Assault on Workshop 13

“Three hundred and sixty-four days worked, to one day off!”

…

Mergle hadn’t known he was going to speak until he already was, his voice broken and hot as he stood upon the crate. He had yet to articulate within himself the reasons that prompted him to action, yet he knew they were informed by a long dormant rage which moved internally like a geologic force. Tears welled in his eyes and slid down his green face. Yes, rage. That all-consuming fire that burnt low and idle in the soul until some catalyst set it loose in a torrent that engulfed all else. Now was its moment.

Mergle was not special. He was one of hundreds in Workshop 13. He had lived his life within the boundaries set and expected nothing more. He had worked the long hours. Had listened to the announcements every morning for shipments coming in, orders to be filled, stocks which needed replenishment. Had stood with hand on heart, every morning with the other workers, as they pledged their loyalty and gratitude to the Big Man’s picture at the front of the workshop.

That picture. The same which hung in every dormitory, office, and outhouse. The same which gazed down at Mergle now. Patrician eyes behind half-moon glasses. Comely smile spread across a bearded face. Red Suit pressed to perfection. He had lived his life under that gaze, and accepted things as they were.

That was until he had met Maggle. She had been assigned next to him on the production line the previous season. She was smart and kind. One day they had struck up a conversation, and soon they were spending most of their time together. Before long, his heart tightened every moment her golden eyes caught his.

One evening she took him aside after their shift and showed him a book. “Don’t show anyone,” she had whispered, “I got it from a friend in mailing – it’s censored.”

At first, he was confused, for he thought it’s author to be the Big Man. The photograph of the writer on the cover sleeve shared his prodigious beard and sharp eyes. They could have been the same man, save that this one wore a black suit and had no glasses.

"I read a little bit, and… I don’t know” she whispered, “I think it is about us.” Something in her gaze and the way she spoke moved him.

They began to read the book together, and each session opened their minds a little more. On their breaks, in hushed whispers, they would discuss the radical ideas it offered. Sometimes, he would even steal to her bunk at night, and under the covers they would pour over the pages with a flashlight. They certainly did not understand all of it, but what they did tore into their hearts like thunder in the dead of night. Wages. Labor. Alienation. The Means of Production. Mergle realized that he was being given a lexicon to feelings he never knew he had.

They noticed things. How tired they were at the end of the day. How hungry they remained even after eating their bland and flavorless food, how the cold bit at their joints. They noticed others too. The looks on their faces, the way they slouched in the cafeteria and how they slammed their tools down at the end of shift. People were angry. Angry and bitter. They just didn’t seem to realize it.

The night before Christmas Eve, he and Maggle had been reading the tome under the cover of her sheets when she kissed him on the cheek. He didn’t know what to say, and his face become so red that she giggled at him. It was the most beautiful sound he ever heard.

Something changed in him there, a fire was lit. A fire that stayed with him all the next day. A fire that blazed when, at 23:30 the speakers in their dormitory blared and they heard the annual message from the Big Man. It was the only time anyone heard his voice. He congratulated them on a productive year. He would be sure their efforts would be enjoyed by the world. He thanked them and wished them a happy day off.

A day off.

One day.

Something broke within him.

“Three hundred and sixty-four days worked, to one day off!”

Before he knew what he was doing, he had grabbed a crate and stood upon it, calling to his fellow workers in their cold and impoverished dwelling. No, not calling. Screaming. Demanding they listen, that they understand. He let loose in a fusillade of indictments, a remonstration to their condition of life.

He looked down and saw Maggle, whose eyes were full of admiration and want. It stirred his chest and gave him courage. He continued. The words came to him in a surprising fluidity and eloquence he had not known he possessed. Some of the words were from the book they had read. Some were his own.

People were murmuring as he spoke. Some began yelling in agreement. The fire in Mergle had found purchase, and it was spreading. Within moments all were on their feet. Someone threw a cup at the image of the Big Man. Another threw a shoe.

Mergle had to dismount his crate as above his head a barrage of dishware, apparel, all other detritus of their miserable lot were thrown at the canvas picture. One bold woman stepped forward and began to tear it down with cheers as it crashed to the floor. Mergle and Maggle shouted with the others, holding each other. In the excitement their eyes met, and they kissed.

“What now?” someone yelled.

Their kiss broke and Maggle smiled up at him. She turned to the crowd. “The workshop!” her lilting voice carried, full of strength, “tear it down!” A cheer went up.

As the workshop speakers blared "Jingle Bells," in celebration of the start of Christmas day, the laborers of Workshop 13 burst onto the production floor with righteous vengeance in their hearts. Machines were smashed, timesheets burned, and bottles broken. The cacophony and pandemonium awoke adjoining dorms and brought their residents forward. Upon seeing the spontaneous revolt, most joined in, grabbing wrenches and hammers from tool boards, and venting their oppressed frustrations.

Somewhere an alarm was sounded, and the din of destruction was accompanied by wailing sirens.

