This Machine Kills (31 page)

   As they got closer, Taylor thought it was hard not to be intimidated by the centre’s presence. Behind the high stone wall that encircled it was an even taller building constructed of giant slabs of dull grey stone. He knew nothing of architecture but marvelled at the way they had managed to build something that perfectly symbolised its use. Everything about the building, from its foreboding walls to the pointed towers that sat on each of its four corners, screamed out that it was a place of punishment. Two large iron doors had been built into the prison’s outer wall, and it was to the two confused-looking sentries who stood guard over them, that Taylor guided the remaining member of his team.

   One of the most important tests in the hiring of guards to work at the production centres was the intelligence exam. Anyone with too high an IQ was instantly dismissed. The ideal candidate for the job was a person who lacked the ability to question their orders; the powers of reasoning were a sackable offence. For them, there would be no grey areas, only black and white. Another essential trait for the job, along with unquestioning stupidity, was a love of brutality. The guards were poorly trained thugs who revelled in the opportunity of having the producers cower to their wills. Other SecForce employees treated them with contempt, and as they lived in residential accommodation only marginally better than the inmates, their status was far from enviable. The guards were all too aware of this, and were happy to take their frustrations out on anyone within striking distance of them.

   When they were twenty feet away, the tetchy-looking guards aimed their rifles and shouted their first warning at the unexpected visitors.

   “Stay where you are,” yelled one, “if you come any closer we
will
fire!”

   Careful to avoid the sniper’s scopes, Taylor grabbed Doyle by the hair and thrust the shotgun under his chin. He looked out from behind his hostage so the sentries could see his face.

   “Do you know who I am?”

   He’d always wanted to say those words but had assumed the situation would have been more glamorous.

   One of the guards nodded, “You’re Taylor, you killed Freddie Milton’s wife. You’re fucked dude.”

   The guard looked to his compatriot, “It’s fucking Taylor bro.”

   “That’s right, I’m Taylor and I’m not in the mood to fuck around. I want whoever is in charge of this place out here in the next two minutes or I’m going to blow this motherfucker’s brains out.”

   The other guard, who up to that point hadn’t said a word, decided to break his silence.

   “Big deal,” he shrugged,  “I don’t even know who the fuck he is.”

   This was the answer that Taylor had been dreading.

   After considering his words, the guard spoke again, “Who the fuck is he?”

   Taylor released the breath he had been holding in, “He used to be part of my team, he’s a SecForce employee just like you.”

   The guards looked at him with blank stares; they were clearly not impressed.

   “You swore an oath to protect your colleagues when you joined up,” he told them, trying not to sound too desperate.

   After a long silence, the first guard shook his head, “You’re going to kill your own man… Shit, that’s brutal.”

   He slowly took his radio from his belt and spoke into it, “This is the main doors, we’re going to need Mr Richardson out here. We’ve got trouble.”

   “Tell him he’s got ninety seconds,” Taylor added.

   It was more like five minutes before Richardson finally appeared from behind the doors, yet considering it had worked at all, Taylor was more than happy to overlook his poor time-keeping. He wore a smart, grey suit and had a thick mane of white, slicked back hair. He was good looking for his age and despite the slight paunch, was in good shape for a man that must have been close to sixty. He came through the doors unescorted, and without a hint of fear, walked straight up to Taylor and held out his hand.

   “Good morning to you,” he said confidently with a cheery note to his voice, “I’m Mr Richardson, the manager of this centre, and you must be Taylor. Tell me, how can I help you?”

   When no hand was forthcoming, Richardson quickly lowered his own without looking the slightest bit ruffled. Taylor could see he was going to play things cool.

   “Listen carefully to me,” he said, “because I’m not going to repeat myself. I have been framed for the murder of Freddie Milton’s wife. I’ve been out in this shit-hole for the past two days trying my best not to get killed… If those fucking animals catch me, I swear they’ll rip me apart.”

   “And how do think I can help you?” Richardson answered, smiling.

   “I want to take my chances back in the City,” Taylor said, “at least there I can prove I’m innocent.”

   Richardson gave him a solemn nod before responding,

   “I see. So what you’re saying is you’d like to surrender yourself to my custody and hopefully we can sort this mess out. Am I correct?”

   “No,” Taylor said calmly,  “you’re very fucking incorrect. What I want is for you to get Freddie Milton down here so I can explain what’s happened, to him.”

   Richardson smiled politely, “I’m sorry but Mr Milton is a very busy man, it would be impossible to get him here just like that. If you give yourself up to me, I promise no harm will come to you.”

   “Too busy,” Taylor shouted, making Richardson take an involuntary step away from him, “he thinks I killed his wife, don’t tell me he’ll be too fucking busy to see me. Now either get him down here or I’ll decorate your walls with this prick’s brain.”

   Richardson adjusted his tie, “I’m sorry Mr Taylor but that’s not going to happen. Either give yourself up now or I’m going to close the doors and you can fend for yourself.”

   Taylor dug his shotgun further under Doyle’s chin, forcing his head to tilt even further towards the sky, “And what about him, are you happy to have his death on your conscience?”

   Richardson shrugged, “It would be a shame if you killed him, it really would… but I guess we’ll just have to put it down as collateral damage.”

   He made a grand gesture of checking the time on his expensive-looking watch, “Please make up your mind, I’ve got lots to do today.”

   When he could see that Taylor wasn’t going to play ball, Richardson gave a final, less graceful smile, then turned his back on him with the intention of retiring to the centre. Before he had taken a step, Taylor pushed Doyle away and in the same movement, before the snipers could get a
shot off,
he grabbed Richardson by the back of the collar and pulled him into the exact position Doyle had been in a second before.

