She nodded her head to the right. “Bathrooms.”
“You read my mind.”
Even a well-constructed dam needed to let go some water, right? Gotta recharge the turbines. Too much pressure… something something. Look, the metaphor is getting out of control now so I’m just going to talk normal.
I handed off the backpack and key to Marine and went into the bathroom and sat down to take a shit. We were past the most crucial bit of security now so it was as good a time as any to get rid of anything that could jeopardize the mission. Normally I like to really settle into a poo, but this was business time so I rushed it out and wiped a bit too vigorously. That’s just the way it goes in the struggle.
So I came back out when I was done. Didn’t wash my hands. Didn’t need to. I didn’t shit on them and I’m not trying to contribute to the superbug that will kill us all. I milled around next to the women’s room for a bit. The men’s room had been your standard sort of mall bathroom so I started to worry a bit, honestly. Marine had kept her cool with the guard but a nosy woman in the bathroom was another story. Specific questions might be asked. What was she interviewing for and on and on. Marine certainly should have known enough to get around such a situation, and she was in what people thought to be a secure area so it was likely fine.
I heard some rumblings from a far side of the office floor and looked over to see a half dozen guys in the SWAT-like getups that the security guard had been wearing. They looked over at me. I think. I watched them a little too long to make sure. Yep. Definitely looked at me. Not good. Without thinking I turned and ducked into the women’s bathroom.
“Marine. We’re fucked.” No answer. “Marine?”
I sniffed the air. Lemony fresh. And she’d been in here longer than I had. I got frantic. Could they have gotten her already? I pushed each of the stall doors open in turn. Nothing. The ceiling above was a drop ceiling and I noticed it just about the time the door behind me opened to the sound of boots. One of the ceiling boards was off center. Holy fuck, I’d really misread the “bathroom” thing.
“You! Hands behind your head!”
I did, turning around slowly. Really slowly.
Still, who assumes that “bathroom” means climb up into the ceiling? Seriously? What part of that was implied? If we’re in the same torture room, I’m going to be really mouthy about her communication skills.
“Don’t move.” The leader nodded toward me and two more came around him, guns trained on me. “Don’t resist.”
They stopped in front of me, steel barrels a few inches from my face.
“I, uh… I don’t consent to any searches.”
Chapter
SIX
If you’ve never been carried by all four of your limbs, I can’t say as I recommend it. See, it might seem sort of comfortable but there are a few problems with it. Usually, if you are being carried by all four of your limbs you’ve either won a sports thing, you’re about to be cooked by a lost tribe, or someone doesn’t want you to move but they lack the restraints handy to really do anything about it. In the latter of those situations, they really do focus a lot on your movement, often referring to it as “resisting” or “attempting escape” and then they hit you in your impressively well-toned abs with the butt of a gun.
The reason this is such a problem is that when you are being pulled around by all four of your limbs, a point I feel I cannot over-emphasize, your tendons get really sort of annoyed. This makes you want to rotate your joints. This means more escaping, which means more bruised washboard abs.
They were carrying me down a hallway. A sinister sort of hallway. We’d gone down a freight elevator and they’d held me up by my wigglers during that whole thing as well.
My favorite part thus far was the bit where all the people in the office stood up to watch me get dragged toward the elevators. Most of them looked horrified, which seemed like the wrong emotion to go along with the situation. It’s not like they announced that I was a terrorist who had broken in to blow them all up. I mean, I’m sure they imagined that. But why not curiosity? That was why they were staring, wasn’t it? If they thought I was a bomb guy, why the hell would they gather near the center lane of their little desk hallway?
As a side note, real quick, they had that open office plan. The one where you have to look over at the shitbeak working across from you all day. And every time he moves to scratch his nose you can see it out of the corner of your eye. And then something is just happening in every direction. And then when Donna comes over to ask him some fucking question about something, you get to hear the whole thing. Oh boy, what a wonder for productivity. Morons.
Anyway, the hallway. So it was super dark. Dark metal all the way down. None of that off-white painted fiberboard stuff. It was lit starkly, both from the floor and the ceiling. It was the sort of thing you’d really expect to see after the incredibly well-armed security guy uses a key to select the floor. Radio chatter had picked up now, most of it was about me. Very flattering. One of the lines was about Chuck. He was being very cooperative, they said. I couldn’t disagree. He was an agreeable sort. Very trusting. Probably not the best job for him, honestly. I imagined they would
