The Controller

by Matt Brolly

  It was difficult thinking beyond the noise. In the rare moments he managed to tune out the repellent sounds of the distorted voice, he thought about Mallard and his insistence that they were alike. Again he wondered if that was some form of ruse, that it was all part of the man’s grotesque game, his sense of fun. Lynch clung to the hope that Mallard still had plans for him beyond this basic, yet effective, means of torture.

  If he slept he didn’t recall. One second the music was there, the next it had stopped. He unwrapped his limbs, still caught in a form of half-life. A tray of food was in the center of the cell. Gripping Daniel’s sweater with one hand he ate without fear, the lukewarm water coating his dry mouth. Ethan, or one of the other guards, must have placed the tray in the cell when he’d slept. He was buoyed by the thought. If he could fool them into believing he was unconscious, then they could try the same thing again. Even if he managed to attack one of them, it was unlikely he would be able to get far, but it was a hope. An emotion he’d been drained of for so long.

  Sometime later, Ethan’s voice filtered through the cell’s speakers. ‘Arms, please, Mr Lynch.’

  Absurd as it felt to confess it, there was a joy in hearing Ethan’s voice. The onset of Stockholm syndrome it may well be, but the young man’s reedy voice made him feel less alone. He fed his arms backwards through the trap gate, his fingers touching Ethan’s thin arms before he snapped the cuffs on.

  Ethan didn’t respond. He pushed Lynch’s cuffed arms back through the opening, before unlocking the cell door. ‘You’re wanted,’ he said, hauling Lynch to his feet.

  Lynch was unsteady. ‘Can I have that?’ he said, pointing to the remains of Daniel’s sweater.

  ‘Move to the wall, please,’ said Ethan, watching him closely as he bent to retrieve the material. ‘May I?’ asked the young man, tying the material across his waist.

  Lynch could have attacked him then. Cuffed or not, he had his head, knees, elbows, and a relentless will, but now wasn’t the right moment. He didn’t know what was waiting for him outside, and security would never be this lax again if he attacked Ethan without escaping.

  Ethan guided him outside the cell, Lynch blinking at the light. ‘Visitor?’ said Lynch, with a false chuckle. ‘How long have you been doing this, Ethan?’ he asked, as the young man led him away.

  ‘Since Mr Mallard discovered me,’ said Ethan.

  ‘Discovered you? What, does he send his scouts nationwide?’

  ‘I guess so. He knows what’s going on.’

  Lynch kept talking to him, his eyes restless, analyzing and storing everything for later use. ‘So, explain it to me. Was it some kind of job offer? Come work for me, and you can have your heart’s desire?’

  They stepped over a different set of railroad tracks, Lynch reminded of a ghost train he’d enjoyed as a child at the county fair.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ said Ethan, repeating the overused refrain.

  ‘Why don’t you try me? You call him Mr Mallard, is he known as the Controller as well?’

  Ethan stopped by a corrugated steel door. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ he said, activating the hydraulic system parting the doors. ‘In you go.’

  Lynch stepped through the opening into what resembled a replica of a boutique hotel lobby. The sound of running water filled the area as it fell from a marbled fountain into a pond stretching for over fifty meters.

  ‘You like fish, Samuel?’ Mallard sat on the edge of the pond, gazing at the hideous blue grey creatures swimming in the gigantic pond.

  ‘Sea bass, lightly seared,’ said Lynch.

  ‘Very good, Samuel.’

  Lynch looked at the fish. ‘One could get the impression that you have a fetish for keeping prisoners.’

  Mallard stood. ‘I have to give it to you, Samuel, after everything you’ve been through you still manage to keep your smart mouth.’

  ‘It’s a gift.’

  ‘That it is. Shall we?’ Mallard moved across the room, his footsteps echoing on the floor.

  Lynch didn’t hesitate, not wanting to show any weakness. Mallard stopped by a bank of hundreds of small television screens. Lynch closed his eyes delaying the inevitable for as long as he was able.

  ‘I’ve been watching you, Samuel.’

