Dyscountopia (22 page)

“Hold this, Babbert.”
 
Lucy handed him her smoothie, then reached up and twisted his right ear.
 
It rotated clockwise like a radio dial and the squeal increased in pitch, higher and higher so that Albert could feel the blood pulsing in his brain.
 
It reached a perfect crescendo then transcended to silence, soaring beyond the range of the human senses.
 
The message formed seamlessly in the forefront of Albert’s mind – so flawless that he wondered how words could ever describe it.
 
Every muscle in his body relaxed.

“There,” said Lucy with a satisfied smirk.
 
“Better.”

Albert closed his eyes, exulting in the glow of that perfect message, grinning like an idiot.
 
“I have to go back,” he mumbled.
 
“Back to Omega-Mart.”

“I know.”
 
Albert felt the tickle of whiskers on his cheek, the tiny puffs of Lucy’s fruity breath in his ear canal.
 
“You’re almost there, Babbert.
 
Wake up.”

Albert opened his eyelids.
 
Black
.
 
He’d gone blind.

No.
 
Not blind.
 
He was in the sewer, in the bowels of the earth, in the dark.
 
He fought the urge to close his eyes again, to retreat back into his dream, back to Lucy.
 
Where was the flashlight?
 
He felt the ground for it and his fingers closed around the handle.
 

Click
.
 
He pushed the button.
 
Nothing.
 

Click
.
 
Nothing again.

Albert let the flashlight drop with a clatter and struggled to his hands and knees, scooting slowly through the darkness in a half-waking daze. Where was the Rhinocermoose?
 
Why hadn’t it chased him?
 
Maybe a single bony psychotherapist was enough to sate its bloodlust for one day.
 
Albert imagined that razor sharp outgrowth of fused hair and keratin sinking into him, piercing his own body as he was simultaneously ripped to shreds by those glistening, blood-drenched antlers.
 
He didn’t care anymore.
 
He was tired, and a Rhinocermoose horn through his liver seemed better to him than an eternity of going mad in a dark sewer.
 

Then, out of the blackness, a new sensation overtook him.
 
He yearned to live.
 
He yearned to go home.
 
He yearned to see his wife again, and his dad, and even Mr. Edd.
 
He yearned to once again be under those magnificent fluorescent lights.
 
Albert scuttled along the grimy passage, faster and faster, covered in muck and filth, ignoring the pain of his hands and knees; like a lowly cockroach, driven by the purest of all instincts – to survive.

And then, salvation.
 
His hand fell upon a metal bar, and above it, another.
 
A ladder.
 
With a surge of adrenaline, Albert scrambled up the rungs, up through the pitch black; not knowing to where he was going, only that up was the right way.
 
Beautiful up.
 
Glorious up.
 
Forever up.
 
No other ladder on earth could have reached as high as that never-ending ladder, that miracle ladder that resurrected him from the pits of hell, promising to return him to the land of the living.
 
Up and up and up and up and up and CLANG!

Albert slipped down a half-dozen rungs, his elbow hooking the ladder by mere happenstance to save him from an unthinkable fall.
 
His skull threatened to rip apart at the seams, throbbing at the temples with short, intense bursts of pain.
 
He’d hit his head on something.
 
A door.
 
It had to be a door.

Albert forced his way back up the ladder, slowly and carefully, his head spinning as spots of colored light danced in front of his eyes.
 
He reached above him and felt around the metal hatch.
 
There was a handle.
 
He pulled it.

WHOOOOSH!
 
A burst of brisk, clean air hit Albert in the face.
 
He pushed the hatch open and pulled himself up, laying his hands flat on the cool, clean smooth floor that surrounded his waist and lifting the rest of his body through.
 
He rolled to one side and lay still on the floor, fighting to catch his breath.

There came a whir and a click from the darkness, and Albert was bombarded with red light.
 
He was lying in a stark, narrow room with smooth walls and an oval-shaped door.
 
He stood to his feet and slowly shuffled to the door.
 
There was a small panel next to it, with a speaker and a red plastic button.
 
Albert pushed the button.

“
Please choose from the following list of commands
,” said a woman’s soft voice from the ceiling.
 
“
You do not have to wait to hear the entire list of commands.
 
You may make your selection at any time.
 
If you would like to open the door, please say
‘open door’.
 
If you would like to call an associate, please say
‘call associate’.
 
If you would like to initiate the decontamination process, please
--.”

“Open door,” croaked Albert.

“
I’m sorry.
 
I did not understand you.
 
Please choose from the following list of commands
.
 
If you would like to open the door, please say
‘open door’.
 
If you would like to call an associate, please say
‘call associate’.
 
If you would like to -- .
”

“Open door,” Albert gasped again, pleading with the ceiling.

“
You chose
‘initiate decontamination process’.
 
If this is correct, please say
‘yes’.”

“No,” said Albert.
 
“No, no, no.”

