Chapter Twenty-Four

Without warning, the traffic on Interstate 90 switched from light to heavy. Marc found himself trapped in a thick congestion of cars.

“Where the hell did all these people come from?” he griped into the windshield. He was still in sleepy northern Indiana, not yet approaching Metropolitan Chicago. It didn’t make sense. Was this some kind of massive evacuation? He studied the faces in the other vehicles, and everyone appeared calm.

Orange cones and large blockades with flashing arrows directed all traffic into the far right lane.

Marc watched his speedometer dip to ten miles per hour, reducing his progress to a crawl. Then he grew alarmed: all cars were being funneled to an exit ramp. He did not want to leave the highway, but everyone else was doing so, willingly. Then he observed the traffic flow on the other side of the highway, coming from the opposite direction, also being diverted to an exit ramp at this same location.

There was no way to escape this convergence of cars. It was like a tight, massive funeral procession.

As Marc left the highway, he could see the traffic up ahead, and it continued on a very controlled path. Flashing police cars blocked side streets, and police officers in orange vests waved everyone in the same direction.

The huge crush of drivers barely inched forward in a stop-and-go rhythm. While his car sat idle for an extended moment near an intersection, Marc lowered the window and called out to a fat, nearby policeman with a thick mustache and droopy expression.

“Excuse me. Excuse me! I don’t belong in this line. I need to get back on the highway.”

The policeman stepped over to the car, frowning. “What are you talking about? Of course you belong here.”

“I know that I don’t. What’s going on?”

“You have the chip, don’t you?”

Marc didn’t hesitate to produce a lie. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

“You are in an official Work Zone. Everything will be explained when you get inside.”

“Inside?”

“The steel mill.”

“Steel mill?”

The cop rolled his eyes, exasperated over having to explain something that he felt shouldn’t be questioned. “Anyone in a ten-mile radius is officially engaged to revitalize the steel mill.”

“What?”

“Listen, you don’t see anyone else questioning it. Are you sure you have the chip?”

“I do. Yes. I understand. I was just confused.”

“Confused isn’t an option. Go.”

Then the traffic began moving again, and Marc advanced toward his forced destination with uneasy resignation.

He had seen the steel mill’s distant silhouette in a haze of dark clouds from the highway, but had not linked it to the traffic jam. As he got closer, he grimaced at the hideous magnitude of the manufacturing plant. It looked like a dreary industrial castle against an orange-red sky. Railroad tracks circled it like a moat, busy with freight cars for transporting raw materials in and casted products out. Towering chimneys spewed smoke from the blast furnaces. A flare stack expelled flames to burn off gases like a fire-breathing dragon.

Marc’s windshield became fogged with a layer of blackish soot. In the murky pollution, the steel mill transformed into a strange, silvery beast, oozing a winding trail of piping, jutted balconies and jagged staircases. It beckoned its victims and swallowed them whole.

Marc followed the rest of the cars into an enormous employee parking lot, adjacent to a yard of monster trucks loaded with giant steel coils. Extended cranes hovered nearby. Parking lot attendees waved arrivals into tight, perfectly aligned spaces.

Marc parked and decided the safest course of action was to fit in with everyone else and not draw attention to himself. He followed a line of people walking toward the factory and hid his fear among the surrounding blank faces.

The crowd gathered inside a large, open room the size of a gymnasium. Marc stood shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of others, facing a podium and back wall with two large logos hanging from the ceiling: Great American Steel Works and Dynamica.

The Dynamica logo, cheerful and colorful, made Marc sick to his stomach. He had helped to oversee its design a long time ago, when it represented a happier, more innocent technological breakthrough.

Once the room had filled to capacity, the doors were shut with a succession of loud booms that echoed to the rafters.

A smiling, older man in a blue suit approached the podium with an energetic bounce in his step. He greeted the crowd in a voice amplified through stacks of powerful speakers.

“Welcome to the rebirth of the American steel industry!” he shouted, and his audience broke out into loud collective applause. Marc quickly joined in.

“My name is Merle Gregory, president and CEO of this proud facility. We are gathered here for a major milestone. All of you are part of something special: the launch of Work Zones, a partnership between business and government to take this country’s gross domestic product to a whole new level. We are one of twelve Work Zones starting today across the United States. Our goal is to revitalize critical industries that need a boost to regain our dominance in world trade. The first wave of Work Zones is focused on steel, auto manufacturing, oil, plastics and computer components. In the coming months, more Work Zones will be introduced, based on the learning we generate from the pioneers, the innovators, the superstars in this room and eleven other locations.”

He broadened his smile and spread his arms. “Look at all this talent! You are phenomenal! When you were summoned here, with the magical efficiency of the chip, I’m sure you were wondering, ‘What’s this all about?’ You knew you had a duty, a calling, but the exact nature of the request was unclear. What a wonderful surprise, to show up today and claim this prize. Every man and woman over the age of eighteen within a ten-mile radius of this facility is now gainfully employed with the dream job of a lifetime. You will love it here. It was a mistake we ever had to close this facility down. The grand reopening comes with a full-on commitment at the highest levels. You will have good pay and good benefits in exchange for eight-hour shifts of good, hard work. We will have three shifts each day, so that we may run at maximum efficiency, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Each worker is committed to forty hours a week and not a minute more. But those forty hours will be maximized to bring out your best. You will go home each day feeling proud, feeling fulfilled, feeling purposeful. This is a return to the roots of our great-great-grandparents and a time when America was admired, not scorned. The patriotic pride is back, my friends. Can you feel it?”

