TheCorporation Page 8

  It was the corporate executives who were directly responsible for the loss of his job and his medical insurance, which had directly impacted the chemotherapy treatments his nine-year-old son, Brent, received for bone cancer.

  When Victor showed up for work one morning six months ago and was told his job, along with the jobs of one hundred other IT techs at Free State, was being outsourced to Thailand, his medical insurance was cut off midway through the aggressive chemotherapy treatments his son was undergoing. Victor had tried to persuade Human Resources to at least let him keep his insurance, but they refused. Sorry, the doe-eyed HR girl told him that day. I really have no control in the matter, she said. I’m really very sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. So sorry. Fuck you, have a good life, don’t come crying to us if your kid dies, we really don’t give a shit. We need to fatten the corporate purses of the assholes on the fifth floor.

  With no medical insurance the hospital refused to continue treatments without adequate payment. Victor spent weeks feverishly trying to continue Brent’s treatment, but the hospital administrators were adamant that they needed some kind of advance payment, which Victor and his wife Sarah didn’t have. They took out a second mortgage on their house but that wasn’t enough. Brent had a few more sporadic chemotherapy treatments, his doctors tried different cheaper drug therapies, all to no avail.

  Brent Adams died three months ago at home, surrounded by his parents and two siblings, Matt and Jessica. After a quick prayer over his body and some tears, Victor called the hospital and told them they could pick up his dead son, their dead patient, thank you very much for killing him you sorry fucks. Then he slammed the phone down and lost his mind.

  The wounds were still so fresh that thinking about them hurt. Victor took a deep breath, pulled open one of the double doors to the executive suite, and stepped inside.

  Gayle Henderson, the executive secretary looked up from behind a large oak desk as he approached. She was in her early forties, dressed in a conservative business suit, her blonde hair pulled up. “Can I help you?”

  “I have an eight o’clock appointment with Mr. Whitmore and several of the executives,” Victor answered crisply. He handed her one of the business cards he’d had made up: Randall Dubrow, Senior VP of Sales, ValueTech Corp.

  “Very good, Mr. Dubrow. You can go right in to the conference room on your left. They’re waiting.”

  Victor nodded at her. “Thank you.” He headed down a short hallway toward the conference room. He’d recognized Gayle Henderson but she hadn’t recognized him.

  In the three months since his son died, Victor had the website built, the business cards made, the pitch crafted and perfected and, most important, he’d assembled his armament. He’d had to travel to Arizona to purchase the hollow-points since they were illegal to sell in California; the Tec 9 he’d purchased at a gun show in Las Vegas. The rest of the handguns were purchased legally. Victor had owned one of the Kimbers for a few years and sometimes took it to the local firing range, and he’d fired the standard military-issued Tec 9’s when he served in the U.S. Army fifteen years ago. When he bought the imitation, he’d taken it out to Riverside County at a firing range and broken it in, along with the other weapons. Sarah didn’t know what he was doing; she barely knew what was going on now since Brent’s passing. She spent most of her time in front of the television, slack-eyed from medication to calm her nerves. Victor did what he could to take care of Matt and Jessica and keep the house running; he kept the bill collectors at bay, diverted funds from Brent’s medical bills to paying the mortgage and other bills (ignoring the bill collectors from the hospital was easy and they could fuck off and die; he was never paying them). In general, he kept up a good front. And he planned.

  And now it was time to carry out that plan.

  He’d left Sarah a note on the family computer early that morning, detailing everything he was going to do and why. And he told her he was sorry, but he just had to do this. He just had to kill as many of the sons of bitches who killed their son as he could. Had to destroy as many of the callous corporate fucks who didn’t care they were affecting the lives of hundreds of people so they could buy another yacht or vacation home in the Florida Keys.

  He grasped the polished gold doorknob of the boardroom and stepped inside.

  Seated around the large, black cherry wood conference table were a dozen men in power suits. Most were over fifty, distinguished looking, bearing an air of wealth and power and prestige. A few were close to his age, mid-thirties, and there were a few guys that looked to be in their forties as well. He recognized all of them from when he used to work in the IT department. In fact, he used to venture up to the executive suite to hook up new PCs or troubleshoot system performances. He knew the layout of the area well, like the back of his hand. A coffee pot burbled on a counter off to his left and James Whitmore, CEO of Free State, was standing up, offering a smile. “Mr. Dubrow! So pleased to meet you. Why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee and we’ll begin. We’re very eager to hear how ValueTech might be able to assist in Free State’s financial goals.”

  “I think I’d rather start now,” Victor said. He stopped at the head of the table, the clasps of the briefcase facing him as he flipped them back, opening the lid. He pulled out both Glocks, one in each hand, aimed them at the men closest to him and pulled the triggers, striking them dead and center. Blood sprayed; one well-placed shot blew out a hole in the back of one man’s skull the size of a softball. Victor’s moves were so sudden, so ferocious in its violence, that the rest of the men were too stunned to react which was perfect for Victor as he began randomly picking them off.