“
Decontamination process initiated
.”

Behind him, the hatch in the floor closed automatically.
 
Albert heard a loud ‘pop’, and the room was engulfed in orange foam, spraying down from the ceiling through plastic sprinklers.

“Open door.
 
Open door.
 
Open door!” Albert shouted raspingly.
 
The foam burned his eyes and filled his mouth with a chemical taste.
 
“Call associate, call associate!”

“
Oxygen evacuation begins in five, four, three….
”

“Open door.
 
Open door!”
 
Albert was on his knees, sobbing and shouting at the ceiling.
 
“For the love of Christ, open the door!”

“
Two, one
.
 
Oxygen evacuation initiated
.”

Albert suddenly experienced the uncomfortable sensation of trying to breath in a vacuum.
 
His lungs collapsed.
 
His life-force seeped from his body, oozing out through his fingers and toes.
 
He fell over backward and writhed on the floor, gulping futilely for air as his eyes swelled from his head.
 
He tried to call out, but no noise escaped his lips.
 
His vision narrowed.
 
Darkness closed in.
 
And then -- a clunk, and a metal whine.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
  
Oxygen flowed back into Albert’s lungs.
 
He lay on his back for minutes uncounted, sucking in the beautiful fresh air.
 
Then he leaned up on his elbows and shielded his eyes.
 
White, fluorescent light poured in from the open doorway.

A man in purple coveralls stood just outside the door, a mop in his hand, his mouth hung open.
 
Albert must have been a horrid sight, covered in human excrement and orange foam; his clothing torn and bloodied.
 
Albert forced himself to a sitting position and took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on the man in front of him.
 

“My name is Albert Zim of Omega-Mart,” he gasped.
 
“Take me to your leader.”
 

The mop clattered to the ground as the man disappeared from the doorway, his heavy work boots clip-clopping rapidly on the tile floor as he fled the scene.
 
With a groan, Albert leaned back on his hands and pushed, using all of his energy to scoot his way out the door.
 
He found himself in a room full of metal lockers, surrounded by over-sized push brooms and mop buckets.
 
Steadying himself against the wall, he struggled to his feet and stumbled to the lockers, tossing them open and searching inside.
 
He produced a pair of purple coveralls from one of the lockers and proceeded to strip off his filthy clothes, crawling inside the stiff, heavy fabric and zipping up the front.
 
Then he washed his face in one of the mop buckets.
 
He knew he had to keep moving.
 
His greeting had obviously not been well-received, and the Guardians of Merchandise would surely be coming for him.
 
He would have to escape, then find a way to make himself heard, and understood.

Albert grabbed a broom and wobbled out of the custodial closet, using the handle as a crutch.
 
He made his way warily down the hall, searching for the exit.

“You there!” a loud voice barked from the end of the hallway.
 
A large man dressed in purple rubber body armor was bearing down on him with extreme purpose.
 
Albert tried to compose himself; he stood up straight and began, with a lame whistle, to sweep the floor around him.

“Stop right there, sir.”

Albert looked up with wide, innocent eyes.
 
“Who, me?”

The Guardian loomed forward, then took a hesitant step back.
 
Albert smelled like a toilet that desperately needed to be flushed.

“Ahem.
 
I need to identify you, sir,” said the Guardian, holding a plastic scanner out with one hand and covering his mouth and nose with the other.

“Of course,” said Albert guiltily.
 
He reached out and pressed his thumb to the scanner.

“Stay right there, sir.”
 
The Guardian stepped back a few more paces, careful not to turn his back to Albert, and studied the read-out of the scanner.
 
He wrinkled his forehead, then looked up at Albert with a wholely dumbfounded expression.
 
“It says that you don’t work here.”
 
He shook the scanner in bewilderment.
 
“But everyone works here.”

Albert gave him a sheepish grin.
 
“I got fired.”

The Guardian blinked stupidly at him, trying to process the meaning of the words.
 
Albert threw his broom at the man and ran.

He ran to the end of the hallway and sprang down a flight of stairs, taking them two and three at a time, then plunged through an unmarked door and slammed it shut, locking it behind him.
 
He began pushing shelves in front of the door, frantically buying time to think as the Guardian pounded on it, screaming cop-movie clichés at the top of his lungs.

Thump-thump-thump
.
 
“Come out with your hands up!”
 
Thump-thump-thump
.
 
“It isn’t worth it!”
 
Thump-thump-thump
.
 
“There’s nowhere to hide!”
 

Albert was in a supply closet – trapped.
 
He anxiously searched the small enclosure for another exit, any exit, and spied a small, rectangular vent in the floor.
 
He bent down and jerked at the metal cover, but it wouldn’t budge; four metal screws held it fast at the corners.
 
His mad eyes scoured the closet and fixed on a metal tool box.
 
He dumped it over and searched the scattered contents as the Guardian kicked ferociously at the door, producing small bulges in the thin metal.