Employee 3346-88739

Breakfast was the usual. Scrambled eggs, a couple of withered sausage links and a stale piece of toast, closer to burnt than not. It was better that way. Sometimes it came underdone. Then you could taste just how bad the bread really was. Charring gave it some flavor.

His name was Norman Gaston, but according to the certificate framed on the wall, he was employee number 3346-88739. An accompanying photo of Norman was taken on the count of two. Norman was expecting it to be on three. He asked for another shot. There were no do-overs.

Norman slid the tray next to the keyboard and microphone on the gray linoleum desk where he spent each shift recording the events on the enormous bank of closed circuit monitors occupying the better part of the wall in front of him. Seventeen of them. He’d counted them many times. The odd number had puzzled him at first. He wondered why not eighteen or twenty. It had taken some getting used to the asymmetry. He preferred things in balance. Before. Now, he hardly seemed to notice.

The closed circuit cameras were stationed in a variety of locations. Locations he was familiar with now, from his position, but had never actually visited in person. He didn’t care. Didn’t really want to. None of it was that interesting. Usually more mundane. On rare occasions something important. Out of the ordinary. Violent. But that was rare.

He turned on his personal computer monitor and signed in. User name, employee number, passcode. He didn’t get to choose the passcode. It was assigned. Once in a while a new passcode was issued, usually every six months, but sometimes much sooner. He made certain to memorize it each time. Quickly. He’d usually spend the first day with it just repeating it over and over. It was habit now. He’d forgotten it once. Early on. He couldn’t sign in and couldn’t observe and report, and he’d caught hell for it. He escaped with a warning. He didn’t want that to happen again.

That was some years earlier, though. The job had taken on its own cadence, rhythm. Aside from the passcode, it hardly ever changed. He could do it in his sleep.

Thinking of sleep, he reached for the included cup of coffee and blew the steam off the top, risking a sip. It was always hot. And strong. It was usually the best part of the meal. He was grateful for it. Kept his eyes open, even when they began to blur from the daily hours of screen time. He knew he was going to have to get glasses soon. He didn’t like the idea. Thought it would make him seem old. Worried it would make him seem too old. Too old for the job. So he stuck with it, rubbing away the strain when he needed. A wet rag with some cold water right out of the tap helped. One eye at a time, so he wouldn’t miss anything.

He took a deep breath, as he did every day, to begin.

“Screen 1. Corridor 35. All clear,” he said, typing it into his computer, hitting enter, proceeding to the next. “Screen 2. Loading dock. All clear.” Input, enter, next. He finished with Screen 17 eight minutes later. All clear. A quick perusal of all the screens to make sure nothing was changing, then back to Screen 1 and through the process again.

Thirty seconds for each screen. Eight-and-a-half minutes every time, provided nothing was happening out of the ordinary on any of the screens. Management liked that timing. That efficiency. It was praised at first. Then expected. Six reports per hour. That left nine minutes each hour for Norman to use as needed. He could pause for just over a minute-and-a-half between reports. Sip coffee, clear his eyes, stretch. Or he could plow through, save the time and have nine full minutes at the end. And if he wanted longer and felt he could risk it, take the nine minutes at the beginning of the next hour and have time enough to walk around, stretch out, use the toilet. 

He liked to sing, outside the job. Before the job. Used to play the drums in a band. Long ago. He’d feel the urge still from time-to-time. Get a song in his head he used to perform with the band. The drums in his head, air drums in full view. He didn’t care who was watching. He wished he could have drums on the job. Maybe just a bongo. Something to beat on. But there was no point in even asking for something like that. He used the edge of his desk, and tapped his fingers on it throughout the day to music only he could hear.

Thirty minutes for lunch. At his desk, of course. No leaving the screens unattended, but a half hour with no reporting. The sandwich today was turkey and Swiss, or what passed for Swiss. Processed white cheese with a Swiss-like flavor. He didn’t really mind it.

Norman had become proficient at multi-tasking. The commode in the corner of the room had helped. It was off-putting at first. A toilet just out in the room like that. He’d never seen anything like it before this job, but he had never had a job quite like this before. It was vital not to leave the screens unattended during one’s shift. Anything could happen.

Within a year, he was finishing his sandwiches on the commode while watching the screens.

He turned his back on the still empty bank of images and washed his hands. The first time his eyes had been off them since he began that morning. Less than thirty seconds. Taking the towel with him back to his chair, for wiping his eyes as the afternoon went on, he settled back in and began again.