  ‘No cable here?’

  ‘It’s fascinating. Everyone responds differently, that’s what makes it so exciting.’

  Lynch glanced at the screens trying his best not to focus on the helpless souls trapped behind the glass screens. ‘I know everyone else is impressed with your little games, Mallard, but nothing is going to change my view. What are you over compensating for? Did your Mummy not love you?’

  ‘Come, you’re better than that Samuel.’ Mallard pointed to the screens ‘This is but a part of what we do.’

  Lynch caught some unfortunate snapshots on the screens. Fellow captives. Some alone in their cells, some not. ‘Why do you have this desire to show off? I don’t care, Mallard, as simple as that.’

  Mallard smiled enigmatically. How many people had he seduced with such a glance, with the drop of his voice? Evil always came in disguise. He played with some dials, and all the screens changed to form one giant picture: a single rail track trailing a desert landscape. ‘My Great, Great, Granddaddy was a pioneer,’ said Mallard, his voice warm and resonant.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That is indeed so, Samuel. He was part of a consortium laying the first tracks on these lands.’

  ‘Let me guess. It’s his estate which pays for this?’

  ‘I come from a fortunate bloodline, I confess. And yes, my Great, Great, Granddaddy made his fortune from the railroad but he was different to those other pioneers. Do you know how?’

  ‘I’m sure I will find out shortly.’

  ‘He was hands on, Samuel,’ said Mallard, ignoring the jibe. ‘He was an engineer. The railroad was his passion, it was in his blood.’

  ‘But it wasn’t his only passion.’

  Mallard snapped his fingers. ‘Exactly, Samuel. Great men. Great men don’t settle for the mundane. They experience the extremes of life. You experience that in your work, others have to find it their own way.’

  ‘By keeping people in little boxes.’

  Mallard looked genuinely upset by the remark. ‘It’s much more than that, Samuel.’

  ‘Explain it to me.’

  Mallard glared at him and it took all of Lynch’s will power not to cower. Mallard’s authority was born out of his unfailing confidence. In all his years in law enforcement, Lynch had never encountered such unwavering belief. ‘What we do here is incomparable. It is enlightening, it is evolutionary.’

  ‘Torturing unfortunates is not evolutionary. You don’t really believe that, do you, Mallard?’

  ‘If you refuse to open your eyes then there is little I can do for you. We are gods, Lynch.’

  Lynch began laughing, hysterical and uncontrolled, the trauma of his days in captivity finding voice, the sound distant and separate as if it wasn’t coming from him. He fell to the floor, clenching his stomach, his laughter unstoppable.

  Mallard smiled at his response. ‘I see you’re not ready.’

  Lynch sat up. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘About Razinski, about my son, about all of this. Why you abduct innocent people near the railroad lines. Why you imprison some of them, what you do with the others.’

  ‘Where else would we source them?’ said Mallard, amused.

  Lynch shuddered at the word source. ‘Razinski?’

  ‘Razinski was an oversight. He had a job which he took too far.’

  ‘To kill Edward Gunn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why Gunn?’

  ‘Edward Gunn has been known to us for a number of years. He has been instrumental in some developments to our underground paradise. Unfortunately, his wife had started getting involved with the wrong people and we could no longer take the risk.’

  �
�So you eliminated his whole family.’

  The Controller shook his head. ‘Sadly not. Mr Razinski was tasked with one elimination. Evidently, things got out of hand.’

  ‘You could say that. How did Razinski know about me?’

  ‘Mr Razinski was a smart man. He knew of you and your son. You’ve been a special project for us for some time now.’

  Lynch controlled his anger at the mention of Daniel. ‘So you eliminated him before he could talk?’

  ‘We have Mr Balfour to thank for that.’

  Fucking Balfour. ‘And why am I still alive?’

  ‘I told you. I had great things planned for you.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I increasingly think I’ve made a mistake. Which is a shame.’

  ‘What the hell did you think was going to happen? I’m not a fucking monster.’

