Don't Touch the Button
By Chris Meyer
A&F Writer

A&F Writer
The room was smaller than Sean had imagined it. About twenty feet square, the room was enclosed in cheap-looking sheet metal, along with the door he had just entered through and a great black one on the opposite side. Up above, the ceiling didn’t even seem to be there; the sky was the deepest blue imaginable, and white clouds rushed by like high-speed automatons.

Staring up, he eventually recognized a super-thin white lining which must have been supporting a glass ceiling that shielded the room from the elements. He followed the supports back to the metal wall, which he had another look at and finally decided weren’t cheap after all; they were just simple and unadorned, functional but nothing else.

Suddenly remembering why he was there, Sean met the gaze of the three men standing in front of the giant control panel in front of him – it was so huge and intricate that it took up the entire left side of the room – and thought it best to go over and join them.

“Hi, I’m Sean Hunter. This is my first day on the job?” He still sounded a little unsure of himself, as if he felt he didn’t deserve to be there.

“Oh, right, Sean,” one of the men began. His easy smile deflated any tension in the room. “Come on in. Great to have you aboard, we’ve heard a lot about you.” They shook hands. “My name’s Phil, I’ll be training you today. That’s Greg over there. Now that you’re here Rob can go home – there have to be at least three people in here at all times.”

“Yeah, so make sure you’re never late,” Rob chuckled.

Sean looked back up at the ceiling. He was pretty sure that if the metal walls weren’t there, they would be surrounded by infinite blue sky. His suspicions were confirmed as he saw Rob put on his jacket, open the great black door to a vast blue expanse and jump over the edge. The door swung shut.

“Actually today is kind of a momentous occasion,” Phil said over his shoulder. “This is Seymour’s last day on the job; he’s retiring. I believe he’s worked here longer than any of us, and commands a great deal of respect. He should be in any moment; let’s familiarize you with the job first, though.”

They sat down in front of a maze of round buttons and blinking lights. “So… does this control everything?” Sean’s eyes grew wide.

“Well, almost everything. There are a couple facets that even we don’t have clearance on, but we’ve got enough to keep us busy. Rain, snow, heat waves… that slider over there is for different levels of gale force winds.

Better be careful with it, though.

One time Pete used it without realizing what he was doing and… well, it was pretty funny, but Bolivia wasn’t happy, I’m sure…”

Sean was looking elsewhere. “Hey, is that red button over there what I think it is?” It was larger than the other ones and had a picture of a human skull on it.

“Oh, that’s the Rain of Death and Destruction button. Don’t press it.”

“Sure thing… uh, why do we even have that?”

“You know, it’s never really been explained to us… hey, here’s Seymour.”

A weary-eyed old man entered the room with a six-pack of Miller and the smell of whiskey on his breath. He huffed over to the control panel and eyed the other three. “Alright Greg, go on home. I’ll — hic — take it from here.” Greg looked a little uneasy. This wasn’t exactly what they were expecting.

“Go on, get out of here, son! You think an old man can’t handle his work?” Greg got up and left.

Seymour turned to Sean. “You must be the new kid,” he slurred. “Well great then, you get to see where you’ll end up forty years from now!” He opened a beer and slugged it down faster than he’d spoken his last sentence.

“Mr. Zellaby, sir, are you alright?” Phil cracked a nervous smile.

“Just fine, Philip,” he said, trying to put his hand on Phil’s shoulder but missing by about two inches.

“This job has taken everything I had, but, you know, it’s fine…” his voice trailed off, watching one of the monitors labeled “Oceania” with glazed eyes.

Presently he sat down, tossed his empty can aside and cracked another one open.

“Um… Sean, I should mention that, technically, we’re not allowed to bring in alcohol or show up intoxicated,” Phil said, eyeing Seymour nervously. “It’s not, well… it’s not exactly safe…”

“Ah, to hell with safe!” Seymour blustered. “Let them fire me! They might as well have, I’ve got at least another good ten years left in me!

After all I’ve done… call it a retirement will they?! Bah!” He sipped in angry silence.

“Um…” Phil attempted after a moment, “Mr. Zellaby, perhaps you’d like to share some words of wisdom with… Sean, here…?” He realized his mistake almost as soon as he’d finished his sentence.

Now Seymour’s eyes glistened menacingly. “Say… suppose they let me go because they were hiring this kid here? Wouldn’t that be nice!” He burped.

Sean crept backwards from off of his chair. “Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t imagine they would do something like… I mean, I don’t know… they wouldn’t…”

“How the hell would you know?!?” He pulled a full Miller from its plastic ring and hurled it at Sean, who barely ducked it. Seymour already had another in his hand by the time Phil grabbed him from behind.

“Mr. Zellaby, you have to settle down! Think of the damage if you hurt the machine! Why, the weather—”

“Hang the weather!” Seymour managed to shake Phil somewhat and throw his can straight up at the skylight – why, he himself didn’t even know.

The can bounced off a glass pane and landed sideways on the very top shelf of the machine. It rolled off along the side, then rotated and slowed right above a foot-long drop onto the red button with the skull on it.

“Holy Lord, grab that can!” Phil screamed. Sean scrambled over to the machine but stopped in front of it, not wanting to disturb it. Phil let go of Seymour and ran over as well, reaching out but to no avail.

Ever so slowly, the can approached the edge of the shelf, seemed to look over, then plunged down upon the button.

There was a simple clicking sound, and the beer bounced and rolled away. The button remained depressed.

The sky suddenly darkened to ashen gray. The clouds still flew by, but every now and then reflected a glowing red from god-knows-where.

A faint rumbling came from somewhere below. The monitors went fuzzy and gauges flipped out. The three looked at each other, eyes wide and fearful, and then the other two looked at Seymour.

“Well… now we know what the button does,” he said, wincing.

And the world burned. What cost, carelesseness?

Let us drink. Let us become senseless. Let us, at the least, destroy.