The 11th Percent

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Book excerpt

Chapter One - Blue

Jonah Rowe killed the ignition in his car and shook his head. To call this routine stressful would be a compliment.

He had just parked at the office complex where his job was located, but he remained as stationary as the car. He had no desire to drag himself the twenty feet it took to get to the front door. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and sighed at what he saw. The hazel eyes that stared back at him already drooped. The slightly round face with the persistent stubble already looked worn out. He slowly ran a hand through the brown hair he also saw in the mirror. He was in need of a haircut, but that was a worry for a different day.

The question in his mind at the moment was the same one that had been there since the very first day he'd parked in this very same spot several months ago: Was it possible to feel this down this early in the morning? Before he had even set foot into the office? He found it increasingly difficult to convince himself each morning that his job was worthwhile. Come to think of it, he found it hard to convince himself that his life was worthwhile.

When he completed graduate school with a Master's Degree in Accounting, his favorite instructor, Professor Rohn, gave him what he must have thought was sage advice: “Jonah, you have always said that you wanted to assist people. This diploma is your pass into a very highly chosen and polished fraternity of people who do just that. These next years will be exciting and fulfilling for you.”

God, if that hadn't turned out to be a joke.

Jonah's days usually consisted of everything but assisting people. So far, his accounting job at Essa, Langton, and Bane, Inc. included being a gopher, transporting files, printing copies, correcting and re-correcting errors in the files, and more billing reports than he cared to tolerate. Jonah's experiences in this “high-chosen” field proved to be nothing more than a waste of time. He should have read the fine print.

It doesn't matter, he thought to himself. This day can't be that bad. Just coast through the staff meeting, finish all of your work, and be happy that 5 p.m. will be here before you know it. That'll be the end of the day.

“Five p.m.,” he said aloud. “The best part of the day. Just make it to 5 p.m.”

“Excuse me?” said Jonah. “What did you just say?”

Jonah's boss, Anders Langton, smiled. “I know that it's a shock, Mr. Rowe, but you heard me. The office will be open until 6 p.m.”

“For how long?” asked Jonah's friend and co-worker Nelson Black. He scratched at his stubble, which he always did when he was irritated. He scratched his stubble a lot at this job.

“I don't think we should restrict ourselves to a timeframe, Mr. Black,” said Mr. Langton with that stupid smile still on his face. He didn't seem to realize that his announcement about extending the office hours by one was about to incite a small-scale riot.

“Business is down,” he continued. “We need to build up the business that we have coming in, and the board does not see that occurring with the normal eight-hour format. As such, we have agreed that acceptable gains can be achieved only if we all hunker down and implement a longer work day. I know that it will be an adjustment, but this is something that will benefit everyone.”

Jonah looked at Nelson and saw that the grimace on his face mirrored his own. He knew that most of his other colleagues thought the same thing they did: Mr. Langton was overselling this. Everyone knew that when he used the term “we,” that meant him almost exclusively. Langton was surrounded by yes-men (and women), and they usually went along with anything he said because if they voiced their own opinions, it would likely stunt their career growth. Jonah didn't even want to focus on Langton's point about business being down. That was a very difficult thing for him to believe when Langton's burgundy Lexus, visible through the blinds, gleamed in the morning sun and caused an unpleasant glare in the meeting room.

“These changes will rejuvenate the company,” declared Mr. Langton, oblivious to the mutinous eyes that glared lasers through him. “Do not believe for one second that this doesn't inconvenience me as well.”

Again, Jonah locked eyes with Nelson and made a wry face.

“We are all in this together,” Langton continued. “I would not ask anything of you that I wouldn't do myself. Meeting adjourned, and thank you all in advance for your cooperation!”

The staff rose from the tables and didn't dare grumble about this new foolishness. They didn't have to because their opinions were written on their faces. Jonah couldn't blame them; everyone knew that Langton would check out at 3 p.m., if he even bothered to wait that long. He was just about to reach for Nelson's shoulder when he felt a tap.

“Mr. Rowe, a quick word if you please!” It was Mr. Langton.

