The Watchers: Episodes One and Two
By Andy Mclean
Geelong Cereal is thrilled to present new episodes of Andy Mclean's gripping, high stakes serial The Watchers! Episode One is repeated here for convenient recapping.
Episode One
The air inside the cavernous steel shed is hot and sticky, and ripe with a thick soup of odours: sweat, cigarette smoke and animal faeces. A large diesel generator grinds and vibrates just outside the closed roller-door, pumping two-forty to the large halogen spotlights and electrified fence above the cage, and combustion fumes into the atmosphere, which seep slowly, osmotically into the dim interior.
Seventy-four voices are raised. Some in excitement, but many in an attempt to overcome the din, of which they unwittingly become a part. All voices except three are those of men, some old, some young, some variously between the two. All are here for the same purpose. They are the watchers. They have driven, many of them, for hours to reach this remote, lonely place, and many of them will stay until dawn, twelve hours from now. They have come with pockets stuffed full of folding money, caressed often by their sweaty palms, packed down hard, kept secure as they pass through the crowd of strangers, who are unfamiliar, untrusted.
High above the cage, with an uninterrupted view of the entire floor below it, is the mezzanine control booth. When the shed had been built, thirty years before, this six square metre room had housed the facility manager and his staff. Now, there are five men inside it, three of whom sit before computer monitors, watching columns of figures cascade down the screen, inputting more numbers as they are handed to them on yellow squares of paper. Another man stands near the door behind them, receiving the paper squares from several runners, who dart back and forth between the control booth and the crowd that surrounds the cage.
The fifth man is perched on a stool before a large, glass viewing-window. He watches the floor below him, studying the crowd impassively. He is overweight and has not bathed nor changed his clothing for several days. His once burgundy shirt is now stained a deep, dark grey-brown, wet with perspiration and slick with the oils that have seeped with it through his voluminous skin. His body odour is strong and pungent, and carries with it hints of his toilet habits, his diet of fried food and his overindulgence in bitter ale.
‘Start them off,’ he orders quietly, his voice high and thin, like a girl’s.
The standing man immediately speaks into a walky-talky, issuing a string of commands. On the main floor, at the far end of the shed, four strong men wheel four aluminium trolleys toward the cage. Each of the trolleys carries on it a large box made of timber and vented at one end. The contents of three of the boxes remain silent. But from the fourth, movement can be heard; scratching, rubbing, shifting, as its occupant worries at the timber surfaces, perhaps seeking escape.
Each of the boxes is wheeled into position, their roller-door ends pressed up against similar sized openings in the wire mesh that makes up the sides of the cage. The crowd stills. One hundred and forty-eight eyes widen and fix, waiting, watching.
The first of the boxes is opened, its door rolling up to reveal a shadowed interior. At first there is no movement, and several of the gathered watchers frown, reaching into their pockets to finger their bundles of cash. Shortly, they are rewarded. Movement. From the shadows, a large, black dog darts, bounding forward at such speed that it is unable to arrest its momentum before slamming into the wire on the opposite side of the cage. It turns to the left, and on thickly muscled legs it begins to stalk back and forth, silently surveying the humans, who scowl, smile or whisper excitedly to one another.
‘One.’ A voice issues from overhead speakers. As if shocked from their stillness, the crowd erupt, calling loudly, excitedly to one another, beckoning for the runners to attend them and accept their bids.
The second box is opened.
This dog is even larger than the first, and unlike its counterpart, moves slowly from the box and stands still in the centre of the cage-floor, its eyes fixed on the first dog. The tension in the crowd ratchets up several notches, some watchers are forced to tear their eyes away from the spectacle in order to dart through the crowd and place their bets.
‘Two.’ The amplified voice needlessly explains.
As the third box is opened, the first two dogs back into the far corners of the cage, as if anticipating danger. The third dog emerges and immediately retreats to its own corner, a low snarl rumbling from its barrel chest.
‘Three.’
There is stillness within the cage, in contrast to the fury that has erupted without. Several minutes of frenzied activity follow, and then, when the gathered watchers have settled into an uneasy silence, the voice from overhead issues a fourth announcement.
‘Gentlemen. Four.’
Seventy-four voices gasp in unison.
The box door slides up.
Shadows within. No movement. And then, from the interior, a quiet hiss, almost a whisper.
‘Oh. Fuck.’
Episode Two
Fourteen hours in a box.
No food. No water. Hardly any air.
They took my wallet, fat with over a thousand bucks and my only photo of Anne. But my old Seiko is still wrapped around my wrist, so there you go. Fourteen hours since I woke up with my knees pressed against my chest and a pain in the back of my skull that temporarily convinced me I was in the process of dying.
I yelled at first, demanding someone let me out.
When I tasted blood on my tongue, I realised the yelling had become screaming and I had broken something inside my neck. I shut up then, and I haven’t uttered a sound since. The bleeding seems to have stopped.
A long time in the back of a truck, then the smell of burnt LPG as the forklift unloaded the box. Voices. Men. And names. One name in particular. Clam. A name I am familiar with.
I can’t move my legs any more. I can’t even feel them from the knees down. But from the knees up it’s a hundred hot needles doing their work, lancing pain right up my arse. I take a breath and prepare to yell. I remember the blood and my teeth just about shatter as I slam my jaws together. I think I’m on a farm maybe. I can hear clucking, like maybe it’s a chicken farm. Maybe ducks. Hundreds of them.
Voices again. Coming closer.
The box moves. It’s on wheels. I’m being wheeled. Where to?
A loud grinding, like a metal door being slid open. Noise.
It’s not chickens. It’s people. All talking at once. And Jesus, the smell! I thought there was no air seeping into this box. I was wrong. Shit. Animal shit. Dogshit? And diesel. The box clunks up against something.
‘ONE.’
The loud voice startles me. The mob roar that follows it scares the fuck out of me. I start breathing faster. My eyes dart from side to side, as if I can see anything from inside here. I feel certain there is something bad waiting out there. Very bad for me. Maybe the worst.
‘TWO.’
The crowd chants like they are at a soccer match. A man nearby laughs, deep and hearty. I’m panting. Like I’m a fucking dog. What’s happening?
‘THREE.’
Three what? Too slow to be a countdown. I shift back and forth. The pain in my knees is shocking. Maybe they did something to them while I was out. Maybe …
‘… FOUR.’
Bright light as the end of the box is flung open. Searing pain in my head. I jam my eyes shut, but the growling snaps them back open. I blink a few times to clear the tears.
Oh, fuck, I think.
‘Oh, fuck.’ I whisper.
Stay tuned for the next episode of The Watchers on Saturday 12 September!
