1st Person Prisoner

Authors Note: This was my first attempt at writing anything longer than 3000 words. Overall, I'd describe this both as a failure and a learning experience; with the lesson being that I can't just 'write a novel' but need to have an idea so good its worth writing a novel about. This is a meandering experience loosely based off of the video game Prison Architect with a narrative voice reminiscent of Yahtzee Croshaw.  

1.0

The low, oscillating hum of the artificial lighting sounded like an obnoxious bumble bee gorging itself on daffodils outside my window. Every few seconds it would stutter slightly, and out of the corner of my eye I would see my light flicker again. I would try to ignore it, but the second I could convince myself to focus on anything else, it would tease me back into its little bubble of reality like a finger waggling inside my retinas. The semi-transparent casing recessed into the ceiling, so it could’ve been that the filament was damaged and nobody could change it. It’s quite a technical flaw. Bulbs all break eventually; even more so in places like this. Maybe I had just missed something about it – some hidden screw or button or something. Hell, it might even only be changeable from above; requiring the whole thing to be ripped off. Still, the light was there, and it flickered, so there’s not much point in thinking about it.

There isn’t much else TO think about though. There ARE things I could bring up; a bit of reminiscing or recollection perhaps, but that would just make me depressed, so I’ve resolved not to think about that. I suppose my bed was surprisingly comfortable. The mattress’s springs were mostly intact, and the sheets were freshly laundered. The pillows were even slightly fluffed when I got there! They could fluff a pillow but not change a light, apparently. That just gave further credence to the idea that some stupid berk installed a light that can’t be fixed if it breaks.

Whenever I tried to slip off into deeper thought, it just flickered enough to make me start thinking about it again. Perhaps it’s less a stuttering bumblebee and more a water torture machine, each flicker dripping right into my eye sockets to soak into my bad mood like it’s a soggy kitchen sponge. I pursed my eyelids as hard as I could and forced my body to slowly sink into deeper slumber.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

The pre-recorded alarm sounded. The speakers were all over the building; like they were installed by a vindictive deaf person with reverse kleptomania. There was no cause for immediate alarm though (ha), this sort of thing happened regularly. We were all told it when we arrived – it’s just a test of the systems they do in case they actually need to use it. Apparently, it’s needed regularly enough to justify a sodding test every bloody Monday right on the dot of noon. I laid back again – I hadn’t even realised I had sat up – and hoped that my apathy would clog my ears up.

Apparently apathy made horrible earplugs, because when I heard someone shouting outside my window, I decided to sit up again, resigning that the combined efforts of the speakers and light would keep me awake regardless. I yanked myself up to my window – which the building designers had put slightly too high in the wall – and peered out.

Someone was sprinting across the courtyard. The manic expression he had strewn over his mug was easily outclassed by the pained expression of the police officer that seemed to be in hot pursuit. Well, I say ‘Hot pursuit’. All of the complacence the security team had was showing clearly on the lines of sweat that peppered his pudgy face like a swarm of mosquitos sucking at a tomato. The perturbed-looking escapee wasn’t looking too good either; he was going from door to door around the central courtyard, throwing himself at every exit he could find only to discover that the regularly mandated lockdown test was not a good time to attempt legging it.

Eventually, he tried the one door that didn’t knowingly lock at noon – and sprinted in with the speed of a teenager whose parents just walked in, slamming the door right into the face of his chaser who fumbled in vain at the now locked door handle. The door itself was MEANT to lock at noon with the rest – but one pillock had left it wide open once during a lockdown and the mechanism had fallen down from the doorframe. I had only learned this the other day – but said mechanism had been pinched by Jim from cellblock C and ‘installed’ above one of the toilet cubicles.

After a few seconds of the guard slamming his fist against the door, it opened again. An even more scared looking Mace – whom I had recognised now that he was facing this way – sprinted right into the officer’s fist as he attempted to shove past him. A few seconds later, about 20 surprised-looking prison guards filtered out into the midday sun.

Once his unconscious form had been lifted – with difficulty; this was one of those types to lift weights at free time and looked like he had taken a helium tank to every conceivable muscle he had – and rushed down towards solitary, I laid down again. Another cock-up of an escape attempt. I was beginning to understand the reasons behind weekly security tests here – everyone and their dog seemed to want to be in any place but this. I briefly pondered if everyone else’s lights were faulty too when another forgettable-faced guard materialised at my cells bars.

“Oi! You still in here?” he yelled in my general direction, slamming the cell door in a way that no doubt hurt his hand in some way.

“I’m in a barred cell” I responded, slowly. “You can see me from there”

“We’ve all just been told to make sure” he said levelly, though I swear I heard the slight taint of spite in there somewhere. Perhaps emotionlessness is in their training regime.

“Hey, can you get someone in here to fix my light?”

It was useless; he had already moved on to check the next cell, leaving me back in momentary peace. The alarm even stopped, throwing the short-lived liveliness of my cell back into mundanity; like someone had flooded it with water when I wasn’t looking. I let go of the window bars and let myself fall back down into a lying position, ready to resume the constant boredom that is my life.

