JACKSON WALKED DOWN the hallway toward the cell where the female Producer was being held. The male had already been transferred. Yesterday, Benedictine had ordered the two Producers locked up and then had left for home. It was now almost noon the next day. The prisoners had been given no food or water.
He stopped at the cell door. Thankfully, this was not a normal part of his duties. He didn’t like this facility or anything that happened here. It wasn’t right to keep the Producers in this cold, concrete environment. He pounded twice on the door before turning the key and opening it. The female sat, cowering in a corner, her wide brown eyes blinking as the light filtered into the room and sent shadows skittering across the walls.
“Come.” He waved her forward.
She hesitated and then rose, walking to him. He held out a collar. It stank of mustiness and death.
“Is that necessary?” she asked softly, turning her head away from the smell.
“Benedictine’s orders.”
“And you always follow his orders.” She tipped her head, giving him better access.
If he didn’t he would pay, perhaps with his life. He snapped the lock shut a little more forcefully than necessary. The weight made her small shoulders sag. He enclosed her wrists in the metal cuffs attached to long, heavy chains which hung down to her knees. She tried to hold her arms at her waist but the weight was too much and she let them drop to her sides. He stepped aside and motioned for her to precede him down the hallway.
“Where are we going?” She glanced back at him. “Please. What’s going to happen to me?”
You don’t want to know. “Keep moving.” Conversing with her would do neither of them any good.
She stumbled. He grabbed her arm, steadying her.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
She had kind eyes and a nice smile. He was a Guard; she was a Producer. They both had to pay for their place in society. He clenched his jaw and focused over her head as they continued walking. When they reached the end of the hallway, he nudged her to the right. There was a stairwell with a flickering light. Everything was painted gray, the stairs, the walls and the hand rails. It was a depressing color for a terrible place.
She moved slowly down the stairs unable to use her hands due to the chains. She stumbled again and this time he wasn’t fast enough. She fell forward, head first, rolling down three stairs until the wall at a corner stopped her descent.
He hurried after her. She lay still. Benedictine would kill him if she were dead. He had to calm down. He tipped his head and there was the soft sound of her heart beating. He bent and gently shook her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She trembled as she leaned on her arms. She gasped. “My side. Ribs.”
“May I?” He showed her his hands. She could be bleeding internally. It wouldn’t matter in the long run, but he couldn’t help offering this small act of kindness.
She nodded and lifted her arms as high as she could. He gently felt along her ribcage.
“I don’t feel anything broken. Probably bruised.”
She lowered her arms. He placed his hands on her waist, helping her to her feet. She took a deep breath, wincing.
“Come. Benedictine is waiting.” They needed to get moving or he’d be in trouble.
She looked into his eyes again, fear heavy in her gaze. He glanced away but took her arm, guiding her down the stairs. They walked the remaining way slowly and carefully. They stopped at a door and he pushed it open. She glanced at him again, her eyes pleading.
“Come on.” She needed to stop looking at him like that. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t even help himself.
They stepped into a large room with concrete walls and floor. A cage sat to the right, partially blocked by a long, rectangular table covered with a tarp. In front of the cage were three chains hanging from the ceiling. Two were half suspended between the ceiling and floor; the other lay on the ground coiled like a snake. Two staircases, one on each end of the right side of the room, led to a balcony. On the balcony were padded chairs arranged in small groups of two or four with a table in each group. There were also two doors on the opposite side of the room. Both were closed. On the left side of the room were several large, closed coolers. On the wall were panels of switches and cranks.
He directed her up the stairs to the balcony. He couldn’t help her this time, not in front of Benedictine. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and slowly climbed the stairs. At the top he led her to a large table with two chairs. Except for them, the balcony was empty. Benedictine liked to make the victim wait. It increased the tension. She looked back at him. He stared straight ahead, keeping his face impassive. It would be bad for both of them if he showed any emotion.
“Remy!” she called out as she peered over the rail into the cage.
Benedictine’s heavy tread pulled the Producer’s gaze away from her mate. The door flew open and Benedictine strolled over to the table.
Jackson eyed the full bottle of whiskey in the Almighty’s hand. This was not going to be quick. He shot a sympathetic glance at the Producer, but luckily, she wasn’t looking.
Benedictine sat at the table and opened the bottle. He filled his glass half-full and took a large swallow. He sighed and took another smaller drink. His gaze ran up and down the Producer. “Sit.”
She pulled out the other chair and sat, her chains clanking together.
“You’re small for a Producer. Why did we breed you?”
“I…I’m good with the earth.”
Benedictine inhaled sharply. “Yes, now I remember. We had some issues with the land over there. Not surprising, really.” He peered down into the cage. “I don’t understand why none of your offspring took after their father.” He nodded toward a pitcher of water and two glasses which sat on the table. One glass had about an inch of water in it; the other was empty. “Are you thirsty?”
Jackson shifted. Of course, she was thirsty. She’d been left without food or water all night.
She nodded.
