Kill Them All

“Johnson? What the hell are you doing?” The company president was not one to mince words. “When I tell you to do something, I expect it to be done immediately.” The president shook his head. His phone rang, and he cursed.

The middle-aged man drew his cell from the pants pocket of a double breasted suit that was anything but suitable to a person of his girth. He struggled trying to operate his phone.

Johnson felt a flash of anger. The man was impatient with him. I’m the best maintenance man this company ever had. He’ll see soon enough. I’ll kill them all.

Johnson smiled and headed off to the custodial closet. It was one floor down, and the stairs were at the end of the hall beyond the executive’s lounge. He preferred to go the long way around, to avoid running into any executives. He hated them so. But, to be caught on some errant path by the president would not do. And, such was Johnson’s luck. The only other stairs were at the far end of the ell shaped four story building along with the only elevator, his use of which was frowned upon. He headed down the hall, into the fray. He hated them so.

He came across Jonathan Vickers who was talking to Diane McManus outside of a vacant office. He imagined what it might be like if he were one of the execs here at the company, instead of a lowly, blue collar worker. He, then, might be the one talking with Diane about stock reports or four-o-one kays, or whatever execs liked to talk about.

No one would boss me around, at least not like they do now. I would be one of the top guys. I’m smarter than any of them after all. College— “Pfftb,” he made the derisive sound just as a particularly nerdy looking business man was passing the other way. The man rolled his eyes at Johnson. He hated that. He hated them so. He would show them what he could do.

Johnson reached the end of the hallway. He looked up seeing a sign above an exterior door that read, ‘EXIT.’ He took hold of the knob and tried to turn it. It caught on something inside the mechanism. The knob would not turn. He wiggled the knob as he knew he should and the knob popped past whatever problem was occurring inside and turned. Idiots, he thought. None of them could figure out how to open this so quickly. I’m the best they’ll ever find. I’m so much smarter than they are.

Johnson stepped outside onto the landing between stairs leading up and others leading down, both on his right. The steps at the other end of the building were inside, but these were closer. The building used to be a school. This end was the original part. When the company purchased the building, it added the other end of the ell. That was why the stairs at each end were different. But, Johnson did not know any of that.

Idiots, he thought. They can’t even build two ends of a building the same way. He thought they were stupid. He hated them for it, for having more than him, for holding him down. I could do any of their jobs— except for Diane McManus’.

Johnson did not hate Diane McManus. He respected her. He always smiled at her; and she always smiled back, not like the others. They would smile back but only if no one was around to see. They did not want their colleagues to think that they did not look down on Johnson. That was what he thought.

Johnson often rehearsed things he might say to Diane. He might compliment her eyes or her hair— or her smile. Yes, he liked her smile the most.

But, when he would happen upon her, when she was alone, and no stuffy pencil pusher was around monopolizing her; he would falter. He could never muster the courage to talk to her. He hated himself for that, and he hated every person in the firm that had the courage to speak to Diane, his Diane.

Johnson was on the landing between what was commonly designated as the second and third floors. The small terrace was vacant but for a flurry of wasps buzzing around a large nest under the eave. Johnson watched the insects for a moment. Then he turned and descended the stairs to the lower level. He burst through the door with a greater confidence in his stride. The lower level was mostly storage. It was one level below the parking lot. There were no offices, only storerooms and Johnson’s custodial supplies, for Johnson was not a maintenance man at all; even though he fancied the title better than his real one. Johnson was the custodian and not the janitor as they so loved to call him. He hated them for that.

Even the president called him that. The president thought he was incompetent, that he could not perform even simple tasks without fumbling.

“When I tell you to do something, I expect it to be done immediately,” Johnson said in his best mocking imitation of the president.

I’ll show him. I’ll kill them all.

Johnson strode down the hallway. He reached his destination midway to the intersection of the ell. He opened the door of the custodian closet which was really just a room with an electric panel and a deep sink. An old free standing stack of metal shelves stood along the back wall.

Johnson pushed aside an old coffee can full of miscellaneous nuts and bolts that would likely never see use again. He moved an old can of cleaning fluid that had an unreadable label. Behind it all was the box he was looking for.

He had been storing it there for years, never knowing if he would truly have the need or the courage to use it. But, all of that changed when the president questioned him, questioned his competence. The president thought Johnson was an idiot. Johnson would show him what he could do. He would make the president regret ever thinking that, and this old box contained everything he would need to do it.

Johnson saw that the bottom of the box was dark and decaying, a sign that moisture once compromised its strength. He looked about the room. Spying a roll of garbage can liners, he tugged one free of the bunch. The sound of air blasting the bag open as he whipped it through the air annoyed him in the closed space of the closet. He leaned back out of the doorway and looked both ways down the hall to see if he aroused anyone’s curiosity. There was no one. He admonished himself for thinking there might be.

Johnson dragged the rotten box to the edge of the shelf. He put the garbage bag over the top and scooped up the box and all of its contents. Metal clanged against the closet floor as the bag stretched more than he expected it to. Johnson hoped that the triggers inside still operated, that the ammunition they would release was still viable. He had to kill them all. It was that or go on with the president and everyone else thinking he was an idiot. That would not do.