The light flickered, and I felt my lower-left eyelid twitch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1.1

After what had actually been a real lockdown, and after an hours’ worth of light flickering; there was a short-lived cacophony of grinding metal noises like a robot furiously masturbating. All the cell doors in the building stuttered open like bedroom curtains being drawn by a mother on a Monday morning. The pre-recorded message would’ve tactfully reminded us that lunch is a thing and, if we didn’t go get it, we’d be locked in our cells for a few hours too long without food; but the sounds of standard-issue prison shoes against concrete drowned out most of it into more of a static-y slur (they were designed to make as loud a sound as possible so that sneaking was more difficult – to the general distain of everyone in the building). I pulled myself up using the window bars for the second time that day, slid on my own officially mandated footwear, and followed everyone else to the cafeteria.

“Hey Cynic!” came a slightly shrill voice behind me. Recognising it, I decided I wasn’t too drunk or tired to deal with him today; and kept walking.

“Hey man, wassup?” he said, once he had run up to walk alongside me. “Aw come on, don’t be like that”

I sighed. “Hello Flake, it’s nice to see you haven’t drowned yourself in your cell’s toilet yet”. A vestigial man at best; he had the build of a pencil that had been stamped on (not uncommon among prisoners; there are plenty of previous addicts strewn about). Constantly eager eyes poked out from under a low pointed fringe of ginger, capped off with a little fountain of bed hair that shot off in random directions, like he had a pair of jumper cables strapped to his ears.

“Nah man, I’m good. You see M’s screw up from your cell then?” he said, my attempt to dissuade a conversation either going over his head or having been drowned in stupidity. “You’d think he would’ve tried, yaknow, any other time of the day to run, not the lockdown test.”

“The idea was probably that no guards would’ve actually reacted to the escape alarm if it was already meant to go off then.” I said, voicing the explanation for his escape that I had come up with earlier. “Of course, the multiple locked doors didn’t help”

“Aw well, he should be outa solitary by the end of the day, right? Jerk owes me a few cigarettes for that duct tape I smuggled outa the workshop for ‘im.”

“Depends what he broke on the way out. The monthly budget doesn’t usually allow much.” I retorted. “Also, go away”. Joining with another river of inmates, we turned left down B block; nearly nudging shoulders with some big burly bastard I hadn’t had time or inclination to remember the name of.

“Yea, I suppose you’re right. Anyway, you hear about the new guy?” My ears perked up slightly before I reminded myself not to care “Oh?”

“Heard one of the guards talkin’ about it over their radio thing, apparently he’s an ex-dealer. They got his den a while ago; but he bailed before they could get ‘im. He’s only just turned up,” he explained. “You think any’ve the druggie lot in here’ll know ‘im”

“Statistically; yes. There aren’t many places you can physically get whatever legal highs you’re looking for. Selling drugs tends to devolve into a small-village-type affair: Everyone knows each other, and anyone who isn’t known is going to have a hard time without some serious help” I said, condensing about seventy million bored conversations with drug-abusers into two sentences. “Let’s just hope everyone’s on friendly terms”

“I wouldn’t jinx it there man, I don’t wanna see nobody go three knee deep today.” The corridor finally ended with double doors propped open by near-constant traffic; opening up into the wide halls of the prisons main cafeteria. Row upon row of benches lined screwed-down metal tables that themselves were lined with prisoners of every sort. A patchwork of greys and oranges (minimum and medium security respectively) were scattered over the many seats (that were, again, metal – so much for comfortable seating) but a far thicker crowd was forming in the general shape of a queue around the serving tables. On those, channels of beans, mashed potatoes, sausages and all other manner of cheap-to-get foods – all bearing the same plastic sheen that comes from too many preservatives – were being dug out by those who could get close enough.

Keeping with the throng of people I had trickled through the double doors with, I made my way to join the back of the mob-queue. A little dollop of unruly ginger hair emerged from the mass of the crowd, and Flake managed to squeeze his way through to stand next to me again, eliciting a few swears from people off behind him. After he had made sure all his limbs came with him, he jovially yet politely patted the shoulder of the person in front of us. Rabbit, which had gotten his name from one too many failed escape attempts involving tunnels and plastic spoons, turned himself half-around. He was wearing a sneer, but dropped it when he saw Flake trying to get his attention.

“Flake, Cynic,” he said, by way of greeting “What is it?”

“Apparently there’s meant to be some new guy comin’ in. anyone showed up yet?”

“Haven’t seen anyone new around. What’s the story on ‘im?”

“’Apparently he’s meant to be some dealer that’s been on the run for a while.” Rabbits face seemed level, but I barely noticed a few tremors make their way across him arms. His fist was clenched, but his face and voice remained outwardly casual.

“Huh. Well, if he’s one of the med-sec then he coulda been put in F block – he wouldn’t have made it over yet”

“Yea, I suppose” Flake finished. Rabbit turned and went off – apparently having lost interest in lunch for now. After five minutes, Flake and me had gotten our lunch as well and joined him and a few others at one of the benches in the middle of the hall. I recognised the blank faces of Tim and Menace, and Slims colossal height would always stick out above the crowd like a grown man pretending to be a girl scout, but there were a few others that had transferred in last month that I hadn’t spoken to yet: a plain guy with sandy hair and a facial structure resembling a bullfrog, and a permanently-sneering man with build-up muscle and a stupid-looking straitened fringe.

“Tell him what you told me, Flake” said Rabbit, gesturing towards the man with the unfortunate fringe “about the new prisoner”

“Sure thing. I don’t think I caught your name there, man” Flake began. “Tyran” Rabbit answered. Usually, having other people answer questions for you was generally a bad sign; all the violent lot tended to feel it improved their image. Not the school bully-type violent, mind – the one that caves the second the teacher shows up threatening to call parents – but the kind who actually intends to back up their violence.

