Blizzard In the Near Future...

“Well, the weather looks pretty bad now, Roland. Looks like we aren’t going anywhere.” Belinda says. Her gold necklace pendants jingle as she walks away, and I gaze glumly out the floor to ceiling windows. A sheet of white comes down, obscuring everything to the point where you couldn’t see the parking lot, and there is likely ice underlying it. Visibility is exactly zero. As far as weather, they are predicting at least 3 feet, the roads too slippery to drive safely on. The first blizzard of the season. Usually, they were the worst. The temperature has dipped to 17 degrees, and our boss, his hair the same shade as the snow, already told us to stay put.

Mr. Redfern is very cranky, and very old. He’s been here almost 40 years. He delivered the news to stay put and continue working in a short (yet gruff) soliloquy of words, and we were looking at his back soon after. His expensive loafers clicked pensively on the tiles. Blinds inside his office closed abruptly, followed by the door. Nobody goes in there unless they are invited.

I run a hand through my hair. A nervous habit. The locks snap back into place instantly, sandy blonde and a medium length. My purple button down is covered by a rust colored leather jacket, the lanyard around my neck holding my identification, a picture of me smiling emblazoned on the front.

“Crowley. You have those reports?” I ask, walking back to my cubicle.

“Sending them to you now, Roland.”

I nod my thanks in his general direction, sitting heavily in my office chair. My laptop screen glows, displaying my open inbox, containing all the interoffice mail. Our company runs off several servers, located in a vault 3 stories beneath me. Of course, as you might expect, nobody is allowed down there unless they have high-level clearance. I, of course, don’t. I’m really just a data specialist. A glorified paper pusher. I’ve made friends with the ancient copy machine years ago. Behind me, the water cooler gurgles, as Lisa Shaw gets a drink. She stands there, slowly bringing the Styrofoam cup to her lips.

The truth is, I’ve always had a thing for Lisa. She’s only 21, and even with such a beautiful body, still single. Which reminds me, single should be my middle name. Ever since Samantha, my high school sweetheart, dumped me for a handsomely athletic neurosurgeon 8 years ago, I haven’t approached many women. I’m more of a wallflower, really. I would probably go home, crack a beer and watch football until my eyeballs ached. My Golden Doodle would undoubtedly be sitting or laying right next to me, his head on my lap.

My apartment is about as sterile as my love life. I really haven’t had much time to break it in yet, on top of my 16-hour workdays, 6 days a week. I barely sleep anymore. It probably has something to do with the massive amounts of coffee I drink. I sigh, returning to my email.

Lisa pokes her head into my cubicle, and the blood rushes to my cheeks. I meet her eyes sheepishly and then quickly look down. “Hey, I was headed to the break room for some coffee. It’s absolutely freezing in here. Would you like to join me?”

I grin like an idiot, as my face lights up, a 180-degree shift from moments before. “Of course, coffee sounds great!” Coffee with Lisa. I’m in.

We meander to the break room. Quincy from Finance looks up and smiles at us briefly, before resuming the task of pouring non-dairy creamer into her cup. Darren, who works on the same types of things as I do, is perusing an open box of doughnuts, his hand poised to grab a bear claw. Lisa walks to the coffeepot and makes a come-hither gesture. 

Lisa asks, “You like it no cream, but with two sugars, right Roland?”

“You got it,” I say. She knows how I take my coffee! What else does she know about me? Has she taken note of the leather jacket, of the expensive button downs? Of my shoes that are a minimum of $220 per shoe? Does she even care about what I’m wearing? I mean she would look good in a potato sack, but that’s just my feeling. Oh, my God. What if she’s gay? The gears in my brain don’t stop spinning.

“Are you here for the long haul too? My girlfriend Diane, on floor 12, texted me saying she couldn’t stay—and would rather brave the roadways going 10-miles-per-hour than be trapped in here for God knows how long. Mother in the nursing home is used to seeing her every day at 7:30. It’s 6:15 now, so she left ahead of when she thought she needed to. Didn’t wanna be late.”

I grin sheepishly, the tires up there spinning again, and also stuck. “Yeah, I’m dug in pretty deep over there. At…my desk.” Is that the best answer you could come up with? Lame. She pours coffee into her mug, identical to mine. The company logo, a medieval shield, shimmers silvery and majestic against the black ceramic. The steam and heat of the cup might warm her hands, at least. What would it be like to hold Lisa’s hand?

She hands me my mug. “Good luck over there at your desk, sir. Sounds like you’ll need luck,” Lisa chuckles. With her free hand she pats my upper arm lightly. Her touch might as well have been electrically charged, an image of Pikachu shooting across my brain. I stand there, momentarily stunned. I should really try getting out more. I haven’t thought of Pikachu since 8th grade!

