Fearful Symmetry: A Dark Fantasy

By Brian Koscienski and Chris Pisano

From the authors of The Shattered Visage Lies ...

Michael has power. He doesn’t want it. Any of it.

Eighteen months ago, Michael Roseman woke up with incredible power from an unknown source. To understand what happened to him, Michael began a journey of discovery, meeting other people with similar special abilities along the way. After finding the answers he sought, he chose to separate himself from the others and has been keeping this secret from his wife, Claire. Now, one grainy picture in a tabloid newspaper threatens to expose Michael and leads him to believe Claire might have some secrets of her own.

Thelma Carver wants to leave her husband, Marvin, but can’t. His control of people is far too great, his power immense. While running an errand for Marvin, Thelma finds a way to escape with the help a young woman with special abilities. Wanting to kill Marvin, they try to get help from other people with power, including Michael.

Though he struggles to distance himself from the chaos and keep his perfect marriage from falling apart, Michael finds himself drawn back into the fight, leading him to a small town run by one man whose power might destroy the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Post Mortem Press
• Release date: Jul 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781537867953

Book preview

Pisano

CHAPTER 1

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

VINCENT STONE CARVELLO STARED OVER the balcony and wondered if the fall would kill him. He doubted it would since he was only on the second floor, so he went back inside to tend to the dead hooker.

Long hair mussed, she lay on the bed naked, less than ten minutes dead. Stone stared down at her – eyes still open, tongue lolling over full, pouty lips – and debated about giving her one last fuck. Not wanting to leave behind any evidence, he decided against it. Nudging her ankle, her left leg slid off the bed, and Stone looked at what she had used as a source of income for too many years. He doubted he’d feel anything anyway, but indulged himself with a healthy squeeze of her left tit before turning to the dead man on the chair.

The man was an hour into his death. Heart attack, as Stone’s boss told him. Perfect timing, Stone thought as he undid the man’s pants and pulled them off to find blue and white striped boxers and black socks. The man, Richard Carmichael, was a millionaire C.E.O. and, to Stone, looked exactly like every other millionaire C.E.O. – prosperous in the gut, but lacking everywhere else, with a ring of white hair bordering a shining pate.

Shoulda shaved that shit. Woulda looked pretty, like me, Stone mumbled, unconsciously running his hand over his own bare head. He stripped Carmichael, leaving his boxers, and tossed the rest of the clothes about the room.

With vein-lined arms bigger than most people’s thighs, Stone lifted the dead man with ease. While holding him, Stone flexed his muscled chest. It was bigger than Carmichael’s bulbous belly hanging over the waistband of his boxers, and he felt a sense of pride. Positioning the man in front of the chair, his feet touching the ground, Stone said, You’re having a heart attack and fall onto the chair in three … two … one …, and let go.

The dead man flopped to the floor.

Getting frustrated, Stone picked the body back up and tried again, this time closer to the chair and with a push as he let go. Much better; although the way Carmichael slouched in the chair with his arms and legs akimbo, he didn’t look much different than before Stone picked him up and dropped him down again. Noticing this, Stone sighed. His head hurt from overthinking things and he had done enough of that with this situation. This whole scene was his idea.

Stone’s boss had given him a dead C.E.O. and instructions to make sure the staged scene looked legitimate. So, Stone found the bustiest prostitute that had the shakes. Personally, he was a leg man, but he knew these C.E.O. types liked their titties big. The shakes meant she was more than willing to smoke a joint with him in the alleyway before they got to business. Of course, the joint he gave her was laced with other drugs to dull her already addled mind.

When they got to this no-tell hotel, he made her walk in and get the room by herself, and then let him in through the back door. No cameras, no witnesses. By that time in her buzz, she didn’t ask questions, just let him in and used him as support to walk to the room.

Stone needed to open the hotel room door since she no longer had the faculty to do so. Hanging on him, she ran her hands over his arm and slurred, Nice guns. Can’t see why you need to buy some lovin’.

I don’t, Stone said, and pushed her into the room.

Stumbling, she caught herself by using the corner of the bed and laughed, she turned back to him and ran her hand through her hair, improving it from a hot mess to merely a rat’s nest. So, you like rough stuff, huh?

You got no idea, honey, he replied, shutting the door. He pulled three small bags of white powder from his pocket.

