The shrieking of my alarm clock is a dreadful reminder that I have to wake up today. I roll to my left and see my relatively unattractive wife staring back at me. I kiss her on the forehead because my breath smells bad; so does hers.

About 90 seconds later, once I have come to grips with the fact that it’s time to start my day, I put my legs on the floor. I stand up and walk over to the bathroom sink where I can’t stand to look at my own face. I haven’t shaved in three days. Maybe four. A layer of stubble hides the cheeks that aren’t as perky as they once were; there’s no hiding the bags under my eyes though.

Once I’ve finished grooming, I head to my closet and choose which one of my 12 entry-level suits to wear. Three of them have pinstripes, four are gray. Today is a Wednesday, so typically I would wear the navy one with my red tie. Brought together with a white shirt, this combination makes me feel far more important than I really am.

I don’t have enough time for a proper breakfast, but a bowl of granola will do. The clumps of bitter grain taste dreadful, but my wife tells me it helps keep my cholesterol down. By the time I finish eating, my wife is ready for work, and she takes a fruit cup with her to the office. I kiss her again on my way out the front door, this time on the lips. This kiss used to carry me into the work day with an unbridled enthusiasm, a glimmering hope. These days it’s simply a formality, standing between me and the unheated seats of my Hyundai Sonata.

The drive to my office typically takes 18 minutes without traffic, and considering that it’s 6:50 a.m. on a Wednesday, I should be at my desk by ten past seven.

The streets are eerily empty this morning, but my brain is not functioning at a high enough level to be bothered by any irregularities in my droll routine.

The first traffic light I encounter during my commute is always red. At the corner of Park and High street, I can always count on being delayed by 48 seconds while the light allows one, maybe two cars to make their way through the intersection. This morning I am pleasantly surprised and remotely startled to see a green shimmering beacon welcoming me one step closer to the shackles of my desk.

I arrive in the parking lot at 7:03 a.m. Apparently I’m the only person who bothered to show up early today, which means I get first dibs on the toaster. This minor victory is enough to warrant a fist pump while I exit the car. I stare up at the glum square building, the gray brick hasn’t changed a bit since I started working here nine years ago. The windows are too small, and the building looks more like a prison than a place where computer programs are developed.

I walk through the glass front door and push the elevator button. I quickly change my mind and head for the stairs so I don’t feel as guilty about going for a Pop Tart later. The stairs disappear beneath my feet as I come closer to the floor that holds my desk. I push the metal compacting bar with a good amount of force, the heavy concrete door swings open and I stride into the empty sea of cubicles. The lights don’t ever seem to get turned off around here, as the vast space is fully illuminated.

I walk through the aisle passing by empty workspaces until I reach my little cell. My computer has already been turned on, and on the white screen reads a message in red:

Total System Failure.

This is odd. My brain is beginning to wake up, and my thoughts become clearer. Why is my computer on? Where is everyone? I sit at my desk and try restarting it. The system reboots, and on the screen reappears the red message. I try moving the mouse, and a few different key combinations that would normally allow me into the command screen. Everything is frozen, and the message on the screen begins to make my eyes hurt.

I stand up to check my neighbor’s station, and on the screen reads the same message. Maybe it’s just our link. I walk down the aisle, scanning cubicle after cubicle. Each screen I see reads the same message, and my skin begins to tingle. I feel the hairs on my arm come to a point and the pounding of my heart shakes the buttons of my white shirt.

How could the system crash? We run the most advanced security programs available, it must have come from within, or it’s a glitch. I take out my cellphone to call my boss, who should already be in by now.

No service, because of course there’s no service.

My mind races with a thousand different thoughts, none of which make any sense. It is now 7:10 a.m., by which time I should be joined by at least ten other colleagues. I need a Pop Tart. I walk into the community kitchen and grab the box of strawberry flavored cardboard. I unravel the package and drop it into the toaster. The delicious fumes waft through the barren room, I inhale deeply and reach a heightened state of clarity. I suddenly remember that there’s a landline in the kitchen, I lift the phone to my ear, and there is the sound of another human breathing on the other end.

I break the silence after seven seconds.

“Hello?”

I hear more breathing but the person doesn’t respond.

“Is anyone there?” I ask.

Another five seconds pass, and as I finally give up and begin to lower the phone in defeat, a voice emerges from the speaker.

“Wake up, Jeff.”

This sinister message chills me to the core, I collapse on the floor of the kitchen while my Pop Tart start to burn in the toaster.

Blackness follows. I no longer understand where I am or what it is I am supposed to do. I decide that this must be a dream, so I keep my eyes closed. I remember kissing my wife this morning, but I can’t remember her eyes, or if she ever spoke a word to me.

I pinch myself firmly on the wrist, but I remain on the cold tile floor of the office kitchen.

It is time to stand up. I gather my wits and rise to my feet, holding on to the kitchen table. The toaster is billowing smoke now, and I run over to unplug it while the room fills with clouds. I begin to cough uncontrollably, and I run out into the aisles of broken computers. The screens are still white, but the red letters display a new message:

“WAKE UP, JEFF!”

My heart jumps in my chest, and begins to throb at the rate of a hyena who just dropped five tabs of acid.

There is a buzzing in my ears, and I have a pulsating headache. I run down the stairs of my stupid gray building and through the glass doors into the parking lot. My car is still there, unattended and alone in the oversized lot.

The red car sits there in its spot every day waiting for me to come down those stairs and turn my pathetic little key, starting its pathetic little engine. It waits for hours upon hours, just to be driven down the same three roads and sit in my driveway until the next morning when it will do it all again.

A pool of gasoline begins to accumulate beneath the poor little car, one drop at a time it grows larger. I reach into my glove box and withdraw the hidden pack of cigarettes. I take five steps away from the car, pulling my lighter from the inside of my blue coat. The flame catches the front of the cigarette, I flick it into the puddle of fumes and turn around.

I feel the heat on the back of my neck, the hairs are singed off as I run with wild abandon. The buildings of my gray town are now amber, the air is full of soot. I no longer recognize my surroundings, my body functions without the direction of my brain. The legs that were once glued to the swivel chair of a cubicle now move at speeds I never thought possible. The heat continues to build, fueling my feral state.

My suit and tie have long disappeared, I do not recognize the feet that carry me or the hands that reach in front of me. Adrenaline courses through my veins as the city crumbles around me, I am awake.