Jonah turned to him slowly, using as much time as he dared to make his face an impassive mask. “Sir?”

“Do sit down!” said Langton, still so jovial that Jonah wanted to vomit. He lowered himself into his chair and interlocked his fingers, prompting Jonah to make himself comfortable. If the man locked his fingers, this word was going to be anything but quick.

“I must ask you something, Jonah,” said Langton, some of the heartiness fading out of his voice. “How do you like your job?”

Jonah's brain immediately went to work attempting to conjure the most acceptable answer to Langton's inquiry. The obvious answer of, “Which part? The making copies or the hours hidden in the file room?” was on the tip of his tongue, but he settled on a much more respectable one. “There are good days and not so good ones, sir,” he said. “One has to roll with the punches and be willing to adapt. I believe that I manage myself well with every ebb and flow.”

Mr. Langton knit his brow, obviously trying to find something in Jonah's statement to criticize. He must not have succeeded because his expression cleared, and he resumed that ridiculous smile. “I must agree with you, son,” he said, “which is why I had to speak with you. I've noticed recently that you have appeared to be coasting through your work.”

“Excuse me?” said Jonah, frowning.

“You don't appear to be pleased with your responsibilities,” said Langton. “I've seen you going to your cubicle, appearing very glum and, dare I say, miserable. This brings down office morale, Jonah. I'm not the only one who thinks so.”

Jonah had no idea what to make of that. He was fully cognizant of the fact that the company was rife with Langton's informants. Snitches, if one called a spade a spade. There were several times he had seen people complain about their job only to have an impromptu staff meeting where Langton repeated, almost verbatim, what had been said. Jonah had picked up on this rather quickly and had begun to keep his opinions to himself. Since there were no verbal weapons with which to arm themselves, it appeared that Langton's rats were attempting to criticize Jonah's mood.

“Mr. Langton,” he said with caution, “I was not aware that my demeanor had been bothering anyone. I keep my head down. I come here, I do my work, and I go home. I have never heard of anyone having a concern with my mood, whatever you have been told.”

“I never said anyone told me anything,” said Langton, who must have forgotten that he had just said that he wasn't the only one who thought so. “I'm simply saying that we must support each other with a kind word, a congratulatory pat on the back, or with a pleasant smile. Positivity is infectious, after all. You never know who is watching!”

Amen to that one, thought Jonah, irritated. Apparently his face betrayed him yet again because Mr. Langton looked reproachful. “See that face there? That could be remedied with a nice smile! You might benefit from improving your posture as well, and a little exercise could take care of that! It isn't like it would kill you to lose about ten pounds.”

Jonah eyes narrowed. “I'm sorry?”

Mr. Langton flashed that stupid grin. “Sorry is not a good way to be either, son!”

Jonah had to get out of there. Langton's comments had pissed him off. That man had some nerve to say that someone was overweight when he probably hadn't seen his own toes in years. The ones going on about his “miserable” demeanor were revealed the minute he exited the conference room as they were the ones that stared hungrily at him before they looked in opposite directions: Jessica Hale, an unabashed sycophant who successfully distracted people from her snarky and devious nature with her perfect figure, and Anthony Noble, a useless slacker who couldn't seem to grasp the fact that the fun-loving, devil-may-care days of high school and college were behind him, no matter how youthful his wavy hair, boyish features, and slim frame made him look. In Jonah's opinion, his looks didn't make him appear ageless. They made him look immature, vapid, and precocious. What was worse was the fact that Anthony might have actually been tolerable if he didn't cater to Jessica's every whim. He did whatever she asked in a fruitless hope to obtain a date, a compliment, or simply an acknowledgment of existence.

“Hello, Jonah!” said Jessica with false brightness. She brushed her strawberry-blonde hair out of her face and stood to meet him. “He didn't tear you down too badly, did he?”

Remembering that he was under tight scrutiny, Jonah replied, “Nah, Jess . . . he didn't. Just got some pointers.”

