Chapter Twenty-Three
Mile-long bolts of lightning flashed across the dark stormy Hidden Valley skies
like jagged white electrical arms reaching for the nearest tall object they
could seize. And ear-piercing thunder resounded as if coming from trillion watt
speakers, while sheet upon solid sheet of half inch sized hail laced rain
unceasingly pelted the tinted Plexiglas exterior of Krypton Software
headquarters. Yet, despite the atmospheric violence being bestowed upon those
living next to the western slopes of the Appalachian Mountains, the storm’s
ferocity almost paled in comparison to the fury being released within the
company’s executive suite.
*****
“Are you aware of what day this Sunday is going to be?” Tom Steel asked, slamming his personalized Company President coffee mug on top of the four by fifteen foot, tinted glass-topped table – causing a small amount of its contents to spill across the surface.
“Yes, sir,” Ray Sizemore replied. The look he gave Phillip Cunningham was sharp enough to behead the man if that were possible and Krypton's Head of Corporate Security could mentally picture his minion's head tumbling down the hallway as it’s disembodied lips mumbled, “It's Valentine's day, sir.”
“You're damn right it’s going to be Valentine’s Day,” Tom stated, forcefully pressing a button on the remote within his hand.
Two panels on the front of the conference room instantly opened and within seconds, each detail of Operation Chicken Hawk flashed across a 50-inch LED screen.
“And would any one of you incompetent morons like to remind us the date this project first started?”
Software-Development Chief Mike Furrow momentarily glanced at the ceiling. “The fifth of January,” he nervously squeaked.
“That’s right, Mike. The fifth of January,” Tom confirmed, grabbing a laser pointer and aiming it toward a flashing green box, which displayed today’s date. “According to this tracking chart, up to this point we have spent roughly four weeks and a hundred thousand dollars on this project. … Yet, despite all the company time and money spent, I haven’t even seen a basic outline of the game we’re about to create. … I want to know why?”
Mike gazed at his superior, and his lips formed a frown. “Presently, sir,” he said, turning toward Ray and Phillip. “Software development is still waiting for a copy of Plutonium’s Revenge. The minute we get it, we’ll immediately start converting it.”
“I see.” Tom grunted before focusing on his Security Chief. “So what’s the problem, Ray? You’ve had four weeks to steal a copy of Gibsonville School's Computer Club’s game.”
Ray looked down toward the grayish tinted tabletop and gulped. “Well,” he began, while reaching to loosen the knot of his maroon pinstriped tie. “As everyone knows, the day after this project was originally initiated; our department did attempt to get a copy of the boy’s game. However, due to an unexpected encryption problem, it proved unsuccessful. Then, before another attempt could be arranged, Paul Pontiac, the computer club's president and co-developer of Titan Industries’ best-selling game ‘Clash of The BattleStars’, got beaten by a member of a local gang and was hospitalized.”
“I heard about that,” Tom said with a serious expression. “And according to a news blog I read a while back, the kid died from the encounter.”
“That’s partially true,” Phillip acknowledged in an authoritarian tone. “Soon after arriving at Duke Medical Center, Paul Pontiac did die during a surgical procedure and his body was taken to the morgue. However, a few hours afterwards a highly usual thing happened. The kid didn’t remain dead.”
“What?” Tom yelped, now staring at Phillip as if the guy had gone loony. “What do you mean, he didn’t remain dead? Did someone discover that the kid was only in a coma?”
“No sir. Paul Pontiac unquestionably died. … According to the medical personnel I spoke with, the kid flat lined and was irreparably gone before the end of his thrombus removal procedure. Yet, somehow, less than three hours later – in front of both Doctor Matthews and Dr. Taylor, a couple of nurses, and his mother and brother, Paul unexpectedly sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the steel cart his decaying corpse had been lying on.”
“Yeah. Right,” Mike loudly blurted in a show of disbelief, while shaking his head. “And the next thing you’re going to tell us is Celestial Angels then filled the morgue and began to sing ‘Glory Hallelujah’.”
“No, I’m not. And please don't be so overly dramatic, Mike,” Phillip replied in a raised tone. “What I'm telling all of you is true. It actually happened. And to add to the strangeness … the kid was completely healed - no crushed sternum, no signs of being beaten, nothing.”
Tom raised his left eyebrow. “So you’re telling me Paul Pontiac is now completely okay.”
