MicroHorror

“What sort of account are you looking for, sir?”

Paul squinted. The early morning sunlight was already making it hard for him to see the teller across the counter, much less to concentrate on what he was saying.

“I’m sorry?”

The teller continued on with his patter; he’d obviously done this plenty of times before. “…and you’ll need to nominate how you want to access it, and how much to open with.”

Banks had always made Paul a little anxious. He wasn’t a rich man–he had no house he owned, no investments, just a little apartment he rented in the wrong and dingy side of town. He always regretted that he had never previously taken the time to plan his future.

And now he was concerned, really worried, about that future. So here he was, standing patiently, watching the teller finalize his new account. Paul’s head was still throbbing from the attack a week ago. You might say it was just post-traumatic stress, but it wasn’t; it was much more serious.

“So, your chosen account features would be…?” prompted the teller again.

Well, Paul wouldn’t be able to work days in future, that much was sure. And, after a while, he doubted whether anyone would be able to recognize him much, so coming into the bank wasn’t an option either. “I’ll need online banking, as well as access to your night safety deposit boxes.”

“Very good.” The teller ticked the appropriate boxes.

How bright was it in here? The light was definitely hurting his eyes now. He rubbed his neck, tried to reduce some of the tension.

“Almost there,” the teller assured him with a smile. “Now, your interest will be reinvested and compound every month, as I’m sure you’re already aware.”

“Great,” said Paul. He felt absolutely, totally drained. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for the last few days. The taste of food was revolting. Despite a raging thirst, he couldn’t even stomach a glass of water.

This was, he guessed, just as diagnosed. In the last few days, he’d read enough of the literature–not the medical literature, but rather the real stuff–to know exactly what it was all about. And what was about to happen to him.

Next would come the sleep, the long sleep. When he returned, things would be completely different. Some writers argued that you could sleep for years, maybe decades, before you awoke, that first time.

And who was going to look after him then? And how?

“Finally, just one last question, sir. How much will you be wanting to open the account with?”

Paul felt around in his pocket, fished out the last dollar notes in his possession. Twenty-five dollars and sixty-eight cents.

The teller looked over. “Well, that’s not a lot to start with, but I guess with a bit of compound interest it’ll quickly add up, won’t it?” he joked.

Paul rubbed his neck again, and felt the two small puncture wounds that he’d now had for a week. He was going to be a member of the undead for a long time to come, he suspected.

He squinted, ran his tongue over his teeth, and smiled darkly back at the teller. “It sure will.”

• Copyright: © 2011 Michael T. Schaper

“You’re not very good at your job, are you?” he asks me.

I’m standing out here in the middle of the day, the sun’s burning down, and I’m helping him stack firewood.

The things you’ll do for a client.

There are snakes out here, I’m sure, probably hiding in the log pile. We’re way out in the backblocks, a good hour from the nearest sealed road. And I don’t understand why anyone would want to have a fire on halfway through summer.

But I can’t be too fussy. Consulting’s a competitive market, so I don’t say no to any client requests. Especially not when the boss of a major city firm–who, I’m told, is seriously wealthy, if not a little eccentric–rings during his summer break and summons me out to talk personally.

“I’m not convinced you’re the best,” the CEO tells me. “You call yourself a recruitment consultant, but what do you give me? Huh?” He sneers, takes some of the timber away.

Twenty years on the corporate ladder, he says, and the only way to survive is if you’re hungry enough. “What about you? Do you have the hunger?”

I shrug. “I’ve sent people up here. Three possible candidates this week. Weren’t any of them suitable?”

The trouble is, I don’t know what happened. None of them even had the courtesy to ring back and tell me how their interviews here went.

“I gave you this simple job,” he says eventually, “to test you. Just get me someone to help me with my hobby.”

I’ve got to admit, his request was fairly simple: someone young, fit and comfortable being on an isolated community for a while. Maybe a backpacker, for example.

He takes a log and points out the fields, the smokehouse, the main building. “Look at this. My own little holiday retreat. Lots of privacy. No visitors, and a long way away from town. I just need someone around the place. Like I said, if you can help me get that, then maybe in the future we can see what work the company has for you.”

We keep on stacking wood, sharing the silence.

But the CEO can’t stay quiet for long. Clients never can. “The first one you sent me? Wouldn’t say a word. I couldn’t get her to say anything.

“And that guy, the second one? Hopeless.

“The third one, the student… well, he was keen, but…” He sighs one more time.

The heat is getting to us both. Sweat is falling into my eyes.

“I’ve got the hunger,” he tells me one more time. “Do you?”

He takes some more wood out of the pile and down to the smoking shed, calls me over. The room’s dark, full of fumes and a scent that mixes burning pine with something else. Sitting inside, slowly drying out in the heat, the three of them are lined up in a row, grinning at me from dead faces.

He pulls out a boning knife and a whetstone. He sits down, starts sharpening up, and looks me in the eye. “Well,” he asks, “are you going to join me?”

He’s right. I don’t have the hunger.

So I stay in my office these days, far away and down in the city. Every holiday, when he needs them, I send up some round-eyed innocents to the farm. I get paid extraordinarily well for my efforts and, if anyone asked, I’d have to admit that I’m more or less just prostituting myself now. I know that I’m no longer the slightly wide-eyed recruitment agent anymore.

In fact, these days I’m much more of a corporate headhunter.

• Copyright: © 2010 Michael T. Schaper