NORMIE [Chapter 2]

The second chapter of NORMIE, a novel by C.S.M.

C.S.M.

Jul 17, 2024

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Welcome back to NORMIE, a dystopian novel by C.S.M.

If you’re new to this story, start from the beginning.

New chapters are released every Wednesday:

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Here is Chapter 2:

JACK CAMPBELL stood by the closed train doors as the metal carriage rumbled through the District’s underground railway system.

The thumb drive, left behind by the White Rabbit, was buried deep in his coat pocket.

Did anyone see me take the drive? Did anyone notice?

Jack scanned along the train car as casually as possible. Commuters occupied the area by the doors, extending into the aisle running through the rows of seats. Most were glued to their bright phone screens and scrolling absentmindedly. A few watched the overhead display showing a map of the metro system, a Never Forget 11/7 icon in the corner with an animated United America flag waving beside it.

Only half the seats were actually occupied. The other half were piled with trash and food leftovers. A disheveled man at the end of the car sat hunched over, his head swaying with the movement of the train. He held an open bottle loosely in his grip, beer splashing onto the floor periodically. Most of the seated passengers would probably be there all day, members of the half-conscious masses that wandered through the People’s District.

Jack patted his coat pocket, feeling the thumb drive’s hard casing. No one on the train seemed to be paying any attention to him. Regardless, the quicker he got to the office, the better.

Then he could see what was on the drive.

If there even was anything.

A chime sounded from the train’s speaker system, followed by the robotic feminine voice: “Now arriving at Ayers Station.”

The doors parted and a cluster of passengers exited the train. New travelers entered, the last being a middle-aged woman wearing a tailored blazer. She carried a thick book under her arm, wading through the open doors and leaning against a railing. As the train continued to the next station, she opened the book and flipped to a dog-eared page in the middle. The title was written in bold letters across the cover: “Howard’s Coup: The Attempt To Overthrow Our Democracy.”

Jack turned away, stuffing a hand into his coat pocket. Maybe the White Rabbit was crazy. Maybe there was nothing on the drive. Maybe he was clinging to something, anything, to break up his mundane routine.

But he had to get to his office computer and see for himself.

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The train continued through the District’s railway network. Jack stared out the window, seeing nothing but the drab concrete walls of the tunnels, until the speakers announced the arrival at his station.

He slipped out the train doors right as they opened.

Liberty Station’s platform was as crowded as every morning. Hurried footsteps and conversations mixed together into one loud hum. A Never Forget 11/7 banner hung from the ceiling, of course. Jack joined the mob funneling toward the escalators that led to the station’s main hall. Music built as he ascended. It was the music he heard every morning on his commute, the theme for Davenport Daily.

Reaching the top of the escalator, Jack could see the massive screen over the figures ahead. It extended across the entire wall, coming into full view as he stepped into the main hall. Weaving through the crowd, he caught glimpses of the news broadcast.

A chyron appeared across the bottom of the screen:

NEW SONG TO COMMEMORATE 5 YEARS SINCE WHF

Bradley Davenport, United America’s favorite journalist, sat in a plush chair. His hair was formed into a slick pompadour, and rounded glasses were perched on his nose. He had a mournful look etched into his face as he listened to Rebecca Stone.

“It just seemed like time,” Stone said, her trademark blonde hair and candy-red lips standing out against a black gown.

“And the name?” Davenport offered. “Can you speak to the name?”

“The name came to me first, actually. Phoenix. Because that’s what life has felt like since the fire. They destroyed a symbol of our nation, our democracy, but we didn’t let them win. We’ve rebuilt ourselves from the ashes.”

Davenport nodded solemnly. “That we have. You’ve done a brilliant job of capturing that spirit in the song. As I understand it, you plan to perform it for the first time at tonight’s memorial?”

“Yes, and it’s an honor. At the People’s House, alongside our President, feels like the perfect place. I want to support United America in any way I can.”

Jack pushed through the last of the crowd and tapped his coat pocket to make sure the drive was still there.

It’s there. No one saw. Keep moving.

🛒 MERCH SHOP 🛒

He stepped into the bitter outside air, bringing his coat zipper up to full height. Charcoal clouds were settled above the District, sprinkling light rain onto the streets below. The office was only a couple minutes walk now. Tents lined the sidewalks in either direction. Wandering hordes with glazed eyes moved from one commuter to the next, armed with plastic cups and demanding change from those passing by.

At least that’s what Jack assumed they wanted. They spoke in languages he didn’t understand.

He kept moving forward, momentarily delayed by a particularly aggravated wanderer, with each step bringing him closer to the office. His cubicle. His computer.

Turning a corner, the towering headquarters of Concord Industries came into view. Normally he would consider all the ways he could get out of today’s work.

Call in sick.

Say there’s a water leak in his building.

Jump out his apartment window.

But today none of those ideas crossed his mind.

Listen Now 🎧

(Play the “voiceover” at the top of this post to hear the song for this chapter.)

