Error Twenty-Four

Joel never felt so happy to fight traffic.

He had spent the last three days sick as a dog. He awoke today in perfect health and high spirits. He couldn’t wait to arrive at work. He actually missed his cubical on the fifth floor of Tucker and Schuster’s Pharmaceuticals.

He considered the speed-dating event he planned to attend that weekend. The last few years proved lonely. A Seattle woman might let you into her bed, but she probably wouldn’t let you into her life.

He started his minivan’s engine, when David’s wife, Martha, called. She hadn’t seen David since last Tuesday, the day Joel fell ill. David worked as an accountant on the seventh floor at Tucker and Schuster.

Joel assured Martha that David would turn up, but a heavy seed of worry churned his stomach. David never seemed the sort to pull a disappearing act.

Joel called work while he drove. He wanted to let his supervisor know that he planned to clock in today. He also wanted to ask about David.

The phone rang. And rang. No one answered. Odd. Tucker and Schuster employed an entire room of operators.

He pulled into his assigned parking space. Two odd occurrences demanded his attention as soon as he stepped from his vehicle.

First, bird droppings covered most of the other vehicles on the lot, as if the cars hadn’t budged in days.

Second, someone had spray-painted the windows black.

Actually, a third cause for concern existed. Someone had written across Tucker and Schuster’s eight-story headquarters, “Death to ALL who oppose the might of Demo” in blood.

Joel blinked several times. The blood couldn’t be real. His coworkers must’ve arranged some sort of joke.

Tucker and Schuster worked a tight ship, though. Pranks resulted in pink slips. Nowhere on Earth did anyone stack policies onto a higher podium.

Joel swiped his keycard and entered the building’s main lobby.

Most of the lights remained off. No one sat behind the receptionist’s desk.

Joel headed towards the elevators. Had a zombie apocalypse occurred? The rapture, perhaps? He always knew he would get Left Behind.

Ding. The nearest elevator opened. He entered. The doors slid shut. He swiped his ID card through the elevator’s slot, selected the fifth floor from the menu.

Access to every floor of the building required authorization—authorization confirmed or denied by each employee’s ID card. Joel’s card allowed him access only to the lower six floors.

He noticed something on the floor, knelt, and poked it with a finger, confirmed that he had discovered a human ear.

He straightened, alarmed. An accident must’ve happened.

Ding. The doors opened.

He walked from the elevator into the fifth floor’s maze of cubicles.

Only a few, scattered lights flickered. The seats and desks sat empty.

His right leg shot towards the ceiling. His heart jumped into his throat. He swung upside down. He had stepped into a snare made from an extension cable.

The payroll department screamed while they blasted forward from their hiding places amongst the shadows. They wore their usual suits and ties plus war paint. They wielded staplers, pencils, and sharpened rulers.

Joel swung, wide-eyed. He recognized Khalid from human resources. Khalid wielded a paper trimmer’s blade as a sword.

Khalid pointed his weapon at Joel. “Identify yourself.”

Joel presented his company ID.

Khalid knelt, read the card, and nodded towards one of the payroll people, who cut Joel free.

Khalid set Joel onto his feet, clapped his shoulders. “You are a follower of the Fax?”

Joel blinked. He blinked a lot, in fact. “I’m . . . confused, actually.”

Everyone stared at Joel, who waited to see if someone would offer him some clarification. No one did.

“You see,” Joel continued, “I’ve been sick at home for a few days, and it seems that, in my absence, someone sprayed-painted the building, removed an ear, and forgot to pay the electric bill.”

Everyone continued to stare at him.

“Perhaps,” Joel said, “one of you might fill me in on what’s happened.”

Khalid answered. “The fax machine spoke.”

Joel awaited further information. Further information did not follow.

“What did it say?” Joel asked, dumbfounded by the subject matter.

Beverly (a cheerful woman from payroll, who currently wore red lipstick in a raccoon’s mask) explained. “Demo sent His holy memorandum via the divine fax machine.”

“Oh.” Joel shifted from one foot to the other. “The holy memorandum, you say?”

Beverly nodded, as if she had drunk an entire quart of Red Bull. “Several times has Demo spoken to us via the fax machine, His holy commandments written in computer code. Here! See for yourself.” She thrust a sheet of paper at him.

Joel immediately knew which machine Beverly mentioned.

Someone had, over a month ago, jammed the demo button on the seventh-floor fax machine. Consequently, it frequently printed an unrequested demo sheet footnoted with an error message.

“Demo will not stop sending us His commandments until we satisfy them,” Beverly explained, with the sort of zealous expression reserved for those who spike the community Flavor Aid with cyanide.

“The fax machine’s broken,” Joel explained. “If you want it to discontinue spitting out demo sheets, you need to compare this error code with those listed in the machine’s manual.”

The payroll department straightened with an angry hiss.

“The accounting department—” Khalid said, as if his mouth filled with sour milk “—stole the holy manual. May Demo slay them all!” He turned his head, spit.

The payroll department followed suit.

“That’s disgusting!” Joel said.