“Yes!” shouted the crowd in unison.

One beat behind, Marc offered his own, thin ‘yes’. It stuck out embarrassingly, and he nervously looked at the floor.

Merle Gregory made more statements to rally his audience. Then he introduced the next speaker: Gerald Lufken, Midwest director of operations for Dynamica.

Marc did not know Gerald, but he was immediately sickened by him. He was slick and glib. It anguished Marc to consider that this man probably reported to his old friend, Brandyn Handley, the head of operations at Dynamica.

“How are we feeling today?” Lufken shouted, pacing the stage like a would-be entertainer.

The crowd cheered wildly.

Joining in half-heartedly, Marc produced a fake smile and waved his hand lazily.

“Dynamica is proud to enable this partnership between government and industry to take a giant leap forward for the American economy. I must tell you, a moment ago I checked the stock market to see Wall Street’s reaction to today’s big news…and guess what, the Dow Jones is at an all-time high.”

More cheering.

Marc found the joyful response odd; how many of these people truly had robust investment portfolios that would benefit?

“I am thrilled to represent my company at today’s ribbon-cutting for the reopening of the Great American Steel Works in Gary,” Lufken said. “But I am even more thrilled for all of you. Because you are winners, each and every person in this room. That’s because, as part of your employee benefits package, you will receive, free of charge, a bundle of Dynamica premium chipfeed subscriptions. This includes some of our biggest sellers: Ice Cream Sundae; Cozy Afternoon Nap; Tender Family Feelings; and Summer Beach Sunshine. Now, granted, they are strictly prohibited during work hours, ha ha. I think you all understand that. Work is work, play is play.”

Marc heard the grizzled, pot-bellied man next to him respond with glassy-eyed awe. “Summer Beach Sunshine. I love Summer Beach Sunshine. It feels like getting a tan. You can practically feel the sand between your toes.”

Finally Lufken left the podium to thunderous applause, and the last speaker stepped up to the microphone. He introduced himself as Jon Tchon, the head of employee training and orientation.

It was time to break up into small groups and receive job assignments and start safety classes.

“Your safety and well-being are of utmost importance to us,” said Tchon. “You will receive your very own hardhat, gloves, boots and protective clothing. Some of you will work the blast furnace, making iron from ore, coke and limestone. Temperatures can get as high as four thousand degrees. Others will work the basic oxygen furnace or be assigned to the rolling mill. We will be producing six thousand tons of molten iron per day, minimum, to start out.”

Tchon instructed the crowd to exit through one of the four main doors around the room. At each doorway, a company representative would be handing out manila envelopes containing randomly dispersed assignments.

“If you believe you cannot fulfill your assignment because of a medical condition, we have physicians on site that can help assess the accuracy of your reservations.”

The people in the crowd obediently began to break up and head to the nearest door, murmuring agreeably.

Marc knew one thing for certain: he was not accepting a job assignment. He remained standing for a moment, stomach in knots over what he had just witnessed.

He watched Merle Gregory, Gerald Lufken and Jon Tchon exchange self-congratulatory handshakes by the podium.

As Dynamica’s former head of marketing, Marc could not have felt more distanced from Lufken, the grotesque new breed of Dynamica lackey. He wondered how his old friend Brandyn Handley could have possibly remained loyal to this absurdity, the concept of mandated ‘Work Zones’ that essentially forced people into jobs they did not choose.

It filled him with anger.

Marc saw Lufken abruptly reach into his suit jacket’s inner pocket, pull out a cell phone and look at it. Lufken gestured to the other two men that he had to step aside to take a call. They nodded and moved on.

Lufken stepped through a private door at the back of the stage to get away from the noise of the crowd.

Marc followed him. As he walked, he took out his chip controller device.

Inside a small corridor, Lufken stood alone, leaning against the wall, cheerfully talking into his phone.

“Tell President Sheridan that it’s going great,” he said to the caller. “We’ve got full engagement and compliance.”

Then Lufken sensed someone had joined him in the small space. He turned his head to glance at Marc for a split second before an immediate curtain of drowsiness overtook him.

Eyelids heavy, then shut, Lufken gently lowered his body to the floor. He curled up and went to sleep in the fetal position.

Marc had sent him one of the chip signals that had just been touted as an employee benefit: Cozy Afternoon Nap.

As Lufken slept, Marc took away his phone and hung up the call. He quickly advanced down the corridor to where it split into three directions and picked one. After hurrying through a maze of passageways, isolating himself from the bustling commotion elsewhere in the building, he spotted a Men’s Room and slipped inside.

It was empty.

Marc entered a stall, latched himself inside, and sat on the closed toilet lid.

