Michael woke up in a waiting room. He was dazed and confused. "Excuse me, mam," Michael's speech was slurred. Christine glanced up from behind her desk. "What am I doing here?" He vaguely recognized the woman at the desk, but felt like he'd met her in a dream.
"You're waiting quietly." She replied, looking back to her computer.
The room was large, with chairs lining the perimeter. The walls were painted solid beige with no decorations anywhere.
Michael sat in the back corner facing Christine. Her tall enclosed desk was against the far wall with two narrow hallways stretching down either side.
Michael tried to stand but found his body didn't want to work. "Mam," Michael spoke, "Why do my legs feel funny?"
This time Christine did not look up from her desk. "I'll let you know when you're needed. Until then, please sit quietly."
Michael slouched in his chair and stared at Christine. His brain seemed to be processing in slow motion. He opened his mouth to talk and quickly shut it. No, he wasn't supposed to speak. He wasn't going to speak. He could contain himself, "Why are you so pretty?" He blurted.
"Ok!" Christine stood from her chair, "That's enough." She walked around the desk and approached Michael's chair. She grabbed the armrests and dragged him and the chair out, spun him facing the wall, and pushed him back in.
He looked at the wall for a minute, "I can still talk." He stated. Michael felt a pair of headphones slide over his ears. Christine handed him a small tablet. "What's—" He let out a laugh. There was a cartoon squirrel on the screen trying to get a nut. Every time he got close, something drastic happened to keep the nut just out of reach. He smiled widely as the cliff broke beneath the squirrel, causing it to fall to the icy ground a few hundred feet below.
At first, Michael found the cartoon wildly entertaining. As time went on, his amusement began to wear. He was feeling less woozy. Why am I in a waiting room watching a cartoon? Michael tried hard to remember where he was. He began to recollect pieces of his vacation, the people at the back window, filling out his notebook, the dinner. The dinner!
Michael pulled the headphones from his head and stood to his feet. He was met with a light headrush and had to grab the back of the chair for balance.
"What am I doing here?" Michael said sternly. He turned to find Christine standing in front of her desk as if to be waiting for him.
"Feeling better?" She asked.
"Where am I, and what am I doing?" Michael asked again. He took a wobbly step towards Christine, who did not look the least bit worried.
"It's time for your appointment," She stepped towards Michael. After seeing his glare, she added, "It'd be wise of you not to get aggressive." She took a step towards Michael, "You have an appointment. Will you let me escort you to the office?"
"No. I'm going to leave," Michael looked around the room for a visible exit, there were no doors or signs. "Could you show me the exit?"
Christine gestured down the left hallway, "Absolutely. I'll show you the way."
She walked beside Michael down the long hallway. There were doors spaced ten feet apart on either side.
"Can I have my phone?" Michael asked.
"Not until we get to the exit," Christine replied.
"You drugged me," Michael said, in a way that sounded somewhere between a statement and a question. Christine ignored him.
There was a single door at the end of the hallway. "Take the stairs down to the left, the receptionist will give you your phone."
As Michael turned the handle, he muttered, "It's the last door. That isn't tricky."
He pushed the door open, entered, and paused. There was no staircase. As he turned to object, Christine gave him a shove and slammed the door behind him. He shook the handle to find it locked.
What is this all about?
He turned to what appeared to be an office, although it was near the size of a small apartment. A brown fireplace was located on the back wall. Above it hung a large painting of a bloody spartan battle. A few yards in front of the mantle, a large brown executive desk sat on a crimson knotted rug. The right wall was filled with matching chocolate cupboards. The left wall was covered top to bottom in newspaper clippings from various publications across the U.S.
As Michael approached the clippings wall, he heard a door open behind him. He turned and saw an entry in the back corner of the room, opposite of him, that he hadn't noticed.
Two burly men entered the room carrying a chair. Michael recognized them instantly as the drivers that had picked him up from the airport. They took the chair across the room and sat it in front of the desk. The two men walked to the back of the room and stood beside Michael, neither one giving him the slightest bit of acknowledgment.
"Am I supposed to sit?" Michael asked. Neither man answered. "Can I leave?" No answer.
Just as Michael worked up the courage to head towards the open door, a large older man filled the frame. He had dark soft eyes and wrinkles that crawled up to his light grey hair. A warm smile was stretched across his gentle face. The man had a neatly trimmed grey and black speckled beard that stopped just below his chin. The tailored navy suit fit his dense form.
With a wave of his hand, he told the men, "Please show him to his seat."
The two men used both their hands to grab Michael's arms. They pulled him forward, causing his shoes to drag on the carpet behind him. They pulled him to the chair they had brought and sat him down. They stood on either side and held their hands behind their back.
The older man casually walked across the room and sat in the large burgundy wing chair behind the desk. He watched Michael in silence as he tapped his finger on the counter. He pulled open a drawer and pulled out a cigar. He carefully cut a sliver, lit a match and held it an inch off the end. He reached the cigar across the table.
"It's ok, I don't smoke." Michael shook his head, then quickly added, "but thank you."
The man shrugged and pulled the cigar between his stained yellow teeth. He took two quick puffs holding the match back to the tip. He blew a mouthful of smoke over his right shoulder, "It doesn't matter if you smoke it or if I do, it harms us both the same."
Michael shook his head again. "I'm fine, thank you."