“Yes, sir,” Phillip solemnly nodded. “And to confirm this - during the two days following this inexplicable miracle, Dr. Matthews (who kept emphatically insisting this event could not have possibly occurred), scheduled a number of tests, took x-rays, and even had an MRI done on the kid. And in the end, everything came out clean. It was just as if the injury or death never happened. So come Friday afternoon, the doctor sent the kid home.”
“You don't say?” Tom chuckled in a manner that reflected he didn't believe a single word which had been spoken. He then turned to face Ray Sizemore. “Ray,” he began. “… isn’t Phillip the same employee you told me a few weeks ago wasted company time and money by stealing an encrypted copy of the boy’s game - without having the password, just because a local patrol car drove past the school?”
Ray nodded affirmatively.
“I thought so,” Tom continued with a partial grin. “And now he’s insisting that not only has Paul Pontiac risen from the dead, just like Jesus Christ supposedly did. He's also implying that if I phoned the kid's house, I could probably reach him.”
Ray looked at Phillip and once again nodded.
Tom made a steeple with his fingers. “And what has Paul been doing since then Mr. Cuttingham, flying around the neighborhood, playing a golden harp? Or maybe he’s decided to become a disciple and is currently knocking on all the neighbors' doors, trying to spread The Gospel. … Not to mention, has he done any walking on water or turned any liquids into wine recently, Phillip?”
Phillip Cuttingham gazed into Mr. Steel’s hazel eyes and lowered his head. “No, sir. I’m sure he hasn't done anything like that. .… If Paul is staying true to his nature, I’m certain the following Monday he returned to school, and he and his club resumed working on their game.”
Tom grimaced. “Ray,” he said, shaking his head. “You know that having an employee who’s occasionally incompetent is bad enough. But apparently, Phillip here seems to also be living in a fantasy world. People just do not come back to life once they're dead. So what do you recommend doing with him?”
Ray gazed at Phillip and sighed. “I know the two of you no doubt believe I should terminate him and that's probably the politically-correct thing to do. But in seeing that Phillip has been a loyal employee during the past few years I have known him, I recommend we give him a second chance.”
“A second chance?” Tom echoed, choking on his cappuccino. “Are you out of your damn mind, Ray? This project is worth well over a half a billion dollars if we’re successful. And not only did Phillip majorly screw up a few weeks ago. The guy has obviously lost his Fruit Loops. … People coming back from the dead … of all things.”
“But Paul did,” Phillip quietly insisted. “Just ask Dr. Matthews. He’ll tell you. The whole incident was so bizarre. It almost made him convert from being a Wiccan into a Christian.”
Tom folded his arms around his waist and exhaled as he turned back toward Ray. “Is what’s Phillip's claiming actually true?”
Ray's eyes flickered downward, and he began to squirm in his seat. “To be honest, Tom. Everything Phillip just reported to you has been verified. And believe me, I wasn’t the only one astonished at this turn of events. According to a bit of info I received from Charles yesterday, the defense attorney for Butch McGuire (the kid who started this whole ordeal by beating up Paul), is presently throwing a raving fit because his client was officially charged with first-degree murder. … Since it’s obvious that Paul is actually alive and well, he’s currently pushing to get all charges dropped. “
“I see,” Tom responded, grabbing his chin. He then sat and thought about this for a while. “You know; I got half a damn mind to fire both of you. … What in the Hell is my corporate security division turning into? First, your boy here bungles a major assignment and now both, you and this idiot who works for you expect me to believe the impossible. What do you think I am Ray, a mother-f_cking nincompoop?
Ray glared at his boss as his face and neck flushed an angry bright red.
“No, you’re not a mother-f_cking nincompoop, Tom,” he eventually replied between gritted teeth. “And if you want to fire us, fine. I’m sure both of us can find a job elsewhere. But know one thing, Tom, before you do. What Phillip has presented to you during this meeting was the absolute truth, as unbelievable as it may seem.”
Tom stared at his Security Chief and then at Phillip, and took a deep breath. “Okay, Ray. You win. … Here’s what I'm going to do. I'll give the two of you until Friday to come up with a fail-safe plan that get us a useable copy of Plutonium’s Revenge.… However, should you fail to do so, and the DVD or memory storage card is not on the top of my desk within the following week - you’re both fired.