Through half-crossed eyes, she made a feeble attempt to lick her lips. Looking at the bags, she said, When I party with that, I like the rough stuff, too.

Shut up and get naked.

Less steady than a newborn foal, she undressed, never once pulling her gaze from the bags of drugs. She tried to smile, but lost control of her mouth, her lips stretching like deflated balloons across her face. There. All ready to party?

You bet, Stone said. He pulled a small injection gun from his pocket, loaded with a vial of chemicals that would make all future toxicology reports show that she died of an overdose from any of a handful of recreational drugs. She didn’t even notice the injection gun until it was pressed against her arm next to all her other track marks. Stone squeezed the trigger. Less than a second to administer, less than a minute for it to take effect.

You were a walking corpse anyway, Stone said as she convulsed, foam oozing from the corners of her mouth. Her lifeless body fell onto the bed. Satisfied she was dead, he went to his car to fetch Carmichael. At this hour of the night, no one was around to notice a large man carrying a rolled up carpet in through the back door of the hotel. Stone liked the carpet, used it to keep Carmichael’s body from getting bruised during transport, and it made him feel like an old school clean-up man.

Now that he had the dead bodies where he wanted them, Stone completed the scene. He dumped one of the bag’s contents on the nearby table, shoved the second bag into Carmichael’s hand, and put the third bag in the front pocket of Carmichael’s slacks. He rolled the carpet back up and took one last look at the room. It looked exactly how he wanted it to look. Stone left the room, rolled carpet slung over his shoulder, and aimed for the stairwell.

Even though he considered himself a professional, he was proud of himself for how well this set up went. When he worked for his brother, Marko, he never got to think. Marko treated him like he was an idiot, gave him muscle jobs – shake down some drug dealers late with their payments, knock some heads together to scare a few people, but nothing as elaborate as this. Marko was never this smart, and never gave Stone the respect he deserved. That was why Stone killed his brother.

Walking up the stairs, Stone remembered that day. Used his bare hands to do it, too, old school style, and then took Marko’s business. He ran it as best he could. The business had failed, though, and that was why he had a new boss. Even though it was a good gig and paid well, Stone was tired of working for someone else. He had a little taste of freedom, a chance to be the boss and liked that.

Ignoring the Authorized Personnel Only sign, Stone opened the door to the roof. He walked to the edge and looked over. Three stories up. That was more what he was looking for.

Stone jumped.

CHAPTER 2

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Thelma Carver smiled, because she had to.

In her expansive kitchen, she muddled mint leaves for her husband’s mojito. The house was huge enough to necessitate three housekeepers, but Thelma’s husband, Marvin, said she made the best mojitos.

Smiling, she looked around the fully stocked, state-of-the-art kitchen that opened to the great room on one side. The other end of the kitchen opened to the dust-free dining room that all but sparkled from the crystal in the floor-to-ceiling china cabinet. She had always dreamed of owning real crystal. She always dreamed of being wealthy enough to own real crystal. Who didn’t? But Marvin made it a reality. She owed everything to him. However, there were some downsides, too.

Exiting the house with her husband’s drink, the glass immediately started sweating. She walked onto the warm concrete that formed the patio and surrounded the in-ground pool. Even though it only took up a fraction of their multi-acre, perfectly manicured lawn, it still felt large to Thelma. Making her way to Marvin, she continued to smile as she walked by a chorus of giggling and splashing. A dozen bimbos in thong bikinis swam in the pool or flounced about the yard. They didn’t give Thelma a second glance, too enamored with their clients – eight portly, white-haired men, each old enough to be any one of the bimbo’s grandfather. Disgusting, Thelma thought. One of the licentious men slapped a girl’s ass as she exited the pool. Even more disgusting, in Thelma’s mind, was that the girl encouraged his behavior by winking and running her fingers through his hair.

Thelma had expressed her displeasure when Marvin told her about hosting a catered cookout with open bar for a bunch of lecherous old men. But he insisted, stating it was a reward for the top performing executives from the various companies in his portfolio. That was how Marvin motivated: reward or punishment.

Sauntering around the pool’s edge, she felt her breasts jiggle with every step. The red bikini she wore offered no support. She didn’t like it, but Marvin did, so she decided earlier today to wear it. Again, it was all about reward or punishment with Marvin. That was why she bent down a little farther than necessary when she handed his drink to him with a smile.