“Please, help yourself.” Benedictine motioned toward the glass with water.
She used her left hand to support and lift her right arm as she grasped the glass. Those damn chains were too heavy for her. He glanced at Benedictine to see if he could remove them but Benedictine smirked as she raised the glass and lowered her head to meet it halfway. She drank in huge gulps until it was gone. She set the glass back on the table, eyeing the pitcher.
“Well, then. Enough with the niceties,” said Benedictine.
Jackson clenched his jaw, biting back his words. Allowing a creature a small drink of water was not a nicety.
“Let’s get on to the business at hand. Your missing offspring,” said Benedictine.
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The Producer stiffened but her face remained blank.
“She has eluded us. Hard to believe, I know.” Benedictine drummed his fingers on the table.
She closed her eyes for a moment, relief flashing across her features. That was not a good move on her part.
“I can see you’re relieved,” said Benedictine kindly. “But don’t worry. That doesn’t anger me. I’m a reasonable fellow. I expect you to love and care for your offspring.”
She relaxed a little and looked back at the water. Jackson stiffened, waiting for the blow. He wanted to scream at her that this was not the time to relax. This was when Benedictine struck.
“However, if you really cared for her you’d want her returned to the safety of her home.”
She stiffened and tried to stare straight ahead but her gaze kept going back to the pitcher.
“Please, have some more water,” said Benedictine.
She reached for the pitcher, her hands shaking from the weight of the chains. She attempted to lift it but ended up dropping her arms back at her sides, her throat working as if it had the water.
“Too heavy?” Benedictine picked up the pitcher. He held it over the glass.
She stared eagerly as the water almost made it to the spout of the pitcher.
“Not so fast.” Benedictine tipped it away from the glass. “You do want your offspring back at the encampment. Right?”
She nodded, staring at the water.
“Perhaps we can help each other. Tell me who helped her escape? We found the hole under the fence.”
“She was taken,” she said, licking her dry lips.
“Who is with her now, in the forest?” Benedictine shook the pitcher, the water sloshing inside.
“I, I don’t know.”
“You can do better than that.”
“Truly. I don’t know.” She pulled her eyes away from the water and stared at the Almighty.
Benedictine flung the pitcher across the room. It shattered on the floor, water and glass spreading out in glistening droplets.
Jackson flinched. The Producer’s eyes widened.
“Liar,” shouted Benedictine.
She cowered in her chair.
Benedictine turned toward him. “Take her to the cage.”
Jackson stepped forward, grabbing her under the arm and escorted her down the stairs.
“What’s going to happen to me?” she whispered.
You really don’t want to know. He remained silent, stopping in front of the cage and unlocking the door. She stood frozen in the doorway.
“Get in,” he said gruffly.
She didn’t move. Benedictine was watching from above. He had to do something, so he gave her a gentle shove. She stumbled into the cage. Benedictine chuckled.
He didn’t understand the joy the Almighty found in brutality. He closed the door. “Get back over here.”
Her eyes filled with fear as she walked back to him.
“Put your hands through the bars,” he said softly, holding a key.
She lifted them as high as she could. He crouched down a bit and unlocked the cuffs. She sighed as the weight dropped from her arms.
“Now, your head.” It wasn’t much, but it was the only comfort he could offer.
She leaned forward and he removed the collar. It fell to the floor with a thud. She rubbed her neck. It was red and raw.
“Shove them through the bottom of the cage,” he said.
She bent and gasped.
“Millie, what is it?” asked the male Producer as he walked over to her.
Remy’s shirt was torn and his lip was cut. Dried blood speckled his cheek. The other Guards must have worked him over a bit. Jackson would never allow his Guards to act like that, but he had no control over the Guards who were stationed at the facility.
“My ribs. I fell down the stairs,” she said.
Remy glared at him and shoved the chains and collar through the bars. He bent and retrieved them. He didn’t care if the male thought he’d beat her. He hadn’t and that was all that mattered. He kicked the chains to the side and stood near the cage, straight and silent, mentally preparing for what was about to happen.
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she looked up at Remy and gently touched his broken lip.
“Not your fault. Troy…” Remy looked down at his feet and pressed the toe of one shoe onto the concrete back and forth.
“It’s okay. They haven’t caught her,” she whispered.
Jackson held back his snort. The other classes always underestimated a Guard’s hearing.
The downstairs swinging door made a “swoosh” sound as the Stocker entered the room. He stood, unmoving for a moment except for tapping his foot. He was using the sound to get the dimensions of the room and its contents. All Stockers were basically blind and had no sense of smell. He was a typical specimen of his kind, built short and stout with muscular arms, a large nose and bald head. In contrast his dark eyebrows were so thick and bushy that they grew together over his beady eyes. After a moment, he tipped his head and then walked carefully across the room. He stopped by the table near the cage and grinned, showing crooked, yellow teeth.
Millie and Remy huddled together in the farthest corner of the cage.
