[ WP ] People start disappearing during a normal office day .

Aaron ’ s legs were numb. The leather-bound swivel chair he sat in for eight hours a day gasped for air, and his computer screen daunted his already dry eyes. It was 3:28—his pupils had a tendency to do laps with the second-hand of his watch for the last hour and a half of work. All day he heard mouse clicks, phone calls, and keyboards playing like a radio he wished he never bought. His eyes did another lap before closing for a slight second. What better time in the day for coffee than 3:30? 
 
 He let his chair breathe as blood rushed to his feet for the first time in what seemed like a year. His eyes now peered over the cubicles able to see the whole office, all seventeen workers, including his boss. Same people. Same spots. Every day. 
 
 With scolding hot coffee that had been sitting on the burner for too long in one hand, and a napkin for the predicted spillage in the other, he took the thirty-eight steps from the break room back to his cubicle. A five-foot by five-foot fortress built with flimsy walls and no privacy that he called his second home—pathetic, really. When he returned, his chair took another gasp of air to last the remaining workday, and his legs began to deaden again as he leaned back in his seat. Cringing in pain at the first sip of coffee, he licked his lips and went to set it down next to his keyboard, when he noticed a slip of paper. 
 
 With a sore lip and wary hand, he picked up the sheet, glanced over his shoulder, and then began to read. 
 
 > Dearest Worker, 
 
 > How cowardly of me to leave a note instead of exchange a hand shake. My apologies. My name is insignificant to the events that will slowly unfold within the next hour and a half. All you really need to know about me is that I wrote this note for you—only you. You can ’ t stop the countdown, but you can surely join if you would like. 
 
 > Sincere Condolences. 
 
 As the voice in Aaron's head punctuated the last syllable, a voice interrupted. 
 
 “ Hey—uh, ” his boss stuttered, “ I was headed outside for a smoke, and the door is locked. Or something is blocking it. Did one of you do that? ” 
 
 Every eye in the office looked at each other waiting for an explanation, but with every second of silence, the anxiety grew in the room. Aaron could smell the curiosity and nervousness heat up, like it was sitting on the coffee burner. 
 
 “ Okay, ” he continued, “ I ’ ll just call maintena— “ 
 
 *Flick. * 
 
 The lights were gone. The computers were off. The telephones were useless—all in once second. As panic emerged, so did a crowd around the door. They all took turns jiggling the handle, beating on the door, and even trying to knock it down—all with no avail. 
 
 It was at that time that Aaron stepped back from the crowd of coworkers pulling at each other ’ s hair, who were individually trying to figure out the divine door in front of them. And with his final step, no more than ten feet from the door and the small rumble of people, he froze—for he realized there were only sixteen left.
