The Takeover

By Jack Drew

Chance Fordham is offered a dream job: a six figure salary and a house in an exclusive neighborhood filled with his coworkers. With no more debt to speak of, this job sounds like a dream come true for Chance and his wife.

But soon, what started out sounding perfect degrades into a horrifying microcosm of terror. His job is not what it seems.

The Company is evil.

He just never knew HOW evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Drew
• Release date: Nov 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452458977

Jack Drew

In 2000, I entered two short stories in The Garden State Horror Writers' Association's annual short story contest. One story took Second Place and the other won the Graversen Award for that year. I was informed that no one has ever taken 2nd and 1st place together. After that, I was off and running. I've placed fiction in a bunch of outlets including print anthologies such as TALES FROM A DARKER STATE and DARK NOTES FROM NJ as well as web outlets like HORRORFIND.COM (under Brian Keene's helm) and the IN A FEARFUL STATE e-anthology from the GSHW. I currently reside in Central New Jersey where I split my time between my family and my writing. I've written several novels, all of which will be published in the next year or so from Screaming Aphony Press.

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THE TAKEOVER

Jack Drew

THE TAKEOVER

By Jack Drew

Published by Screaming Aphony Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Jack Drew

Discover other titles by Jack Drew at Smashwords.com

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

This is dedicated to my wife, Shari

Who stuck around through 10 years of pre-launch countdown

After a really long wait, it’s finally on.

Prologue

They were after him.

He could feel it in his bones, that completely unsettling sureness that crept in, like something wriggling just beneath the skin. They were after him. And if he didn’t move quickly, they would most certainly get him.

The dark hall led from the Accounting Department, through the lobby, to the automatic glass doors in the front of the building and the darkened parking lot beyond.

Bob Johnson grasped his briefcase tighter and proceeded down the hall. He had to leave. If he didn’t get out of the building, he was a dead man for sure.

He chanced a quick glance over his shoulder as he made his way towards the doors. The corridor was dark; occasional dim lights dotted the foyer and fought the utter blackness.

Johnson saw the quick movement of black on black, the snapshot flutter of a shadow’s shadow and knew it was too late. They were coming for him.

The Lawyers.

It wasn’t fair, dammit! Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Let him be? Apparently, it didn’t matter that he’d quit. They didn’t care that he’d handed in his resignation two weeks before. He was supposed to be free and clear. This was supposed to be his last day working for The Company.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that The Lawyers were about to make it a more permanent parting.

Goddamn it, this wasn’t fair. He’d paid his dues. He’d put in his time. He was quits now.

Finally, Johnson reached the glass doors and walked out into the cool night air, into the blackened wasteland that was the empty parking lot.

He was free. He had made it.

He took a quick look around. The parking lot was deserted except for his Mercedes, which sat under one of the amber lights, it’s windshield painted a sulfur yellow from the glare.

It was only forty yards away.

He could make it.

All he had to do was get in the car, head out on the highway and his days with The Company were over.

Bob crossed the parking lot quickly, his footsteps echoing in the dark. All the while, he scanned the area around him, keeping his eyes open for any sign of movement.

He reached the car and let out an internal sigh of relief. He was safe.

He fished his keys out of his pocket and glanced back at the darkened glass doors, looking for moving shadows … or worse.

There were none.

The Lawyers had given up. He’d made it.

He glanced up at the office on the thirteenth floor, the very top of the building, and sucked in his breath.

The lights were on and someone—some thing—was watching him out the window.

He slid the key home in the lock—

—and was pulled back into the darkness.

Thin fingers, cold and lifeless, clawed at his throat. The air had suddenly grown ice cold. He was thrown to the ground; the wind rushed out of him in one hard whoosh. He looked up and saw them: the pale thin, distorted faces, the sunken eye sockets, the bald, wrinkled heads that seemed to absorb the pale moonlight from above.

They fell upon him as one.

You had a contract, a voice rasped, like gravel dragged across a blackboard.

You broke it, hissed another. A taloned claw raked across his throat, tearing it open.

And now you must pay.

Bob felt something, dry and dead, like parchment wrapped around a moldy tongue, press against the wound at his throat. A tingling sensation rippled through him as his very essence passed from his body.

The last thing he heard as he died was the soft sound of The Lawyers taking their payment.