Thank you, dear, Marvin said, accepting the mojito, grinning as well. She knew he wasn’t really smiling at her, but her body instead. Her double D cups defied gravity, supported by a wasp’s waist that led to a set of hips and ass that demanded lascivious thoughts every time she walked. Marvin often referred to her as his masterpiece, and she hated the connotation.

You’re welcome, she replied.

Marvin took a sip from his drink. Delicious as always. But not as delicious as you.

As demurely as possible, Thelma tilted her head and widened her gimcrack grin. That’s very sweet of you.

Marvin placed his drink in the cup holder of his chaise lounge, taking care not to allow any of the water from the sweating glass to drip on his tablet. He nodded to the empty chaise next to his and said, Care to join me?

Sure. Without another word, Thelma sat down and donned a pair of sunglasses that happened to be on the chair’s arm from yesterday. Just as she did yesterday, she slathered on sunscreen and adjusted the chair so she could lie back and bask in the sun.

Marvin watched her throughout the whole process. Once she was finished, he turned his attention back to his tablet. Sliding his finger across the screen, he flipped through news feeds about Richard Carmichael, President and C.E.O. of SynerLogistics Corporation, found dead with a hooker in a hotel room the prior evening. The authorities believed the hooker over-dosed on cocaine, along with other potential drugs, and Carmichael then suffered a heart attack from the shock of her dying. Perfect, Marvin thought. Maybe Stone isn’t an idiot after all.

SynerLogistics was an I/T company Marvin had wanted to get his hands on for months. Between their data warehousing and state-of-the-art telecomm systems, the addition of this company to Marvin’s portfolio would certainly help his profit margin as well as add I/T synergy to all of his other companies. However, it was a privately held corporation with only a few, close-knit shareholders. The downside to having so few shareholders, all traveling within the same circles, was their names would undoubtedly be mentioned in the news within the next few days because of Carmichael. Accusations and speculation would be attached to their names. That was, unless they took Marvin’s offer to buy their shares for pennies to the dollar. Marvin now knew what he’d be doing for the rest of today and tomorrow.

Taking a sip of his mojito, he looked up to the mini-bacchanal he hosted. The men poured alcohol down their throats while pawing the high priced prostitutes like the animals they were. Such simple creatures. So easy to manipulate. Mere playthings. Marvin shifted his attention to the statues that lined the patio. Half a dozen larger than life depictions of ancient Greek gods stood sentry, all gazing upon the pool. Thanks to the hidden cameras in each of their eyes, the statues also recorded everything that happened. Just in case I might need extra persuasion, Marvin thought. Just in case.

Marvin took another sip, feeling as if he deserved to be in the company of the gods. In fact, he felt above even them. They simply lived in Olympus while he created his own Olympus. He had it all. Except for one thing – a child.

He admired Thelma as she laid still, a smile curving her lips. Because of her sunglasses, he couldn’t tell if she was still awake. The sunlight made her lust-inducing body glisten. Marvin decided it might be time to try for children again. After all, it had been nine months since she miscarried the triplets.

Thoughts of being a father, a mentor, and a teacher filled his head as he turned back to his tablet. He stopped the news feeds and started looking through dashboard reports from the companies in his portfolio. As he looked at the numbers, he fantasized about explaining what they meant to his son. What balance sheets and income statements were. What profit margins were and how to maximize them. What employee turnover meant and—

Marvin stopped his daydreaming and sat up when he noticed that something was amiss with one of his companies. The employee turnover for Union Corp. was much higher than his other companies. Sure, Union Corp. was smaller, but they all hovered north of ninety percent employee retention, while Union Corp. barely blipped over seventy percent. That should be impossible with his motivational techniques in place!

Looking up to the lasciviousness happening in the pool, he hoped one of the executives was from Union Corp. He was in the mood to make an example out of somebody. Alas, none of the eight foolish old men were from Union Corp. But he still wanted answers.

Thanks to his well-executed plan, he needed to focus his efforts on taking over SynerLogistics today and tomorrow. Before he began mentally compiling a list of whom to send, he caught a glimpse of Thelma from the corner of his eye. Perfect! Thelma, my dearest?

She shifted to her side, propping her head up with her hand. Yes?

Union Corp. is showing higher than usual employee turnover. I’m going to have a lot on my plate over the next couple of days, so I was wondering if you would be able to go there and see if they can explain the turnover issue.

