pressing against his forehead. The periphery of the gun in his face forced a chilled knot to wriggle in his gut.

“Why is there a child on board?” Clint pursed his lips, his own anger surging.

“She’s one of the investor’s daughters!” Gavin blurted out with a teary eye. “I didn’t expect anyone to bring any children on a business trip either! But they paid for the ticket, so. . .!” Gavin’s voice cracked.

“Keep your voice down,” Clint demanded, indenting the pistol end deeper into the CEO’s sweating skin. “You need to collect yourself. You’re going to make an announcement.”

“What?” Gavin spluttered.

“Calm. Down.” Clint edged forward. “Make an unscheduled stop. Say it’s for taking scenic photos. That there’s some debris on the track. I don’t care. Get everyone off of this train in the next. . .” he checked his watch. “Damn it. In the next seventy seconds. Go!” Gavin froze, perplexed and stunned. Clint dashed forward and swung the butt of the gun across his jaw.

“Now!” Clint scowled as loudly as a whisper would allow.

“Okay, okay!” Gavin clasped his throbbing jaw and jumped to his feet. He scurried over to the speakerphone panel. He breathed fast, desperately attempting to slow it down. He sniffed and cleared his throat. The croak was still obvious.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Gavin Hawthorne speaking.” Clint moved over to the other seat, crossing his legs and keeping the gun on him.

“We’re to make a brief unscheduled stop for a rare sight. An indigenous toucan flock is nestled nearby. Hurry now, before we miss them. . .”

Clint could hear the passengers rustle in excitement, retrieving their cameras from the luggage compartments. They’d been sold, as lackluster as Clint felt Gavin’s performance was.

“Now the engineer,” Clint gestured to the locomotive. “Take me to him.”

Gavin nodded with raised hands. The door squeaked open and the engineer shot upright when he saw his employer.

“Sir! How may I help---” He noticed the old man behind Gavin, and the gun pointed at the back of his neck.

“Get off the train. You have ten seconds.” Clint cocked the gun.

“Do as he says!” Gavin shouted. The engineer cursed in a sweat and jumped out of his seat. Gavin twisted the engine lever and flipped the ditch lights up. He gestured to the seat with his pistol. Gavin sat down, squirming like a newborn.

“Who are you?” Gavin asked, fighting tears. The train hissed and propelled forward. There was a faint cry from the confused stranded passengers.

“My name is Clint Rogers.” The engine roared and Clint placed his hand over the emergency brake. “My son was Lester Rogers.” Gavin’s mind stirred.

“My grandson was Timothy Rogers.” Clint spat the words through gritted teeth. Gavin then remembered with a sharp sweat.

“Lester and Timothy?” Gavin expressed quietly. “The father and son who. . .passed in the unfortunate---” Gavin felt the cold crack of the butt of the gun again.

“Stop calling it that!” Clint roared, tears quivering. “You people let them die at that site! Called it a hazardous work environment and left those workers to fend for themselves! To make it look like it was their incompetence that caused the accident!”

His voice rose like a vengeful roar. His veins rose and streamed across a blood-red face.

“You thought you could just blame anyone that’s dead, isn’t that right? Because they can’t testify? And you apologized with a press conference and letter in the mail!”

The wheels roared along the tracks. Clint wiped the spittle from his lips. He checked his watch. 

“This was the last thing my grandson ever gave me. He was just eighteen. Bought it with his first paycheck working for your company. Your company where you claim everyone is family!” He walloped the gun into Gavin’s nose, breaking it.

“We. . .” Gavin groaned and panted, tasting blood. “We would’ve never recovered if. . .if they knew it was the architect who. . .” Clint struck him again, this time with his fist. Clint’s energy was wavering, but Gavin was in no position to go anywhere. The train roared on. Clint looked at his watch.

“Your architect’s dead,” Clint spat. “The explosion in his apartment was no gas leak.” Clint looked out to the lush valley. The train began its sprint across the crystal blue lake.

“Your accountant didn’t go on vacation.” Clint punched Gavin again. “Your quantity surveyor didn’t commit suicide.” Clint threw another punch, connecting and breaking the jaw this time. Gavin twitched on his side, splattering blood onto the floor. Clint checked his watch.

“And in a few seconds, the last of your precious empire will return to the dirt.”

The tracks exploded and rippled like a wave of iron. The train screeched like roaring rust, toppling and crumbling through the air. The lake swallowed its carriages, gushing back water and metal. From the smoldering smoke above, bits of wreckage sprinkled down.

Several hours passed. The valley had claimed its serenity back. Violet clouds painted the dusk sky, as it did most evenings. The waters had settled. Nothing remained but the carnage of dismantled machinery. And then, a little further on, a broken body washed up onto the bank. Clint had broken both legs. A large splint of mahogany protruded from his side. After sundown, Clint’s eyes fluttered open. Through a painfully cruel combination of aching and paralysis, he was allowed one last sight. The broken tracks above, and the vastness of the flickering stars beyond them. He found his peace and his smile. He could finally rest.