“For days, now,” Khalid said, “we have warred with the accounting department. Much blood have we spilled.”

Joel frowned. “My friend, David, works in accounting.”

Khalid raised his paper trimmer, as if to strike Joel’s head from his shoulders. “You are friends with a vile nonbeliever?”

“Kill him!” someone said.

“Cut his throat,” another agreed.

Khalid nodded, pointed at Joel. “This nonbeliever must die—after we file the proper paperwork for his execution.”

*                      *                      *

Joel discovered himself, an hour later, chained to a chair in the break room.

Beverly popped into the room. “Hello, hello! How are you, this wonderful evening?”

Joel rattled his chains.

Beverly laughed. “I apologize for how long this whole cutting-your-throat-to-appease-the-Lord thing is taking. There’s just so much paperwork involved. I’ll need to file a DV-42, so I’ll need your PRF number.”

Joel bit his lip. “I don’t recall my PRF number.”

“It’s whichever number you use to send a memo to your department’s printer,” Beverly explained, while she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“I have my own printer at my desk,” Joel said. “I never used my PRF.”

Beverly froze in mid bounce. “Your own printer? From home? That’s against company policy. I could revoke your casual Friday privileges for that.”

“You’re about to offer my life to a piece of office equipment,” Joel reminded her, “and you’re wearing lipstick on your face.”

“Either way,” Beverly said, “I still need your PRF number.”

“And I still don’t know it.”

Beverly sighed. “I’ll have Peter assign you a new number. He’ll send you an email, which you’ll have to print, sign, and file.”

“You know,” said Joel, “I’m entitled to a thirty-minute lunch break.”

“True, but if I let you go, you might try to escape.”

“Company policy,” Joel reminded her.

She rubbed her chin. “I’ll drop you off at the top floor’s cafeteria. The elevator there won’t accept your ID card, and the stairwell’s guarded, lest the accountants launch an offensive from that direction.”

Joel nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

*                      *                      *

Joel stood within the top floor’s cafeteria.

He drifted towards a table loaded with clipboards. Nobody ever questioned a person with a clipboard.

A sheet of paper hung from the corkboard above the table. The sheet read: “Demo demands the blood of accountant babies. Also, Judy’s birthday is Friday. Cake in the break room!”

Joel headed towards the stairwell.

A man in a suit spotted him. “You’re headed towards an off-limit—”

“Clipboard.” Joel displayed the item.

“Oh,” said the stranger. “Carry on, then.”

Joel did.

He arrived at the stairwell door, guarded by two oversized women, each armed with a wooden table leg.

“Halt,” said one woman.

“Clipboard,” said Joel.

“That doesn’t cut it,” the other women said. “Father Khalid commanded us to guard this door. No one walks through it.”

“Then you violate the fire code,” Joel said.

The guards paused.

Joel continued. “If you do not allow access through this door, the fire marshal will have to close the building.”

The guards exchanged concerned glances. “Father Khalid commanded—”

“In that case,” Joel said, “you’ll both have to fill out form WW-56. You’ll find copies down that hall—” he pointed “—fifty-seventh door to your left.”

The guards straightened. “Who will guard this door in our absence?”

“I will.” Joel patted their shoulders. “Hurry, or you’ll miss Judy’s birthday.”

The guards agreed. “There’s going to be cake!” They ran off on their fool’s errand.

Joel waited for them to vanish from view. He opened the stairwell door—and set off an ear-splitting alarm.

The cafeteria filled with payroll people, each armed to the teeth with staplers and pencils.

Joel raced down the concrete steps. His attackers flew after him. Their war cries echoed.

He reached the seventh-floor landing just as its door swung open, and David (dressed in torn and bloodied rags) grabbed Joel’s arm, yanked him into the seventh floor, and locked the door behind them.

“David!” Joel said, while David half led, half dragged him down a hall.

David muttered something about a holy fax machine.

Joel planted his heels, ripped his arm free from the other man’s grasp. “Hold on. You’re involved in this nonsense?”

More accounts (their clothing torn and blood-soaked) surrounded them.

“It’s not nonsense,” David said. “Demo sent us His commandments via the holy fax machine, but He sent them addressed to our department.”

The other accountants nodded.

“Those heathens from the payroll department,” David continued, “have no right to keep Demo’s memorandum from us.”

Another accountant spoke. “We hid the fax’s manual inside the Forbidden Cave.”

Joel started to respond, couldn’t decide what to say, and simply sat on the floor. After a long breath, he said, “Go on.”

“Payroll wants to steal the manual before we can use it to translate Demo’s memorandum to humanity,” David explained.

The accountants broke into a heated debate over their best course of reaction.

Joel whistled, loud enough to silence everyone. “Where's the Forbidden Cave?”

David answered. “Second floor.”

The third floor served as the laboratory for Tucker and Schuster’s pharmacists. The second floor offered more cubicles.

“On whose side are the pharmacists?” Joel asked.

“The pharmacists follow a false path,” David said. “They believe that the fax machine was a wise piece of office machinery, but not Demo’s true prophet. I think they all became Christian Scientists or something.”

