Chapter 16: Chapter 15 - The Night, The Pharmacy, The Street

The broadcast came through open channels, through emails usually sorted into ‘junk’ except for this lone message written from Amanda Warner. “Request for Citric Djelbah, Head of Environmental Sciences.” Citric Djelbah was not head of environmental sciences,

“Who the hell is Citric Djelbah?” Undgel asked her secretary, the boy sifted through some folders in his laptop.

“Citric Djelbah is one of the researchers we hired six weeks ago.”

She looked out of her office, white light streaming in through the great glass wall, illuminating her desk with a perfect view of mountains that stretch up vertical like spears unto the sky.

“Right.” Udgel Chaelid closes her laptop, a woman miserly and skinny as bone. “So where is he?”

“I’ll pager him a request, according to the… right. It says here he’s on-site.”

“Why is a researcher from two weeks ago in the facility? Whatever. Call him in.”

--

Citric’s little “visitor” laminated nametag beeped with a faded red light and he froze stock-still in the fluorescent light of the “Above-Ground Access Tunnel.” The little metal doors, sleek in wasp colouration. “Blip Blip Blip” sounded out, amidst the muffling speech of attendants and workers bustling, some turned to look at the scrawny ecologist as he frantically turned to face the crowds, looking for approval, bursting out in sweat. He escaped into the below-ground, into the red light of a metal shaft delving at a 45 degree angle, the “blip blip blip” echoing along the railed and perforated sheet metal pathways like stents keeping the vein-like tunnels from pressing in on themselves. Sweat beaded, in the red light, colouring him like a dark cherry. He adjusted his square glasses, pulled the tag, its robotic voice burbled amidst the interference, “As soon as possible, Madam Chaelid requests the presence of a Citric Djelbah in her office!” and he despaired, patted the plate-camera bulging in his pocket, wondered, how am I going to explain to her why in the access tunnels.

Djelbah turned in the general direction of the tunnel to the exit, stairs upwards illuminated by a red LED “Machinery Active” sign, then he turned back, to the dark underground.

He took a deep breath. It’s illegal to film inside of a G-coal mine and refinery. No CCTV.

Citric plucked the tag off of his little shitty button-up-top and placed it under his little shitty shoe, popping the little pager, then he tossed the laminated photo ID over onto the rails which the metal walkway was above and to the side of. The ecologist scratches his neck, scratches his circle-beard, watches the card on the rail by the tungsten-reinforced glass floor, misty darkness hidden on the levels underneath.A cart, bustling with sacks of G-coal, rushes through the tunnel and chudders through the metal halls and crackles over the ID which broke and scattered. Satisfied, Citric walks away, into the belly of the beast.

--

“So, where is he?”

“I’ve requested him directly. He should be here soon. My latest request isn’t coming through though.”

“Shitty cheap pagers.”

--

Busting to the side a metal door, Djelbah scrambles his little nerd self inside, finds the words “taskmaster’s office” emblazoned on the side, a wooden desk in the middle is stained yellow from methane, nobody is here, nobody is in sight. He throws the drawers open, passports, pens, quota reports, condoms, medical malpractice reports. Footsteps in the corridor. Being small, Djelbah slides himself under the desk. Metal railing on rubber boots keeps on going, quieter and quieter. He perks up, opens another drawer, more personal shit, bank details, credit cards, coins quickly stuffed into the researcher’s pocket, porn, drawn porn, and crudely drawn porn. The final drawer contains paper in one fat pile which is hefted into the man’s lap. A “blip blip blip” lifts his gaze upwards but it’s not his pager, he isn’t wearing one. He slunks under the desk. Probably hidden. Probably none of him visible under the desk or to the side or in a reflection. He takes a deep breath.

First page. Medical records! Of the taskmaster’s children… Not what he’s looking for. The words “soiling” immediately stood out and Citric tossed the page to the side, making sure that the order was protected, the next page: a little folder with the outdated ID badges, also about a half-hundred illicit photos of employees’ dickprints and asses, a notice from the government regarding changes to inspections, a notice regarding an inspection scheduled soon from today. He kept sifting, fat drops of sweat falling into grey splotches on the paper.

The door behind him opens.

