by Dan Yaeger
The wounded fighter held his side and his wounded ego as he winced with pain for a moment. The word had got out that the survivor had almost had him. It pissed him off, no-end. “Yo’ seein’ this?” he looked darkly at the Doc who understood the multiple meanings.
“Look, I know you’ve been hurt, on many levels,” you had to hand it to the Doc, who was manipulating the fighting man to his will. Siro nodded vigorously and looked at the ground. The strong man chewed his nails and looked for some insight or revelation from the floor. Rob folded his arms and looked distant.
Even though it was with done with a knife, Siro’s injury showed he could be done-in. His peerless killer reputation was diminished in his fight with Jesse and it had damaged his ego, drive and loyalty. Rob and the others had been affected too; if the world dished out men that could take Siro, they were more vulnerable than ever. “Mate, we aint feelin’ safe anymore, no-one is,” Rob said matter-of-factly. Rob didn’t say much, but when he did speak his mind, it could often be succinct and clever.
Even Elsom nodded. Siro scratched his shaved head and swept his hand down across his face and onto his chin, deep in thought. He sighed. The former cage fighter wanted to get out of the Rock and do his own thing. He would never fight for sport again, fight for someone else’s cause again or march to anyone else’s drum. At least that was what he had resolved in that moment. Sirocco was a man ready to move on. “I gotta go somewhere with that saucy little mamma, make life and live.” he concluded to himself as he stared down the Doc.
Especially after Price’s death and the terror of the battle to seize the Survivor, Siro was feeling different about things. Feelings had formed with Dimitra and he felt the natural, irrepressible urge to make some babies and farm like his family had in Brazil for many generations.
The Doctor was very nervous but took the moment when Siro was obviously in contemplation and said, “We are safe here under my leadership. You are.” The Doc gestured with his clumsy, fat hands.
“OK, let’s all calm down and treat each other with manners please. We are all gentlemen here.” He was trying to diffuse the situation and was doing a decent job; he had their attention and gaze once more.
“Sirocco; we will have a cure in about a week. I tell no lies when it comes to a cure. I can assure you. Our place here has not been so precarious since we were setting up. You can validate the cure is coming with Angela and Raj; they will tell you.“ The Doc played on to an audience that was back under his spell for a moment.
He sighed and took another sip of tea.
Penfould’s seeming honesty was appreciated, despite the contrived pomp and poised deportment it was delivered with. Siro and Rob were listening for that moment and Elsom never thought about doing anything but taking orders.
The Doc felt his plan to cure some of the people was still best but it would jeopardise his control. He didn’t really know if a cure would come from Angela’s work. But he had to at least put it on her and be seen as the sponsor and supporter of the work. That way, if the incompetent nurse could not deliver, he was making best efforts, despite his people. That was how he would position it. His narrative was coming together. “Here is the plan gentlemen: all resources will be devoted to defence and the pursuit of a cure. All of you will defend and patrol, Angela and Raj will work night and day on a cure and I will look after any medical needs myself,” the three men nodded. He had them back under his yoke, if only for a moment. His quick thinking may have saved his life; Siro was not sure what he was going to do to the Doc prior to the meeting.
What was becoming clear to the Doc, lord and master of the prison that was the Rock, was that without a cure or at least its imminent promise, he would lose everything. There was no turning back. If he didn’t give them something, he would have a revolution on his hands. Penfould did what he always did, pretend he knew with self-confidence until he did or he could steal the idea.
“But let’s park that for now shall we?” he nodded to himself because no-one else’s opinion really mattered to him. Despite the lack of detail, timeframe or future vision, all three men agreed. The Doc almost smirked and moved on.
“Rob: how are our milk supplies? Did you talk to Raj” he gave a forced smile, exposing his yellowed, crooked teeth and a waft of bad breath. “Doc, Raj says we got over 300 units.” Rob looked at him, with momentary eye-contact. “What? 300 units?! Man did you go to public school? Can you count? We’ve never had 300 units!” Penfould cracked the weak joke and smiled, looking around for approval and no-one responded to the poor humour, particularly not Siro. Sirocco would have killed to have a soft, innocent childhood in an Australian public school. In place of an Aussie school, the Doc just discredited, he had faced the brutal streets of Sao Paolo, Brazil. He resented the comment and the fact the Doc was too stupid, despite all of his school ties and reputed pedigree to understand the logistics as to why their milk situation was what it was. “A’ course he can fuckin’ count! Yo' can’t count bitch!” Siro felt he had to assert his intellect, a resource he built through hardship and natural ability. He would show that spoilt brat.
