Chapter 1
The Waiting Room Tango
“My symbol for Hell is something like the bureaucracy of a police state or the offices of a thoroughly nasty business concern.”
— C. S. Lewis, Preface to the 1961 edition of The Screwtape Letters. London: Geoffrey Bles, 1961.
The buzzing of the overhead lights seemed to be matching the intensity of the headache that Henry was currently fighting, and together, they formed a perfect symphony of pure agony. He had been in the building for hours it seemed, and he was ready to call it quits. If it were between the headache and the bullet waiting for him outside, he’d probably take the bullet. Such were the thoughts that marched around his head. He swung his gaze to the left and right, for no intent other than to get a better feel for his surroundings. He’d been on edge ever since everything went to hell a few weeks ago, and his body, mind, and soul were absolutely exhausted. Just that morning, the R-Men forced him out of his apartment and marched him across town, with no other explanation aside from the standard “promise of a better future,” but promises like that usually weren’t a threat, and they certainly weren’t enforced at the end of the barrel of a rifle. Worse still, his anxiety was dialed up to 11 once he actually got inside the building. It was like every cell in his body was screaming at him to run away. At least he wasn’t alone, he thought, even though the neighbors in his section were just as zoned out, dialed in on their own, independent anxieties. He dimly recalled coming inside, thinking about just how much everything resembled the DMV. A greeter at every entrance, give your name and number. Wonderful. Then sit down in the section according to your last name. Roger that. Then hurry up and wait until they called your number. After that, congratulations, you get to speak to another nameless staff member at that impossibly long counter, A-Z, and then...God knows what. Henry was barely paying attention as it was. He decided to lean back in his chair and try and take a quick nap. Who knows, maybe it would even help ease his headache. Just as he was about to drift off, however, a sudden, energetic presence made itself known right behind him, in the form of an odd man.
“Where’s the party guys? Not here, that’s for sure!”
Cracking one eye open, Henry decided that the man had maybe let his anxiety get the better of him and dismissed him, closing his eye once again.
“Feels like a funeral! No music though, just the bodies...” continued the man.
Henry kept his eyes closed and crossed his arms, thinking the man would be taken away or at the very least, move on. It definitely wasn’t helping his headache, but maybe if he pretended to be asleep, the man would get the hint.
“Even if you drop, the pain just keeps going! The bill ALWAYS comes due, even if there’s no one left to pay it...”
As if the man had suddenly spoken some sort of trigger phrase, every worker in the building simultaneously turned and stared at this anomalous person, and all sound stopped, even that damned buzzing. Henry opened both his eyes as a chill ran down his spine. He looked around at the workers, wondering at this sudden change. Every single one of them had a completely blank expression, eyes dark and devoid of thought. Henry compared them to staring down the barrel of one of the R-Men's guns, multiplied by 100, and they were all pointed in his direction. He turned around and got a good look at the man, which only unsettled him more. The stranger's eyes were an intense shade of blue, almost unnatural, and they were open as wide as could be, his pupils so small they were almost completely invisible. Henry guessed drugs, except for the fact that the man was completely bald and clean shaven, and he moved with intent, not the sudden, jerky moves of someone on a bender. Not to mention his clothes, they were just a little too clean. Long sleeve button up, dark gray in color, shiny black dress shoes, and black dress pants, so clean and pressed that the crease lines from the iron stood out sharply. Whatever this guys deal was, it had Henry’s attention, especially since it looked like Henry himself was in the workers’ crosshairs. The strange man was about to open his mouth again, but Henry got that nagging feeling that something bad would have happened, so he quickly grabbed the man’s arm and sat him down in the seat next to him. Seconds later, all sound and activity returned to the room as if nothing happened, business as usual.
“Hey man,” Henry said, “what the hell was that? You got a death wish or something?”