“Well, I heard from one’ve the guards that some dealer was being brought in fresh from the courthouse. Guy’s been on the run for awhile after his nest was busted, but I didn’t catch his name.”

Rabbit spoke again – I was beginning to think he was Tyran’s interpreter or something – “What do ya think, is it him?”

Tyran finally spoke, and I finally gave him my attention. He was leaning with the small of his back against the table, his eyes off in another realm. “Well, sounds like it. We can only hope”. That, combined with the casual posture, made the image I had been concocting of implied violence melt slightly, like it had been left in a greenhouse. His tone had some sort of weird mix of hopefulness and doubt – like he hadn’t quite decided which he was going to go with yet. Still, his voice had a low growl like he had swallowed sandpaper-coated gravel, so I didn’t doubt that whoever he hoped would be showing up was going to have a less than optimal welcome.

“That’s F block coming in now,” said Slim, drawing everyone’s gaze to the crowd that had begun to trickle through the rooms’ only entrance. I saw Tyran and Rabbit’s gazes scanning over each face intently. I decided to conclude that I would not want to be whoever had managed to piss these two off. This thought sparked another one that had been shouting for attention somewhere at the back of my mind; that Rabbit himself had had two separate drug offense charges as part of his sentence.

I looked over at Flake. He also seemed to have remembered this fact, judging by the worried look on his face – the face of someone who had just looked down and noticed train tracks under his feet. “Who is this guy you’re hopin’ shows up anyway?” he said, hoping to diffuse the situation before it began.

“Rat” said Rabbit, his gaze not leaving the mob-queue coming from the door. I couldn’t actually tell if that was some prison nickname or an insult, so I waited for him to continue. “Old dealer of ours; didn’t tell us the cops had found him out. We ended up walking right into their waiting handcuffs when we came for our weekly fix.”

“The scum used us as bait to keep the filth occupied” spouted Tyran, his voice unambiguously laced with hatred.

“Well, maybe he couldn’t tell ya because he was on the run himself; or his phone was in the den when it was hit?” Flake said, moving to pacify them. I shook my head at him: those two had likely had their anger stir and stew for years in their incarceration, and they weren’t going to let it go because someone gave proper reason. “Right guys?” he continued, undeterred. “Guys?” They weren’t listening; they were staring at one of the people who were taking up the rear of the procession. Following their gaze, I found who it was.

He looked to be in his early thirties, with short brown hair brushed into a centre parting. Judging by the people next to him, he was about 5 ft 6 with the sort of absurdly skinny build reserved only for necromantic overlords, the severely malnourished and cocaine addicts. His eyes, which were marked with their fair share of darkened streaks, were slightly widened – concerned or even panicked. They were darting between every face in the hall like a teenager in a strip club for the first time.

His perturbment only seemed to amplify when he noticed the icy looks coming from Rabbit and Tyran. He almost made to duck down and scamper off, before thinking better of it. With considerable effort, he made his way out of the mass of orange and tentatively began moving towards us. When he was about ten feet away, Tyran stood up with almost lightning speed, closing the gap in two bounds. I blinked, and the newbie was pinned to the table a few feet to my left. I started, tumbling backwards off of my seat. “N- n- now come on Matt” the newbie said – with considerable effort, if the hand around is throat was any indication. “The- there’s no need fo-“ he was cut off by some sort of gurgling sound deep in his oesophagus, and he gave up his placative gestures In favour of struggling against the hand that was choking him.

Tyran leaned in close to his ear, and whispered something no doubt threatening. I didn’t get to hear it, because the sound was blotted out by Flakes loud grunts of effort as he wrapped his arm round Tyrans throat. He attempted to haul him back, but it would seem he underestimated the sheer muscle he was up against. Behind him, I saw Rabbit moving to intercept, but Menace and another burly chap I didn’t recognise was holding him back. He threw a punch, which landed in Slims open hand, and someone behind him tried to pin his other arm. I heard something cartilage-like being severely inconvenienced, and drew my gaze back to the matter in front of me. The new guy had scarpered, and Tyran had Flake in a choke hold.

Running up, I attempted to throw a punch in the general direction of his chin, but something large and hand-like wrapped itself around my right hand. I heard a sound like bubble wrap being stomped on, and my fist went numb. Next thing I knew, I was thrown back with the force of a train ramming an oil tanker, and landed firmly on my arse. My hand looked strangely purple and not-hand like, and the pain hit me a second too soon for me to register doing anything about it. I nearly clutched at it, but was able to restrain my mind before adding a second wave of internal bleeding to my list of problems. It was clearly broken – in a few different places at least.

Ignoring as much searing pain as I could; I stood up just in time to have Flake thrown at me, sending me straight back on my arse for the second time that minute. He rolled to a sort of crouch/all-fours position, panting heavily at the now-abundant air. Said air was then filled with a high-pitched screeching, and it took me a second to recognise the riot alarm. Tyran seemed almost momentarily afraid, his eyes darting around the room. His resolve hardened slightly when he noticed the man he had started a brawl over; cowering behind a nearby toppled bench. Another wave of throbbing pain sent lightning up my spine, and I gave an involuntary moan before cutting myself off by clamping my lips shut.