  ‘I think that’s the problem, Samuel. You think we’re monsters when we’re anything but. I think it’s time we end our little chat,’ said Mallard flicking a switch, the bank of television screens returning to the individual shots of the prisoners.

  The hydraulic door opened and Ethan entered. ‘Where’s my son?’ said Lynch, as he was led away.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing him soon enough,’ said Mallard, as Ethan dragged him through the door’s threshold.

  Lynch stopped struggling once outside. ‘Did he make you like this, Ethan?’

  ‘Mr Mallard? No. He helped me see my potential.’

  Back in his cell, Lynch searched for the camera in the walls and roof of the prison but couldn’t locate it in the gloom. He sat huddled in the corner, and retrieved Daniel’s sweater from his waist. Beneath the sweater, he took out a paperclip.

  He’d seen the clip when he’d been shown into Mallard’s room. It was pushed flush against the wall of the fish lake and he had waited patiently for his moment. The hysterical laughter was only partly overacted. Mallard’s talk of being god-like had triggered the extreme response in him, but as he’d fallen to his knees he’d palmed the paperclip.

  He needed to keep his senses and sanity intact for just a bit longer. It was a waiting game and he would only have the one opportunity.

  54

  McBride called her two hours later and told her to meet him in the underground car park. He was waiting in his car, in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on.

  ‘Like to tell me where we’re going?’ said Rose.

  McBride stared ahead. ‘I could tell you but I’d have to…’

  Rose shook her head. ‘Don’t, just don’t.’

  Rose had called Abigail numerous times since the meeting with Miller but her sister’s phone remained switched off. In the end she’d resorted to calling the hospital. They confirmed her mother had woken from her coma but didn’t offer much more information. She hadn’t told McBride about her Mother and couldn’t bring herself to do so now. She feared he would suggest she visit; her guilt was already at breaking point and she didn’t need McBride’s disapproval on top.

  Thirty minutes later, McBride turned off the highway. He drove for another forty minutes pulling over at a secluded building surrounded by scrubland. ‘Heads up, this guy can be a bit funny.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  A wire mesh surrounded the one story brick building. Two dogs, Doberman cross breeds, greeted their approach with frenzied barks. As McBride pressed the intercom, one of the pair rammed its snout against the gate. It snarled, revealing a set of discolored teeth strong enough to rip through metal. Despite the midday heat, Rose shivered, her eyes moving from the snarling dog to the gigantic satellite dish on the side of the house.

  A sharp noise came from the intercom. ‘Who?’

  ‘McBride.’

  A lean man in army fatigues opened the door, a semi-automatic rifle strapped to his chest. ‘Jesus, is this guy for real?’ said Rose, under her breath.

  ‘He has some security issues,’ said McBride.

  Both dogs cowered as the man approached and unlocked the gate. ‘McBride,’ said the man, offering his hand his gaze not leaving Rose.

  ‘John. This is Special Agent Sandra Rose. Rose, this is John Bainbridge.’

  ‘Pleasure, Ma’am,’ said Bainbridge, offering his hand, his grip bone-dry and vice-like. ‘Don’t mind the ladies. They don’t bite. Well, they do but only when I tell them.’

  The dogs had transformed into docile pets and followed them to the house, stopping on the porch to stand guard. The interior of Bainbridge’s house was minimal and sterile. Everything was chrome and glass. A computer server took up a quarter of the space, comparable in size with the equipment back at HQ. Bainbridge lent his gun against a wall and took out a set of spectacles from his fatigues.

  ‘John is ex-military. Special ops. Tech specialist.’

  The hum of electricity filled the room, Rose counting seven active computers.

  ‘So you want to use my drone?’ said Bainbridge.

  ‘We need a flyover but it’s a restrictive area,’ said McBride.

  ‘Military?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ said Rose.

  ‘So I could get shot down?’

  McBride shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It’s some expensive equipment, McBride.’

  McBride didn’t reply and Rose wondered how the two men were connected.

  ‘Fuck it. I can get this bird high. They won’t detect her, and if they do we’ll get the fuck out of Dodge.’