After a few more puffs and a few more moments of silence, the man spoke again. "So, you didn't enjoy these two?" The man smiled, gesturing towards the men. He flipped open a notebook and began to read. "So far, the trip has left me more stressed than relaxed. A word of advice to the resort, first impressions matter." He snapped the notebook closed.
Michael was sweating, "I'm sorry," he managed, "I can write something better."
The man let out a hearty laugh, "You have no idea why you're here, do you?"
"No."
"You have no idea who I am, do you?"
"No, sir."
"I believe, you even though I shouldn't...it doesn't matter either way. I'll conduct this meeting with the assumption that you're as ignorant as you've appeared these past few months. The alternative is you're an incredible actor, but as I said, it doesn't matter either way. My name's Quint Morton." He examined the ash piling at the end of his cigar, "I own this company."
Michael wanted to yell at the man. He desired to threaten the man for spiking his drink. For dragging him to wherever this was against his will. But a more significant part of him was intimidated and felt now was not the opportune time to make threats. "I don't want to be here. Can I leave?"
"No, you may not, thank you for asking," Quint leaned forward in his seat. "I'm not the type of person that's often surprised, but you showing up at the house surprised me." He squinted his eyes, "I would like to offer you a job."
Michael nearly laughed, "I don't want it."
Quint smirked as he sucked the tip of his cigar. "Let me rephrase," a jet of smoke streamed from his nostrils, "By the time you leave today, you will be working for me. Whether you accept it or not is entirely your choice. Whether you perform your duties is not at all your choice."
Michael felt a bit of frustration building up, "This is illegal, you know that, right?"
"And?" Quint asked, honestly.
"And you can't get people to do things they don't want them to."
"Oh, I disagree completely." Quint was intrigued. It'd been a long time since he'd met someone with such cretinous thoughts. "I can think of several scenarios that contradict your theory." He rested his elbows on the table and placed his oversized fingertips together.
Michael backtracked, "If you held me at gunpoint, sure, but that's not—"
Quint stood from his seat and towered over Michael. He spun slowly in a circle raising his jacket above his belt. "Do I have a gun?" Quint asked.
"Not that I can tell."
"Go over to them, pat them down." Quint used two fingers to gesture at the men. The two men stared forward. "Go on."
Michael hesitantly patted the sides of both men finding no signs of weaponry.
Quint smiled, "Did you walk into this room earlier, wanting to pat these two men down?"
"What..no," Michael stepped out from behind the second man, "But it wasn't—"
"I got you to pat them down even though you didn't want to," Quint raised his hand, "That was a cheap win. I'll retract it. What was your exact wording again?" He flipped open the notebook. "Ah yes: A word of advice to the resort, first impressions matter." He closed the journal, "I agree entirely. Please follow me."
Michael and the two men followed close behind Quint as he walked towards the hidden door. As Michael stepped through the doorway, he was surprised to find himself standing on a platform elevated over a large enclosed workspace. The walls reached fifty feet above their head. A catwalk stretched around three of the walls with doors spaced evenly across the steel platform.
The right half of the back wall was filled with a sizeable roll-up bay door. The left half was filled with four large screens. The top left was black with a green outline of the United States. Hundreds of orange dots were scattered across the various states. The top right was simply labeled "Gate Moves" the total for the day was fifteen. The bottom two screens had a mix of graphs and lists Michael could not comprehend.
Beneath the screens, dozens of workers typed viciously at their computers. There was constant movement all over the room. Just below the loft on the right was a large conference table with multiple workers discussing paperwork scattered everywhere. A large aquarium stretched up to the catwalk in the back left corner. It was beautifully decorated with plants and colored stones, but from the loft, it appeared there were no fish.
Quint turned to Michael, "Do I have a gun?"
"I don't believe so."
"You can pat me down if you want."
"I don't want to." Michael replied quickly, "and I won't."
"Suit yourself," Quint said, "I could make you, but I won't." He smirked knowingly. "Do these people look normal to you?"
Michael observed a few individual workers before replying, "As normal as anyone is."
"And I don't have a gun."
"No." Michael was getting impatient.
"Ok. I'm just making sure." Quint said. He gave the nod to the bald man who immediately slapped a cuff around Michael's wrist and quickly clipped the pairing cuff around his own. Michael pulled his arm back in reaction only to find the cuff tightening deeper into his skin.
After Quint was satisfied that Michael would stay put, he turned to face his company. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. As Quint slid his finger up and down the screen, the lights in the room flickered on and off. Suddenly the busy workplace went dead silent. Michael's heart skipped as every worker's head turned towards the platform, watching him and Quint intently. Michael couldn't decide if their faces were full of fear or obedience. Maybe both?
"Thank you." He paused and glanced at Michael as if to make sure he was paying attention. He was. "You," Quint pointed to a man standing to his right, "Come here." The man joined Quint on the platform. He had a thick head of black hair and a tight pink button-up that hugged his athletic build.
"What is your name?" Quint asked, putting a hand on the man's back.
"Rafael Cisneros, Mr. Morton sir." He said without looking at Quint. Rafael swayed nervously as his eyes jolted around the room.
"Mr. Cisneros," Quint reached out his hand to shake Rafael's. Quint turned back to his fully engaged audience. "If Mr. Cisneros is not dead in the next sixty seconds, I am going to activate the list." The bald man pulled Michael behind him and followed Quint off the platform leaving Rafael by himself.
The room was quiet. The employees were stunned as they processed what had just been said. They looked around nervously, trying to see how others would react.
A woman stood up from the conference table. Then a man. Then another, and another.
Then the room erupted into absolute chaos.