Using Lufken’s phone, he called Lufken’s boss, a name listed prominently in the Recent Calls log.

“Brandyn Handley speaking,” answered a familiar voice.

“You piece of shit.”

“Gerald?”

“No, this is not Gerald. This is a name from your past. A former friend. Someone you once helped.”

“M-Marc?”

“What the hell is going on? ‘Work Zones’? Are you kidding me? This is slavery. How far back in time are you taking this country in the name of technology?”

“All right. All right. I understand. I – I don’t like it either. I’m just – it’s my job. I can’t just run away like you. I have a family. I have children. They already threatened me once before. About the controller that got stolen. I’m lucky I’m not in jail because of you.”

“Listen, at some point you have to say, ‘This has gone too far.’”

“Of course it’s gone too far.”

“Then do something about it! You’re the God damned head of operations!”

“That doesn’t mean I have any power. We’re the government’s tool now. You think I really run the show? Not even the CEO runs the show. They run us. And, yes, some people here, leaders in high places, have fought back. And do you know where they are? Gone. Locked up. They dialed down their brains and took all the fight out of them. They’re vegetables. I can’t take that risk. Wait— Where did you say you are?”

“Gary, Indiana. The steel mill.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly. I got scooped up in one of your Work Zones. It appears I’m the only person bothered by it. Your chip operation is very effective at mind control.”

“I can’t – I can’t be talking with you.”

“Fuck you.”

Marc hung up the phone. He stood on the floor, opened the toilet lid and dropped the phone into the bowl. He flushed.

Then he contemplated his next move. Lufken would be waking up from his nap soon, without his phone.

But leaving now would be obvious – a lone figure sprinting to his car, ditching work. He needed to wait for the current shift to end, so he could lose himself in the mobs of people departing at the same time.

The toilet stall wasn’t a great hiding place. Marc looked around and then glanced up – at the ceiling tiles.

Why not?

He stepped on top of the toilet tank, reached up and shifted one of the squares to create an opening. He climbed the stall wall and entered the ceiling. Inside the ceiling, in the dark, he moved carefully on the cross beams, minimizing his weight on the tiles themselves. He closed the opening he had made.

Then he waited.

Over the next several hours, he had to endure occasional visitors to the bathroom and the odors they produced.

Finally, at five o’clock sharp, he heard a loud factory whistle.

“The slaves have been freed,” he muttered to himself.

He dropped out of the ceiling, stepping back onto the toilet tank. He hurried over to a clouded glass window. He opened it as far as it would go and squeezed outside, falling to the dirt.

Marc joined a large throng of tired but complacent workers returning to their cars in the massive parking lot.

A fresh traffic jam ensued. A new shift arrived to the steel mill as the nine-to-five crews departed. Marc patiently endured the horrible traffic, inching closer to the highway. The sun set in front of him, creating a hazy orange glow in the murky, polluted air.

Finally, he reached the highway entrance ramp. Marc aimed his car for Minnesota. With each mile he advanced, the highway opened up a little more. Before long, he was speeding comfortably at seventy miles per hour.

He was glad he escaped but could not stop thinking about the rest of the workers, who would report back to work the next morning, already locked into a routine.

* * *

Gerald Lufken sat in a small room of monitors with Merle Gregory, CEO of the Gary steel mill; Jon Tchon, head of employee training; Craig Hess, the steel mill’s head of security; and James Summaria, director of citizen tracking and compliance for the state of Indiana. Summaria was in close contact with his superiors in Washington, trading messages.

For the seventh time, they watched the security camera footage that showed a lone individual breaking from the rest of the employee orientation group, following Lufken out of the room through a doorway at the back of the stage.

“Somehow that son of a bitch knocked me out. I’m not sure how he did it – I don’t have a bump, a bruise, nothing.” Lufken stared hard into the black and white footage on the monitor. “The bastard took my phone.”

“We’ll take care of it,” said Gregory. “It happened at our facility, and I take full responsibility.”

“I don’t think this is a random robbery for your phone,” Summaria said. “There’s something else going on here. We think someone may have hacked into your chip signal.”

“But why? Who?”

“I sent this footage to agency headquarters. It looks like it could be the same guy who was hacking into chipfeeds in New York City, about a dozen cases over the past two years.”

“Some random hacker?” Lufken asked.

“No,” said Summaria. “We believe it could be someone who was formerly employed at your company.”

“Dynamica?”

“Do you know the name Marc Tefteller?”

Lufken thought for a moment. “The marketing guy?”

“He’s been on the government watch list ever since he abruptly left the company two years ago, after removing his chip. We believe he might have certain tools at his disposal.”

“I barely got a chance to look at him…but if you can show me a picture.”

Summaria quickly called up a headshot of Marc Tefteller on his tablet and showed it to Lufken.

“The guy I saw, his hair was a lot longer. But yeah, could’ve been him. What the hell is he doing here? Spying?”

“We’ve been after him for quite some time,” Summaria said. “Now we’re going to elevate the search. Clearly he’s up to something. We’ll find him. And when we do, we’ll put him down.”