text: [Themes: modern]
  
  It's 10:45 am. You're hard at work in your cubicle on the 95th floor of your building. Things have been fairly hectic at the office, but all in all you're content with your job. You make enough money to support your wife and four-year-old daughter, and your social life's not bad. You've been hitting the gym more often, too.
  
  You look at the financial reports on your computer screen. Just 15 minutes more and they'll be finished. Then you can grab lunch with Donna and Charlie. Maybe the Bears game is-
  
  You stand up at your cubicle and look out into the hallway at the end of the room. Five masked gunmen holding machine guns rush into the room, screaming and spraying the room with bullets. You immediately duck underneath your desk and close your eyes. Dear G-d, how could this be happening?
  
  You hear screams of agony over the *blam* *blam* of the bullets. A warm liquid gushes underneath the divider between your cubicle and the guy who works across from you. You try not to choke as you realize it's his blood, pooling on the floor and going into your nose. You lie there, praying that you don't get shot.
  
  After what seems like an eternity, you hear a voice.
  
  "All right, that's it. On to the next room!"
  
  You stay silent as you hear their footsteps get quieter and quieter as they walk away. The lights have all been smashed and the room is silent. After several more minutes, you carefully extricate yourself from underneath your desk.
  
  You look around the room. The room is about the size of a basketball court and filled with cubicles, with a door at the end of the room leading to the hallway. Sunlight streams in through the windows, but only so far; long deep shadows make the inner part of the room somewhat dark; easy enough to see, just dark enough to need a light for reading.
  
  Dead bodies of your co-workers litter the room. You're sure there are no survivors. You pick up the phone to call 911, but the lines are cut. Your cell phone, for whatever reason, gets no signal, and the Internet is down. You have no way to contact anyone else. You need to escape.
  
  > go to the janitor's closet
  You head to the janitor's closet. Inside there's a broom, a mop cart, and several bottles of bleach labeled DANGER: Highly Corrosive material. Ideally, you'd love to bring both, but there's no container to bring just a portion of the bleach. You either bring the broom and have a melee weapon, or lug around the entire bottle of bleach, which you could use to burn anyone who tries to hurt you. Both have the same weight, and you could do some damage with either one if you needed to. Which do you bring?
  
  It's 10:45 am. You're hard at work in your cubicle on the 95th floor of your building. Things have been fairly hectic at the office, but all in all you're content with your job. You make enough money to support your wife and four-year-old daughter, and your social life's not bad. You've been hitting the gym more often, too.
  
  You look at the financial reports on your computer screen. Just 15 minutes more and they'll be finished. Then you can grab lunch with Donna and Charlie. Maybe the Bears game is-
  
  You stand up at your cubicle and look out into the hallway at the end of the room. Five masked gunmen holding machine guns rush into the room, screaming and spraying the room with bullets. You immediately duck underneath your desk and close your eyes. Dear G-d, how could this be happening?
  
  You hear screams of agony over the *blam* *blam* of the bullets. A warm liquid gushes underneath the divider between your cubicle and the guy who works across from you. You try not to choke as you realize it's his blood, pooling on the floor and going into your nose. You lie there, praying that you don't get shot.
  
  After what seems like an eternity, you hear a voice.
  
  "All right, that's it. On to the next room!"
  
  You stay silent as you hear their footsteps get quieter and quieter as they walk away. The lights have all been smashed and the room is silent. After several more minutes, you carefully extricate yourself from underneath your desk.
  
  You look around the room. The room is about the size of a basketball court and filled with cubicles, with a door at the end of the room leading to the hallway. Sunlight streams in through the windows, but only so far; long deep shadows make the inner part of the room somewhat dark; easy enough to see, just dark enough to need a light for reading.
  
  Dead bodies of your co-workers litter the room. You're sure there are no survivors. You pick up the phone to call 911, but the lines are cut. Your cell phone, for whatever reason, gets no signal, and the Internet is down. You have no way to contact anyone else. You need to escape.
  
  > play dead and wait for the police
  You want nothing more than to survive, and although it sucks, playing dead, lying in a pool your friend's blood seems to be the safest route.
  
  Hours and hours pass as you wait there. Your friend's blood has coagulated. You feel it sticking to your face and clothes. But you don't dare move a muscle. What if the gunman come back.
  
  You hear more gunfire from the hallway, but stay silent. You hear footsteps growing louder and louder until you hear the door to the room open.
  
  "Anyone here?" someone shouts. "I, uh, we're the police, so, get your asses up so we can help you."
  
  You don't need a written invitation. You almost leap up from under your desk and jump up in the air. "I'm here! I'm here!" you scream.
  
  In your ecstasy you don't realize that cops normally don't wear balclavas. And when they point guns, they point them at the bad guys, not you.
  
  You're hit once in the chest and fall underneath your desk. Your blood gushes from your chest and mixes with the dried-yet-sticky blood of your friend's. You close your eyes, never to open them again.