“Tha’ reason,” Siro shouted, “we got so much is ‘cause we got no mouths to feed, man. The same group ‘o women an’ fewer people in the squads. All o‘em dead, Doc”. He made his point and it was clear he ended on top.
Siro’s comments, of the dead, reminded him of his lost friend. It softened him and he again thought of a more simple life; he and Dimi. She was fast becoming all that was lovely and good in the world. He thought of the mamma he loved, lost and missed back in Brazil. “What would she think of me now?” He thought in that moment. He quickly snapped back to reality, just like he was in the fighting cage, as the Doc responded.
“I see.” The Doc looked solemn and a little scared. “Siro is right Doc,” Rob said with a mild amount of confidence. “We ‘ave exactly 320 units, the milk fridge is full and more is coming in tonight. We’ll have to put it in the freezer or store it with the food fridge which is empty. Food is low, Doc.” Rob concluded. “Well that is marvellous. Some good news indeed,” Penfould ignored the food situation and offered a tea to Rob who accepted. “Yes, thanks mate,” the young man smiled a little, humbled that the Doc would make him a brew. He hadn’t ever been offered a tea by the Doctor and had not tasted the refreshing taste of a good tea in many weeks.
Back to old habits; Dr Penfould poured someone a tea for the first time in a long time. He was good at pouring the tea and turned the cup the right way on the saucer before handing it to Rob who was taken aback by the gesture. Such clumsy hands had practice pouring tea; an important factor in an Asian household in Western Sydney. Penfould had other things on his mind and hadn’t realised the significance of what he had done and never would. His hold over that place and his control over its people were demonstrably diminished. “Yes, a defensive stance and controls over everyone.” Penfould said to no-one in particular. “Aren’t yo’ fuckin’ listening?” Sirocco broke the almost respectful air in the room. “The kid says we don’t got no food! We need yo’ Squad 4 to stop lookin’ for paintings and shit and get food.” Sirocco was tired of indulging the pathetic, egotist who was fast losing power. The strong fighter was irritated that every time the Doc was given back the controls, the real issues were ignored. Food, for example, was staring their not-so-fearless leader in the face and the Doc was doing nothing with it.
Food was an essential and even the arrogant Dr Kian Penfould had to bow to necessity. He had nothing if not rat cunning. “Very well then. Siro: you take Squad 4 out for a foraging mission into Cooleman. Will you do that for all of us?” Penfould asked, the closest to a personal request Sirocco would ever get. “Once you are back you can defend, my vanguard, until the cure is presented. Then we don’t have to fear the zombie menace biting us and tipping our immune systems into turning. Sound OK?” The plan had a little long-term vision and acting on the very topical issue of food. Siro was on side again.
“Ok, Doc, we do it.” Sirocco
said with a degree of compliance; but he wasn’t finished. “When I get back, I want a needle for me and for my woman. The cure, Doc, just like you promised.” He leant across the table intensely. The other two men watched on in the clash of wills, the Doc nodded and it was clear that he agreed to the deal. In an uncommon and never to be repeated act, the Doc extended his hand and Sirocco shook it.
The Doctor, buoyed by success, turned his renewed confidence to Sirocco. “Let’s put him in his corner again.” Penfould thought to himself. “Sirocco; go now too. Get your squad together and go find us some food.” He said with self-importance.
For then and there, the Doc was satisfied no mutiny would happen. Sirocco left the room, slamming the door with a booming finality.
The three remaining men were all relieved; Siro was one less risk for them to collectively manage. The Doc decided to divide and conquer; time to get Rob out of there.