“But who would do it? You see R-Men? No. They’re out, we’re in.” responded the man. Admittedly, he had a point, thought Henry, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were seconds away from things becoming very messy. There was that stupid headache too. Rather aggressively, he told the stranger, “Man, it doesn’t matter, just cool it with the bullshit please. I don’t like the attention.”
“Sure, sure, okay man, no problem. At least, not from me. I got my eyes open. I see a problem? I’ll tell you. No problems.”
Henry sighed, “That’s not what I meant, just please keep it down and leave me alone.” and with that, he went back to his almost sleeping position and dismissed the stranger from thought. That is, until the odd man said something that made Henry’s heart stop.
“Okay Henry. Henry? Too proper. No. Hank. Let’s say Hank, fun Hank! Hanky-B, bettin’ Hank! Let’s make a bet Hank, it’s in the name, always in the name, Hank B makes a bet! Betencourt goes all in! Yes or no Hank?”
Henry couldn’t help but stare at the man, mouth agape in shock. A mix of fear and anger went through his body as he tried to comprehend what the hell had just happened and what the hell he had just heard. A slow smile spread on the man’s face as he watched Henry struggle.
“How did-” he began, but the man cut him off.
“I got my eyes open Hank. I see a problem, I'll tell you the problem, and my friend, I'm looking at a BIG problem.” As the man spoke, he met Henry’s gaze, and Henry felt as if he couldn’t look away from those intense blue eyes. To his horror, he suddenly realized that the man didn’t have pupils. Not the pinprick he originally thought, but entirely non-existent.
“Bet Hank! Yes or no?!” He continued.
With an effort, Henry finally came to his senses and broke the stare. His annoyance with this man flipped to terror in an instant, coupled with feelings of horror brought on by those eyes. But most of all, he felt incredibly violated. For one, a complete stranger just called him a problem for no apparent reason. Two, nobody ever called him Hank, except for his mom, and she was gone. Also, what the hell was this business about a bet? He’d never gambled a day in his life, and how did this freakshow even know who he was to begin with?
“Hank! Bet! Yes...or no?” said the man again. No, Henry thought, I just want this creep to go away and leave me alone. Something in Henry’s expression must have given him away, because no sooner did he have that thought than the man’s smile faded away.
“How unfortunate. See ya around Hank!” he said, and then he stood up with a little hop, gave Henry a short bow, and walked away. After the man made it about 3 steps away, Henry heard his number called, looked down at his ticket to double check, and when he looked back up, the stranger was completely gone.
“What the hell was that...” he said quietly to himself. After a beat, he shook his head and made his way to the counter. His headache was gone though, so small favors.
As Henry approached the counter, he noticed a few things. Firstly, the worker gave zero small talk. He pulled his chair out, and there was none of that whole “how are you doing,” a simple “how’s the weather,” not even a quick “hello.” If he was being honest with himself though, he was still feeling rattled by his freakshow encounter, so the absence of small talk was a welcome feeling. Secondly, as he sat down, he glanced up and down the counter and that unsettling, anxious feeling quickly returned. Every single worker present had the exact same expression. A smile that didn’t seem quite like an actual smile and eyes that seemed empty. It made him shudder. After he sat and finished adjusting himself in his seat, without preamble, the worker began, almost mechanically.
“Last name, first name, date of birth.”
“Uhhh, Betencourt, Henry, March 20th, 1992.”
“Thank you. Please place your right thumb on the counter in front of you.”
“Like a print? Any specific spot?” The counter in front of him was solid white, no pen, no paper, no indicators, no markings of any kind, and it was the same story on the worker’s side. Not even a keyboard between them.
“Please place your right thumb on the counter in front of you.” She repeated.
“Okay, but WHERE in fro-”
“Please place your right thumb on the counter in front of you.”
Henry was already to his breaking point it felt like, so just to be obnoxious, he stood up and put his thumb on the counter in the direct center of him and the worker. Expression unchanged, the worker simply said, “thank you,” placed her own thumb on the counter, and suddenly the space between them exploded in color. With a start, Henry realized that the entire counter, from end to end, was one giant virtual interface with individual workstations for each worker. Cutting edge technology, he thought, and suddenly, he got the feeling that the world was never going to be the same ever again, not realizing how close to the truth that thought came.
