Urgent Message

by Corey Roskin

It was the end of the work week, an ordinary Friday in the first blushes of mid-March glory.  With a spring ahead time change on the previous Sunday, at 4:30pm the sun was still ablaze and there was nary a cloud in the sky.

Some of us were already winding down, and a quick gab with my colleague Millicent Ames was about nothing so much as a congenial confab referencing the egg frittata my fiancé Sandra made last night, an overdue baby about to bust out of CarrieAnn Zales in Accounting, and some silly old melodrama I watched on AMC over the weekend.  

Idle chit chat started to fill the room, a bevy of “serious” journalists in a collective sigh at the end of a long newsworthy week.  Overtimed and overtaxed, a palpable sense of TGIF was in the air as the clock struck 4:55pm.

The bellow of “I’m queer, I’m here, I’m five minutes outta here” from Alan Billings led to a a round of hearty and snorty laughs which almost covered up the sound of a door bursting open.

A door.  To our large, bustling space.  The journalist think tank.  All twenty of us still there at the end of that long newsworthy week.  

The door bust open and the round of laughs suddenly gave way to gasps and other sounds of panic when a dozen men in uniform burst into the room shouting “Up against the wall!”

Guns.  Men in uniform with guns.  And so the twenty of us, the twenty journalists who moments ago were a hair’s breath away from the peace of a weekend’s start, flew into police lineup “up against the wall” like hummingbirds on speed.

I heard one of the men shout of “Face the wall.  Hands on the wall.  Hands high up on the wall.  Now.”

Guns.   And so the the twenty of us did as told.  Facing the wall.  Our hands high.

And then there were screams, not from our room but from across the hall.  I heard gunshots and the harrowing sounds of fear, pain and agony coming from Accounting.  Oh no.  CarrieAnn Zales and the baby.

One of the men in uniform said loudly, “Those sounds from that room can be you.  I implore you, do not say a word.  Do not move your hands from the wall.  In time you will know why we are here.”

Time.  In time.  It seemed like an eternity of time and my arms were tiring out, high overhead, hands placed firmly on the wall.  In my peripherals I could see Millicent’s arms next to mine starting to quiver.  I felt the heat of anxiety from Millicent on the left and Lana Charnow on the right, Lana so short and slight that her hands were barely at the level above my head.

One of the men, a fire headed ginger who looked barely out of his teens said “Ok.  Arms.  Down.  Hands by your sides.”

And then.  “Turn around.  Backs against the wall.  Listen carefully. The world as you once knew it is no longer.  Do not be alarmed as you can choose to be a part of this new reality and you will be safe.” 

And then.  “The less you resist, the more likely you will survive.  If you survive and comply, you will have the basics of what you need - food, clothing, shelter, healthcare.  If you survive and comply and contribute to the cause, you may have the opportunity to be something more than what most of you will end up being.”

And then.  And then.  And then.  I was dizzy from the confusion, madness, and insanity of what I was hearing and what I can only describe as a dream.  Because it must be a dream.   It’s a dream, right?

But then.  More from the ginger.  “Your life will be one of listening, listening carefully and responding with a specific set of responses that we will provide you, that you will commit to memory and that you will live by.  Without.  Fail.  When one of us says, ‘Am I understood?’ There is only one answer and that answer is yes.  So….Am I understood?”

No one said anything at first and the Lana offered a soft, teary “yes.”

The ginger was not pleased.  “Second time.  Am. I. Understood!”

”Yes” from about half of my colleagues, the lack of response more a reflection of stunned shock as opposed to disobedience at the risk of death.

The ginger walked over to each of us, peering into one set of eyes after another, penetrating the souls of all twenty journalists with the kind of ice and evil carried by a sociopath of the highest order, slamming us all into submission in short order.  

The ginger then walked away from us and into the center of the line of men in uniform, all of them pointing guns in our direction.

And then.  “Now.  Third Time.  Last time.  Am. I.  Understood!!”

All of us.  Loudly.  Pleadingly.  “Yes!”

Suddenly a colleague from the Accounting Room across the hall, Larry Pace, 20 years on the job, dedicated to a fault, self described nerd, sweet and quiet and unassuming, a near savant of all things numbers, beloved husband and father, burst into the room covered in sweat and holding a scrappy hand held sign that said “Urgent Message!  Run!  Now!”

Shots rang out.

Larry.

Down for the Count.

Bleeding.

Dead.

And then.  

The ginger:  “Am.  I.  Understood!!”

Us:  “Yes!!”  

The ginger (pointing at Larry):  “That.  Is Not.  Understood.”

©2022 Corey Roskin