Chapter One

Chance Fordham sat across from the interviewer and tried desperately to ignore the stench. It permeated the air: a thick, heady odor that no matter how shallow a breath he took, Chance could not keep it from clawing its way up his nose.

It was a harsh, sour smell like raw, rotting meat rolled in shit and left to bake in the hot sun for a few hours.

For the last half-hour, Chance had tried to identify the odor, tried to detect where it was coming from. He should have been paying closer attention to what Mr. Grisham was saying. Should have, but was not.

The smell had taken over.

Was it coming from his shoes? He didn’t think so.

… and, of course, we have a very comprehensive benefits package here at TCI, Mr. Grisham stated, leaning back in his chair, the folds of his double chin more prominent the deeper he sank back. The best I’ve ever seen.

Chance glanced down at the bottoms of his shoes. They were clean.

He supposed it could be coming from Grisham. The man was grossly overweight and looked like he was about to keel over from heart failure. Sweat poured down his forehead in tiny rivulets, running through the deep creases that lined his face.

Chance wondered how a man like … this had climbed the corporate ladder so high. He read the small plastic nameplate that rested on Grisham’s desk for the fifth time that afternoon. It read: Ernest Grisham, Director of Human Resources. Chance shook his head. It boggled the mind.

Well, Mr. Fordham, I think I’ve pretty much covered it all. Do you have any questions for me about TCI?

Chance shifted in his seat. He thought for a moment, debating what to ask first.

"Well, what exactly would I be doing here, Mr. Grisham?" he finally asked.

You’d be covering the same kind of ground you’re covering now: you’d be writing code for our main software development effort. Oh, sometimes you’d be pulled aside for special tasks, but nothing out of the ordinary.

What kind of special tasks?

Well, for one thing, you’d probably be taking lead on the new human resources database project I’m trying to implement. I need special software to keep track of employees, potential employees, that sort of thing.

Oh. Chance sat there for a moment, looking out the window of Grisham’s office onto the construction site the next lot over.

The circular lot had been cleared of all vegetation, the entire landscape bulldozed flat. Hardhatted workers scurried this way and that over the lot, their hurried pace a flurry of frenzied movement.

That’s odd, he thought. Probably the first time I’ve ever seen construction workers hurrying to do their work.

In the center of it all towered the skeletal framework of another office building: an exact duplicate of the one Chance now sat in.

Is TCI expanding, Mr. Grisham?

Grisham gave the activity out his window a cursory glance but then something under one of his fingernails grabbed his attention.

Our new division, he declared with a dismissive wave of his hand. We’ll have a thousand new employees in two months.

Two months?!?! Is he on crack? That’s impossible.

It appeared to Chance that it would take longer than that to complete the primary construction, let alone the finishing work. But the flurry of activity out the window said otherwise.

This benefits package you spoke of, Chance ventured. What benefits do you offer?

Grisham looked up from his fingernail. A knowing smile spread slowly over his face, distorting it. The fat man looked positively manic.

Oh, Mr. Fordham, I believe you’ll find our benefits package to be extremely agreeable to you.

He leaned forward in his chair.

"Extremely agreeable."

The rancid odor suddenly became stronger, almost overpowering, and Chance had to fight his stomach’s urge to empty itself right there on the fat man’s desk. It occurred to him that Grisham probably wouldn’t mind if he did. The man was simply that disagreeable.

Chance sat back in his chair, trying not to breathe the foul air around him. He forced himself to sit up, to issue an air of importance. It was an old interview trick that his father had taught him long ago. If you exude confidence, you can dance your way around any interview. It was the only bit of good advice the old man had ever bestowed upon him. Chance tried it now—to show confidence in himself—but the out and out stench of this office—of this man—made it almost impossible.

Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Grisham. I’m pretty comfortable at the job I have now. My salary requirements aren’t that of your average programmer coming in. I’m proficient in nine different languages and can pick up anything you toss my way faster than anyone else you’ve interviewed. He paused a moment to let that sink in, to let Grisham know he was playing hardball.

Then he took the plunge.

I’m going to need at least ninety thousand a year.