“Nothing wrong with getting a leg up, man,” chimed in Anthony, eyes toward Jessica and nowhere near where he spoke. “We all need to remember when to put on a happy face.”

“How do you—?” Jonah began, but Nelson appeared behind him.

“How about the new hour, Jonah? Guess we will have to need an extra hour of sleep to balance out the universe!”

Even though he was still annoyed at Anthony and Jessica's nosiness, Jonah couldn't help but smirk at Nelson's joke. It was just like him to diffuse a situation, and Jonah didn't want to bother with the snitches. He allowed Nelson to steer him away. When they reached their cubicles, Nelson's smile faded, and he suddenly looked tense.

“You know better than to let those two get to you, Jonah,” he told him. “What did the big man want, anyway?”

Jonah told him Langton's ridiculous remarks. Nelson glared at the conference room and scratched his stubble again.

“You don't need to worry about that, man,” he told him, “nor do you need to worry about his little stooges either. What you need to do is ditch this place and finish up your books!”

Jonah merely smiled. He was an aspiring novelist and loved to write from a very early age. A few people said he had a way with words, but in his own mind, his largest problem was that he could never bring any books to completion. He never could understand why his ideas would start out white-hot in the beginning and then always fizzle out somewhere near the halfway point. In his apartment right now, there were four “novels” that had been all but abandoned. Out of all the people who were privy to his writing aspirations, Nelson was the one who was the most supportive and actually entertained the notion that Jonah could go somewhere with it. This opinion, however, was not shared by all. Several detractors had described his talents as “amateur” and said he needed to focus on a “real” job. For that reason, Jonah couldn't bring himself to be too vocal about it and usually kept it close to the chest.

“I would love to complete a novel, man,” he told Nelson, “but I can't to make it work. Maybe it's just a pipe dream. Not reality, you know?”

Nelson shrugged. “Who knows, Jonah? You could be a great author. And I don't mean one of those who are lost in the shuffle. I mean one that changes the world.”

Jonah looked at Nelson, who was worked up with excitement just thinking about possibilities for Jonah's future. Jonah couldn't help but allow glimmers of the same vision to permeate the negative cloud that shrouded his mind. It'd be great to have the safe haven of a padded chair, a comfortable table, and mounds of paper just waiting to be covered with spellbinding tomes, all-encompassing verses, and thrilling tales that would etch their place in history and remain undeterred in the annals of time.

The exhilarating fire was extinguished when he saw the portly figure of Langton, who heartily inquired about people's days in a thinly veiled attempt to determine how much work they had done. He plopped down into his chair, refreshing the page on his computer.

“It's a nice thought, Nelson, believe me,” he said. “But until 6 p.m. tonight, these reports are the only things I'm authoring.”

At 5:54 p.m., Jonah could swear that the clock had slowed simply to spite him. He had finished all of his work but kept the page up on his laptop to maintain the facade of working. He had learned early on that if you finished your duties early, it did not result in gratitude. It resulted in further work. And he did not want another chore added on, lest he suffer further time in this hell hole. He chanced a glance at the clock once more.

5:55?! Seriously? He knew for a fact that it had been at least five minutes since he last looked at that thing!

He closed his eyes and recited the alphabet with three breaths in between each letter. It was a trick he started in elementary school. It always worked wonders for making time pass, and better yet, he rarely ever finished. It was sure to work. Sure enough, before he had even reached the letter P, Langton called, “Alright, my friends! The workday is now completed! I would like to thank you all for being troopers. Remember, you are helping ALL of us keep our jobs! Good evening.”

Jonah packed his laptop gratefully. That tactic worked every time. He headed for the door, grateful to hear the exit signal's rhythmic chimes.

It was on the third chime that it happened.

Jonah blinked, a natural occurrence that he had done a billion times. Only in this momentary closing of his eyes, he opened them to bear witness to a very strange phenomenon. The world around him—the office, the parking lot, the cars, everything—looked blue.

They were perfectly normal in every other regard, but it seemed as if someone had shaded his vision with cerulean. Alarmed, he glanced around and blinked hard. It made no difference. The blue veil remained.