Thelma loathed the idea of doing his bidding, as if she were nothing more than one of his lackey employees. But it did afford her a chance to escape. The freedom would be brief, and she knew she had to return home, but she made the best of these opportunities every chance she got. Time away from this hell always cleared her mind, allowed her to think of possible ways to kill Marvin.

Of course I’ll go to Union Corp., Thelma said as she stood. A shrill squeal caught her attention. One of the bimbos floated languidly across the pool on her back, sans top. Doggy paddling after her and wearing a yellow bikini top on his head, one of the executives chased after her. Thelma turned back to Marvin and said, I’ll get dressed and head over immediately.

Marvin grinned. Wonderful. You are such a blessing, my dear.

Thelma Carver smiled.

Because she had to.

CHAPTER 3

Camp Hill, Pennsylvania

CLAIRE BENT OVER TO GET a better view of the bottom cabinet shelf and knew Michael was looking at her ass. In the kitchen, she rummaged through the cabinets searching for a box of pasta – any form of pasta – while he hand-washed the dishes at the sink. As soon as she started to inspect the lower cabinets – seriously, how could this be the only house in America with no pasta – all sound stopped other than the running water. That was why she loved him.

Over eleven years of marriage and he still thought she was beautiful. Sure, she knew she was attractive and fit, especially for knocking on the door of forty, but she knew he thought of her as beautiful. Every other man leered; her husband admired. He’d look at her as if she were a piece of art, a perfect painting or a flawless sculpture. Even if at this very moment he was looking at her ass.

See anything you like? she asked, knowing very well he was going to blame her pants.

Oh hell yeah! Those are some seriously sexy pants, he replied. The pants in question were what she would always wear when it was time to do dirty work around the house: faded white leggings two sizes too small with random paint streaks and spill stains that had accrued over many, many years. It was the unbridled enthusiasm of his compliments that she loved. He didn’t recite his words, didn’t pull them from the Dutiful Husband Handbook. She felt genuine emotion within his words every time he complimented her. He truly believed every word he told her.

You’re ridiculous, she said. She stood and shut the cabinet door with her foot. No pasta in there.

Aiming for another set of cabinets, Claire walked past Michael and paused to give him a much deserved, and appreciated, kiss. Glorious, he said with a self-congratulatory tone as he went back to washing the dishes. Claire smiled, feeling a bit self-congratulatory herself for having a husband who was still in love with her and who did the dishes. And laundry. And didn’t leave his socks lying around. And wore his underwear only once, then put them in the hamper. And read to her. And was intelligent enough to keep up with her in conversation, no matter the topic. Sure, he had his faults like barely knowing the front of the car from the back, wanting to call a repairman every time a light bulb would burn out, and demanding that she kill every insect upon command. And sometimes he was a bit abrupt with his thoughts, like now as he said, Why is the summer school asking Sarah to do something as plebian as pasta sculptures? Stupid.

Claire opened the cabinet by the refrigerator. No pasta in there. She’s nine and going to an ecumenical church school summer program. You want them to make the kids read ‘War and Peace’?

Just because I’m an English Professor doesn’t mean I answer every question with ‘War and Peace’.

Really?

Okay, maybe I do. But that doesn’t change the fact that our daughter is nine, and she’s going to a school. They should be teaching her something, not having her mull over which pasta defines her as a human being.

Claire searched another cabinet. No luck. That’s not what they’re doing, and you know it. Sure, it’s busy work, but it allows the kids to be creative. Since it’s a faith based organization accepting children from different school districts, they’re not familiar with everyone’s education level or ability to learn.

Oh, I know all about the no-kid-left-behind-means-no-kid-gets-ahead mandate this ass-backwards country has. Damn lawyers.

Claire shut the door of yet another pasta-free cabinet and looked at her husband. Really? Did you really forget that I’m a lawyer?

What? Michael said. You’re one of the good ones, not like those damn prick bastards trying to ruin this country.

Claire laughed and sauntered over to Michael. Standing nose to nose with him, she said, First, you have absolutely no idea what I do. Second of all, you have a potty mouth.

Daddy has a potty mouth! Daddy has a potty mouth! came in sing-song form from their daughter, Sarah, as she entered the kitchen from the foyer. In her hands, she carried a scraggly, long-limbed teddy bear that spun and flopped with every one of the little girl’s exaggerated skips. Daddy has a potty mouth! Daddy has a potty mouth!