He hefted the repurposed garbage bag over his shoulder with a clank of metal and exited the closet not bothering to close the door. The bag was slippery in his grip. His hands played a weird game of hopscotch as he moved one back to where the other had been as they slipped toward the end of the bag. He hurried his pace so that he would not drop his arsenal before reaching his prey.

When Johnson reached the lower level door to the stairs outside he felt a pang of annoyance realizing that he had to put down his cargo in order to open the door.

He lowered the bag and opened the door. Then he carelessly dragged the back out the door before heaving in back onto his shoulder. He reproached his own carelessness. It would not do to spill the contents of his bag out on these stairs. He wanted to hurry, to kill them all before encountering the president again. Then and only then did he want to confront the man.

When he sees what I’ve done, he’ll be sorry. He’ll never think I’m an idiot again.

With the bag over his shoulder Johnson climbed to the main floor and turned to look up the next flight of stairs. Then he froze.

On the second floor landing stood Jonathan Vickers. He was standing just below the nest of wasps and talking to Diane again. She was halfway in the door to the hallway. She looked as if she wanted to leave, but Vickers would not stop talking.

This was it, where he would make his stand and show them all. His redemption would begin at the top of the stairs, on that second floor landing. He would show the president what he was really capable of— but Diane. What if she was caught in a hail of friendly fire? Could he live with himself if Diane was collateral damage in this battle?

Johnson took his first step up. He bided between steps hoping that Diane would muster the mettle to ignore Vickers and go inside. Then one of his weapons settled inside the bag and clanked loud enough to draw Vickers’ attention down the stairs.

Johnson heard the door at the lower level open and close. He saw the president come out onto the landing.

What the hell is he doing down there? He wondered. Looking for me—

Johnson was out of time. He looked up to Vickers again. Diane was gone.

Good girl. She took advantage of the distraction and went inside. Johnson calculated. A few quick shots and I’ll run inside the door. I’ll deal with the president later.

Johnson took the stairs two at a time, startling Vickers. The exec fell back against the railing, then started when a wasp landed on his face. He batted it away and reached for the door, but the knob caught and would not turn.

Johnson laughed and Vickers looked back. The look on his face betrayed fear, but whether it was fear of the wasp on his face or Johnson’s wild charge up the stairs remained a mystery.

Johnson unslung his sack of clanking metal onto the third step from the top. From there he was far enough from the wasps that they would not pose a threat to his purpose. He had a clear view of Vickers still fumbling with the door knob.

Johnson reached into the plastic bag and withdrew two metal objects. He took aim and depressed two plastic triggers mounted atop steel canisters. Rust adorned the bottoms of the cans and all along the vertical seams of the ancient cylinders.

Thin streams of white liquid launched in the direction of the wasp nest. A flash of vengeance crossed Johnson’s mind as the first stream hit home. The second stream fell short and instantly lost pressure. Down to one can of wasp spray, Johnson looked at his ammunition bag and kicked at it with his feet that he might readily reach in for a new weapon.

Instead of the mouth of the bag falling open as Johnson intended, the shape of one can pressed against the inside. Its imprint in the plastic fell to the next step down and caused an unfortunate chain reaction. In seconds the entire bag and its spilling contents were tumbling back down the stairs where the president stood watching the event unfold.

Johnson, reduced to one weapon, turned his attention back to the fray. He saw a frenzy of wasps emerging from the nest that must have permeated much more of the eave than he first realized. The insects looked like a dark storm cloud heaving in anger.

The stream of spray, while Johnson was distracted by his bag tumbling away, drifted in the direction of Vickers who was now covering his face and cursing.

“What are you doing, you idiot?”

Johnson turned his stream back toward the nest just in time to see it peter to nothing. But, the stream managed to serve one purpose before failing. Wasps, it seems, have the uncanny ability to follow a stream of spray back to its source, and so they did.

Johnson found himself inside of a haze of stinging insects that wasted no time in launching a counter attack.

The failed slayer of these wasps flailed his arms about, trying in hopelessness to scatter his attackers and find a way to flee.

He turned to descend the stairs and caught sight of Vickers finally getting the door knob to turn. The executive lurched inside and slammed the door behind him.

Johnson was only a few steps behind, but the knob was stuck fast again. He turned toward the stairs leading up, but he stepped into a puddle of the insect spray that harried Vickers moments ago. He slipped and rolled onto his side trying to extinguish the stinging fire of attacking wasps that covered his skin.

On hands and knees, Johnson scurried toward the stairs leading to the lower level and put his hand in a puddle made by the can that misfired. His palm slipped and his chin bounced off the first and second steps respectively.

The business end of a wasp found purchase on the back of his neck where he could not reach. He twisted to scrape any insects from his back against the stair railing. Instead, Johnson found himself sliding down the steps head first and on his back counting off each riser with a bang of his skull.

He came to rest upside down at the bottom, the only sound, a lone spray can lollygagging down the stairs behind him step by step. In that moment a flash of clarity came to him.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am an idiot.

Then the clarity faded, replaced by the ominous, inverted visage of the president shaking his head.

“Johnson? What the hell are you doing?”

Ω