He held his breath, waiting for the fat man to start laughing, to get belligerent and throw him out of the office, to call him a liar. Chance was barely pulling down fifty thousand a year at his current position. Vicki had been pushing for him to find a new job for the last six months. They’d been comfortable enough for a while but the birth of their second son, Josh, had really put a strain on their budget. The bills had started to pile up.

He’d argued with Vicki constantly for months, trying to get her to see that he was happy where he was, that he could get a raise if he wanted one. She’d insisted that he did. So, he’d asked his boss, Mr. Andersen, for more money but apparently there was no room in the budget for a raise until next quarter.

But he and Vicki needed the money. Badly.

So, Chance had finally broken down and started job hunting. He’d put out his resume on web sites, had faxed it to hundreds of companies, had even gone so far as to find himself a headhunter who would help him find a job. But he’d heard nothing for weeks.

Until yesterday.

When TCI had left a message on the answering machine asking if he could come in for an interview tomorrow at three.

And now he was here. In a small office with a fat man who reeked of things Chance would rather not think about.

The phone on the desk buzzed.

Grisham reached over and picked it up.

Grisham, HR.

There was a brief pause then Grisham sat bolt upright in his chair.

"Yes, sir. His eyes darted over Chance’s shoulder then back at Chance. Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

Chance turned in his chair and looked up. There was a video camera affixed to the ceiling in the corner of the room. Surveillance. Weird.

The fat man hung up the phone as Chance turned back to face him.

Grisham stood up, buttoned his suit jacket around his massive gut and motioned for Chance to get up and do the same.

Well, Fordham, this must be your lucky day.

Chance stood up slowly. Why? The cautiousness in his voice betrayed him.

You’re about to meet Mr. Charnel.

Chance was lost. Mister—?

Charnel. The head of TCI.

The head? As in president? Chance hurried to button his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair.

Grisham walked over to the door and opened it, ushering Chance out of his office and into the small reception area.

Chance held his breath and walked briskly past the fat man. When he reached the receptionist’s desk, he let it out slowly then breathed in. The air was pristine in comparison to that in Grisham’s office. He thought he detected the slightest hint of rose but couldn’t be sure. Probably he was just glad to get the hell away from that stench.

Grisham’s receptionist—Miss Dubois, Chance remembered—stood up as Grisham came through the door.

The woman was about five years younger than Chance, probably twenty-three, he estimated and had all the right curves in all the right places. Her long blonde hair fell past her shoulder blades. She wore a tight skirt that matched the bright red lipstick on her full lips and ended well above her knee, barely below obscene. The woman simply oozed sex.

I’d like to break my dick off in her ass.

Where the hell had that thought come from? Jesus, he had to get a grip. He was married—happily married. That had just come out of left field entirely.

Miss Dubois, I’ll be back in a moment, announced Grisham. I’m just taking Mr. Fordham, here, to Mr. Charnel’s office.

The young blonde looked Chance over and a slight smirk turned the corners of her red lips—a liquid movement that was more than sensual; Chance could almost feel it.

Mmmmmmmmmmm was her only reply.

Grisham took him by the elbow and led him out of the office.

The offices of TCI were silent. Eerily silent.

As they made their way through the maze of cubicles and offices, Chance was unnerved by the almost complete lack of noise. There was the usual click-clack of keyboards being punched, the mechanical to and fro of photocopiers, the occasional low electronic ring of a telephone. But other than that, the place was utterly devoid of sound.

Gone was the usual inter-office banter, the water cooler chatter, the gossiping of fellow employees. Occasionally, he heard murmurs, the scant shadow of a whisper, but that was all.

What was with this place?

Grisham walked him to the elevator and pushed the button marked ‘up’. They waited in silence for the elevator to arrive. Chance debated trying to engage in conversation with Grisham but decided against it. He didn’t want to jeopardize any chance he had at clinching this job. He really needed it. If the president wanted to meet him, then there was a chance that he could actually get this job.

In truth, he was gifted. He knew it and Mr. Andersen, his current boss, knew it. He really was quite adept at picking up knowledge and was extremely proficient in almost any programming language that existed. Computers had been his life for nearly twenty years. His parents had bought one when he was eight and he’d dived right in. At his current job, there was no one better. He was their most valuable asset.

Unfortunately, while the work was rewarding, the salary was not. If he could just show Mr. Charnel how valuable he was, he would be a shoe-in for the job and he could get that ninety thousand he was counting on.