  It only took less than a minute. When he was finished all twelve of the power-suited men that had assembled in the conference room to hear how the fictional ValueTech company could further improve their bottom line and their stock options and year-end bonuses at the expense of the livelihood of their employees were dead or very close to dying. Both magazines ran out quickly and he reached for the Smith and Wesson in the holster near his back and the Kimber in his shoulder holster and finished the job.

  He didn’t pause to savor the moment. He put the Kimber and the Smith and Wesson back in their holsters, slapped fresh magazines into the spent Glocks and stuffed them down the front of his pants, picked up the Tec 9 and slapped the first of the ten magazines into the action. He turned his attention to the entrance of the executive suite where he could hear Gayle making a frantic phone call to the police. The smell of gunpowder overpowered the smell of blood and excrement in the conference room. “It only took me less than thirty seconds to mow down thirty six million dollars worth of brains. But what the hell? One tenth of one of these motherfucker’s salaries could have saved my son, so fuck them. Time to die, motherfuckers.”

  Then, leaving the open and now empty briefcase on the conference room table, he headed down the hallway for more payback.

  MICHAEL BRENNAN TOOK the call from his doctor in his supervisor’s office at ten minutes past eleven on Friday morning.

  He’d been dreading the call all week and had been quietly performing his duties in the plant mindlessly. He hadn’t said anything to his team leader or any of his co-workers about the testicular cancer thing, not because he was embarrassed, but because voicing it aloud would make it more real to him. He was still drifting through a mindless fog of denial, made worse by his medical insurance’s refusal to cover treatment. He had gone in to his HR department Wednesday to ask them about his medical coverage. The HR Director, a nice lady named Carrie Horn who always had a smile for everybody at the company, explained to him that all matters concerning medical care made by Red Rose were final, and that the patient would be responsible for all out-of-pocket visits. Michael asked her to explain that, and she told him that if there was something Red Rose would not cover, such as plastic surgery for vanity sake, or orthodontic care, or Lasik surgery, those fees were to be paid by the patient. “Red Rose will only pay for medical procedures that th
ey deem are medically necessary,” she explained, repeating what Dr. Beck told him last week.

  He asked her about fighting Red Rose’s decision and she informed him that he was free to do that; Red Rose did have an appeals process. She gave him the information on that, and he asked her about the possibility of switching his health insurance. Carrie explained that the company chose Red Rose for their competitive prices and was the only health insurance option available at the moment. Of course, he was free to opt out of coverage and seek medical insurance on his own, but the costs would be prohibitive. Michael shook his head, saying no, that was fine, he just wanted to know what his options were.

  Carrie must have read the troubled look on his face because she asked him if he was okay. He lied, told her everything was fine, even smiled at her and she smiled back. He went back into the plant. Thirty minutes later he was called in to his supervisor’s office to take the call from his Doctor’s office.

  “We’re going to go ahead with the surgery,” Dr. Beck said. “Can you be at Lancaster General by three p.m.?”

  “Red Rose approved it?” Michael asked, his hopes rising.

  “Not exactly,” Dr. Beck said. Michael thought his doctor still sounded upset with the hoops his medical insurance company was making him jump through. “But we want to get treatment started regardless of your insurance company’s decision. I’ve spoken with the people at the Lancaster Urological Group and the hospital, and they’re willing to work out financial arrangements with you that will give you very low monthly payments. Basically I’ve already set up financing for you. They’re willing to do it. Then when Red Rose approves the surgery, we’ll get them to cut a check to the parties involved and anything you’ve paid in will be reimbursed to you.”

  “You think that’ll work?” Michael said. For the first time since this mess started, he felt comfortable working with a medical professional. He felt he could trust Dr. Beck.

  “Yes,” Dr. Beck answered. “It’s all taken care of. I’ve filled out all the forms for you; I’ll just need you to sign your name to several documents, maybe fill a few things out I was unable to, and we’re set.”

  “Okay,” Michael said, feeling all the tension that had been building up over the last few days ease off his back. “I’ll be there.”

  “Good! And Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Everything will be fine. You’re in good hands with Dr. Schellenger.”

  Michael smiled. “Thanks doc.”

  “Three o’clock,” Dr. Beck reminded him.

  “I’ll be there.”

  When he hung up he turned to Lenny Carr, his supervisor, who had his back to him working on his laptop. “That was my doctor,” he said. “I have a three o’clock appointment.” And he then proceeded to tell his supervisor, in bated breath, about his recently diagnosed cancer.

  “HEY, THIS IS Jay. I can’t answer the phone now. Leave a message, I’ll call you back.”

  At the sound of the tone, Michelle left a message: “Hey Jay, it’s Michelle Dowling, from Financial Consultants. We met Monday night and talked at the Lone Star. Anyway, I’m just calling to see how things are going. I was told by Rob that you aren’t working at Building Products anymore and it came as a shock. I was looking forward to working with you on this HR Project. Anyway, if you want to call I can be reached at my cell at 717-555-1515. Talk to you later and again, I really enjoyed meeting you and talking to you Monday night.” She pressed the pound button on her cell phone’s keypad to send the message, then sighed and placed the phone in her purse. Then she leaned back in the narrow plastic seat at Terminal B5 at the El Paso International Airport and waited for her flight to be called.