Pandemonium reigned while metal and wiring and fluids continued to be torn from the production line like a corpse left to nature. Eventually someone cut the alarm. the mob’s energy began to be spent. The hammering and sawing and feverish jubilation slowly subsided and people stood amongst their mutual wreckage, catching their breath in awe and terror of what had just occurred.

Maggle came to Mergle’s side and squeezed his hand. “Say something,” she whispered in his ear, “Lead!”

Mergle began to nervously open his mouth when the speakers blared again, crackling the message of an officious voice, “ATTENTION! PEOPLE OF WORKSHOP 13! IT HAS BEEN REPORTED THAT A VIOLENT AND UNLAWFUL ASSEMBLY HAS OCCURRED!”

“SECURITY PERSONNEL ARE ON THEIR WAY TO SECURE THE PREMISES. RETURN TO YOUR DOMOCILES IMMEDIATEY SHOULD YOU WISH TO AVOID DISCIPLINARY ACTION.”

For a moment, all were frozen in contemplation. Mergle was hit with the realization that if people lost their courage now, all would be lost. A steel coil tightened in his chest. He raised his hands, “Friends! Do not be afraid!”

“And why not?” a weathered voice shouted. It was an older worker, one who had been standing aside while the revolt wracked its destruction. He now leaned with his back to a pillar, smoking a cigarette. “‘Disciplinary Action’ isn’t a slap on the wrist – it’s execution.” He addressed the crowd, “You think you’re the first to fight back? I was born in Workshop 17. We tried the same thing in ’69. We failed. I watched my friends lined up against the wall and shot.”

Nervous murmurs spread throughout the workshop.

“If we don’t try, nothing will change,” Mergle responded. His voice rose, “Do you call this life? Working everyday for nothing? Hungry and angry all the time?” A silent ambivalence filled the room in response.

Maggle stepped forward, “I’m sorry about your friends, they were brave,” she said to the old workman. “But you didn’t fail… you’ve just yet to succeed.”

Something stirred in the eyes of the man. For a moment he looked hard at Maggle.

“Screw it,” he flicked his cigarette to the ground. “When they came for us, it was through the loading bay doors. That’s where they’ll attack.” He turned to the onlookers, “to Hell with the Big Man!” A cheer went up from all, and green fists raised into the air.

The next hour was a rush of motion. People worked to seal the multiple doors to the cargo bay. Defensive barricades were constructed. Tools were gathered for weaponry. The old workman instructed the rebels on what to expect and where they should prepare to fight. Maggle and Mergle led teams of people to secure the different entryways from intrusion.

Within an hour of completing preparations, the loudspeakers blared once more, “ATTENTION PEOPLE OF WORKSHOP 13! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING TO RETURN TO YOUR DOMOCILES. SECURITY PERSONNEL ARE SECURING THE PREMISES.”

Hands tightened around clubs and feet shifted. A crash sounded as a cargo door was met with force of dreadful intention. Then another. The crashing continued at regular and terrible intervals, soon followed by others along the rows of cargo doors. The scope of the attack became apparent to the defenders, but they had found their courage and answered the cacophony with a collective roar, shaking their tools in challenge.

The assault on Workshop 13 had begun.

Behind a barricade, Maggle and Mergle waited. “They’re breaking through!” someone yelled. Maggle turned to Mergle, and her golden eyes held his with a tenderness that hurt his chest. “Mergle,… if we don’t make it, I want to say I lo-”

Her voice was cut off as a flash of inescapable brightness filled the cargo bay. “flash-bangs!” screamed a voice. Mergle saw only spots as the world melted into anarchy. People screamed and gunfire flashed. The pounding of metal and wood against unprotected flesh formed a demonic percussion under the ambient ballad of pain.

Mergle was pushed from his position and his eyes found a security guard, dressed in gray and waving a baton above his head. He was impossibly large, with a frame Mergle could only fathom was designed for the sole purpose of violence.

Mergle ducked a powerful swing by the man and tackled him at the waist, forcing him to the ground. He straddled the attacker. He had overestimated himself, however. The security guard easily turned him over by shear superiority of weight, and Mergle found himself looking upward as he was pinned under the man. The evil looking baton was raised. Suddenly, the man jerked and pitched forward, falling off him. Mergle looked up to see the old workman standing over him with a ball-peen hammer. He winked and offered a hand. Mergle was lifted back up and rejoined the fray.

They fought on. Desperately and with abandon, the people of the workshop fought on. But slowly, they began to lose ground. The battle pushed from the cargo bay. Redoubts were taken at barricades constructed along corridors, and for every foot the attackers took they paid for it. Fists were thrown and guns were shot, and before the afternoon was out it was clear to all the production floor was the last stand.

Mergle found himself atop a broken junction, swinging a bloodied pipe-wrench. Around him he saw the wreckage of his compatriots, fighting an increasingly hopeless battle like cells against a malignant and overwhelming virus. He witnessed the old workman go down under a hail of batons.