Tyran began to stomp over, but his legs found purchase on mine, which I had outstretched to trip him, causing him to collapse in nearly as pained a heap as the one I was in. my shins had seen better days from that, but my legs as a whole weren’t that bad, so I put them to use kicking him in the face. The first strike landed squarely against his forehead, but the second was absorbed by his right arm, rising in a blocking position. I leaned back slightly to get a better angle, which made my mangled hand press against the floor in a way I severely regretted. My third kick was cut off prematurely by two firm hands clamping around my shoulders, pulling me back. I began to struggle, but that was aborted when I was spun around, forcing me to face plant into the concrete. Cold steel wrapped itself around my wrists, stinging against my bruises, and my head managed to clear long enough of pain and adrenaline to hear the voice shouting in my ear.

“-eace struggling or you WILL be tazed!” That was enough for me, and I finally allowed myself to pass out from the pain coming from my everywhere. The last thing I saw was the admittedly uplifting sight of Tyran being struck by about three different stun guns, causing his body to convulse violently as he aborted attempting to get up. He slumped down, and accidentally head-butted a dropped splodge of mash potatoes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1.2

With considerable effort, I was able to clear my head enough to open my eyes. My vision was darkened, but after a few blinks I could see reasonably clearly. The ceiling I was forcibly appraising was panelled cardboard, with a plastic framing – the sort of ceiling that usually comes with imbedded lighting and water damage. It took me a few seconds – my brain had a weight on it not unlike a severe hangover – to recognise the roofing of the prisoner infirmary. I wasn’t all too familiar with the room; I was never one to really get into many fights if I could avoid it, but that’s definitely what it was. On the edges of my peripheral vision, I could see the tops of curtains that divide up each bed – though they were practically pulled to. Unfortunately, my mind tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me that I would eventually have to look up.

I looked up.

Yup. Definitely the medical ward. Directly opposite me was a bed not unlike my own with the face of Menace – one of the guys who had tried to restrain Rabbit – conked out. He didn’t seem too hurt, though I noticed the remains of a bloody nose and his left ear seemed to be bandaged. Like usual protocol for riotous patients, his legs and arms were bound loosely with straps – a measure that had been put in after ‘Hannibal’ Pete had bitten one of the nurses’ face off.

Looking slowly left, I noticed Slim and someone I recognised as Ferret in similar states, each sporting their own patchwork of bandages and injuries. Rabbit had apparently put up quite a fight – if the body count was any indication. The far wall had two guards standing in the centre – making sure no prisoners use the infirmary for nefarious purposes. The riot officer sitting on one of the corner seats was new though – having riot officers around is a good sign that a prisoner is going to get transferred to a max-sec facility soon.

Sure enough, Rabbit himself was in the far bed on the near wall. He seemed quite the worse for wear – he was sporting a fair collection of blacks and blues over his exposed chest and his left eye was heavily bandaged. One of his legs was in a cast – a clear sign that it was broken. The last bed on my left – and the one closest to me – was Flake. The lucky bastard appeared to have escaped with a broken nose and a bruised neck, if the lack of bandages was any indication. Looking to the right for the first time, I noticed the nurse standing nearby, with his back to me. He turned around, and noticed that I had come to.

“How are you feeling, Lenny?” he said, walking over to the bedside

“Like I had just drank a full cask of assorted alcohols and been kicked in the face by a horse,” I responded, as honestly as I could. “And call me Cynic.”

“Most of your injuries were superficial; your stomach and posterior suffered mild bruising,” he informed me. “You suffered a severe concussion and several bones in your hand were fractured.”

“Well isn’t that just dandy.” Most of my body had woken up at this point; which made me notice that my right hand was noticeably numb from painkillers. I relaxed, letting myself sink into the folds of my pillow.

Mind, I wasn’t actually relaxed per se. I looked down at my pummelled hand – finding a thick cast and bandage had made my right arm end in a sort of expanded stump. I felt the slight friction of a bandage against my hair, evidence of that concussion. I heard some sort of sputtering sound from my left, and turned to see Flake suddenly wake, eyes wide, reaching up. He was cut short by the bed straps, and struggled against his bonds until he noticed where he was. Seeing me, he collapsed down back into a lying position, closing his eyes.

“How’d we do?” he asked. His throat sounded a bit hoarse.

“Rabbits hospitalised for a while, Tyrans probably in solitary, the new guy isn’t dead and my hands broken. Also, we managed to get about five other people injured” I said, saving him taking stock. “Out of five, I’d say we cocked up”.

“well, aint that a downer. Anything else?”

“Rabbit and Tyran are probably getting bumped up to max sec”

“Aint that a bit overkill for one brawl?”

“I did tell you about damaged property and brutal treatment. They took part in a riot in the middle of the cafeteria; no doubt damaging benches, tables, and using up precious tazer charges”

“Yea, but still. That seems like it’s a bit harsh for one fight!” his tone implied not the hateful spite against his fellow man that I expected, but an odd mix of surprise, pity and actual caring.

“Who gives a crap?” entered Slim, rising into a laying-sit position on his bunk. His face appeared to be adorned with a large amount of bandage, concentrated around his nose. “The bastards started a riot, injured a bunch of people to get at a little vendetta. He can go rot in solitary for all I care”

“Hey, come on man. You’ve known Rabbit for years, how can you turn on ‘im so easily!?”

“A black eye and a broken nose says screw ‘em” he said, his voices pace rising with each word. “He coulda gotten us all bumped up to max sec with that move! We’re lucky we got out with just a few bumps!”