His eyes shot up to the sky, which now had an even darker hue because of the blue veil over his eyes.

What the hell is going on? he wondered wildly. What had happened? Had he damaged his eyes? Had he suddenly contracted some rare disease that had polarized his eyes and resulted in a permanent tinge of blue?

“Jonah Rowe,” said a voice.

He whirled around. A woman stood there, swaddled in what looked like fading lights. Her hair was dark, made darker by the bluish tinge. Her eyes were wide set and full of fear. She might have been pretty if she didn't look so horrified and desperate.

“Jonah Rowe,” she repeated again.

“What is going on?” demanded Jonah. “Why is everything blue? Who are you?”

“Jonah Rowe,” she said for a third time. Her voice was as strange as her appearance; it sounded like a two or three-part harmony. She also sounded like she spoke to him from several yards away, though she stood right in front of him. “You must help us all. You have the power. Help us. Please.”

Jonah was more confused than ever. “What power? What are you talking about, lady? And tell me why everything is blue!”

“You are the one,” said the woman. “You must help us cross on. He has blocked the path.”

Jonah backed away from her. “Lady, I don't know who you are or who he is, and I don't know anything about any paths! Now tell me what's going on!”

“You must help us! Please, Jonah Rowe! You have the power. Please—!”

She disappeared. It looked as though it had been against her will, like she'd been yanked into thin air. The silence left in her absence seemed even more frightening than her disconnected voice.

Then a cat's meow whipped Jonah around once more, almost like his body was moved in response to the sound.

He now saw, if possible, an even stranger sight. A calico stared at him while pawing at the shin of a tall man that Jonah could have sworn had not been there moments before. He looked to be in his late thirties and was as calm as could be. He looked like this scene was entirely normal. Although the blue color shaded everything, Jonah could tell the man had a ruddy complexion and brownish black hair. His penetrating eyes looked like they could be grey. He had aquiline features and a demeanor that was almost regal. His casually dressed and cloaked form appeared to be shrouded in lights, just like the woman's form had been.

“Yes, Bast,” he said quietly, “I see now. It is indeed him. You have done well.”

His eyes rose to Jonah. “Jonah Rowe,” he said in an ominous tone, “I will be seeing you again. Go home now. Do not leave. I know who you are now. Unfortunately, he does too.”

Jonah stared. Was this some kind of joke? Who was this man? What was the deal with the cat? Why was the man talking to it? And where did he get off telling Jonah to go home and stay there?

“Look, man,” he said, fear and incomprehension blending to form a high-pitched voice most unlike his own, “I don't have a clue what's going on—”

“You do not,” interrupted the man. “But you will, son. You will. Heed my warning.”

Jonah opened his mouth to retort, but the man disappeared in a swirl of light. The calico gave him one more look of appraisal and then dashed into a nearby alley. Jonah blinked again.

Everything was normal. The deep blue sky was the only thing that was that color as the late afternoon gave way to evening. Incoherent chatter, passing cars, and bustling people once again dominated the scene.

Jonah looked around. There was no weird woman, no cat, and no tall, regal-looking man. He blinked again, just to make sure, but nothing had changed. Normalcy was evident in every detail of his environment.

“Um, Jonah,” said an annoyed voice, “if you don't mind, some of us actually have lives to live.”

Jessica was behind him; he was blocking her path. With a jolt, he realized he was back at the threshold of the office, at the exact spot where the weirdness had begun. How was he back where he started? He had moved at least five feet from the door when the world went blue, yet here he was like nothing had happened at all.

“Jessica,” he breathed, “didn't you see that? Didn't you see that blue?”

Jessica rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “I don't know what you've been using, Rowe, but the only thing blue out here is my car.”

She headed to her car, leaving Jonah bewildered and confused. He had barely even registered her snide comment. The only thing blaring in his mind was one question:

What the hell had just happened?

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: T.H. Morris

BOOK TITLE: The 11th Percent (The 11th Percent Book 1)

GENRE: Horror

PAGE COUNT:304

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