Mike left through the service tunnels that wove together under the impossibly large building. Employees could, and the lucky ones had, gone twenty years or more working in their offices, cubicles, or other experimental work stations, without seeing, or even knowing, about the concrete net of infuriatingly interwoven paths below.
Where Mike worked insanity was just under the surface, and everything else depended on it. The buildings undercarriage had been a miracle of engineering the same way Frankenstein’s monster was a miracle of life. The tunnels' planning and construction had gone through the hands of professionals, schemers and the headstrong. Each believed they were the special one that could finally make everything right, only to be broken mentally in ways that could never be repaired, only tolerated. Some suggested that the tunnels were never really completed, only abandoned. They were silenced in fear that the project may be taken up again.
Those like Mike who used the tunnels were exposed to the twisted minds of the tunnels creators. He knew insanity wasn’t doing the same thing over and over again: it was all the twists, turns, hidden doors and crouching spaces that lead to nowhere. Insanity is a singular human accomplishment that cannot be achieved on purpose.
The section of madness Mike was in had short but wide main branches with narrow but tall offshoots. Each junction between main branch and offshoot junction had its own brand of damp smell. None of the smells could be called enjoyable or even not bad, but every once in a while Mike fought the urge to breathe in deeply and get a real whiff. Some primitive part in the back of his mind was curious about what the smell was, what it meant, and that worried Mike. He kept well between the glossy cracked walls and their clinging wet that wouldn't be wiped away. The floor’s lacquer had worn off decades ago and was now polished only with use. It made him wonder why they bothered in the first place.
It's probably best not to wonder why things are the way they are down here. Some tunnels lead off the main path, let them go.
Mike tried to ignore the faded painted lines on the walls to each side. It was hard to tell what the colors were originally, or what they were for. Looking closer, the walls had other, smaller, markings. There were arrows, letters, pictures, things that meant something to someone long ago. Sometimes lifetimes ago. They reminded Mike of early man's cave paintings.
Even though he always did his best to keep moving, to stay focused, sometimes he couldn't help himself. Mike wasn’t sure when it happened, but he found himself stopped and admiring a picture painstakingly carved into the gloss and concrete that showed exactly what an employee felt about what their supervisor, Steven, should do in his off time.
This came from someone with a family. Whoever made this had millions of interactions with other people. They had hopes, ideas, and dreams... but this is the mark they made that will last the longest. Mike wiped some of the wet and grime off the carving. The wet came back, but the grime would have to seep its way back, leaving the image clearly visible for the next few decades.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
After cleaning up the modern artwork, Mike resumed his journey down the tunnels. Mike had to duck under some thick cables, PVC tubes, and thin wires that hung dangerously low overhead in their racks. Some of the clutter had labels, faded and covered in dust, legible in the dim light; ‘CAT5’, ‘Lan Line’, and ‘DANGER!! 4000 VOLTS: YOU WILL DIE!!’. Smaller wires branched off every few feet. He tried to stop himself from imagining where they all went.
I can see them spread thousands of feet throughout the building, crammed behind desks, through who knows what type of animal nests, or maybe just to nothing. Imagine metal mined, melted and turned to wire, spooled up, sold to a bidder, transported across the country and pulled thousands of feet to go to... nothing. Trapped under tons of concrete until the world ends. All that metal went through so much, just to be back where it started.
He passed a door with a bold lettered ‘keep closed’ sign. The framing was edged with soot and the door was gouged and dented. He heard a thrumming noise from behind the door first, then was close enough to feel it in his teeth. He wanted to open it, unbolt the brace keeping it closed, see what was-- Mike stopped where he was. It pulled me in again. I knew better and it happened anyways.
A few hundred paces later the walls around Mike started to pull in, and the ceiling opened up to a more normal height. A dozen paces more and the concrete peeled away and was replaced with dingy carpet, off-whitewashed walls and a great open space divided neatly with cubicles.
No one knew why there was an office block down in the depths of the tunnels. Some thought It was meant to be an oasis, a beacon in the dark to remind tunnel dwellers that civilization still existed. Others guessed that it was a purgatory, meant for those who the company wanted to torture. Over time the damp and decay of the tunnels had edged its way into the office space. The not-nearly white walls were spotted with patches of brown and the cubical dividers sagged into the carpet with damp weight. On the desks, some computer terminals flashed reports and warnings into the void. Most did nothing.
A single man; short, stooped, and pale, gradually made his way around the office. With great care, the man deliberately addressed what must have been a random computer terminal. The man looked at his screen, then furrowed his brow. He held up his finger, and then let his arm drop. The man looked to turn away, but then pressed a single button on the computer's keyboard. Somewhere off in the distance, an alarm Mike wasn’t even aware he was ignoring, echoed once more and then was silent. Leaving a disturbing calm. The man then took in the monitor for a moment more before making his way back to his chair. Seated, he slowly turned to direct his gaze at Mike. I wonder if he’s considering me. Am I something to be silenced as well?
The man closed one eye slowly, and then the other. Mike adopted what was commonly known as a speed walkers gait until he was well back in the tunnel proper.