“Hey, you’re the one that ran in and tried to break it up” I interjected. “You could have just rubber necked and guaranteed your safety.” Flake took over for me. “You ran into the fight, so you must’ve accepted that stuff like this coulda happened”

“I wouldn’t have had to do crap if he had just let it go!”

“Well you can’t hate a guy just because of one thing.” Flake insisted. I took over again. “You can’t even complain much. You got slightly injured; my whole hand was broken!” I tried to wave my cast stump to illustrate my point, but my own straps cut me short.

Slim seemed about to explode again, but stopped himself. I could see lines of effort peppering his forehead, his veins popping out like his blood pressure had doubled. He flopped back into his bed, dejected. Flake himself seemed to relax again. He rubbed his throat slowly, his shouting not having helped his injuries much. Some of the other prisoners planted their heads back down too, having been watching the argument from their own beds. The nurse was attending to someone I couldn’t see off to my right, and the officers continued their jobs, blending into the background in a way that seemed to come natural to them. Seeing my chances of any conversation disappear one by one, I chose to follow suit, closing my eyes and trying not to think about flickering lights.

My attempts at sleep were aborted a few hours later. I woke up again to find the now-familiar roofing staring back at me. Blinking, I realised that this was not a case of anthropomorphic ceiling tiles, but a guard shaking me awake. Slowly rising, I spoke

“Wha… what is it? Please enlighten me, it’s not like I was sleeping or anything.”

“Wake up. You’re getting put back in your cell. Your arms been cast and the rest of you is fine; you’re just taking up space here.”

“Uh… My hands kind of broken here.”

“There’s been another incident in the yard. We’ve been told to escort all non-critical patients to their cells for now” I opened my mouth – with effort, me only having had a few hours’ sleep – to argue, but thought better of it. My arm was broken at most yesterday, but these were the drones of the prisons; there’s no point trying to reason with them. I COULD try and complain to the warden directly, but there was a chance that would just get me transferred to the cell next to the waste recycling; it wasn’t a battle worth fighting.

Looking around finally, I noticed that the room seemed surprisingly busy. Everyone except Rabbit – who was still under (likely sedated) in the corner – had already been taken back to their cells. There were nurses running left and right, and some shackled prisoners were being brought in through the leftmost entrance. I didn’t get a chance to scrutinise their faces, because the guard roughly shoved me towards the door in the right, prompting a derogatory. Either he didn’t hear it or he didn’t care.

Out in the hall, I noted from the barred window that it was night time. The word Incident nestled itself into my mind as I tromped off, the guard slowly following. Yard time would have been after lunch; but that would’ve been hours ago. The doors to the central courtyard, where the yard is, would’ve been closed off; locked at this hour. Someone must’ve tried to escape again. No, policy was to put escapees in solitary if they weren’t critical. What was going on?

We arrived at my cell door; and the guard wordlessly unlocked the cage door and ushered me in. the bars were slammed shut behind me, and I was back in momentary solitude. My light was off, and I saw no reason to change that, so I slid down into bed, making sure my arm didn’t knock against anything painful, and tried to get a decent half-nights rest.

That rest was spoiled yet again by the cruel sun, blaring its bold beaming directly onto my eyelids. I tried to ignore it, but the universe was not seeing my way. The sound of the cell doors grinding open to signify breakfast shattered my attempts, and I finally conceded and got up. I paused halfway to clench my fist and swear a bit after I quite painfully banged my arm against my beds’ metal framing.

Following the slow conga to the cafeteria, I noticed the short, lanky, baked-bean-hair capped form of Flake a ways in front of me. I was tired, annoyed and in pain; but I was still curious as to what happened last night. One loud swear and a wave of a bandaged stump later, he was walking abreast of me.

“Hi Cynic, aren’t you meant to be in the infirmary right now?” his voice was still a little hoarse, but he seemed no worse for wear

“Some twatting stupid clot of a warden ordered the infirmary emptied ‘cos of some fight that happened out in the yard last night.” I heard someone walk up on our right, and Slim joined our little discussion. His nose was still heavily bandaged “Hi Slim. Some fight out in the yard caused the infirmary to be emptied last night, know anything about it?”

“I know it caused me to have a hell’ve bad night. Didn’t think they’d kick out the temp cripple though.” The bandage wasn’t helping his breathing much, and his voice had a slight nasal tinge to it. I heard Flake stifle a giggle. “Anyway, Flake.”

He turned towards us fully, making us stop in the middle of the hallway. A few annoyed faces passed by us, giving us openly dirty looks. “Sorry about that shoutin’ contest we had yesterday. Noses were broken, stress was high.”

“Nah, ‘ts all cool man.” He reached past me and gave Slim a little punch in the arm, which he exaggeratedly reacted to. “Anyway, I’m sure someone’ll know what’s up with this little brawl in the yard. Why’d you start caring in the particulars of random fights, then?”

“I think you may have missed the fact that it happened at night. In the yard. And the people were brought to the infirmary, not solitary.”

“Ah. Now I see what you’re on about.” We started walking again, rounding the corner leading off to the cafeteria.

“Fred might know,” interjected Slim. “Guy got hold of one of the filths’ radios; he might’ve heard something ‘bout it.”

“Oh, I am NOT talking to Fred,” I said, before that idea got any credit. “Sod won’t shut up if you give him reason to talk.”

“Well then, you guys go get food while I go see what he knows” offered Slim. “Grab me somethin’ though.” Then he was off. We were coming through the double doors now, and he broke off to the right towards one of the corner tables. We joined the line and waited our turn. It might’ve just been me, but I swore that the line was thinner than yesterday.

