The Shift of Numbers

by Warrington, David

  Oh my god.This place is weird! Me, Sophia and all them have been having a right laugh but most of the others are just weirdos. They’ve even started eating on their own! There’s now 2 separate places where people eat! I daren’t go over to the workers’ building. Wouldn’t want to anyway. I mean, oh my god, come on people.

  Jacob and Ben – 17:51

  We have good news!

  Very good! We’re about ready to put phase 2 of our operation into place. Tell them about the numbers, Jacob.

  Okay. Since Bill’s arrival, we have 10 non-workers, 9 halves and 9 workers. We have 7 of the workers on our side. Deborah and her husband didn’t want anything to do with it but 6 of the halves and surprisingly 3 of the non-workers are with us totalling a magnificent 16!

  And we only need 15 to put rule 4 into action.

  Indeed, Ben, and once the new rule is in place, the majority can then decide who they want to kick out.

  We’re calling a meeting later on today!

  Yes, we decided not to wait any longer as we’re sick of them spending our money and once everyone realises that we only need 20 people to sell this place then I’m convinced attitudes will start changing around here.

  Sunny’s going. I can tell you that much. I don’t care what we told him to get his vote, that boy’s got no discipline.

  I concur. We still have to remember that this is a TV show. I think we should tell Gordon about our plans.

  Won’t that just tip him off and give him time to organise support for the non-workers?

  No. We will tell him just before the meeting, but we need to be sure that even if he disagrees with the addition of rule 5 that he will allow us to vote on it. I don’t want anything to go wrong.

  What if he won’t allow the vote?

  He can’t stop it. I just don’t want to have that argument with him at the meeting. I don’t think it would help our cause.

  You really have thought of everything.

  Let go and see him then.

  *

  Gordon was sitting in his office trying to compile a timeline of events that had led him to this point in time. It wasn’t working and large chunks of time were simply unaccounted for. He had debated with himself about asking for Bill’s help but wasn’t sure it was good idea and didn’t really know how to approach the subject or even if he could help. He couldn’t just walk up to him and say, ‘You know when I worked for you? What happened?’ It just didn’t seem like the thing a sensible person would do. He wondered if he was an alcoholic. Last week he spent a whole afternoon on the internet researching memory loss and it seemed to offer the most realistic explanation. He had always drunk alcohol so, perhaps, it was a possibility. It didn’t sit right though: most people who are alcoholics wake up years later under a bridge realising that they have lost everything. No alcoholic has ever shaken off the fuzz of abusing their body to find they have acquired a TV show, a million pound piece of property, and a group of friends. It just doesn’t happen. As he shook his head, there came a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  “Post. Can you sign for this please?”

  “Sure. Where is it?”

  “Just outside. Hang on.” The postman poked his head outside, motioning to someone. 2 men with similar uniforms came inside the office struggling under the weight of a large crate. “Just here, please.” He pointed at a clipboard. Gordon signed and the men left hurriedly. Gordon picked up the hand-written note attached to the top. It read:

  Contained within this crate is the means to defend yourselves. On Monday we will come. You have 2 days to prepare.

  Anyone leaving the compound or attempting to signal the outside world will be dealt with. Watch tonight’s news.

  Bemused, Gordon went to the toolshed to fetch a crowbar to pry the lid open. To his astonishment and with a growing sense of alarm, he found a pile of weapons inside. Handguns, rifles, boxes of ammunition and even what looked like hand-grenades were contained within. He rummaged around the crate in disbelief before slumping back into his chair, reaching for the note with a sweaty hand. He reread the note, swore, and picked up the phone. It was dead. He grabbed for his mobile: no signal.

  Gordon jumped as the silence was broken by a knock on the door. He knew immediately it was Ben from his trademark military drum roll knocking technique and guessed Jacob was most likely with him. Opening the door proved his brief speculation correct. Gordon felt immediate annoyance as he looked at their smug faces. Ben in particular looked like he’d just discovered a toy soldier in his breakfast cereal. Jacob folded his arms and spoke first, without introduction or any kind of friendliness.

  “We have called a meeting later. We have some important things to say before it starts.”

  “Not as important as what I’ve got to say…”

  *

  DAY 30

  Deborah and Howard – 09:20

  This whole TV show has turned ridiculous. We’re seriously considering going home and I know we’re not the only 1’s who feel like this.

  Yes, dearest. Ridiculous, we thought.

  The whole business is starting to scare Poppy and I won’t have that. Where on earth do they come up with these ideas?

  It’s all about ratings these days. I did warn you it wouldn’t be straightforward, didn’t I? And that Gordon - he never did seem to be fully with it, if you know what I mean.

  I do, Howard, I do.

  This was supposed to be a relaxing weekend away from the restaurant.

  Well, it’s ruined now.

  Ben and Jacob – 09:47

  Ha ha! This has suddenly got all very interesting, yes?

  I would have to agree, Ben. I would have to agree. That stunt with the box has certainly put people on edge. Our little plan will have to wait till all this nonsense is over with.

  It’s so obviously a set up!

  If they wanted to do a better job of it, they could have at least employed a decent actor.