Citric freezes. A step into the room. Citric lunges the upper half of his body out of under the desk with blood running like ice, the length of his arm and shoulder all out in the naked darkness while his head leaned back as far as it would go, he slides the creaky drawer into the desk as slowly and slowly as possible but leaves it a quarter open for no good reason but terror. The footsteps sound, closer, and closer, echoing in the little room. Citric lunges back pressing as far back as his body can possibly allow itself and then a “blip blip blip”

“There is a certain Mister Citric Djelbah in the facility who must come to the Madam’s office, immediately, be on the lookout, thank you!” Then a hearty sigh. The woman, who must have been the taskmaster in the flesh, yanked the wheeled office chair back and threw herself onto it now in full view of the invader. She looked up at the ceiling, scratching her face, then pulling herself into the desk as she pulled open one of the drawers, a “tchick tchick” of a lighter sounded and the scent of smoke began in the room, not tobacco smoke but regular fire smoke. Her knee inched under his chin, her shoe kicked against his, and for about 15 seconds they sat in that sterile infinity of existence. Djelbah with two legs on either side of him. She smelled of sweat, and probably her socks smelled like wet dog.

The intruder’s heart thumped like an earthquake, but his trembling didn’t seem to reach his mind, he inspected the taskmaster’s choice of pants, thick glastic cargo-pants more visible to the nose than the eyes..

The taskmaster’s pants had a faux-stitching, white glastic thread which served no real purpose except to make them look like real fibre, as, of course, the material was made of g-oil solidified into sheets then pressed together. The floor, too, was interesting, some kind of plaster material, or, something, Djelbah wasn’t all too familiar, it was one of those sort of things that lifted and squished slightly to show that there was a space between it and the real, likely glasticrete, floor, with a kind of softness although in appearance it mimicked a kind of ‘real’ tiling. The wheels of the woman’s chair, did, however, struggle to pull across that material as the Taskmaster pulled into the desk further, kicking Djelbah hard, which she didn’t seem to notice.

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Then, she lifted her knee and drove it straight into the ecologist’s clavicle, before pushing away from the desk and looking straight at the man under her desk.

“I can make it worth your while I’m hiding from the…” He looked down at the stack of papers in his lap, with the taskmaster’s children’s medical records splayed out to his side.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing.”

“I’m -”

“Those are private you -” He rushed his next words out, his life depended on it.

“I’m-with-another-company-just-I’m-looking-for-medical-records-of-employees-I-can-pay-you-handsomely.”

She retorted, shaking a heavy fist, “You fucking bastard snooping around!”

“You’ve been working here for so long what loyalty have they given you, huh?”

“What?”

“Just think about it. I’m saying – just- think about it, you’ve been working here for how many years, you’re in this fancy office, and what loyalty has Sian.Co given you. Look at the lay-offs! What happens when you're. What. You give up on being paid to protect what company secrets. Some. Some random shit that doesn't even matter? And what you think that'll protect you?"

“I-” She scratched her face.

He was bullshitting everything. “Look what happened in the other- in the Galzentza mine? The administrative director, she gave up everything for that company, and when that fire broke out, she chose to run away and survive instead of die, and she got fired for exposing company secrets by, she got fired for when she. She didn’t wipe her laptop. What I’m saying is Sian.Co will fire you for anything and they pay you meagre sums and what.”

“What?”

“How does twent- eighty thousand claus sound?” He paused, straightening his posture and trying to meet her gaze from the floor. “You- well- you don’t. All I need from you is for you to show me and give me the employee medical records from the past month.”

“Right.” She met his gaze decisively, then she lifted one of her boots up over the desk, then the other, “Ah, Conrad, what's the matter?" She said, over the counter.

Conrad audibly hesitated. Mumbled something unintelligible to which the taskmaster replied to, while kneeling down off her chair, meeting Citric’s gaze, and taking the papers from him. She slammed the drawer fully closed, to complete the charade. “Right.” She said. “I have a lot of fucking paperwork to burn so burn because that’s what I do here, tomboy, now do I look like a receptionist? Go to a receptionist.”

The door closed tentatively to signify Conrad’s departure. “How are you getting me what I’m owed?” Djelbah swallowed hard. Don’t fuck it now.

“In the bathroom at the front desk up on the surface, behind the, err, the cube part of the toilet that flushes.”

“You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about do you?”

“Lady, I’m just here to do a job. That’s all.”

Then she handed him the medical records of the employees, all emblazoned with a ‘Burn Now’ print, the text underneath still legible with described radiation burns, lacerations, mutations, cancers, and more. Lists of employees’ home status, work status, life status: Deceased.

“Thank you kindly, the third toilet down the women’s bathroom that’s to the left of the reception.”

Djelbah spun round on his heels then turned to leave the office. He pushed open the metal door, not looking back to the Taskmaster, and he stepped out onto the railing of sheetmetal, the catwalk above the tracks and the glass floor of the tunnel below. He looked in the distance, towards the white light of the main building, two people were there, walking towards him, the red alarm lights shining the silhouettes of guns in their hands and Citric spun turn away, listening to the stomp of boots on the metal get louder and louder. The scientist’s own footsteps reverberated like pots and pans as the “clang clang” from behind sped up, closer and closer.