1.3

Having successfully smuggled three lots of food through, we headed off towards the corner table – me being careful not to be seen and subsequently drawn into conversation. This attempt was aborted when we noticed that Slim wasn’t over there anymore. I scanned around the room, but there were too many people around to tell where he’d gone. I sighed in resignation; we were going to have to talk to Fred.

“Actually, why don’t YOU go over and see if you can find Slim, while I stand here and think about something else?” I said, turning my head to Flake.

“Sure thing man.” Another bullet avoided. Deciding to see if I could cut out the middle man while Flake was gone; I got up on one of the metal benches in attempt to get a better view of the room. I nearly banged my cast-stump against the tables’ edge, but was able to get up without incident and began scanning the room. It was during one of these scans that I noticed Slim doing the same thing, about half way across the room. I waved to grab his attention, but all I got was a non-committal wave back. He mustn’t have been looking for me. Feeling a light tugging on my trouser leg, I looked down to see Flake trying to get my attention.

“’Apparently Slim came over, but went all thoughtful and walked off again without askin’ much. Anyway, you see ‘im”

“I do, but he appears to be looking for someone.” Before Flake could talk again, I dismounted from my perch and started speed-walking towards where Slim was standing. Flake shrugged and followed me. After a minute of negotiating the too-small gap left between the benches and prisoners arses, I was trying to get Slims attention in much the same way Flake had to me. He glanced down, saw who it was, but didn’t make to stop looking.

“Erm, what you lookin’ for there?” Flake said, voicing our mutual concern.

“Have you seen the new guy since yesterday?” he said, still distracted with his search.

“No, not really. Why?”

“F block should’ve come in by now, but he’s not here. You said there was some riot yesterday night?”

“Yea…” I intercut, not liking where this was going.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that the crowd seems thinner today? All the lad’re missing are all from F and B block; and there’s at least 20 faces missing there.”

“Cynic” Flake intercut. “You didn’t let me finish with what Fred said.” I turned to him while Slim climbed down to take place next to me. “He said that it wasn’t a riot, at least not at the start; a bunch of prisoners’ cells were unlocked by someone. The lot tried a big getaway, but that turned into a brawl when one’ve ‘em got them all locked in the courtyard.”

There was a seconds silence.

“You’re sure?” said Slim. I was still processing this, so he managed to get there first

“Fred seemed pretty confident”

I had to voice my thoughts. “So either a prisoners managed to get hold of the keys for both F and B block off of a guard; or there’s a duck in the guards that hooked someone up. Either way, this must’ve been more than a simple runner; else they wouldn’t have springed so many prisoners.”

“They might’ve done it so nobody would know who took the keys?” tried Slim

“That or they had another agenda, and needed a big distraction to get the guards’ attention. A big riot at night; everyone was busy in the courtyard while some guy did something elsewhere.” I voiced, then started. “That’s why they were locked out; someone must’ve manually locked the door after everyone else went through!”

“All the doors are locked down automatically at night” Slim reminded, granules of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

“All except the west door. Remember Maces run the other day?”

“Oh crap, someone’s being pretty sneaky then” added Flake. “But why now?”

“The only thing that changed recently is the new prisoner; sod all’s been happening for the last few weeks other than that.” I concluded. “Well, that and the cafeteria brawl.” Another wave of realisation hit me. My stomach had begun churning at the raising prospects of what I was saying. “Tyrans’ still in solitary, right?”

“Should be” Slim retorted, but he was looking worried now, too.

“Hey, aint solitary right next to B blo-” Flake didn’t get a chance to finish, because I was already running off towards the corner table.

I arrived at Fred’s little corner at a full sprint, scattering prisoners and pushing through people of slower thought. I faintly heard Flake apologising profusely behind me, but it felt like it was happening on the other side of a brick wall. I didn’t dwell on it. “Fred-hi-I need to ask you something”. The words came out practically as one.

“Well hiya there Cynic, how can I he-“

“Yea cool, can you tell me if there’s been any news of breakouts in solitary recently – as in the last day or so”

There was a brief expression on his face; somewhere between surprise, shock, and the feeling of being stung by a wasp. When he saw my panic, and answered as quickly as he dared. “No, not since Maces run”. What? Was I just jumping to conclusions? No, he could have locked himself back in his cell with the keys; he was able to get out after all.

“What about any prisoners being attacked in their cells, anything unusual except for the riot-breakout thing”

“No, I don’t think so”

Flake and Slim finally took up positions next to me, just in time to see me charge off again. This all didn’t fit. I needed to talk to the newbie. If Tyran was involved in all this, then he’d be back in his cell; I just didn’t know what state he would be in. Slim was physically fit enough to keep pace and come alongside me.

“Where we going now?”

“It’s not all - making sense; we - need to talk to the - new guy ourselves.” I wasn’t exactly in a state of prime masculinity myself, and I panted heavily as I forced the words out. I didn’t dare slow though; this could be bad. Not for the last time, I seriously regretted not taking track in high school.