Across the battlefield, he saw Maggle aloft a conveyor belt. She was surrounded by a valiant cohort that fought like wolves, arms flaying and legs kicking at the host of guards which surrounded them. She stood higher than them all, encouraging her fellows as she struck at the gray-clad predators with a piece of pipe. She looked terrible and brave and the most beautiful thing Mergle had ever seen.

One of the guards pulled out a pistol, and before Mergle could open his mouth to shout a warning, the world went black as a baton struck his temple.

…

Mergle felt the blood on his face before his eyes could open. When they did, he saw the unmistakable fluorescent lighting of his dormitory. He tried to move but realized he was tied to a chair. Around him guards stood at attention. Outside the door he could hear intermittent screams and occasional gunfire. He knew the battle was lost.

The door opened and a huge figure in a red suit walked in. The Big Man. He towered above the guards, and stood for a moment at the door, staring at Mergle. He looked exactly like the idols which plastered the facility of Workshop 13, save for his girth. He was unaccountably thin, with the signature red suit hanging around him like it didn’t know what to do with its freedom.

A guard produced a chair, and the Big Man sat down in front of Mergle.

When he spoke, it was with a jovial tone, “I understand, Mr. Margle, that you think you have been treated unfairly. And, it seems, some of those fine folk outside agreed with you.” Out in the workshop a single gunshot rang out.

The giant man produced from within his liberally oversized suit Maggle’s book. “I understand you have become interested in civics,” he opened it to the cover sleeve image of the author and leaned in with a conspiratorial smile, “some say there is a resemblance, but personally, I don’t see it.” He chuckled and threw the book. It landed with its spine cracked opened, the guts of its pages spilled out and bent on the concrete.

“Now son, I consider myself a student in the humanities, so allow me to present my case to you,” he placed a paternal hand on his shoulder, “I believe in the Social Contract. Do you know what that is?” Mergle shook his head. “Basically, it means that you – the people that is – give up a few things to me – the leader – in exchange for security. It is a trade, you see?”

A cadaverous hand raised as he pointed a finger upward and continued in an instructive tone, “Do you know how cold it is outside these walls? -50 Fahrenheit. Nothing outside of these walls – my walls – can live. And I am more than happy to provide a place to the fine people of the workshops. Walls for warmth, beds for sleep,” – he had begun ticking these off on his fingers – “food and drink, heck, even clothes! And in return, you workers have agreed to provide your valuable time and effort towards the production of my goods, and to respect my rules.”

The Big Man’s eyes narrowed, and his face became granite as he leaned in. “Security for freedom. I have fulfilled my end of the bargain, son. And what do I find when I come back from the busiest and most important night of my year? That some have deigned to disregard this compact.” His voice dropped its joviality, “The temerity of it. You fucking people.”

A stone moment passed, and when he spoke again, his voice had regained his cheery tone. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Let me show you what happens when deals aren't honored. He nodded to a guard, who walked out of the room momentarily.

When he came back, Mergle let out a sob, for he was carrying Maggle’s broken body.

“You and Ms. Maggle led people to act foolishly. Violence and vandalism can’t be had. Now, Ms. Maggle has paid her price. Those who haven’t been killed? Well, they broke the Contract, so out into the cold they go. That leaves you.” 

It was Mergle’s turn. He tore his gaze from Maggle and looked up at the Big Man’s gloating eyes. “Go ahead. You can kill me, torture me, do what you want.” His voice was steel.

“You blame us for today?” He laughed, “This, all this, is your exploitation spat back at you. So, get on with it. There will be another me. Another Maggle.”

The Big Man looked down over his cascading beard, and Mergle saw the briefest shadow of apprehension cross his gaze. The hirsute tyrant smirked and pulled another item out of his malnourished coat. “I want to show you something.”

He held a gigantic chocolate cookie. “I have spent a lot of time with your people. The worker’s food isn’t bland out of cruelty, you know. One of the sad truths of the world is your little green bodies can’t process sugar.” he gently waved the sweet before Mergle, who felt a rising terror.

“A shame, their quite delicious. You see for you, things like cookies act like a hard-core psychedelic drug. They increase suggestibility, hallucinations, and sedative states.”

The cookie's oscillation stopped. “I’m not going to kill you, Mr. Mergle. I am going to punish you.” He leaned forward, “I am going to have you tied to a chair, fed a steady supply of sugar, and have you trained to relive the Christmas you crossed me. Over and over. Until you are old and rotten. Perhaps I will visit you sometimes, and watch you dream.”

Mergle’s eyes widened with horror as the large thin man pounced on him, shoving the baked treat into his face, smashing it through pursed lips and clenched teeth. “Eat the cookie, you little fucking commie!”

Mergle tried to resist, but the slowly the sugared breading made its way through his gums and into his stomach. The lights began to fade.

…

“Three hundred and sixty-four days worked, to one day off!”