Upon crossing the threshold of the kitchen, Sarah froze. With wide-eyed stare, she looked at her parents, and then scrunched her face as she squealed, Eeeeeeew! Are you doing mommy-daddy things?

Before either Claire or Michael could retort, Sarah looked at her stuffed bear and pursed her lips. In between puckered slurping noises, she mimicked, Kiss, kiss, smooch, smooch, kiss, smooch!

Sarah giggled and ran from the kitchen to storm up the stairs. As she thundered across the second floor, Claire actually looked at the ceiling for falling debris. She whispered, What was that? Did she actually come see us for a reason?

I don’t know, Michael whispered, I’m more concerned that she was able to sneak up on us.

Claire chuckled and poked him in the ribs. After he twisted a few times from the tickles, she kissed his nose and said, Okay, well my quest for pasta has failed miserably. I think it’s time we do our big chore of the day.

Turning off the faucet and wiping his hands on a nearby towel, Michael whined. Do we have to?

Yes. It’s been forever since we shampooed the carpets.

Can’t we ask the maid to do it? Michael asked.

Claire winked at him. That’s a great idea. Come here.

By the hand, Claire led Michael to the foyer and guided him to stand in front of the decorative mirror that hung on the wall right by the front door. Smirking, she said, Go ahead. Ask the maid to do it.

With a flat expression, Michael moaned, Droll. Adjective. Whimsically humorous. Or at least you sometimes think you are.

Claire stuck out her tongue then said, You don’t have the monopoly on comedy, you know.

True, but I think I’m the only one in this marriage who should do it.

From the second floor, Sarah’s voice carried down the stairs, But, Daddy, Mommy’s funnier!

Ouch, Michael whispered.

Thank you, Sweetie! Claire shouted up the stairs. Looking back to Michael, she said, Now, are you ready to help me clean, or shall we discover more ways for your daughter to step on your ego?

Following his wife back into the living room, Michael said, You know she still giggles at fart noises, so I don’t think she’s a good judge of comedy.

Claire laughed. "Yeah? You still giggle at fart noises, so I don’t think you want to use that as your argument."

Ugh, Michael moaned. I’ve been lawyered.

That’s what I do. I lawyer people.

Once they made it to the middle of the living room, Michael grabbed Claire’s hand and gently pulled her to him. He wrapped his hands around her waist, and she instinctively draped her arms over his shoulders and crossed her wrists in a loose hug, as if they belonged nowhere else. Bringing their foreheads together, they touched nose to nose; neither spouse able to stop from smiling. Swaying as one, Michael said to Claire, You know I love your brains, right?

Of course. You know I love yours, too, right?

Yes. But I don’t know why. Apparently, they’re not as funny as yours.

After offering up a slow, long kiss, Claire parted from the embrace and sauntered over to the couch. True. But I’m a thirty … **cough, cough**… year-old woman and you still like my ass.

Maybe we talk a friend into keeping Sarah tonight? Michael whispered.

Okay, naughty boy.

It’s the pants. Your naughty pants make me have naughty thoughts.

Claire swiveled her hips as if shaking a tail. These pants?

Yeah, totally not the pants. All you.

Claire giggled and blew him a kiss. Even though she had to be serious most of the time in her career, she loved her home life, loved that she could leave the seriousness behind. Around Michael she was free to be herself, to be silly, to be sexy, to giggle and blow kisses. After we shampoo the carpet, I’ll call my folks to see if they want to spend some quality time with their granddaughter.

With over-exaggerated movements, Michael looked at each item that needed to be moved: the couch, the love seat, the over-sized recliner, and the glass tables with their marble bases, the potted trees tall enough to flirt with the ceiling. He rolled up his sleeves and said, The things I do for love.

Claire walked over to one end of the couch and said, Your attitude is getting better.

Michael positioned himself at the other end of the couch and half-whined, It was until I remembered that the furniture is so heavy. Especially the couch.

It won’t be that bad. Promise.

In unison, they bent down and each grabbed the bottom of the couch. Claire concentrated, focused, knew what she wanted to do. When she was ready, she said, Okay … now.

They lifted the couch with ease and waddled it into the dining room. After placing it on the floor and sliding it against the wall next to the already moved dining room table, Michael looked quizzically at Claire and said, Wow. That was a lot lighter than I remember. Have you been working out?