“Screen 1. Corridor 35. All clear,” he said, typing it into his computer, double checking the screen to ensure he hadn’t missed something, then hitting enter, and proceeding to the next. “Screen 2. Loading dock. All clear.” And so on, until dinner and shift change.

The next day began as every day before had. The toast was underdone this time. Only way to make it palatable was to dunk it in his coffee.

The screens flashed alive. Most of them. Sixteen of seventeen. All except Screen 12. It remained dark. That had never happened before. Never.

Norman pulled a binder off the small shelf to the side of his desk. Running his finger down the table of contents, he found the troubleshooting section, tab 5. He flipped to it. He could feel his heart starting to race.

Two pages in he found the instructions for an inactive screen. A series of reboot commands he dutifully typed in on the keyboard. The indicator light on Screen 12, went dim, then flashed back to life. It blinked as it came back on, but instead of the small green light that the other sixteen screens showed, Screen 12’s remained red.

He repeated the reboot as advised in the manual. Same result.

Norman dialed the emergency contact number at the end of the section and spoke into the desk microphone. 

“Employee number and passcode,” a robotic voice crackled back through static. 

Norman leaned into the microphone. He had begun to sweat, and his hands shook a bit. His voice cracked slightly. “Employee number 3346-88739. Passcode: Elemental43812.”

A moment of silence followed. A whirring noise, then clicking. Finally the voice answered.

“Approved.”

A new voice followed. Distinctly human this time.

“What is the problem?”

“Uh… Screen 12, sir,” Norman paused, swallowed hard. He was pretty certain it was a man’s voice. It could have been a woman’s, though. His voice quivered more. “Screen 12 won’t activate.”

“Did you initiate the troubleshooting protocol on page 37 in the manual?”

Norman flipped back to the manual to make certain he had been on page 37. He had.

“Yes. Yes, I did,” he answered. A small bit of relief.

More silence. Long silence. Norman could hear his heart beating in his ears. He instinctively checked the remaining 16 screens. Nothing out of the ordinary on any of them.

He felt helpless as the silence continued. Felt he needed to do something. Offer something. “Shall I continue logging the remaining screens?” Norman finally asked.

Silence.

And then all the screens went black. 

It made Norman jump to his feet. Panic set in. He didn’t know what to do. What to say. His head jerked back and forth from one side of the giant panel to the next. Even his own computer screen was blank. No indication of power. No green lights. No red. Nothing.

Just the buzz from the fluorescent institutional ceiling light.

He took two steps backward and sat on the small cot just off the side of the commode. He was holding his breath but didn’t realize it.

“We are working on the problem on our end,” the voice finally said.

“What shall I do?” Norman asked.

No answer came.

Nothing happened for a very long time. The quiet was unusual. The downtime was unusual. Norman hadn’t had a day off, anytime off, during the work day for as long as he could remember.

After a while he noticed he was breathing again. Breathing closer to normal. His nerves began to settle. The adrenalin was wearing off, and he found himself suddenly exhausted.

He stretched out on the cot, on his side, still waiting for the screens to return. Eventually, he rolled on his back and looked up at the fluorescent light flickering above. He wished there were a window to look out instead. But that, of course for security purposes, was out of the question.

He wished there were something to do to distract himself. Anything to do. But there was nothing. All he could do was wait.

* * *

Norman sat straight up on the bed. His heart was pounding. The screens were all flashing alive. How long had he been asleep? He was back in his desk chair before he was completely awake. Typing furiously the sign in to his computer. He began his work again.

“Screen 1. Corridor 35. All clear,” he said, typing it into his computer, hitting enter, proceeding to the next. “Screen 2. Loading dock. All clear.” Everything as it was supposed to be.

Until he reached Screen 12.

He grabbed his towel and wiped his eyes, then the screen, then his eyes again. There was definitely a change.

“Uh, Screen 12,” he said as he typed. “Great Hall. A pole or post has been added at the far end of the Hall. This is the first evidence of it. No installation observed as Screen 12 was down with mechanical problems since end of shift yesterday.”

He hit enter and continued through the day. 

Breakfast came the next morning. An unexpected change. Steak and eggs over easy. Two pieces of toast, toasted perfectly. Buttered. A bowl of fresh berries on the side. And the coffee.

He thought he might be dreaming, still. This meal was served from time-to-time. Special occasions, holidays, anniversaries. Norman ran through his mental list of what it could be. He wasn’t certain. He couldn’t come up with anything.

After a bite of steak, he didn’t really care. He finished all of it. As satisfied as he could remember being with any meal in as long as he could remember, he took a deep breath, slid his chair close and powered up the screens and his computer.

