Type 88

Part 1 - The Broadcast, Chapter 2

2

"You have, like, three feet over here," Tim said. "Use your fucking mirrors, Benny!" He adjusted the strap of his ratty Carhartts over his lean left shoulder. "Royal Implement, a subsidiary of Spectrum Manufacturing" was embroidered on the overalls.

For the past six months, Spectrum had tasked Royal Implement with assembling electrical-discharge insect-control systems—bug zappers.

Jeff Fields sat in the foreman's office above the shop floor, overlooking the end-to-end operation. He watched Benny's parking attempt unfold, scratching his tobacco-stained mustache. Tim's always hard on the kid after he ties one on, he thought. This was day fifteen without an accident, and he feared Tim might be instigating his way toward a break in that chain.

"Were you born in a fucking barn?" Tim continued. "Pull forward, and do it again. You're not gonna straighten out from here. I could steer this truck straighter with my dick wrapped around the wheel."

Benny, a tall, lanky kid, stuck his head out of the truck window. His neck was long enough to see Tim behind him giving directions. "Tim, shut the fuck up, and let me know how far back I am."

Jeff sighed. They were wasting time. Tim was hungover, so yelling at Benny was easier than doing the job himself. Jeff leaned over his solid beer gut and into the microphone fixed to his desk. "Drop it, Tim," he said.

Tim didn't bother to look up. "Fine, fuck it. Park it, and we'll carry the load by hand. That's how we're gonna fucking operate then."

Jeff leaned in again. "Take a smoke, guys. Fifteen and you're back on the floor."

The crew had almost made their three-month safety bonus before Benny broke Tim's hand a couple of weeks ago while passing off a box of steel plates from the truck. After that, the law required that Jeff let the team dick around for half the day for "periodic mental-stabilization periods." Most of the team had other means of stimulating their focus, but Jeff had been doing this long enough to know to follow protocol in case an OSHA rep wandered in for a spot inspection.

Jeff leaned back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head. This was the last month with bug zappers. After this, the team would move on to assembling food processors, which meant scrutiny from the FDA and a tighter workforce as a result. Job availability would change. Tim and Benny were the only two untouchable employees on the team. Jeff would be happy as hell to let the two of them handle the food processors. Tim would be a capable foreman. Benny could take care of the business end. Soon enough, Benny could take over the whole operation. Jeff would make sure he left behind a good business—not necessarily a lucrative one but a secure one.

He scratched Douglas, a ten-year-old lab mutt that curled up under his desk during working hours. He grabbed the microphone again. "Hey, Tim, maybe you can set up some cones and teach the kid how to drive before you get back."

Both Tim and Benny flashed him the finger. Tim's fingertip barely showed over his dirty cast. Jeff smiled and leaned in again. "Now, Timmy, which finger was th—"

The mic cut. The lights on its base turned blue. Static pulsed through the shop. Jeff recoiled from his desk. He hadn't seen this before. He knew it was time for a better comms system. He had to fudge the audio to pass inspection last year. He hit the call button, but it didn't respond. He hit it again and peeked under his desk to check the cables.

The office brimmed with an enormous, uncanny voice. Jeff banged his head on the desk and looked up. Douglas howled.

"PLEASE PAY ATTENTION. THIS BROADCAST WILL REPEAT THREE TIMES..."