Back at my desk, I text Mom I won’t be able to come to dinner tonight. She and Dad will have to eat the lamb chops without me. I tell her to keep warm and not to go out tonight.

More snow is definite; in fact, there’s little chance of it ever stopping, not for a while, at least. Mom always told me my ideal job would be as a meteorologist. I’m always telling everyone what the weather’s supposed to do later. One thing I have a multitude of at home is weather stations (one in every room), and two large humidifiers running full blast, day or night. They will probably eat through their water supply well before I get home. In a parallel universe, I’m a famous weatherman. I wonder what Lisa would be? Chances are we wouldn’t even know each other in that universe. I’m happy we’re in this one, then.

A couple of hours pass, me looking at my screen, my eyes scanning facts and figures, all simply chunks of data I mark down or compute into a database. When one becomes full and everything is totaled, I move onto the next data set. Statistical analysis and computational engineering are helping me crunch the numbers with a certain amount of ease; like muscle memory, really. The reports that Crowley sent over earlier are already in the outgoing box. The stack of incoming documents is growing, people on this floor (and also others) periodically sticking their heads in and saying hi, only to drop pieces of spreadsheets or any number of documents in my box. While paper hasn’t been completely phased out here, it’s expected that by 2030, every possible thing, data, reports, all of it will be in the cloud online. Paper will become obsolete.

My job could actually be mind-numbingly boring. Because of the blizzard, there wasn’t anything nice outside to look at to break up the monotony of it all.

Did I mention I really need to get out more? Get a girlfriend, maybe? Sigh.

Lisa comes by my desk around 8 pm, asking if I wanted something to eat. The cafeteria for the building is on the first floor. There, you can choose from an array of fresh veggies, a salad bar, meats, cheeses, nuts and seeds—anything you can think of is available. I’m partial to the stir fry. The peanut sauce gives just the right amount of umami. Lisa goes for a chef salad and I get my stir fry.

There’re a few other people around, some sitting down with a book or a newspaper, most eating something. Dotted around the floor are tables and chairs, all sleek steel and ergonomically supportive to one’s back. The cafeteria is designed with plants growing out of the floor: a majesty palm in one corner by the window, a vining pothos to my left, a giant snake plant to Lisa’s right. Above the cafeteria is a balcony-like design (something that would have greatly pleased the late Frank Lloyd Wright) so people can easily see how crowded it is with just a glance. All the windows sprawl floor to ceiling, a menagerie of glass and steel. The cafeteria stays open 24 hours, since people are always hungry after working such long hours.

“What’s that?” says Lisa. “On the floor over there.” She points at something small, and I have to squint hard to see it. I stand up and walk over. It’s an ID badge, attached to a lanyard, which somebody must have somehow dropped without noticing. Seems unlikely, though. A clasp in the back of the neck can come apart, but it takes quite an effort to open it. I pick it up, seeing that the clasp has come undone, after all. I walk back to the table with it.

Lisa looks closely at the badge, a man’s face stoically staring at her from the plastic. “Bruce Lewiston. Hmm, I wonder how he could have dropped this without noticing.” 

“The lanyard came loose, probably.” 

The ID says the department he works for beneath his name. “Biological Research,” she reads. “I thought all of our departments worked in data and computers? I mean I know we put tech into cars, too, but biological stuff? Like animals and amoebas and shit?” 

I look at her, momentarily taken aback. “We should return it. To the main office.”

Lisa peers at me. “Why not go see what’s up with this biological stuff? Let’s check it out! We still have 25 minutes of our break left. No one’ll miss us.” We discard our food containers and walk closely together, almost conspiratorially, the stolen badge dangling from Lisa’s wrist.

“Section 38. Where the heck is that do you think?”

“No idea. We could get lost or something, or security might see us.”

“Relax, Roland.” She places an arm around my shoulder. I tense up at her touch “We’re just doing a bit of exploring and then we go right back to our stuffy little cubicles. Okay? There could be like, dinosaurs back there or something! Jurassic Park?” She laughs, the sound faintly echoing. Now that we’re heading to the elevators, there seems to be nobody around. The fluorescent lights reflect off the polished titles and steel, our shoes clicking along.

A giant map of the building is hovering in front of us, that pops into view whenever someone approaches. There’re different sections all over the building, marked in various colors. Biological Research, the area marked in scarlet red, is on the 13th floor. All these years I’ve worked here, and never noticed any research sections before. Huh.

“Let’s go,” says Lisa.

