Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Thirty-One

When the man in the gray janitor's uniform walked in, head down and whistling, I turned with everybody else. He was pushing one of those handled box sweepers that just skim dust and lint off carpets. He came several steps in before noticing anything amiss, pushing and pulling the sweeper. His sandy hair was tied back with a rubber band, and his shoes looked wrong for the job.

Loafers.

"The heck?" he said, looking up, in a gruff voice I barely recognized as Quaid Rafferty's. "What's all this about?"

Hatch relaxed his grip on Jim Steed's collar. Josiah smeared blood from his nose, giving the phony janitor a long, buzzy look.

"We aren't here for you, friend." He jerked his head at Steed. "This man has poisoned the earth, he's suppressed wages for people like yourself. He's the one we want."

Quaid leaned into the handle of his sweeper. Jim Steed—in Hatch's shadow—watched with a crooked expression.

Quaid said, "Is he gonna die?"

Josiah's mouth opened, but he garbled a reply. The office felt suddenly cramped.

"Or just get spooked?" Quaid continued, gesturing with his sweeper. "Because he looks good 'n' spooked now."

Josiah recovered, "Corporate transgressions cost lives. Until those responsible are held accountable—until they pay a price in kind—the asymmetric destruction of the underclasses will continue."

Quaid spun the handle of his broom. "So kill then? Not spook?"

Uncertainty passed through the Mice—shuffling feet, crimped eyebrows. Who was this character? They were used to seeing others blubber before Josiah's erratic threats, but this man—this janitor—was cool as an ocean breeze.

"I'm in, brother." Quaid dropped his sweeper—it clattered off Steed's coffee table—and smacked his hands with relish. "They've skipped Christmas bonuses two years running, and everybody I know says the order came straight from the top."

Gradually, relieved expressions took over the faces of Hatch and Josiah. Quaid held out a fist to the giant Libertarian, who bumped back.

Jim Steed snapped, "That's ridiculous. We pay a fair wage. I worked on the line myself after I came back from Nam. I know how hard a man—"

"You know squat," Quaid cut in. "My father worked in this plant. He died years ago, emphysema. Didn't smoke a day in his life, but the coroner said his insides looked like a forty-four-year-old chimney that'd never been cleaned."

Josiah awkwardly nodded along. Steed, over his flash of anger and possibly figuring Quaid's routine for an act, stood stiff-legged as though awaiting some call to action.

Quaid gestured to the knife in Josiah's hand. "Mind if I do the honors? I told Mom I'd square the deal with AmDye one day, but I never figured I'd get the chance. I was just blowing smoke. This's a dream come true."

I watched on the balls of my feet. Quaid's delivery was so convincing—the cant of his lips, the gleam in his eye. From my psychology studies, I knew the only way to achieve physical consistency like this was to believe in whatever you were emoting. Quaid was a believer, no doubt, and I'd heard him express exasperation with Jim Steed many times. But it was always over trivial stuff like tactics, or payment details, or Steed's being conversationally insufferable. Nothing serious. Surely Quaid wouldn't.

Josiah, seeing these same outward cues, handed Quaid the knife.

Why wasn't Durwood here? It just now hit me we were missing the most capable piece of our team. The guys were supposed to swoop in and take Josiah. Mission over. Unrest quelled. We hadn't discussed details, but I had assumed they would handle the grab together. Had something changed?

As Quaid dropped the knife giddily back and forth between his hands, Jim Steed took a backward step.

"Hey—hey careful there, bub," he said. "That's not a toy."

Quaid advanced, raising the knife in one fist. I couldn't see his face from where I was standing, but judged by Steed's swirling eyes, it must have been convincing.

Steed held up a forearm in defense. Quaid reared back with the knife, the sleeve of his gray uniform flapping. Off to one side, Josiah took out his cell and began recording video.

Possibly he was thinking viral. You won't believe what this janitor did to his company's CEO with a knife!!!

At the last moment, Quaid extended his free arm and pulled Steed away from Hatch—who'd been mesmerized by the pending violence. Quaid flung the knife ahead, burying the blade in Hatch's thigh.

"Aaaaoooww!" the big man cried.

Jim Steed set upon Josiah at once, slugging him in the jaw. Piper raced in to help, but the other Algernons hung back. I took a step forward, then stopped.

Whose side should I jump in on? Quaid and Steed's? That would completely blow my cover, but maybe the time had come.

Before I decided, Hatch reentered the fray. He jerked the knife out of his thigh and flung it aside. Breathing hard, his camouflage pants black with blood, he shoved Steed away from Josiah and gathered Quaid up in a half-nelson.

Josiah, saved again, paced to and fro between his two attackers.

"Why?" he spat at Quaid. "He doesn't care a dime for you, and you stick your neck out for him?"

Quaid winced under the yoke of Hatch's arm. He hesitated, perhaps deciding how to play it.

"I guess you're right. Guess I'm just another working-class dummy, guilty as charged."

It was a decent try, Quaid's hangdog eyes appealing for mercy, but Josiah wasn't buying. From the carpet, he picked up the knife—red and sticky with Hatch's blood—and poised it over Quaid's breast. He snarled.

"Wait, stop!" I heard myself say.

To my left, Piper raised an eyebrow. The others gaped at me.

"Wasn't he just being loyal?" I asked. "He saw you threatening the leader of his company, this place he's work for for..." I glanced at Quaid, who flashed a ghost of a smile. "...a long time, and he tried to be a hero. We're punishing him for that? For loyalty?"

Josiah whirled on me. A swath of his T-shirt was torn, revealing one blue-red nipple and many wiry armpit hairs. His pink eyes shone and his teeth were blood-veined and I couldn't tell if he was mad or annoyed or actually listening to me.

Before he could speak, a blast rocked the factory. The floor shook like some carnival fun-house, sapping my knees, and thick sounds overstuffed the air.

Out the window, all was black smoke and orange flame. Sirens blared—loud at first, then downright deafening as the office glass shattered inward.

Everybody ran.