Attack

Bill Bernico

Theodore Russell handed the stack of papers back to me and gave me that look that he saved for occasions such as this. “No good, Burns. You'll have to do it over. Research this thing a little more and try it again. Get the facts and make it believable. And I want it on my desk when I get here in the morning. Do I make myself clear?”

“But sir, my boy has his first recital at school tonight and I was hoping I could…”

“Tonight, Burns. I need it tonight. By the time you get here in the morning I'll be gone--with those papers. I'm catching an early flight to the coast and I need those papers. Our whole project is depending on those papers. Burns, you're not going to disappoint me, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“And you will have those papers ready for me, won't you, Burns?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then I suggest you get started.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, taking the papers and returning to my office at the end of the hall. It was quarter to five and secretaries were already starting to cover their typewriters and computer keyboards for the night.

I removed my coat, loosened my tie, rolled up my sleeves and locked my office door. I took the phone off the hook and sat behind my desk with the stack of papers in front of me. If there was a way to rewrite this document in a little more than three hours, I intended to find it.

The minutes crept by and soon I was aware that I was the only person left in the building. It was ten minutes before eight by the time I needed only to put the finishing touches on the last page. For a rush job, I had to admit that I'd done a pretty good renovation and still had ten minutes to spare. I could make the school in twenty-five minutes and still make the recital.

I rolled my sleeves down, slipped into my coat and light-footed down the hall to Mr. Russell's office. I set the revised stack of papers on his desk, facing his chair, and returned to my own office for my briefcase. I snapped off the light switch in my office and now the entire building was dark. I'd made the trip down the hall and out the door so often I could literally find my way in the dark.

I had my hand on my locked office door when I heard the outer door open and then the sounds of footsteps. It seemed strange that if someone was returning to work that they hadn't flipped the light switch on when they came in. The steps came closer and through the frosted glass in my office door, I could see a small circle of light. The beam crawled across the hallway walls like a wingless fly. I froze.

Then I heard the whispers. There were two of them, whoever they were. I could hear the sound of doorknobs being wiggled before the footsteps moved on, closer and closer. Burglars! I sunk to my knees, below the level of the frosted glass. I held my breath and waited. After what seemed an eternity, the knob above my head twisted back and forth. It wiggled several times before the steps moved on, further down the hall.

“Down here, Marty,” one of the voices said in an exaggerated whisper. “This one's open.”

I listened at the door again. I could hear the sound of a door opening further down the hall. It had to be Mr. Russell's office. I didn't remember locking it when I left. They were in there, all right. The sounds of drawers opening and papers shuffling and objects sliding on wood filtered through my ears. Above all that I could hear the pounding of my own heart. My palms were wet and my throat was dry and my ears were hot, very hot.

The offices were arranged in an L shape, with Mr. Russell's office anchoring the corner of the L. My office was situated near the top of the L and it sounded like the steps were heading toward the foot of the L, around the corner and out of sight. If I wanted to get out of here, it had to be now. I quietly clicked the lock on my door and got to my feet. I could still hear two people whispering around the corner.

I tiptoed up the hall toward the exit, trying to be as quiet as I could. I knew the door was only thirty feet or so away and if I could make it to the door and out, I'd be safe. I had ten or twelve feet left to go and even in the dark I knew where to reach for the door handle. Suddenly there were voices again and the voices were coming closer. I couldn't make the exit door but I could make the closet. I eased into the closet and gently pulled the door closed. There was no lock on this door so I held fast to the knob in case someone twisted it. The voices got louder, closer and now I could make out their words.

“Hey Chuck. This door was locked when we came by here a minute ago,” I heard one of them say. “Now it's open. What do you make of that?”

It had to be my office they'd found open. The other voice, must have been Marty, answered, “someone was in there and now they're not. Find ‘em.”

I could feel my pulse quickening. I tightened the grip I had on the closet doorknob. Outside the closet I heard the sounds of locked knobs twisting and footsteps traveling closer and closer. The footsteps stopped outside the closet door and the knob moved. It moved slightly back and forth a few times while I held fast to the knob on the other side. The twisting stopped and the steps moved away.