I flung myself around the corner of F block and slowed to a jog. Practically gasping for breath, I started scanning the interior of each cell. All of the doors were open, of course; its policy to leave cell doors open during eating and recreational hours. Empty. Empty. Empty. Some of the beds seemed to be roughly made; others were dishevelled – like the prisoners weren’t there to make them that morning. Empty. Empty. I was beginning to have a better feeling about this; it’s possible that the newbie was in the infirmary with everyone else; or had just gotten lost on his way to eat. Empty. Empty. Empty. Still sleeping. Empty. Wait, still sleeping? That one made me pause. No way would a prisoner give up breakfast just for a little shut-eye. Flake and Slim, who had been repeating my actions like a lagging mirror, paused at the threshold as I slowly walked in.

My breathing was still quite loud; but now it sounded like a hurricane was shouting through a megaphone. Even the soft hum of the infuriatingly-working artificial lighting was a shouting gorilla punching my eardrums. Pimples of perspiration evacuated my brow, trickling down to collate at my chin, forming drops that would splatter against the concrete floor with little pangs. I took two steps forward. My right hand gave me a reassuring throbbing of pain; my only reminder of times’ passing. I took three steps. Two more steps left me up against the bed. Looking down, the figure under the blanket was still. Not stillness of someone trying not to move; but of something that has lost the will to. I swallowed so heavily that I swear I heard it echo down the block.

Screw this tension, I thought. Just reach out, shake the person and see if they wake up. I lifted my arm up, and hovered it above the blanket. What did I say about the tension? What’s the point of even talking to yourself if you’re not going to listen? Gritting my teeth so hard I swear I felt something crack, I forced my petrified left hand down onto the form. No response. I shook my hand; just a gently shake, enough to wake someone up without causing any serious inconveniences. Still nothing. Experimentally, I smashed my hand down on something that felt like a face. Something that felt very much like a nose gave a little, but the cocoon of quilting gave no involuntary response: no little shake or stifled breath. I turned my head towards the door. Flake and Slim were wearing faces filled with grim worry and fear. Why did I have to be the person to walk into the cell? I felt like an undertaker. Well; perhaps that wasn’t far off; only one way to find out though.

I lifted the quilt off of the bed.

I will freely admit with some justification that I had my eyes closed for a second. Just a second. My brain was having trouble finding room to fit all of this; and something this big deserved to give it a little prep. With considerable effort, I managed to force one of them open. I didn’t even realise my bandaged stump had come up to cover it. With even more applied mental force, I let my right hand droop enough for me to look down.

Yup, that’s definitely the new guy. Blood seemed to be seeping from his nose. It looked too dry for it to have been me. His uniform was stained with sweat, but otherwise clean and not-bloodied; as my mind has been picturing. His bag-laden eyes were shut. If I hadn’t punched him, I could almost have convinced myself he had just had a nose bleed while sleeping. My eyes came to his throat, and my own throat became somehow even drier than it had already been. There were clear heavy marks snaking across it. Heavy dips in it dictate a tight grip.

He’s dead. He had been strangled to death.

There was a stifled croaking sound somewhere behind me. It took me a moment (my mind was a bit busy as it was) to recognise it had come from Flake. The 7ft shadow of Slim grew to my right. He looked over my shoulder, made his own involuntary sound, then turned and walked out slowly. He was muttering something under his breath, but I didn’t catch it.

I very, very slowly turned and followed him out.

Flake gave me some sort of slightly hopeful stare, but my shaking head somehow made him slump further than he already had. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had collapsed right there and started repainting the steel-grey floor vomit green, but he seemed to have some slight composure. His ordinarily-inviting eyes had turned defeated, and the corners had started growing small pools of water. His hands were shaking. Looking down, my own hand was shaking. I focused, and was able to make it less perceptible, in a petty attempt to retain dignity.

Then, there was a loud shout from the corner we had come round, and a guard was standing there, brandishing a very-lethal-looking handgun.

 

 

 

 

 

2.0

I slowly came to, having been lulled to slight rest by the monotonous rattling and vibrating of the prison bus. I tried to fight against my own rising, but eventually capitulated. This was not a time to be resting, anyway. I craned my head to look out the window, and saw a large expanse of barren, plain landscape stretching out. Up ahead, there were a few hills and rock formations; a bit of texture against an otherwise flat and pitiless abyss. Small bursts of shrubbery; coloured a sandy green, emerged with reluctance from the dried-out earth like the facial hair of a spotty teenager.

Turning my attention to the passengers I was sharing an uncomfortably small back seat with, I noticed Flake next to me. His old light-orange uniform had suited him far better than the deep orange of the uniform he was forced to wear now. His baked-bean coloured ginger hair was comparatively sandy against the neon uniform. The clothes were also a size too big; they hadn’t had a size small enough for his scrawniness; so he almost looked comical if it wasn’t for his expression. His eyes were unfocused in front of him, like he was having a staring contest that he had lost interest in.

Looking past him, I saw the comparatively goliath form of Slim. His sheer height had left his head banging lightly against the back window as he rested. They had managed to dig out a uniform big enough for him; but it was a 3XL. It left his regularly-muscled build looking malnourished against the yawning space of his clothing. They had had to give him a belt; but the only one they could find that had a plastic belt buckle (Can’t go giving Max-sec prisoners metal objects; especially ones in a facility not outfitted to deal with them) was bright red and had various stylised cars splattering its length like the quilt cover of a 7-year-old.

Flake finally seemed to notice me; and turned his head. His eyes were shallow and sunken, but they still seemed to hold his infuriatingly-positive spark. It’s like it had simply been covered in a blanket: not stomped out.

“Well good mornin’, sleep well?”

“Not exactly.” I noticed Slim coming around and nodded my greetings as his tired eyes met mine.