  I know! Gordon won’t be getting many acting jobs after that performance.

  Perhaps in panto!

  I thought cutting the phone lines and the cell signal was a nice touch, though.

  And I’m looking forward to the news.

  And me.

  Sunny and Isabella – 15:11

  I think I know what’s going on. I think this was all planned from the start. I reckon it’s all about the prize. I think whoever stays here till the end will get it.

  Oh my god. You think?

  Yes, without a doubt. I mean who on earth would want to kill us lot?

  I know. It’s stupid.

  Well, we’re not going anywhere.

  Nor me.

  Watch out though, Izzie. I reckon these mind games will get worse.

  Oh my god. You reckon?

  Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of these people are actors.

  That’s well creepy!

  Gareth – 16:19

  What the bloody ’ell is going on round here? The missus won’t even come into ’ere no more. Gone off the cameras, she has. I tell you what, though, if I don’t bleedin’ stop after this weekend, I’m out of ’ere, TV show or not.

  Sophia and Isabella – 23:44

  I can’t believe he doesn’t trust me.

  Oh my god. Don’t cry. He’s not worth it.

  Let’s go.

  *

  Gordon unobtrusively walked into the TV room and leaned up against the door at the back of the room. Everyone was in attendance, apart from the children. The adults were all seated, squashed together on the sofas and perched on every available space. Every single face turned when he entered, the light from the TV flickering on their profiles. It seemed like an age to Gordon before, 1 by 1, they turned back to the screen. Only Bill smiled and put a thumb up in greeting. Then it happened.

  *

  “Good evening and welcome to the 9 o’clock news with me, Pelexia Brown. Tonight’s top stories: the identification of a key terrorist cell close to the capital and the MSD’s
discovery of an alleged biological weapons factory. First, we have obtained exclusive footage from an undisclosed location, thought to be an illegal laboratory capable of producing a new deadly toxin.” The screen changed to poor-quality hand-held style images. Several people, in puffy full-length white suits with huge visors and air tanks on their backs, walked slowly down a hill. The camera flickered black then panned around showing trees and grass. The trees were misshapen and grossly distorted, bark ballooning out in odd shapes and angles. The camera spun around resting on a battered-looking hut. To the left was a shallow hole surrounded by crime scene tape. The screen zoomed in on the door of the hut. A white rubber-gloved hand reached into view, grasped the door handle and twisted it. A fume cupboard took up most of the far wall of the inside of the hut. Lab coats, goggles and facemasks hung neatly from hooks by the door. Glassware, with safety lids, gleamed and shone through the window of a sterilisation unit.

  *

  Bill had stood up, much to the annoyance of the people behind him and, breathing heavily, he staggered around the edge of the room making his way towards the back, shaking his head all the while. He stopped when he reached Gordon’s ashen face.

  “You know where that is?” he whispered urgently at Gordon who just nodded slowly, his wide eyes fixed on the screen.

  *

  “We will have more on that story as it unfolds and hopefully get a comment from a government health official. Back to our main story: anti-terrorist units of the army have located a Visio Targus stronghold just 15 miles outside the city. These images were taken by satellite 2 days ago.” A picture of the compound from above filled the screen. It took several seconds before anyone watching recognised it. Slowly, though, everyone in the room did.

  “Yeah, there we are!” shouted out someone. Everyone turned again to face Gordon and Bill stood in the doorway. A slow, measured clap came from someone, which was taken up by everyone in the room until it crescendoed to a brief roar.

  “Good show!” bellowed Ben, as the applause died out.

  *

  “…the army has placed a 5-mile exclusion zone around the compound and urged that members of the public stay away. It is rumored that the mastermind behind the production of the deadly toxins is in the compound. An unnamed government source last night claimed that the army wouldn’t move against the cell until they are positive no biological weapons are on site. You will all agree that these are some very worrying developments and, joining me tonight…”

  *

  Gordon barely made it out of the door before he was suddenly and violently sick. Bill exited the house and watched Gordon for a few moments before gently rubbing his convulsing back.

  “There, there, lad.”

  “We need to talk,” replied Gordon, swallowing loudly. “Follow me.”

  They made their way to the production office, stopping briefly at the kitchen to pick up a bottle of whiskey. They sat down, taking it in turns to swig out of the bottle.

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Bill, after several minutes of hard drinking.

  “All this,” Gordon waved his arms around, “is really happening.”

  “I know that, lad, don’t I! You think they really believe what they said on the news? About me being 1 of them terrorists?”

  “It really doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  “It’s just a misunderstanding, ain’t it? I’m sure if we explained about the Scientist and all that, everything would be okay.”

  “I really don’t think so and, besides, how could we contact them?”

  “We could go outside?”

  “You think that’d work?” Gordon said, hopefully.

  Bill seemed to think for a moment. “Nope. We’re done for, lad,” he stated matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.

  “Cheers for that. Look, I need to have a think. I’ll come and find you later.”

  “Okay. I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’m taking that bottle with me, though.” He picked up the half empty bottle of whiskey and left. Gordon watched through the open doorway as Bill’s moonlit silhouette crunched over the gravelly courtyard. Another lighter crunch tapped out a beat on the ground and a familiar, more beautiful form filled the doorway.