“Maybe whoever was in here left,” Chuck said. “Ever think of that, Marty?”

The opening at the bottom of the closet door showed a little light. Chuck or Marty's flashlight must have been hanging down by their side as they talked. Marty whispered, “Well I'm not hanging around to find out. Let's get outta here.”

The sound of the front door opening was music to my ears. The sound of footsteps fading was the crescendo to that symphony. I let my breath out in one big sigh and released my sweaty grip on the knob. I eased the closet door open and slid out into the hall. The exit lay a mere ten feet away. I'd taken two or three steps when my face was slapped with a bright light. A hand grabbed the back of my neck and I let out a startled yelp and dropped my briefcase.

“Hey Marty,” Chuck said. “You ‘spose this was our little closet mouse?”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Marty chuckled. “I tried the closet door and I could feel some resistance, but it wasn't like the other doors that were locked. I knew our boy had to be in there.”

“Yeah,” Chuck said in my ear, “you was in there, wasn't you?”

His hand tightened on the back of my neck. He hit a nerve. I still couldn't see their faces with that beam in my eyes, but if I ever got out of here alive, I'd remember those voices until the day I died. I was hoping that day wasn't today.

“Whatta we gonna do with him, Marty?”

“We can't leave him,” Marty said. “He'll go to the cops. Leastwise we can't leave him here alive.”

Behind my right ear I heard the click of metal parts and just as quickly Chuck flashed the blade in front of my face. “You want me to carve him up, Marty? Nice and quiet like?”

Odd thoughts raced through my mind in random order. Billy's recital, Marie's tender touch, this damned job and that stupid pile of papers that had to be done tonight. I thought about all the years I'd wasted at this job and how I wished I'd have taken more time stop and smell the roses. I thought about how a six-inch blade would feel penetrating my vital organs. Would it be painful or would my body go into shock and let me peacefully slip away.

My hand automatically went to my throat and pulled on my tie. I clutched at my heart and scrunched up my face in a gruesome configuration. My knees buckled and I slid down to the floor, gasping and choking. Spit ran from the corners of my mouth and I made faint moaning sounds. Both hands clasped themselves over my chest now and I started to convulse.

Through the slits in my nearly closed eyes, I could see Chuck stepping back away from me. Marty had shined the flashlight down on my blue face as I lay there fighting for my life. He looked back up at Chuck. “Let's go, Chuck. This guy'll be dead before we get two blocks from here.”

“Please,” I murmured in a weak voice. “Call 9-1-1- for me. Please.”

He shined the light on my face again. “So long, pops.” Marty and Chuck were out the door in seconds. I could hear the tires on the pavement outside. The car sped away in a hurry and probably left a spoonful of rubber on the surface of the parking lot.

When the last sounds of the squealing tires faded, I let out my breath again and the color returned to my face. I wiped the spit from my chin and stood up. When I was breathing normally again I dusted myself off and flipped on the lights. Mr. Russell's office door was still open when I entered and turned on the desk lamp. I sat in his chair and thumbed through the papers I'd left for him.

I flipped to the last page and found the paragraph I'd typed just twenty minutes earlier. I pulled Mr. Russell's desk drawer open and picked out his red pencil. I ran a line through the last three sentences and substituted these.

Adam's hand automatically goes to his throat and pulls at his tie. He clutches at his heart and scrunches up his face in a gruesome configuration. His knees buckle and he slides down to the floor, gasping and choking. Spit runs from the corners of his mouth and he makes faint moaning sounds. Both hands clasp themselves over his chest now and he starts to convulse. Camera pans up and fades out.

I initialed the changes and returned the pencil to the desk drawer. Mr. Russell would love this version. Now he could take that flight and present my script to the producers. I was grateful now to Mr. Russell for making me research further and rewrite the ending to our latest feature film, “Heart Attack.”

I know that last scene will play well. It worked for my audience of two.