The elevator is made of the same material as the rest of the building. You can actually look outside as you’re traveling up or down. There isn’t anything to see now. I can almost hear the snow falling. It’s probably just the wind. I shiver involuntarily. Lisa smiles and looks up at the display, each floor flying by. 13 comes, and the doors open.

The entire floor is pretty dark. I see a red exit sign at the end of the hallway to my right. Nobody is around. Turning left reveals another (nearly identical) hallway.

“Which way?” asks Lisa. I shrug, and oddly wonder why she’s whispering. Is it because we were snooping around where we don’t belong? Something about this entire thing makes me uneasy. The darkness on this floor, the chill in the air. Air that’s adamantly stale. Does anyone even come up here to air the place out? Maybe not at night?

“Check the doors. My guess is we’re looking for a door with keycard access.”

We slink around, less like human beings and more cat-like, light on our feet so as not to make a noise. I spot a door with a biohazard symbol etched into the glass. Beside the door is a card reader. “Um, maybe this isn’t such a great idea after all, Lisa. I’m going back down.”

“What do you mean? You’re going to just leave me up here, all by my lonesome?” She pouts. Then, without a word, she swipes the card. There is a loud beep, and the door releases. A hiss of cold air, and a scent of something I can’t quite place escapes upon it.

Lisa reaches out to me, gripping my hand in hers. Were it not for my utter sense of trepidation, I would find this intimate moment of contact with her highly enjoyable. What I’ve always wanted. She pulls me forward, and we slip into the dark, cavernous opening. It closes heavily with a hiss of air.

We bring up the flashlights on our phones, shining them straight ahead. I notice a desk, strewn with papers and a multitude of books. A filing cabinet. Several computer monitors. Above our heads, the drop ceiling is stained and wet looking. They should probably replace that or something.

There’s another door, which appears to be made of a clear plexiglass. Lisa slides the card again, and the door opens silently, eerily. She walks in, her features set with determination to find out what this place is really all about. Biological Research, indeed. I reluctantly follow her, and the door shuts silently.

The hallway continues beyond the door. Down, down, down, seemingly endlessly. On either side of the hallway are doors with little windows in them, like a mental hospital or a prison. Lisa looks in the window of one of them, and goes visibly pale. She turns to me. “Roland…there’s—”

“What is it?” 

“There’s… something—”

“What? Tell me!”

She breathes out, almost inaudibly, “A thing, a creature. In that room.” She is crying now, blinking away the tears as fast as she can, but to no avail. 

I look into the window. In the dim light inside the room, there is nothing. No furniture, no bed, nothing. And in the corner, a hulking mass of purple flesh, heaving and pulsating with an undulating fire, as if something is worming around just under the skin. It’s…a man. A person. What is wrong with him? What did they…do to him?

“So, you found our little experiment. More like a failure.” A booming voice shocks me, my head snapping over toward the sound. Lisa shakes beside me. There’s an older man standing there in the doorway.

“Mr. Redfern! We were—what…what is that thing?” I choke out the words, my mouth and throat as dry as sand. It’s as if all the air has been sucked from the room.

 “He was a man, once. A scientist of the highest esteem. He came up with a serum that he thought could slow the aging process, thinking of course about the thing human beings always want more of. Money. He said he could make this company billions. He made a grave mistake, however, deciding to try it on himself, his wife, and their daughter Rosalind. The result was less than desirable, as I’m sure you can see. We could never let that get out, the failed experiment. We cannot lose face in today’s cutthroat market, you see?”

“But you’re just keeping him here like this, locked up in a cell? He needs medical help, some kind of intervention—”

“Enough, Roland. The thing is, now that you’ve seen it, I cannot let you leave.” He backs up toward the plexiglass doorway, moving through it and shutting it quickly. It’s at that moment I notice a device in Redfern’s hand. He presses a button, and the three doors around us open simultaneously.

A horrid noise ensues, chortled from slimy slick throats, a sound inhuman to the ear. The three monsters emerge, purple skin glistening in the light, a sheen of a petroleum jelly-like substance dripping off them. The noises they make are truly horrible, indescribably evil. Lisa’s already running, but the small monster is too fast. It catches her, biting her in the thigh. Her screams are agonizingly close to me, as if she’s right beside me.

I move sharply to the left, as Lisa falls to the ground. The little child-monster is eating her skin, pulling it off in strips and devouring it. A gobbling sound emanates from two of them, disgusting and rank. As I look at Lisa, now a torn, broken, unrecognizable body of blood and gore, Redfern watches, an unmistakable look of twisted happiness plastered on his face. The largest monster clamps its jaw onto my neck, piercing my jugular. A shower of my blood sprays it in the face. I’m screaming. My vision suddenly blurs, and everything goes black.