The elevator arrived and they both climbed in. Chance silently pulled in one last breath of fresh air before the door closed them in together.

Grisham pushed the button for the thirteenth floor, the top floor and Chance mentally settled back, forced himself to relax.

Odd thing. Don’t think I’ve ever been in a building with a thirteenth floor.

Superstition, he had once read. Usually, they skip over thirteen when numbering the floors, it being such an unlucky number and all. But apparently, that had not been the case here.

The bell indicated that they had arrived and the doors slid open—

—and Chance’s mouth dropped in awe.

Charnel’s office was the entire thirteenth floor.

The receptionist’s desk to the left of the elevator was deserted. Some papers rested on the desktop, discarded, forgotten. The placard resting on the desk read: Miss Gina Gavin.

Grisham started to walk to the immense oak desk that dominated the far end of the huge room. As they walked across the carpet, Chance allowed himself a cursory glance around the place. A Jacuzzi sat in the far right corner, bubbling softly. The contents of a workout room sat in the opposite corner: an exercise bike, a weight bench and a treadmill. The president of TCI liked to keep in shape, Chance surmised.

To the left, sat a large, four-post bed. Charnel had a penthouse bachelor pad on the top floor of his office building.

Chance had to admit this was starting to get a little weird.

They approached the grossly huge desk and Grisham came to a stop a good distance away. Chance followed suit.

Mr. Charnel sat behind the desk in a high-backed black leather chair. He was a thin man, about forty-five, with close-cropped hair that was so blonde as to be almost white. Charnel’s head rested back on his chair, his eyes were closed, as if he were sleeping.

Grisham coughed politely into his fist.

Do you think I don’t know you’re there, Grisham? Give me a little credit. I could smell you the moment you entered the elevator. The president continued to sit there, his eyes closed. Grisham, however, looked uncomfortable.

He waved his hand at the fat man. You may go, Grisham. I am no longer in need of your services here.

The Director of HR half-bowed and departed.

Chance watched him go for a second, confused. Had the man just bowed to his boss? Was Chance making a mistake here? What exactly was he getting himself into? The place had weirded him out since he’d first stepped foot in the front door. Now it was crossing the border into bizarre. Chance tried to calm himself.

It’s only an interview, man. Don’t freak out. You’ve been on plenty of ‘em in your lifetime. Just relax.

Sit down, Mr. Fordham. Please. The tone of Charnel’s voice did not lend itself to debate. Do forgive me for not getting up.

Chance sank into a plush leather chair. Charnel’s desk looked a lot bigger when seen from this angle.

I’m not going to beat around the bush here, Chance. I need someone like you. You’re talented, arrogant and self-righteous. You’re also aggressive and mean.

What? I beg to differ—

Charnel waved a thin hand at him that cut him off.

Don’t interrupt me, young man. I don’t tolerate it well.

Jesus Christ. Don’t fuck this up, Chance. It could be a very good opportunity.

Chance heard a soft slurping sound coming from somewhere but couldn’t be exactly sure from where. He thought it was coming from beneath the desk.

You could be a great asset to this company, I won’t lie to you. You have what it takes to get ahead. You can lie. Not very well, but that can change.

I beg your pard—

You make fifty thousand dollars a year at a pissant mom-and-pop software house, Charnel said, his head still resting on the chair, his eyes still closed. You’re the best person they’ve got and you get nothing for it. You told Grisham you couldn’t accept anything less than ninety. That’s ballsy.

How the hell’d they know what his salary was? Chance didn’t have an answer, but he did know he wasn’t going down without a fight. "I don’t know where you get you’re information, sir, but—"

"We do thorough background checks on all potential employees, Chance. Quite thorough. For instance, do you remember the time you killed your neighbor’s dog?"

Chance just sat there, staring at the strange man behind the desk. He felt his stomach pull itself into a cold knot. There was no way this was happening. No way at all. He tried to argue. Tried.

I … I didn’t—

Oh, come now. Of course you did. When you were twelve. You hit that bastard dog over the head with a cinder block. Just because you didn’t want it barking at you anymore. The poor thing didn’t die right away, of course. You let it sit there for a while, writhing in agony, whining like the bitch it was.

Charnel opened his eyes for the first