“Rob: please return to the Pen and look after the women. We are in a state of martial law, after all.” Rob couldn’t think of a better place to be; away from the Doc and near Alicia. “Sure Doc, can I go now?” The Doc looked at him a moment and realised he had an opportunity to waste the young man’s time and reassert himself. “No, you can wait for further instructions”. The Doc smirked and Rob shrugged.
“On to Elsom,” thought the Doc who lit his pipe, regarding the young man. “How will I placate him?” The Doc thought to himself as he puffed on the acrid smoke. He gave Elsom too much credit as they sat there and looked momentarily at one another, awkwardly. The Doc reviewed the young Elsom; wiry, strong-ish, well trained but ugly with his acne scars and bad skin. Then it came to him, the Doc had an idea; “I can make a new Maeve! Maybe even better than Maeve?” He thought in an instant. His false smile emerged and he looked at Elsom; the good little soldier. His good little soldier.
“Elgin is it?” the Doc asked Elsom. “Elsom, sir.” Elsom said frankly and knew the Doc knew his name but played a game with him to diminish his person and confidence. “Elson then,” the Doc just could not help himself so Elsom indulged him with the additional forced error. “Yes, sir?” he waited. “I want you to be in charge of defending the Rock. You are now my head of security.” Elsom looked surprised and happy. “Thank you, sir.” Elsom smiled and stood from his seated position, only to salute at attention and then assuming a military-styled “at-ease” position. Penfould loved it and smiled at his power and authority being acknowledged; refreshing for him.
“Your first duty is to organise Squad 4 into patrols around the perimeter,” Elsom looked quizzically to Rob who rolled his eyes. Elsom looked back toward the Doc and slowly shook his head, about to say something. The gesture was as if to say “I don’t get it”. The Doc looked perplexed and then realised his plan was flawed.
“Of course, that will commence when Sirocco brings the squad back after scavenging.” He tried to recover but it was clear he was not piecing everything together as a leader should. “In that meantime, go to the pen and meet with your girl. Get your gear sorted and your wick polished!” he smiled dirtily, laughed with his honking, awkward laugh and slapped his thigh. Elsom smiled.
“Go find Barlow too. That portly man has things to do, like going to the basement and checking on my friends down there.” He melded his intended words with what should have been an inner monologue.
“Yes sir,” Elsom said. “But what friends are you referring to, sir?” The Doc looked cold and stared at Elsom and then Rob, pained and squinting. He felt adrenaline rush through his system at the error. The Doc wasn’t on his game and had revealed his nasty little project that went on below them; an accident he then would then try and brush over. “Friends, what do you mean?” he smiled, simpering. “Well, the friends you referred to?” Elsom knew how to deal with egos in the chain of command. “Sir- just wanting to be specific in orders when I find Barlow.” Elsom cleared his throat and shifted his weight nervously. “Oh, yes- those friends. We have a roach problem down there where I store spare medical equipment. Cockroaches: they need to be disposed of.” The Doc smiled awkwardly. While Elsom didn’t question it, Rob knew something was up and would investigate later. He had never been down to the basement but he knew Leon and Barlow were the last two, other than the Doc, that had a key. He had seen it on leather throng around their necks. Rob was curious; the evidence was mounting. He was determined to find out if cockroaches were all that Penfould was hiding down there. He would soon learn it was far more.
“There is one more thing,” Penfould was now more bureaucratic and addressing Elsom. “Go to Angela and Raj, my research team, and check on her preparations for the vaccine. I want a complete report by morning. Don’t let them sleep“. Rob snarled a little and said “That’s a bit harsh, mate.” The comment was ignored.
Elsom nodded but had no idea how to measure if Angela had complied with his orders or not. Like a good soldier, he said nothing more. “Dismissed!” Penfould saluted terribly to which Elsom returned salute with a parade-ground precision that Penfould admired. “Very good.” He said aloud as the young former army soldier left the room.
