Free Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare by Ryder Stacy

broke off as the elevator opened again, disgorging more office workers. “Oh, hello, Fred,” she said to a balding man whose pale complexion made him look like he’d been in a crypt for the past ten years. “Look who’s back—Mr. Rockman!” Laughing, Rona hooked her arm through Rockson’s and propelled him past two huge wooden doors into an open office area.
    Inside were two dozen employees who stopped what they were doing and stared at him. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, someone murmured that he should take it easy, and others joined in.
    Rona took him to a door with his alter ego’s name on it—Theodore Rockman—and shoved him inside. “Let me know if you need anything!” she chirped, and sailed off.
    The office was much more comfortably appointed than the Rockman apartment—a sofa, large wooden desk, and potted plants. The profits of the company evidently were good, and his job rated a private office. He threw the briefcase down on the sofa.
    Two walls were floor-to-ceiling windows. Rockson walked to them and looked out over the city sparkling in the sun and dry desert air. Tall buildings rose everywhere he looked.
    He had scarcely been in his office two minutes when Rona reappeared and shut the door behind her. She flung herself at Rockson, wrapping her arms around his neck and smothering him with kisses. “Ted, darling, darling! You gorgeous hunk of a man! Let’s do it now. Lock the door!”
    This Rona sure felt terrific, and she looked fine. Rockson would have been happy to let her ravish him, except this sort of conduct undoubtedly fell on the forbidden list, which translated—once again—to the police.
    He disengaged himself from her impassioned embrace. “Rona, please. Remember yourself!”
    With a moan of disappointment, Rona pulled away and smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry, Ted. I couldn’t help myself. You drive me wild, and if I can’t see you tonight . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But you’re right,” she added. “This is not the proper place.” She stepped up to him and wiped his cheek and lips. “You’ve got lipstick all over you.”
    Rona rearranged her clothing and left, closing the door.
    Rockson dragged his sleeve across his face and ran his fingers through his mussed hair. I’ve got to stay here until lunch, he thought. Rock pushed paper around for three hours.
    Lunchtime! He flung open his door and stalked out of the office. Rona was seated at a small desk just outside, reapplying hot-pink lipstick while she looked into a compact mirror. Evidently she was his personal secretary.
    She looked up in surprise as he hurried past her. “Mr. Rockman! Where are you going?”
    Rockson halted as he realized all activity in the office had stopped again, as attention was focused on him. “I—I forgot to tell you—I have to discuss a condominium purchase with a real estate man . . .”
    “Oh,” Rona said. “Okay, I’ll see you later.” He zoomed out through the big double doors and into the elevator, which was just closing its door.
    Back on the street, Rockson gave an immense sigh of relief. He had to have time to put himself together. For one afternoon, at least, they could do without him. He wasn’t handling his job very well anyway.
    The irritating music still played everywhere, in the streets and in every vehicle and building. As he glanced around, he noticed that by and large, the people in this city seemed very —subdued. A little animation here and there, but most seemed to be in a zombie state much of the time, with robotlike movements and glassy eyes. Was he hallucinating? Was it some sort of paranoia, a mental breakdown?
    Rockson slowed himself down and put a goofy smile on his face. Best to look like one of the crowd.
    He ambled down the street, doing his best to look like a typical citizen. He was disconcerted to find people staring at him as though he had a growth on his head. He stopped and checked his reflection in a window, and saw what it was