Алан Дин Фостер - To the Vanishing Point

He made a show of inhaling deeply. "Mmmmm. Guarantee you I’ll be back in time for supper."

"You better be, Mr. Sonderberg, or I’ll be damnably disappointed." Flucca waved a butcher knife at him.

As he left the kitchen for the garage, Frank was humming to himself. The Jaguar started cleanly and he didn’t give it much time to warm up, pulling straight out onto the driveway past the motor home. Habit made sure he shut the electric gate behind him.

There was little traffic on the Peninsula drive. At the base of the palisades he could see surfers and tanners intersecting at the waterline. Not much surf today but plenty of sun. Like everyone else in Southern California he’d dreamed of riding the waves. Never tried it, though. As a kid he’d considered roller skates an invention of the devil. He was not now nor had he ever been built for any kind of athletics. Maybe that was what had driven him to enter the sporting goods business. Ironic, like so much of his life.

He cut away from the beach, taking a main surface street and avoiding the freeway. Today the parade of fast food restaurants, discount stores, gas stations, and shopping centers was anything but boring. His company leased the top third of a twelve-story glass-sided office building in downtown Long Beach. More impressive offices were to be had in West Los Angeles or along Wilshire, but the tax situation was better in Long Beach, it was closer to where he wanted to live, and this way he could personally inspect every shipment that arrived from overseas. Besides, he liked the smell of the sea. From his top-floor office he could just see the big container ships entering and leaving the harbor.

A card raised the gate that barred entrance to the underground parking garage. He found his space and backed in. The elevator lifted him to twelve and he exited onto thick carpet. The receptionist greeted him in surprise. Everyone knew the big boss was off on vacation. All she could manage was a startled, "Welcome back, Mr. Sonderberg."

"Thanks, Ellen." He prided himself on knowing the first names of as many of his employees as possible, from executive on down to the boys in the mailroom.

He strode past her into the administrative offices, drawing a few startled glances from behind computers and desks. No one said anything. If the president of the company wanted conversation he’d let them know.

His own office was situated in the back of the building, with a fine view of city and harbor. His long-time secretary wasn’t at her desk, though it showed signs of recent occupation. In the ladies' room or on afternoon break, he told himself. No matter.

His office was as he’d left it a few days earlier. Once seated behind the big desk, he flicked his own terminal on, calling up facts and figures and spreadsheets to review what had taken place in his absence. There was very little, just as Carlos had told him. He was relieved to see that nothing untoward had occurred in this reality while he’d been racing wildly through several others. Figures were constants everywhere. They never panicked the way people did.

The refrigerator beneath the bar yielded a cold seltzer. As he sipped straight from the bottle the intercom buzzed for attention.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Sonderberg? What are you doing back?"

"It’s okay, Nina. We cut it a little short."

"I’m sorry, sir." His secretary’s voice sounded slightly hollow over the intercom’s speakerphone. "You were so looking forward to it."

"We just decided we’d be better off taking it easy at home. Is there anything I should look at while I’m here? I’m going back home in a few minutes."

"Well — there are some papers…" She rattled off a string of comfortingly familiar names.

"Bring 'em in." As long as he was in the office he might as well do some work. Alicia often told him it was impossible for him to relax anymore, that he’d forgotten how to take it easy. Her scolding troubled him because he knew she was right, but when you’re running a business with thousands of employees and millions in daily transactions you just can’t write it out of your thoughts.

Another ten years and he’d retire, quit with more money that he’d ever be able to spend. Then maybe they’d take that round-the-world cruise Alicia was always talking about. He’d show her how to relax!

Nina entered, a sheaf of paper in one hand. She was every inch the model executive secretary, confident enough in her ability to let her hair turn gray where the auburn was beginning to age. She wore a brown business suit, a white ruffled blouse, and another of those antique brooches she collected.

"I can’t say that I’m sorry to see you back, sir."

"Don’t give it another thought, Nina. We just cut everything short."

"I’m sure I don’t know why, but that’s your business, of course." She laid the papers on the table before him.

He was still studying the readout on the amber screen. Not wanting her to think he was ignoring her, he looked up to give her a parting smile.

And froze.

Every drop of blood in his body went as cold as the ice piled inside the executive bar. His secretary of nine years smiled back at him. Nina, Mrs. Defly, his efficient intermediary between this office and the cacophony of the outside world, smiled back at him.

Her eyes were lizardlike slits set against light red pupils.

"I have to go downstairs for a minute, Mr. Sonderberg. I’ll be back soon if you need me." She hissed distinctly and a long, thin tongue emerged briefly from between her lips. It was at least eight inches long and forked at the tip.

Frank stared at the door after she’d exited, unable to move, cold sweat gluing his shirt to his back. He’d seen it, no doubt about it. By now he was an expert on the difference between what was real and what imaginary. He told himself it was a freak moment, a tiny final nick in the fabric of existence and nothing more.

Slowly, very slowly, he swiveled his chair and stared out the tall glass windows. Had it grown darker outside since last he’d looked? Difficult to say since the tinted glass deliberately muted the sometimes harsh Southern California sun. Was it muting reality, as well?

It still looked abnormally dark outside. The sky was cloudless. He turned resolutely back to the computer screen.

Gone were the neat rows of words and figures, the reports from cities with difficult diphthongs in their names, the charts and graphs. The amber screen was filled with crawling things. They looked like little green bugs and they were cannibalizing themselves.

He did not think of madness. He did not think of insects. Chaos, he thought.

With both hands on the edge of the desk he shoved his chair away. Tiny yellow squirmy shapes were emerging from the screen, which flowed like amber gelatin. They humped and twisted around the edges of the plastic. Handfuls of them spilled onto his desk, began gnawing at the wood and plastic. Bright yellow worms burrowed rapidly into the structure.

The bottom of the computer cracked open and the machine fell on its side. Smoke began to rise from the jump cables in back. Frank threw up his hands to shield his face as the electronic innards blew.

When he looked back there was only a plastic box with a gaping hole where the screen had been. Black smoke and yellow worms poured out of the opening. Keeping a wary eye on the ravenous burrowers, he abandoned the chair and moved to the far wall where the auxiliary phone was mounted. It was definitely too dark outside now. He punched in the number for building security.

Laughter instead of the musical acknowledgment of Touch-Tone dialing filled his ear. It was inhuman and insane. Then a click followed by a recording of a female voice:

"When you hear the tone, the world will have come to an end."