Claire knew she had overdone it if Michael had noticed. As she so often did in the courtroom, she willed herself not to look nervous. Instead, she winked at her husband and walked back to the living room, accentuating her hip movements with each step. I have a feeling it’s all the testosterone in your blood stream right now.

Michael followed. Oh, I believe that.

As she walked toward the loveseat, Claire scolded herself for getting sloppy with what she could do. She loved her husband dearly, but if he ever found out, if she ever told him the truth, he would not react well.

CHAPTER 4

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

AUBREY AUSTIN HATED HER NAME. She didn’t like the alliteration, nor understood why her parents wanted her to have a stripper’s name, so she went by Bree. That name had issues too, sounding like the protagonist of some young-adult urban fantasy novel. She also had to endure the occasional, "you don’t look like a Bree." Apparently, just because she went by Bree, she wasn’t allowed to shave the sides of her head while keeping her remaining hair long – half ink-black at the roots, half bleached ends – nor have two thin hoops through her bottom lip, nor have tattoos adorning her body, including a half sleeve on her left arm. So, to tarnish the image of the word ‘Bree’ and to distance herself from her birth name, she went by Bree Storm, especially in the art community. The only time ‘Aubrey Austin’ appeared in Bree’s life was on her paycheck. That very paycheck motivated her to wake up when her smart-phone’s alarm went off.

Jolting up from her couch, where she had passed out last night, she silenced her phone. Rubbing her eyes, she sat back, taking a moment to orient herself. She stretched, yawned, and then absently picked at a patch of dried red paint on her left forearm while she admired the piece she’d worked on until the point of collapse last night. Before her, an easel held a three-foot by four-foot canvas with a black, humanoid image on a background of jagged red streaks. Attacking the figure from all directions were stylized, yet simple, syringes. This was the fourth piece of her Addiction series.

Bree knew addiction. If it could be injected, smoked, sniffed, snorted, or drank, Bree had done so with reckless abandon. She slid down the proverbial spiral like a water park flume, hating herself for being such a cliché – twenty-four year-old artist partying non-stop, no career aspirations, addicted to anything and everything that made her high. Then one day it stopped. All the addictions, all the desires to use chemicals to alter her personality, to forget her life, to combat the pain –just stopped. She woke up with a level of clarity she thought reserved only for tantric Buddhist Zen monks, and cried.

After waking up that day, she looked at herself in the mirror and wondered what ghoul was staring back at her. Sunken eyes. Cracked lips. Skin draped over her bones. A corpse’s pallor. She turned her life around that day, giving up the vices that had done this to her. The following week, she started to eat healthier and exercise, and found a job at a strong local company called Union Corp. Even though she was only a supply slash mail clerk, it was steady income and the fixed hours allowed her plenty of time to focus on her artwork. Tapping into her emotional and physical struggle with addiction, she started a series of paintings that showed a visual, albeit abstract, representation of how she felt. The most recent one, the one she now admired as she pried herself from her couch, expressed how she felt while addicted to heroin.

I can probably finish it up tonight, she thought, walking through her studio apartment, which coincidently enough served as her studio. Finished pieces adorned the walls, either hanging from hooks or leaning together in stacks. Unfinished pieces waited patiently on easels. Supplies huddled in all corners of the room. Bree couldn’t have been happier.

As she went through her morning routine, ideas for new pieces popped into her head as well as thoughts of an upcoming show for a local studio within the next couple of months. She needed to partition very little brainpower for her job – sort through the mail, deliver the mail, check supply closets, fill supply closets. When she moved about the company, she let her long hair flow, hiding the shaved parts of her head and de-accentuating the stark two-tone color, and always wore long sleeves to cover her tattoos. She wanted to move through the building unnoticed and the facial piercings threatened that anonymity enough. Sure, she smiled and nodded when she had to, but tried to avoid any conversation. Most of the time that was pretty easy. Never once did her soul want to sing because of her job, but she tolerated it as a means to pay the bills. However, her job took her through the whole building and the number of unhappy people unnerved her. Walking down the aisles of the cube farms, most people kept their heads down and mouths shut, all busy with their own individual microcosms. Many looked worried, some angry, a few agitated. A couple looked like all of the above. Bree actually felt bad for most of the people in the building. Even though she made an effort to be aloof when she wandered about delivering mail and supplies, she was