DEAD RINGER: By A. MARTIN
Monday, January 30th, 2012My head’s going to explode!” Isaac grumbled. He then made the sound-effects of just that—softly—imagining blood and brain-matter pelting his computer-screen with gore. “Hell with office Christmas parties, next year I’m staying home with a keg of Folgers. If there is a next year…”
He really couldn’t be sure there would be—at least here with Globe News, one of Philadelphia’s leading newspaper agencies. Its founder—boss and only mentor Isaac ever knew, died a month ago, leaving the growing empire to his son-in-law, Ted. And apparently (from word of mouth, of course), Ted had a plan for the new year of downsizing the company in each department and investing the company’s assets (which wasn’t much to begin with) to an overseas rendezvous everybody was sure was no more shadier than the typical pyramid-scheme. It wouldn’t have a cloud to stand on on a blue moon, if George, hadn’t keeled over.
Footsteps suddenly rounded the corner of his office cubicle. “What’s up, bro?” Ted asked, candidly. He formed his hands into pistols and sleekly brought them up as if hauling them out of holsters.
“Well, Ted,” Isaac started, “Actually I’m wondering whether—”
“Gotta boot it!” Ted interrupted, checking his gold wristwatch. “I gotta make it to that fancy pants restaurant in time to catch my date.” He paused and nudged Isaac on the shoulder. “Never keep a lady waiting, that’s what they say. And boy, let me tell you. What a lady. Classy piece; top drawer! From Long Island and owns a successful chain of restaurants. She about owns Manhattan!”
“Snazzy… but, about my job here at—”
“All covered, bro,” Ted assured. “Your job here at Globe is secure, don’t worry about it. Did you think after ten years of services with this company, it would go unnoticed?”
“I just wondered, ‘cause—”
“And I’m off,” Ted finished. He gently tapped Isaac on the shoulder again. “Wish me luck, buddy. And cool it, all right? Everything’s under control.”
“But, I just—”
Isaac finished with a long sigh. Ted was already halfway down the hall. He got into the elevator. He made the drawing pistols out of both holsters gesture at him again before the steel doors closed.
“And remember, bro,” he called down the hall before they did. “Only straight shooters make their mark here at the Globe. Got it, ban-dido?” The doors closed. Isaac sat back in his office chair, groaned.
“If he’s letting somebody in this department go, better be himself. Ass,” he grumbled. He pulled out his cell-phone and went through his Friends list.
“Why can’t you be here at a time like this?” Isaac asked, quietly, at the number headlining the small list.
“They’re wouldn’t be a need to worry, if you were here. None of us would. Miss you, George. Please, don’t let that bastard take our jobs. Not my job; please. I’m begging you…”
He closed the cell, dropped it beside his computer. He then stared, worryingly, at the screen.
For fudunkin crimany! He thought. I have nothing; NOTHING to worry about. I’m the executive journalist here; he can’t just can me like yesterdays tuna! Relax!
The whole room suddenly blacked-out. Every light on the floor died—the computer monitors—except for his. Isaac sat upright, and still. Power outage… now? He thought again. When, after ten years working in this building, have we ever had a freaking power outage? Don’t matter—the backup system should kick on anytime…
Suddenly, Isaac’s cell started buzzing. It was on vibrate—keeping it on vibrate was a lot quieter, at least here at work. “Who would be texting me now?” he muttered, thoughtfully. He flipped it open.
Dead Ringer, the message read.
“Dead… ringer…?” Isaac quietly voiced, confused. He squinted, rubbed his eyes and checked the message again, but saw the same words. “Who could this be?”
“Help!” a voice cried. Someone he knew—of course he knew—Ted would have been down at ground-level by now in about another minute, but he hadn’t made it when the power apparently went out. He was now somewhere stuck a dozen floors down.
“Doors won’t open,” he cried again. “The powers out! Isaac, call for help, pal!”
“You’ve got mail!” Isaac’s computer confirmed, robotically. He checked his email, and found one new message, entitled: Dead Ringer.
Do not trust that guy, it said. Isaac read on.
He is a weasel and you and eight others on this floor will be packed home on the employment line by the end of the week? He is a cooperate weasel; let the others know before it’s too late.
“Who are you?” Isaac asked, bewildered. “What are you? Am I going out of my freaking mind?”
His cell buzzed with a new message.
Dead Ringer, it answered.
“They coming, bro?” Ted called out again, faintly. “Help on the way?”
Isaac’s eyes narrowed at the email. “So, what now? What can I do? How can I… you…we… this be stopped?”
His cell buzzed again: Ever wanted to own your own news company one day?
Isaac laughed, mused. “Only one guy in town knows the answer to that question, but, but he’s been—”
The room instantly lighted again. Behind him, down the hall—faint thumping like heavy drumbeats echoed. He could also hear James screaming off in the distance behind the havoc. He was begging for his life.
“James!” Isaac called back, “hang on, man, I’m—”
He bolted out of his chair. As he did, he heard the last steel cable of the elevator painfully whine before snapping free. Isaac stood, horrified, hearing James screaming—for a moment—then a muffled thud.
Another email-notice sounded. Isaac held his breath. This one read:
All clear, kid, we’re back in business… .
____________________________________
©2012 A. Martin