Another accountant spoke. “That’s why we killed most of 'em.” She lifted a decapitated, human head.

“Wow!” Joel jumped. “Look. I have Demo’s memorandum.” He removed from his pocket the sheet that Beverly gave him. “We can use the manual to finally translate it and end this lunacy.”

David’s mouth dropped. “You would dare enter the Minotaur’s dungeon?”

Joel stared at him. “Backpedal a bit, please. The Minotaur’s dungeon?”

“The pharmacists,” David said, “placed a Minotaur in the Forbidden Cave.”

Joel doubted he would discover anything remotely Minotaur-like on the second floor. “Let’s just get the damn manual.”

*                      *                      *

David led Joel onto the second floor. A labyrinth of cubicles awaited them.

David waved at the closest, cubicle wall. He whispered. “Only these ancient carvings can tell us how to avoid the Forbidden Cave’s many booby traps.”

“Those are Dilbert cartoons,” Joel said. “They’re joking about micromanagement.”

“Shhh!” David said, a finger across his lips. “You’ll alert the Minotaur.”

“There’s no Minotaur,” Joel said—before a Minotaur crashed through the cubicle beside him.

Metal and splinters cascaded, while the horrific beast stampeded after Joel, who fled across the maze.

The monster possessed a pair of curved horns and a bull’s head. The rest of it appeared a mountain of muscle. It carried a massive, metal club.

“Why?” Joel screamed. “Why is there a Minotaur on the second floor of this building?”

“The pharmacists,” David screamed back, “created a pill that turned Dan from customer services into a Minotaur.”

Joel dodged the Minotaur’s club, which cleaved through a cubicle wall and the desk behind it.

“And they turned Dan into a cow because . . . ?”

The monster swung its club again. Joel threw himself at the ground. The beast’s weapon swooshed over him.

“Because Demo’s memorandum told them to,” David explained. “Final paragraph: ‘Error twenty-four. Please contact customer support.’”

“And how,” Joel asked, while he rolled across the floor, “does that mean, ‘Turn Dan into a cow?’”

David shrugged. “Interpretation.”

Joel couldn’t dodge the monster’s strikes forever. Minotaur or not, Dan still served as a company man. What did all company men fear?

Joel waved his arms in alarm. “There’s a virus on the intranet! Someone opened a loaded email. The entire system crashed!”

Dan dropped his weapon and mooed as if his belly ached. He fell with an expression of dread, and rolled himself into the fetal position.

Joel cupped his hands around his mouth. “It’s okay,” he told David. “I defeated the Minotaur. We can now ensue with our preexisting nonsense.”

David appeared from the maze of cubicles. He tiptoed around the distraught monster and joined Joel, who approached a table, upon which the fax machine’s manual sat.

Joel removed from his pocket his copy of Demo’s memorandum. He unfolded the sheet of paper, and then flipped through the manual. “I’ll have ‘Error twenty-four’ decoded in just a—”

Bam. An entire wall crumbled. The debris settled, exposed the entire payroll department, in possession of a battering ram and armed to the teeth with office supplies.

Double Bam. Another wall crumbled to reveal the accounting department, armed to the teeth and in possession of an even larger battering ram.

“We have doors, people!” Joel said.

Payroll and accounting clashed. Paper trimmers swung. Throats split. Blood gushed. Pencils stabbed. Eyes popped and squirted warm eye-goo. A bald man took a stapler to the forehead. Someone threw a Troll doll.

Joel found the right page within the manual. He cleared his throat for attention.

Both armies froze.

“Here,” said Joel, “is what ‘Error twenty-four’ means:

“‘Food grows from the ground. The human body serves as an endless source of amusement. Humans possess the creativity, drive, and imagination that allow them to accomplish anything.

“‘Humanity has learned to live separated from all but the most extreme, unwanted elements. They have learned to make love without accidental pregnancy. They have, so long as they stay out of the water, escaped the food chain.

“‘Given these accomplishments, everyone can live a safe, healthy, love-filled life, provided, of course, that its members don’t act like a bunch of dicks.’”

Everyone digested these words from their god, Demo.

Blood dripped from their hands and makeshift weapons.

“What about gay people?” Khalid asked.

Joel squinted. “Pardon?”

“Gay people,” Khalid said. “Are they allowed to live outside the food chain?”

“I don’t see why not,” Joel said. “The memo didn’t include—”

“What about birth control?” David asked.

“I believe that was mentioned,” Joel said.

“What about abortion?” another person asked.

“What about prayer in schools?” asked another.

“Fuck it,” said David. “Let’s be dicks.”

With renewed war cries, both armies returned to slaughtering each other.

Blood splashed across the floor.

Joel’s cell phone rang. He answered.

“Joel?” his caller, Martha, asked.

Joel sat at the edge of a table. “I found David.”

David, at that moment, broke another man’s neck, right before a woman jumped onto his back and repeatedly bashed him over the head with a Chia Pet.

“Is he all right?” Martha asked
“He’s fine,” Joel said, while he listened to Dan moo in misery. “He’s just a being human.”