Jackson shook his head in disgust. The Stocker couldn’t see the Producers and was smiling to scare them. He wished he were somewhere else. He liked the hunt but this was different. This was cruel. The Producers had no chance.
“The male first,” ordered Benedictine from above.
Three of the facility Guards headed toward the cage, making a wide berth around the Stocker. Guards and Stockers hated each other. It wasn’t uncommon for them to fight to the death, but Guards knew better than to initiate a confrontation in front of an Almighty, even if Stockers didn’t. They entered the cage. These Guards were chosen for brute strength, not brains. They were large and strong and by the anticipation in their eyes, it was clear that they enjoyed their job.
The male Producer stood in front of the female, trembling. Jackson clenched his fists. They could do this differently. Make it kinder. Less stressful.
As the Guards approached, the female pushed back against the wall and snorted in fear, her eyes wide and glazed. One of the Guards grabbed Remy by the arm. The Producer jerked back with all his strength, pulling the Guard forward. The Guard was large, but the Producer was bigger and stronger. Another Guard tapped Remy on the hip with the end of a long pole. A zap sounded and the Producer leapt forward. The Guards marshaled around him and herded him out of the cage. Jackson locked the door behind them.
The female remained cowering in the corner for a moment and then stumbled forward, grasping the bars at the front.
The Guards shoved Remy toward the table. Keeping a wary eye on the Stocker, they stripped the Producer of his clothes. One Guard fastened a chain around Remy’s ankle. The three Guards stepped back as another Guard near the wall flipped a switch. A machine hummed to life, the chain slowly retracting into the ceiling.
Remy looked up, confusion and then panic washing over his features. He bent, pulling and yanking on the metal clasp that bound him, but it was too strong. As the chain ran out of slack he began biting at the lock, cutting his mouth. It grew taut and his leg was lifted behind him. He looked at the female. Despair shone in every aspect of his face.
“No.” Millie screamed, pulling on the bars.
Remy’s leg was yanked out from under him and he dropped to the floor, his hands breaking his fall. He continued to try and pull away, using the strength of his arms as he was slowly raised above the ground.
When his hands no longer touched the floor the Guard at the wall flipped the switch and the chain stopped retracting.
Millie fell silent. Jackson glanced at her. She should turn away, not watch, but she wouldn’t. None of them ever did; neither did he.
Remy twitched and spun in the air. The Stocker lifted the tarp off the table with great flourish, exposing a large selection of tools—bats, poles, brass knuckles, knives, hatchets, saws.
“I want it tender,” yelled Benedictine.
Jackson shuddered. This was going to be a long one. He glanced back in the cage. The female’s eyes were wide and her hand covered her mouth. Probably, to hold in her scream.
The Stocker ran his hand slowly over the tools. He picked up the bat, testing its weight against his hand. As he walked away from the table and toward Remy, he looked over and winked in the direction of the cage. Millie threw up the little water she had drunk.
There was no reason for that. Stockers were notoriously cruel creatures. The other Guards chuckled at his antics. Guards could be cruel too.
Remy’s gaze landed on the bat and he started thrashing about madly and crying out in garbled words. Once he bent almost in half to reach his ankle with his hands. After several moments, he dropped back down and slowly the writhing subsided.
“Are you finished,” asked the Stocker in a pleasant, conversational tone.
Remy nodded slightly.
“Good.” The Stocker swung the bat and cracked the Producer on the unchained leg. He used such force that when the wood connected with Remy’s body the Stocker’s feet raised off the floor several inches. A loud snap sounded.
Remy screamed. The Stocker swung again and hit Remy in the stomach. The Producer gasped for breath. The Stocker continued to reposition himself and beat the male. Remy continued to scream, his agony one long note of pain.
Jackson’s heart pounded. There was a thud from the cage. Millie sat crumpled on the floor, her arms wrapped around herself rocking back and forth. She stared straight ahead, her eyes no longer focused. If only she would die from fear, it would be easier on her. Unable to stop himself, he turned back to the main event.
Time stood still as the sound of flesh being tenderized filled the air along with Remy’s garbled screams. The strong sound of the Producer’s voice had long since died away to whimpers and gurgles as blood spilled out of his mouth and ran off his body. Jackson’s nose twitched at the scent of fresh blood and fear. The hair stood up along his spine. At some point, the Stocker switched tools, trading in the bat for a smaller metal rod and then the rod to the brass knuckles.
Then it was over. The Producer was dead. The only sound now was the soft humming of the female.
The facility Guards paced restlessly. One even licked his lips.
“Get him down,” yelled Benedictine.
A Guard walked over to the wall and flipped the switch. Remy’s battered body crumpled onto the floor in a heap as the chain lowered. The Guard flipped the switch again and the machine stopped.
The Stocker revved a chainsaw and then walked over to the corpse and lowered it to Remy’s hip. The humming ceased and a scuffling in the cage drew Jackson’s attention. The female sat huddled in the furthest corner whispering prayers. It would do her no good. There was no mercy to be found here.