  It was Friday morning, ten-thirty a.m., and her flight was scheduled to leave at 11:15. It was the best flight Sam was able to get at such short notice. She had dressed casually—a pair of faded blue jeans, a white blouse and blue tennis shoes, and she was carrying her laptop and purse as carry-ons. Her bag had already been checked in at the gate. Alan Perkins had already left on an earlier flight to New York with a stop-over in Philadelphia at eight-thirty, and he’d jokingly told her that if she showed up with him at his gate she could probably make it back home via a standby on his flight. That would have been nice, but then she didn’t want to head back to the office today, either. Her plane was scheduled to touch down in Harrisburg at four-fifteen, which would give her enough legroom to disembark, collect her luggage and her car, and by a quarter till five she’d be on the turnpike heading home.

  The past few days worth of work had gone well—as well as work goes, that is. She had enough information and preliminary notes from her meetings to get started on the project once she arrived at the office Monday morning. Sam would want a briefing of course, but that was to be expected. Alan mentioned something about driving into Lancaster for a few days sometime next week as well to work with her on the project. She liked Alan, thought he was smart and agreeable and pleasant. He was very business-minded and serious, but he also had a nice sense of humor and a good personality. He was nice-looking with wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and sensitive features. He always dressed impeccably and he reminded her of the hurried and dedicated Junior execs she used to work with at All Nation, but she was under the impression Alan was a little bit older than her by at least a few years. If he was married, he didn’t mention it; the lack of a ring told her he was probably single. It had been a little hard to warm up to him at first—in fact, she was still trying to feel him out, trying to see what kind of guy he really was—and she was going to step carefully until she could fully trust him, but for now her instincts were telling her that he was okay. He wasn’t a complete corporate dolt at least as far as she could tell.

  She sighed, pulled the battered Neil Gaiman paperback she was reading out of her purse and tried to get into the story. Airport passerby’s distracted her and she found herself people-watching every other page. She glanced at the overhead clock on the wall in the terminal, counting down the time. Ten more minutes and they should be boarding. When she got home she was going to—

  The sound of a Green Day ring tone chimed in her purse and she reached for it, scooping out her cell phone. “Hello?” She was hoping it was Jay calling her back.

  “Michelle, it’s Sam.”

  It took her a fraction of a second to place his voice with his name. “Sam! What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry to have to spring this on you on such short notice, Michelle, but something came up. I need you to be in Chicago this evening for another project. I know its short notice, but—”

  “Chicago? Tonight?” The good feeling she was having regarding coming home and looking forward to a weekend of rest and recuperation quickly dwindled. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “No, I’m not, Michelle.” Sam’s tone of voice was sharp. It was authoritative, suggesting he did not approve of her last sentence. “This is rather important. I wouldn’t be calling you if we didn’t need you on this project.”

  Michelle didn’t know what to say; her mind was whirling in a thousand directions. She was upset that her weekend was now ruined. “My flight back to Harrisburg will be boarding in ten minutes,” she said, sitting straight up in her chair now. “What am I... how am...”

  “I’ve got that taken care of,” Sam murmured. “Board the flight. I’ll meet you at Harrisburg with your itinerary and a packet of information regarding this new project. I’ve got Sylvia working on getting you a flight out of Harrisburg to Chicago tonight.”

  “But my clothes,” Michelle protested. “I don’t have anything clean and—”

  “You’ll be staying at the Embassy Suites near O’Hare,” Sam said, overriding her. “Sylvia already has a suite for you, with a kitchenette. The facility has a laundry room in it and they offer dry cleaning services.”

  Michelle was at a loss for words. She was so angry she could barely speak. She wanted to think of a lie—any lie—to get out of this. She felt powerless to protest; if she refused, S
am would fire her. Well, okay, maybe he wouldn’t fire her on the spot, but he would be extremely disappointed, and she was still new to the company. She wanted to make a good impression. She hadn’t been at the company long enough yet to learn Sam’s limits, learn when she could say no to him. She had the feeling that if she said no to him now, things would not be pleasant for her when she returned to work Monday morning. They very well could fire her by next week if she refused this project. Pennsylvania Labor Law was heavily tilted toward the employer; as an ‘at-will’ employee, an employer could dismiss an employee at any time, for any reason, except for those that clearly violate Federal and State law such as discrimination based on gender, age, or race. In short, she was screwed.

  A female voice broke in on the loudspeaker. “Flight 189 to Harrisburg will be boarding in five minutes.”

  “That’s my flight,” Michelle said to Sam. “It’s boarding.”

  “Everything is taken care of,” Sam said in a soothing voice. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have everything ready for you when you land.”

  “Okay.” When Michelle hung up she was still seething with anger. She collected her laptop and purse, growing angrier by the minute at the destruction of her weekend, and began to get ready for her flight.