He entered through the massive glass doors and stepped into the lobby. The high ceilings made him feel small, the feeling of isolation only growing as the glass doors closed and the sounds of the city died away. His shoes clicked against the marble floor as he moved toward the elevators.

A sound made him jump back, turning to the lobby’s main desk.

“What?” Jack croaked.

Seated at the desk, the security guard’s head tilted. “I said good morning, sir.”

Jack gripped his backpack straps. “Oh. Yes, good morning.” He nodded and continued to the elevator.

There were a couple other people waiting, each scrolling their phones. When the elevator finally arrived, Jack shuffled inside and pressed the button for floor twelve, then backed into the corner. After one stop at floor eight, the steel doors pulled apart to reveal his employer’s logo on the far wall: “Concord Industries: Ensuring Peace and Safety For The Democratic World.”

Jack suppressed the urge to take the elevator back down and exited instead. He crossed the annex, swiped his FOB at the door on the far wall, and stepped into the office.

The framed photograph of Mr. Concord, a United America pin on his lapel, greeted him silently as he entered. A maze of cubicles stretched across the entire floor, dimly lit by overhead fluorescent lights. The high partitions hid any other employees from view, but the clicking of keyboards meant work had already begun. Jack charged into the maze and maneuvered to his cubicle. Stepping inside, he tore off his backpack and fell into his chair.

Reminders were posted above his desk, the notes written in hurried scribbles. A stack of papers sat in the corner beside a pair of blue-light glasses. He clicked his computer mouse and all three monitors came to life.

The login screensaver changed on its own each day. Yesterday it had been a recent photograph of the United America flag waving above a sold-out Rebecca Stone concert. Today’s photo was five years old exactly: a smoldering pile of rubble that had once been the White House.

News articles scrolled across the bottom of the screen:

The White House Fire: 5 years later

10 Facts About 11/7 That Will Shock You

Howard’s Foiled Plan To End Democracy As We Know It

Jack entered his password and the login screensaver was replaced by his desktop. His email opened automatically and a stream of new messages began to load. Ignoring them, he opened the file explorer and then peered over his shoulder.

Learn More

The entrance to his cubicle was empty. He carefully removed his coat and draped it over his chair, keeping an eye on the entrance, and lifted the thumb drive from the pocket.

He shifted back to his computer and plugged the drive into the USB port. A notification appeared at the bottom of the screen:

Device connected.

With a shaky hand, he reached for the mouse. The events of the morning replayed in his mind: the White Rabbit moving across the station platform, the graffiti symbol sprawled across the concrete floor, the police officer barreling through the crowd.

“Pack your things. You’re fired.”

Jack whipped around.

A coworker stood in the cubicle’s entrance, steam rising from the mug of coffee in his hand.

“We’ve had enough of you around here,” he said, leaning against the partition.

Jack sighed. “Morning, Patrick.”

“I got you, didn’t I? You looked so scared for a second.”

“Of course not,” Jack said, shifting his body to block the drive plugged into the USB port. “But keep working on it and you’ll hit c-suite status soon. Make Mr. Concord proud.”

“Trust the plan, Jack. Trust the plan.” Patrick stepped further inside the cubicle. “You see the Dobson email yet?”

“Nope, just got in.” Jack said, frantically closing the file explorer.

“They moved the projections meeting up to today.”

Jack shook his head. “Of course they did.” He scrolled through his inbox until he found the email from Dobson. The meeting was rescheduled to five-thirty that evening.

“Didn’t we call this last week?” Patrick laughed. “I’ll go grab my chair. We can run through this now.”

“No—”

Patrick paused. “Need a minute?” He checked his watch, its gold bezel matching the thin chain around his neck. “How about in—?”

“Lunch,” Jack said, a lump building in his throat. “Let’s get lunch.” The computer mouse burned in his grip, the cursor flicking back and forth across the screen.

“Now that’s an idea. Look who’s thinking like a c-suite. Where should we go?”

“You pick. I don’t care.”

Patrick’s brow furrowed. “Hmm, how about—?”

“Sounds great.” Jack’s shoe drummed against the carpet.

Patrick’s eyebrows raised as he took a sip of coffee. “Someone’s hungover again. I’ll let you get situated.”

Jack watched as Patrick strolled out of the cubicle. He could apologize later. But he couldn’t wait any longer. Whipping back to his computer, he reopened the file explorer and hovered the cursor over the drive:

Down The Rabbit Hole (D:)

Click.

Three folders appeared:

aStart Here

bDocuments

cMore

The White Rabbit was organized. Jack checked the cubicle entrance again and took a deep breath. He double clicked into the aStart Here folder.

Four files appeared, each numbered:

1. White House Fire.mp4

2. Transcript.pdf

3. 11.7 Timeline.pdf

4. Extended.mp4

Jack raised two fingers to his neck. He could feel his pulse jutting from his skin.

Might as well start with number one.

He kept his email open so he could click away if needed. Then he opened his desk drawer and removed a pair of tangled earphones, plugging them into the computer with knots still tied along the cable.

Taking one last look over his shoulder, Jack moved the cursor over the first file:

1. White House Fire.mp4

He double clicked and opened the video.

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