Somewhat Henderson

Chapter 4: Motherlode

The Q2 report had a list of earnings and expenses, broken down by each week of each month. There was a bar chart visualizing the data. It included a bar for each of the 13 weeks indicating gross earnings for that week. The bases of the bars were green, with red tips for expenses. Where green met the red — that was net profit for that week.

The third week of May was a colossal outlier, dead in the middle of the chart. Week 7. Four weeks after that faded gradually back to the average baseline.

It was impossible to overlook. That's what had stuck out to me. A row of enormous bars dwarfing every other on the chart. The expenses were about the same as the other weeks; maybe slightly more. But the earnings far exceeded the norm.

I looked at the table containing the detailed data for the earnings for week 7. It was vague. They used a lot of acronyms: AR, CF, AS, CR, RPM, MRR, CAC, OpEx, COGS. The real Henderson must have known what all of those meant, but he wasn't on the clock that day — only his stunt double.

My point is, the CF for these weeks was a staggering +$329,585,000 USD, while the rest of the weeks hovered around three hundred grand in net profit — combined.

Okay.

I closed the spreadsheet and got off the chair. I felt a slight twinge of pain in my stomach, where the sponges were. I tried to ignore it, but it should have been my first warning sign to hurry. I balanced myself on my feet and began trudging back into the broom closet. My radio was now operational. I just needed some privacy to make the call to HQ.

I waddled to the broom closet, trying not to track mud onto Courier's carpets, as the desk workers kept typing away. There was no raccoon flicking the light switch this time. I opened the door and stepped inside. I pulled out the radio and dialed HQ.

Static.

More static.

Even more static.

And then a voice, "Hewt, is this you!? Come in!"

"Commander," I responded, right before throwing a coughing fit.

"You're alive!?"

"I'm in"—cough—"enemy"—cough—"territory"—cough.

I covered my mouth with my palm to muffle the sound and to catch the saliva flying out of my mouth.

"Listen closely, Hewt. This VOIP channel is encrypted, but they've definitely noticed an unauthorized outgoing connection on their network. We only have about a minute to talk before the cryptographic seal is broken."

I stopped coughing. I looked at my palm. It was covered with wet blood.

I wiped my palm on my uniform and cleared my throat. "Roger that, commander."

There was some commotion on the other side of the call. People talking amongst each other. But the only voice that mattered was the commander's.

"So, report. What the hell is happening over there?"

"They're… writing clickbait articles. About celebrities and vacation spots."

There was a brief silence. Then more mild-mannered talking amongst one another. I overheard someone further away from the mic mumble, "of course, he's delirious."

"I am not FUCKING delirious, Snapfingers." Snapfingers was our psychiatrist. "They're not hostile. They're developing online content here for mass consumption."

Another pause. There was no chatter this time. They were paying attention now.

"Something happened in the middle of May. It made them a ton of money. I am trying to figure out what it was and bring it to light."

The commander responded, almost instantly, "Jamaica?"

I said, "Yes, I know about Jamaica. But that has absolutely no correlation with listicles. Was there anything else?"

"There was no other news larger than Jamaica that week. I would say even the entire month."

"Twenty seconds," another background voice interjected. It was Leper, our hacker. I knew to trust his judgment better than Snapfingers' at that moment.

I pressed further. "Was there anything OTHER than Jamaica, commander? Can you think of anything?"

"Hewt, are you fucking kidding me? It swallowed the world whole! Effectively nothing BUT Jamaica happened that month. You're going to have to work with that."

"Ten seconds," Leper reminded us. "The next safe call can only be made in one hour."

This was the end of the line for me.

Snapfingers interjected, "Do you think you're going to last another hour, Hewt?"

"The morphine should hold. I guess we're going to have to find out—"

"I am ending—" Leper abruptly cut the call.

I was left stranded again. Just me, a silent radio, and a broom closet.

I lifted my shirt to check on the status of my improvised bandage. The duct tape had loosened slightly, and the sponges were visibly soaked in blood. Since I was back in the broom closet, I took this opportunity to replace them. I removed the duct tape, then the sponges. I grabbed a couple of new ones from the packaging that I tore earlier. Pressed them firmly into my bullet wound, tighter than I did last time. While holding the sponges with my left hand, I wrapped the whole thing with my right, around my torso, making sure it's packed tightly.

Now I stood there, with a bloody pair of sponges loosely draped with duct tape. It had to go somewhere. One of them, the one pressed against my wound, was completely soaked. If I were to give it a gentle squeeze — it would leak my DNA everywhere. I couldn't just throw it in the bin — the cleaning crew would find it and sound the alarm.

I stared at the dripping yellow cellulose. The morphine made the logic feel remarkably simple. It came from inside me, and it stays inside me.

I raised the sponge to my mouth, tilted my head back, and squeezed. It tasted like iron rust and warm salt. I swallowed twice, wiped my chin with the back of my gloved wrist, and stuffed flattened sponges deep into my pocket.

The aftertaste this left in my mouth was utterly disgusting. I immediately gagged five times trying my hardest to keep it in. I couldn't risk spilling it all on Paul's carpets after I had worked so hard to dispose of the evidence.

I regained my composure and opened the door, blending back into the office space. And that smell hit me again. The smell of cheap coffee. I figured a cup of that would mask the stench of hemoglobin in my mouth.

There table was immediately to my right with two coffee makers and a rack of small cups. There was a brown-haired woman operating one of the machines. I couldn't get a good look at her name tag. I took the station next to her.

"Beautiful Tuesday we're having today, isn't that right, Henderson?"

She turned to me with her chest. She smiled at me with her eyes and teeth. Her name tag said: L. Remora, Recruiting.

I grabbed a cup and put it below the nozzle. "A beautiful Tuesday indeed. The Q2 numbers were lovely, huh?"

The woman laughed gently. "The Q2 numbers? That's old news. I heard we have a bigger thing brewing."

I pressed the Espresso button on the coffee machine. My finger froze right there. The coffee machine began whirling with life.

A bigger thing brewing?

"A bigger thing brewing…?" I shuddered. Flashes of Jamaica instantly sprung to my mind.

"A bigger thing brewing," she gestured ominously with her hands. I stared into the distance. Her eyes just happened to be in the way.

All while the coffee machine's pump gave a weak, asthmatic whine. Then, a thin, pathetic stream of black liquid dribbled into the cup, dripping at a rate that felt incredibly passive aggressive.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I swallowed. "A bigger thing brewing, huh."

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Yes, but that's just what I heard."

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Big as in… bigger than Jamaica?"

Drip. Drip. Drip.

L. Remora grabbed her cup and walked to my side. She put her hand on my shoulder and came close to my ear. "I guess we'll find out soon." She walked away as I stood there frozen.

That gave me no intel at all. Just terror.

Drip. Drip. My coffee was ready.

She finished as she was walking away, "lovely costume, Henderson!"