“Now Rob-” the Doctor was tiring of their company and no longer toyed with them like a cat with a ball of wool. “I want you to tell the ladies in the Pen that they will be cured shortly, but it will take time. Tell them I am working on a cure but will test it on myself and Sirocco first before administering it more widely.” Rob looked shocked. He didn’t understand the exact motivations but he knew a cure was not going to be offered in the short-term. “OK,” he said simply. “Why?” he inquired. Penfould was being questioned again and he didn’t like it. He was usually a good liar and he offered such a solution to the problem. “Well, it is just that I care about all of my people more than I do myself. I want to be absolutely sure that a cure is perfect and does not render harm on anyone. You wouldn’t like me to intentionally inject something lethal into Alicia would you?” Kian Penfould smirked and looked into Rob’s eyes with pure evil. Rob was simple but the threat was so oblique that he could not avoid it, just stare it in the face. “Clear?” Penfould asserted: he was feeling like he was back in control. He could not have been more wrong. Rob nodded bitterly and his lips uncharacteristically grimaced.
“Two more things Rob: I want some guests for dinner: Jesse and Sam, if you please?” He smirked, feeling as pompous and powerful as ever. I want Sam looking very demure and Jesse, dress him in something that makes him look weak, and in handcuffs. Get that sorted with Barlow will you?” the orders were said in a demeaning way and were not posed as a question at all. “Oh, and when you are there, tell that fat pig that he missed the meeting today and he needs to come and see me tomorrow at my convenience. His ongoing lateness and absences are trying my patience.” Penfould’s saliva and dry mouth thing was happening again; blobs of white sprung backwards with mouth movement like rubber bands on a set of old-school teenage braces.
Without a moment to contemplate or discuss, Rob was provided with the appropriate chits as paperwork. These were to requisition two sets of shackles for Sam and Jesse; the “guests” at the Doc’s warped dinner table that night.
Dinner would be enforced if needed. It was to be a civilised affair and Penfould was the gracious dictatorial host. He prided himself on his manners, etiquette and hospitality but had no idea that he had none of those airs and graces. Handcuffs and hospitality; the Doc was a sick individual.
Rob went down the corridor toward the Pen, he passed Barlow’s den and knocked on the big metal door. Rob was continually creeped-out and afraid of Barlow. Rob had had some awkward moments with Barlow over the last two years and the revelation from Alicia made him feel uncomfortable now he knew what the situation was. Barlow had asked for massages, “help” with soreness, someone to realign his spine in some sort of Heimlich manoeuvre from behind. Barlow liked to “test” other men’s muscles and his hands would examine the tendons and muscles for damage as a physiotherapist would; a pervert physio in this case. Barlow greeted Rob wit
h a half-smile which was as warm as that creature got. “I need some handcuffs, mate: Doc’s orders.” Rob said, not looking Barlow in the eye. Barlow, who had not taken his eyes off of Rob continued to half-smile, smirk. “Handcuffs? You wanna play cop with me do ya?” Barlow poked Rob with some innuendo. “Arrest me officer,” Barlow smirked at him, taking in every aspect of the young man. “No, just to control them at dinner.” Rob said trying to calm him down. Rob realised how naïve he had been; the obviousness of Barlow’s interest in men.
Barlow was more than a little excited. “You get to control them? The survivor too?” he asked almost licking his lips. “Yes mate. You probably would have had the job if you’d turned up.” Barlow frowned and realised his little protest had cost him some enjoyment. “Right ‘O”, Barlow turned nonchalant but serious. “Tell him I will see him tomorrow. Let me find those cuffs,” Barlow turned and retrieved a heavy-laden storage box, giving Rob a moment at his workspace. On the workbench was the basement key. Rob was nervous but he quickly grabbed it when Barlow wasn’t looking. He needed to find out what the hell was going on; if not just for him, Alicia and the ladies too. That basement held some secrets and he would uncover them.
Barlow eventually found and dragged out some heavy duty cuffs with shackles so the prisoners could be chained to their chairs, or preferably, the Doc’s extremely heavy table. “Remember to shackle them to the table, Rob.” Barlow warned. “That survivor is dangerous. Got it? Anyway, get out of here and enjoy!” with a wink and a shockingly quick slap on Rob’s bum, Barlow had fulfilled a small element of the perversion he loved. There was plenty more that brewed inside him and yearned to be let out. Rob could not get out of there fast enough. He almost ran, not looking back, and headed for the Pen to pick up Sam for an evening with her slave-master, jailer, abuser; all the same, the Doc.