  “Sit down,” Gordon said, waving at a chair.

  “No thanks,” Sophia said coldly

  “Okay…”

  “Look. I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “I swear to you I have no idea,” he pleaded.

  “This is all a setup, right?”

  “I don’t think it is.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No.”

  “You smell drunk… This is crazy. What’s happening outside clearly can’t be real.”

  “We need to get out of here somehow.”

  “You want us to escape?” Sophia asked in disbelief, slumping into the chair.

  “Yes, together. The 2 of us.”

  “I’m so tired.” She put her head into her hand. “Why are you doing this? I just don’t get it. I thought you liked me?”

  “I do. I really do but I truly have no idea what’s happening outside.”

  “Do you think if you tell me that I’ll tell the others?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me…”

  “I can’t,” Gordon said dejectedly, resigned to the fact that nothing he could say would be right. He was even starting to doubt if he was in fact responsible for all of it. Sophia stood up, placing her hand on Gordon’s cheek and looking directly into his eyes.

  “Goodnight,” she said at last with a little sigh, turning to walk out.

  “Will I see you later?” Gordon asked and as a reply she firmly closed the door behind herself.

  13

  “Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him.”

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “Channel 6 news desk. How can I help you?”

  “Can you put me through to Pelexia Brown, please?”

  “I’m sorry but she’s very busy. If I can take your name and what this regards I will try and pass it along.”

  “This is quite important.”

  “I’m afraid she gets quite a lot of important calls, sir.”

  “Not like this. I can’t really stress how much she needs to hear this.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Do you have a message?”

  “Okay… Can you write this down?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right… Your lead story - it’s going to happen today and, if you’re there, it might change things. Okay? You got that?”

  “Can I take your name?”

  “No.”

  *

  The Scientist’s brother and Richard sat atop the hill next to the compound, hidden among the trees. They were further veiled from prying eyes by their camouflage clothing and painted faces. The Scientist imagined them almost invisible. They had set up their rudimentary camp to give themselves an excellent view of the houses and people inside.

  “I’m just not sure I can do this,” Richard said tiredly, looking down the ’scope of the sniper rifle.

  “Just remember what we talked about. You’ll be fine. Remember your old life? Your fiancée, your house, job, friends? He took all that away from you.” The Scientist spoke absently, gazing intently into a pair of powerful binoculars.

  “No, not that.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s my eyesight. Everything’s a bit blurry…”

  “You’ll do fine…” the Scientist added, soothingly, confident that he had poured enough malice into Richard’s ears over the last few weeks for him to do the job. Since he had ‘rescued’ him from the hospital and had nursed him back to health, the only words that had come out of the Scientist’s mouth were about Bill and the murder of his brother and the subsequent recovery of his grotesque corpse, ‘from the poison Bill had pumped into him,’ as the Scientist had put it. Richard had had little idea as to what he was talk
ing about but understood when the Scientist had told him about the farmer whose hallucinogenic fertilizer had caused his entire life to collapse around his myopic eyes. The Scientist had tenderly nursed him back to health and, slowly and convincingly, turned Richard onto the idea of killing Bill. “…And we always have the hand grenades, if all else fails.”

  “Will this really make everything better?” asked Richard.

  “You will be free. Then you can start again.” The Scientist spoke as to a child. A recurring theme of the Scientist’s polemic had been that the only way to go back to when everything was good would be to destroy what had caused the evil in the first place, namely, Bill. His honeyed words had worked so well that he didn’t need to dose Richard with any more of the ‘fertiliser’, a singular fact he was quite pleased about - it felt more pure this way, like Richard wanted to do it. He just wished he had the balls to pull the trigger himself.

  They fell silent, searching the windows of the buildings for a glimpse of their illusive prey – Bill’s bearded face. A low rumble came behind them, building in volume to a point where they were forced to take notice. They turned towards the road, squinting into the low evening sun. Clouds of dust, churned up by heavy, powerful vehicles. Richard counted at least 9. The lead vehicle, an armoured truck with thick metal plated sides, was black. Down each side, ‘MSD’ was emblazoned in bold yellow letters. Their approach seemed unreal. It was like watching toy cars being pushed by an unseen hand, the distance reinforcing the illusion. As they grew in size, to the point where Richard could clearly see the driver and the passenger through the supposedly bullet-proof window, he noted the guns. Another noise joined the low rumble, a higher-pitched whine, seemingly coming from all directions. Rooted to the spot, his eyes darted around, searching for the cause. A rush of wind pushed him into the ground, followed by a momentary dimming of light. The helicopter seemed to almost touch the trees as it roared overhead towards the convoy. It reached the lead vehicle and bobbed over them, circling rapidly. Richard could clearly see the ‘Channel 6’ logo splashed colourfully on the sides, as 1 of the side-doors opened and a camera poked out. He watched for several minutes as the collection of vehicles pulled up in a loose circle approximately 100 metres from the gate to the community and a small army of well-armed soldiers disembarked, finding cover amongst the rocky outcrops and behind the vehicles. All the while, the helicopter buzzed overhead.