It was three days after the Overload. That was my name for it, at least, since there seemed to be no one else who could call it anything.

I walked through the sliding doors at the front of an Office – more of a monolithic tower of steel and glass – half expecting them to slice me in half. The main lobby was cavernous, and my footsteps echoed eerily off of the walls. It was dead silent.

The elevators to the left and right worked by sensing a shift in weight – so the computers would know someone was there. Call me paranoid, but call me alive.

I took the stairs.

I stepped out onto floor fifteen, where the work stations were. I turned to the left, opened a door, and suddenly felt bile rocketing its way upward from my stomach. Inside was a limp body, encased in its work node. The room was dark and the stench of putrefaction reached my nose.

I quickly closed the door and leaned over the balcony. The fifteen-story drop didn’t help my nausea.

Still, there was the rest of the floor to check.