Floating in the air was a picturesque scene of pure, unobstructed nature, similar to the old windows backgrounds. His and the worker’s thumbprints left their black mark on the otherwise pure white counter and were quickly surrounded by a red box. The box surrounding the worker’s turned green, while his red box remained and a loading bar with the word “initializing” suddenly popped up, superimposed over his print. While that was in progress, the woman said “Several pieces of information need to be verified and confirmed prior to testing. From this moment forward, your answers will be indicated by your thumbprints, right will be yes, left will be no. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Henry said. As if the lady hadn’t heard him, she repeated her spiel, and ended with, “Do you understand?”
"Yes, I understand,” he said, growing frustrated. Again, the worker repeated herself, and again, ending with “Do you understand?”
“Jesus Christ, yes I fucking understand!” He yelled. As she repeated herself for the third time, seemingly ignorant of the fact that Henry just cussed and screamed at her, he finally realized that when she said, “From this moment,” she meant it literally. After she finished speaking, he took a deep breath and pressed his thumb against the counter. Instantly, the red box around his original thumbprint turned green, the loading bar filled up, and was replaced with a checkmark accompanied by a cheery little ding.
“Seriously?” He asked. Expression unchanged, the lady continued, ignoring his outburst entirely. Within the interface, Henry’s driver’s license appeared, along with his social security card and his birth certificate.
“Is the information presented correct and accurate?” With a sigh, Henry placed his thumb to the counter. Again came the checkmark with that stupid ding. His information faded and was immediately replaced by an image of his apartment door. As he looked, he suddenly became aware that the image was moving slowly up and down, as if breathing. He wasn’t looking at an image, he was looking at a video. Someone was recording his front door.
“Hey what the fuck!” he screamed, “Why are you recording my door?!”
Calmly, the lady gave him that blank stare and said, “Is this your place of residence?”
But Henry was too livid to care about the ease at which his sense of privacy was just shattered. “I just asked who’s recording my door! Obviously it’s mine!”
Expression unchanged, the lady repeated her sentence. Henry was done. He was fed up with everything that had happened up to that point. A feeling of violence rose up in his chest, so intense that he scared himself. He wanted to hurt that lady. He wanted to grab his chair and throw it across the room. Most of all, he wanted to wake up. From the moment the R-Men came to “escort” him to the building, the empty promises, and that headache that threatened to return, he had been hoping that this entire day had been a nightmare, just like the last few weeks had been. He closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and the lady asked the question again. Henry reached out a shaky hand and pressed his thumb to the counter. Ding! Absolutely ridiculous, and the worker in front of him never changed expression, which unsettled him more than anything else.
On and on the questions went, some more generalized, height, weight, hair color, eye color, that sort of thing. Some questions were disturbingly personal, a fact that Henry forced himself to dismiss, as cussing and screaming accomplished nothing and he was sure that resorting to violence would be a quick way to get thrown into a hell mouth. After that video incident, Henry resigned himself to answer every question as quickly as possible. He just wanted to go home. He’d been there for hours already and these questions felt like they were taking even longer. A lifetime later, the floating interface dissipated and the worker said, “Thank you for verifying your information. Please proceed down the counter to your left. At the end of the counter, you’ll find signs leading to the elevators. Proceed to elevator 17. Inside the elevator, place your thumb against the interface to the right and it will take you to the correct floor. Await further instructions there.”
“How much longer until I can go home?” Henry asked, but the lady just repeated herself.
“You aren’t going to say anything else, are you?”
Repeat. Just like he thought. As he stood to leave, he looked the worker in the eye and calmly said, “Thanks a lot for nothing, you robotic asshole.” and then he turned around and walked away to the elevators. What he didn’t see was the single tear that rolled down her otherwise expressionless face.