He entered his work number and passcode and looked at Screen 1. “Screen 1. Corridor 35. All clear,” he said typing onto the keyboard. Only afterwards did he look at his computer screen. 

“Access Denied” flashed across it.

“What the hell?” Norman said in a tone just above a whisper, quickly re-entering the sign in information. Again “Access Denied” pulsed on the screen.

Norman’s hands began to shake. Maybe he hadn’t entered the information correctly. Maybe too quickly. He took his time, a shaking finger one key at a time.

“Access Denied.”

Norman dialed the emergency number from the manual and waited. 

“Employee number and passcode,” the same robotic voice crackled back through static. 

“Employee number 3346-88739. Passcode: Elemental43812.”

“Incorrect information,” the voice said.

“No!” Norman shouted, repeating his employee number and passcode.

“Incorrect information,” the voice repeated.

“Wait!” Norman shouted again, bordering on panic.

The line went dead.

From the hallway outside his door, footsteps, several sets, echoing on the tile floor. Marching. The sound clear even through the reinforced steel door. The steps ended outside his room. A series of beeps and clicks from the keypad outside followed, then a long buzzing sound and the enormous steel bolts sealing the door shut ground to life, the door swinging open.

Six men, all in black uniforms, all hooded, nothing exposed but their eyes, swarmed the room. Norman stumbled backwards, falling out of his chair, scrambling across the floor to escape.

The human voice from the phone the day before now sounded from a small speaker in the upper corner of Norman’s room.

“Employee 3346-88739, your employment is terminated.”

“What? Wait!” he screamed, tears starting to stream his cheeks, pulling away from the hands of the uniformed men, trying to. It was futile. They overpowered him in short order, dragging him to his feet.

“Why?” he cried.

“Violation of employment code, WO-727. No employee shall leave the screens unobserved during work hours,” the voice said.

“I never left the screens unobserved!” he shouted back towards the speaker. “I never left the screens unobserved!” he shouted to the men holding him. His voice broke, pleading. “I never left the screens unobserved!”

All seventeen screens on the panel suddenly changed. All seventeen showed the same thing. A view of Norman in his room from the perspective of the ceiling speaker. Two days prior, Norman on the commode, rising to his feet, going to the sink and washing his hands. His back to the screens for 28 seconds.

Norman looked back to the speaker then into the eyes of the men holding him. His eyes searched, pleaded, for any way out of this.

“Remove him,” the voice said.

“No!” Norman wailed, his cry echoing through the room and down the hallway, then darkness, a black hood tightened over his head, still screaming but muffled now, dragged from his room.

In sixteen other rooms, the rest of the employees were busily noting the changes that flashed across the seventeen screens in each of their rooms. 

“Screen 1, Corridor 35. Six uniformed men are dragging a seventh hooded man. The hooded man is attempting to resist.”

“Screen 7, Ante Chamber. Hooded man continuing to struggle. One of the uniformed men has produced a baton and strikes the hooded man on what appears to be the rear of his head. Hooded man has ceased to struggle.”

“Screen 12, Great Hall. Hooded man is bound by two uniformed men to newly installed post at far end of room. One uniformed man leaves view at lower end of camera feed. Remaining uniformed man steps aside, raises his hand, and lowers it quickly. A cloud of smoke arises in foreground from out of camera feed. Hooded man slumps from the post.”

At the end of the sequence, all the screens on every panel in every room went blank then flashed a new message. 

“The new Passcode is Evolution44191.” 

Every other employee in every other room went through their individual routines for committing the new passcode to memory. The image vanished from each screen, one-at-a-time, beginning with Screen 1, every thirty seconds. When it vanished from Screen 17, the screens reset to the usual images, and the employees began to record again.

“Screen 1. Corridor 35. All clear. Screen 2. Loading dock. Body of hooded man is loaded into the back of a panel truck by four uniformed men. Rear truck door is lowered. Uniformed men exit. Truck drives away from the dock.”

In a crowded observation room in front of a bank of seventeen screens, seventeen uniformed men watched each employee from the speaker camera in each employee room. 

“How long was 3346-88739 with us?” a voice sounded on a speaker in the observation room. The same voice that had announced Norman’s termination.

“Five years, 7 months and 23 days,” one of the uniformed men answered after checking his records.

“Very good,” the voice said. “Continue.”

All seventeen uniformed men resumed observing the seventeen rooms on the seventeen screens. All except Screen 4. The room on Screen 4 was unoccupied now. For the moment.