  It took two hours for Bainbridge to set everything up. Rose spent the time calling her sister’s answerphone, and checking her email. She was sitting outside, sheltered under the canopy of the porch, the two dogs curled by her feet, when Bainbridge told her they were ready to go. She followed him to the back of the house, surprised at the size of the drone. She caught McBride’s eye when she noticed the insignia on the machine, receiving a short shake of the head from her colleague.

  Bainbridge made some last-minute adjustments before standing back. ‘Take some space and close your ears,’ he said, as the drone roared into life. He used a tablet-sized controller, pitching the machine into the clouds. ‘We can watch inside,’ he said, as the drone disappeared out of sight.

  It was a serious piece of kit. Three screens inside Bainbridge’s house showed live footage from the cameras, the central screen displaying the banks of clouds the drone was dissecting. The machine would need some serious permits, which she doubted Bainbridge had, but such concerns were for a different time.

  Less than an hour later the drone was flying high over Otisville. ‘Here we go,’ said Bainbridge, controlling the machine so it hovered over the periphery of the red zone. ‘So what are we looking for exactly?’

  Rose showed him the pictures she had of the church and the old Railroad line.

  ‘Not much to go on. I can zoom down to ground level. Let’s see what we can see.’ There was a manic look to Bainbridge as the drone moved into the red zone. Rose didn’t know, and for now didn’t care, why the man had left special ops and had old military equipment in his possession. She needed to find Lynch and was willing to bend the rules to locate him.

  The drone moved on, two of the cameras focused on the yellow dust of the ground beneath the clouds. The clarity was impressive. Although the drone was thousands of feet in the air, the camera picked out the environment in perfect clarity.

  ‘There,’ said McBride, pointing to the periphery of the screen.

  Bainbridge maneuvered the drone revealing a chained fence stretching into the distance. The drone followed the path of the unending perimeter.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ said Rose.

  ‘Could be used to contain cattle,’ said Bainbridge. ‘Or to mark territory. I’ve measured seven miles of it now. It’s marking the perimeter of the red zone, though it begins two miles inside the coordinates you gave me.’

  ‘Move in,’ said McBride.

  There were no cattle, no farm holdings, only an endless nothing.

&n
bsp; ‘Are you getting a GPS signal?’ asked McBride.

  ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

  ‘The GPS signal near the area has been disrupted somehow.’

  Bainbridge frowned. ‘Interesting. Whatever equipment they have down there wouldn’t affect us. We’re too high up.’

  Rose caught a glimpse of a building on the screen. It flashed by, almost lost by the speed of the drone. ‘I thought I saw something,’ she said.

  Bainbridge punched the screen, the drone changing direction.

  ‘There,’ said Rose.

  The drone hovered, Bainbridge zooming in the camera. Beneath a covering of dust, and desert weeds, the screen displayed the outline of two train tracks.

  ‘Can you follow that?’ said Rose.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  It didn’t take long. The drone followed the disused tracks to a copse of trees. Rose checked her photo. Poking out of the thicket were the remains of a steeple.

  St Bernadette’s church.

  ‘Fuck me, it exists,’ said McBride.

  ‘Can you mark the coordinates?’ said Rose.

  Bainbridge pressed a button on the tablet. ‘Done. Now, can I get my bird the hell out of here?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  When the drone returned, Bainbridge handed them video files containing still photos and the coordinates. ‘You never got this from me,’ he said, handing a USB stick to McBride.

  ‘Thanks, John.’

  ‘We’re done?’

  McBride nodded, and placed his sunglasses on.

  ‘Done?’ asked Rose, back in the car.

  ‘He owed me.’

  ‘Dare I ask why?’

  ‘Best not. You want to go to Miller with this information?’

  The question had been bugging her ever since the drone found the outline of the church. ‘It’s going to be difficult to explain how we got the footage.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Look, McBride, I’m sorry to ask this again but what is your deal with Miller? We never worked together before…’

  ‘And you think I’m one of his minions?’

  If McBride was hurt by the suggestion he didn’t show it. ‘Not minion exactly…’