All that work just for it to fuck up now.

The guards were right behind him, two of them “Hey! Are you Citric Djelbah?” He tremblingly put a right hand to his glasses, looking over the railing to the glass floor below where something fleshy was thumping up from below against the invisible surface. He turned to look at the armed women, bright reflective vests peaking out above ceramic armour. The taller woman looked at his lack of a badge. “You’re coming with us, sir.”

“I was just going to get my badge returned, I forgot it. I didn’t even realise I wasn’t wearing it!”

“Mhm. You’re coming with us anyway.” About 1.5 seconds are drawn into a half-minute by a frantic mind choosing between two options, go, or don't.

Djelbah goes, out over the railing rushing forth, shirt, untucked, flailing behind him as the security guards hesitate, he slams onto the floor metres below, landing square into a crouching position as a mine-cart trundles towards him and feeling invincible he rushes into its path his legs trailing on the tramline as it metal inches closer and closer to his thigh, pulling out of the behemoth’s path. He throws himself away, thumping against the glass floor as shouting echoes behind him, he looks to the side for any kind of exit and there’s nothing but the tunnels out into the warehouse where the carts all go. He looks down at the glass floor, “thump” “thump” faintly heard through the thick, reinforced material. On the black surface he’s on, the thumping, his camera flipped into his hand. He ignites the device, letting the flash of the bulb illuminate into the darkness where, just for a second, Djelbah saw something, some, huge fleshy body potato-coloured thumping and thumping hefting its weight against the glass. Adrenaline coursing through his brains the man rushes upwards and out along the path of the cart, with shouts and hollers preceding him. He bursts into the warehouse where prophrecian teens bust their spines under huge crates, Djelbah smiles awkwardly to himself while running through the shelves and the crates, the white light revealing his, now-grey, shirt soaked in sweat. He finds the nearest red emergency exit door and thrusts it open. Yellow, natural light touches his skin for the first time. Black fences stretching out all around him.

Stamping to a beat the encirclement of armed guards all pointing rifles at the victorious Citric Djelbah. His heart drops.

The hard barrel of a gun is his prod, down back into the facility, through the warehouse as the workers all look up to watch the scene.

“I can explain everything. Where are you taking me?”

Silence as the man was shepherded back into the below-ground of the facility. He met the taskmaster’s eyes as she watched him be pushed deeper and deeper, he watched the glass walls, now silent.

“Young man. You’re going a long way down.”

They walked in silence, the darkness overtaking the light. As they passed, deeper and deeper, little red strips of LED came over, revealing the metal struts running across the rocks, they came to a hatch, like a grave made of metal with a sliding door covered in wasp-print. A perforated sheet-metal staircase stretched into the darkness, and as they climbed down it, the gun pressing hard into Djelbah’s lower back, he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of people, grey skinned Limbusters. They didn’t seem to notice him but at least, he wouldn’t be shot?

“Strip him.” Another women shoved him to the ground, his glasses knocking off of his head. On his side, on the floor, grey stoney and smooth glasticrete, cold to the touch, he curled up, trying to hide as the soldiers pulled away at his shitty outfit, ripping the button-up shirt, pulling off his shoes, then more

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” She whistled. “Camera? Wonder how long the prison sentences are for that.” The wolves laughed between themselves. Citric gritted his teeth hard, trying to focus on anything, anything that wasn’t this situation. Putting his glasses back on. There were so many people, walking around, workers, why weren’t they watching? It was somehow worse, that they weren’t, it was like he was alone with these hounds of women. A booted foot met his rib. Tears formed in his eyes. He missed his apartment, he missed his friends. Another kick to the side. “You take the contraband up-top, hmm? Why don’t you give me some time with the young man.” He felt stomach acid burning in his throat.

“Not this time, bitch, come on. Leave him to the taskmistress.”

“Right.”

An ecologist, with a degree in biochemistry, naked, cold, trembling, sitting on his side, he pushed himself up against the wall, watching the Limbusters carrying bags, crushing them under hydraulic presses, overall busying themselves, they looked skinny. A glassheet bag was lying up against the wall, covered in G-coal dust, and he put it over his body, shivering, vomit painted his mouth, and he was sure he wasn’t going home. He watched the unpainted walls, the glasticrete, collecting brown dust, the bags of unrefined G-coal, squealing and writhing, before being loaded into a pressing machine and crushed as sickly brown G-oil leaked out. He breathed it in, the acrid smell, he knew it was the ozone that gave it that smell, but it was all sorts of unmentionables and toxins he was inhaling, that all these people were inhaling.

Thumping came through the walls, again, he looked up at the glass ceiling, a cart rocked overhead, to the warehouse.

An explosion sounded in the distance.