   “Now then,” Taylor whispered into his ear, as he dug the shotgun under his chin, “lets try that again shall we? And if I were you I’d choose your words very carefully.”

Chapter 25

   Christopher ran the truncheon along the rows of vertical steel bars as he slowly walked down the corridor. The repetitive drilling sound the weapon made was only temporarily silenced when he reached the open doors of each of the cells. The evicted residents now stood outside their homes, shooting each other nervous glances.

   Instead of the pandemonium he was expecting on the cell doors opening, Taylor had instead watched as people slowly emerged from behind the bars in bemused silence. Some, perhaps thinking it was some sort of trap, didn’t come out at all but instead sat huddled on their beds with a protective arm over their partners and children. It was more like a  wake than a party.

   When he got to the end of the corridor, Christopher stood within inches of the guard who had stayed rooted to his position since the small group of ragged soldiers had charged in minutes before. He stared up into the face of the man who towered over him by a good six inches like a drill instructor weighing up his latest recruits.

   “What have we got here?” he coolly asked the bigger man.

   The apprehensive guard chose to stay quiet.

   “You think you’re pretty smart don’t you, treating these people like shit?” he looked back to the worried men and women who stood outside their cells, still not knowing what to do with themselves.

   “Well maybe it’s time someone shit on you.”

   Again Christopher turned to his captive audience. A couple of the braver ones did as he hoped and shouted their support for his threats of violence.

   “There you go,” he said at the sound of their cheers, “looks like they want to see justice done too.”

   He drew the truncheon back above his head, then after just enough of a pause to get more of the producers baying
for blood, brought it down in the direction of the guard’s head. Before it could make contact with his skull, the truncheon stopped in mid air as if someone had frozen him to the spot. Christopher turned to see Taylor tightly gripping the shaft of the weapon.

   “That’s not what we’re here for,” he said, grimacing from the pain in his battered ribs.

   Sensing his fun was over, Christopher half-heartedly tugged at the weapon in the pretence of putting up a struggle.

   “It’s time to go,” Taylor said through gritted teeth, “Jacob will be waiting.”

   Richardson’s actions after becoming Taylor’s hostage proved the man was no fool. No sooner had he become a prisoner, than he ordered his men to put down their guns and do whatever the new arrivals wanted. Jacob and the others quickly scrambled out of their hiding place and within seconds were being escorted by Richardson and his wary men into the centre. It was the most successful reverse jail-break Taylor could remember.

   After sending Doyle to the infirmary to get treated for his injuries, the small team was reduced even further in size, when they were split into two groups. Whilst Jacob led his men into the purpose built manufacturing sector, Taylor and his posse headed to the original part of the prison, used to house its many residents. There was a good reason for the tactics that had been adopted, as the daily life of the centre’s inhabitants had also been split neatly into two. They spent twelve hours a day working on the production lines and the other twelve resting in their cells, or dorms as they were now called.

   To ensure maximum productivity and make best use of the limited space, there were two separate shifts in all of the centres. Whilst one group worked, the other slept. When the people who had just finished their twelve hours of labour finished their stint, they would go back to the dorms and jump into the still-warm bed that the resting occupant had vacated minutes earlier. The sharing of space in this way meant the centres only had to provide half the number of beds and more importantly, they were productive twenty-four hours a day.

   The people who shared the same space never even met each other, as the strict shift structure never allowed them any time together. The only time they would see their co-habitors was when the two shifts would cross each other in the corridor that linked the manufacturing sector to the accommodation block. As the residents were not allowed to keep photographs in their cells, it was doubtful they even knew the identity of their bedmates.

   The accommodation block was set into three wings. The first was home to men, the second to women and the third to families or couples trying to reproduce. It was to the former, that Taylor and his men first ventured. Even though the guards had all laid down their weapons, Richardson sent his head warden (a fat greasy fuck named Spencer), to accompany Taylor. His job was to act as a hostage just in case the other guards fancied trying any heroics.

   No sooner had Jacob left them for the manufacturing sector, than Christopher started goading the sweating mass. Taylor suddenly felt like he was back in charge of Rudy and Lennox again. As he warned Christopher to keep cool, he wondered why Jacob hadn’t taken his stooge with him. Perhaps he didn’t believe in him as much as he liked to make out. 

   The lights in the block were dimmed to such a level that it took a few minutes before his eyes could fully adjust. Even though the sun was at its brightest outside, all the windows had been blacked out so the only light available came from the subdued lamps that hung above them. Taylor had to warn Spencer, who no doubt knew the place like the back of his hand, to slow down as he struggled to keep up with him. On a couple of occasions he painfully bumped his shins against the fire extinguishers that hung on the walls. The reason for this enforced darkness was that the block was now home to the night watch, the unfortunate ones who did their twelve hours of graft in the early hours.

   It had been quickly discovered that the sun that shone through the resident’s windows prevented the night watch from sleeping properly as they tried to rest. This meant that when they returned to work their productivity was compromised. To combat this, all natural light was banished from the centres so neither watch knew whether it was night or day. After a short period of adjustment their bodies fell into the ritual of sleeping soundly when they weren’t working, regardless of what hour it was. Productivity on the night shift quickly matched that of the day.

   Unfortunately this meant that none of the residents ever got to see the sun, rain or any other meteorological phenomenon. Taylor couldn’t imagine this lack of natural light being beneficial to the residents’ health. Most of them resembled zombies; painfully thin with drawn, sunken eyes and almost translucent skin. He was yet to clap eyes on anyone who looked even close to fifty.