“morning. So, now that we’ve all had a nice sleep, can we talk about what the hell just happened” his voice was still in the process of waking up, but he managed to instil at least the presence of anger and spite.

“I would really rather not”

“Well when I wanted to talk about this last night; you said that you didn’t want to and that you were tired and that we’d talk about it tomorrow. Well guess what, its tomorrow”

“There aint much TO talk about, Slim” Flake interjected. “Guard found us by the cell of a prison inmate, concluded we killed him and wrote a report worthy of us all being considered at minimum ‘assets to manslaughter’.” He took a long breath that may have been a sigh and continued. “And then we all got bumped up to Max sec and shipped out on diesel therapy to somewhere that can legally hold us”

“Yea, I get that, but why just assume we all killed ‘im.” He started, undeterred. “We told ‘im about Tyrans key and all; shouldn’t that’ve been included in his apparent report as well?”

I felt like adding myself in here. “You’re missing something. Tyran had keys to several blocks of the prison; that leads to the conclusion that he is either incredibly fast working for someone that had been in just for one month, or that he had outside help. He and one of the guards were in cahoots.” I concluded. “It would therefore follow that said guard would want to make sure nobody found Tyran with those keys; and that he’d want to push the blame for this murder onto some other poor bastards shoulders”

“And what, we’re the poor bastards?”

“Yea, that’s basically it actually”

“Damn” he shouted, accentuating his point by slamming his fist down onto the headrest of the chair in front of him. The padding on it reduced what would have been a loud bang to more of a phut, lowering the effect somewhat.

“Hey, you guys wanna keep it down back there!” came a voice from one of the seats further up. I took a brief glance towards the front of the bus to see that there were hair shades of every colour poking out above about half the seats; the bus must’ve stopped by a few other prisons in the night (no wonder it was taking so long to get to one facility). I didn’t bother to ponder it too long. “Some of us are trying to get some shut eye!”

“Now THERES an idea” I said, turning my head back to the passing landscape, hoping that it would lull me back to my doze.

“YAKNOW, THE WAY YOU-“ Slim blurted, then adjusted his volume. “The way you’re sounding, it’s like you aren’t even surprised by this”

I turned slightly, to give him the full effect of my glare. “The legal systems always had its foot up my arse. Sorry if I’ve started getting used to the feel”

Slim let that settle. His surprise settled into a pout, which finally took form as a sulk. Maybe even a nap; I wasn’t paying much attention, I was already ahead of the game there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2.1

This time, my rest was rustled not by the soft hum of the engine or the constant boring gaze of the sun; but from the ear-distressing screech of a gunshot. My head jumped up to look for the source. I saw Flake, Slim, everyone do the same; but beyond them I saw a car pulled up on the left of the prison bus, matching pace. It was safe to assume that the sound had come from the rifle pointing out of the passenger side window, aimed ahead of mes. I followed its trajectory. The shot had cracked right against the driver’s radio; the one he uses to call in escape attempts during transit. The shot had gone right through the bars around the driver’s window; the ones that stop prisoners reaching in at him. It had fit through an inch-wide gap.

“THE HELL ARE THEY?!” I heard slim shout from about arse level. I looked to see him ducking down out of the line of fire. I chose to swiftly follow suit; taking care not to bash my stump-arm against the bars of the window

“THEY SHOT THE RADIO OUT” I had to shout too, because the silence the bus had enjoyed was now filled with plenty of commotion as everyone realised what was going on. The screeching of the bus’s tires and its weaving motion didn’t help much either.

A loud ring shot out; another gunshot. The bus’s weaving turned into a screech as the bus spiralled out of control. The tyre must’ve been shot out. I gave a loud moan of pain as my right arm jarred painfully off of the seat in front of me. Flake, who up until now had been enjoying his own little panic, screamed out as the bus began to roll. Time seemed to almost slow; as if to force us to enjoy the moment. The sounds of screams and seriously complaining metal filled my ears. I brought both my arms in to avoid them being damaged any further. I placed my head to my waist, and adopted a sort of foetal position centred around my seatbelt-held torso. The sound of an airbag deploying shouted out from somewhere in front of me, though it was heavily muted by the bus’s populace ejecting all the energy they had out their mouths. A shadow formed on my right; the ground coming up to French kiss the window. The impact hit me like a gorilla on steroids, but I didn’t have time to mull on it. The sky flew by again. I don’t know why I noticed this, but one of the clouds looked slightly like a fluffy kitten. Smash. The bulletproof glass on the left window had shattered; sending a shower of vehement glass knives raining down. It would’ve been a severe inconvenience; but the bus had moved on by the time they would’ve impacted, leaving them instead to imbed or shatter against the back wall.

I felt the rolling begin to slow and become more sluggish as the speed diminished. I looked to my left; Flake and Slim had adopted similar positions, but that’s as far as my brain went before the bus gave its last agonisingly slow tilt. It crashed down, likely bursting the suspension in a way that would no-doubt antagonise our previous wardens wallet. My ears took a few seconds to stop ringing as my body caught up to the rest of me.

“Right” I thought, “We were in a bus, and now it’s being hijacked. I’m not going to throw up, and I’m not going to panic; I’m just going to wait until my body stops shaking and go from there”. I heard an engine cut out; not the one from the bus though. That one had been severely minced a short while ago, and seemed to be taking a little nap.

“Is everyone OK?” I heard Flake shout out; audible over the near silence that tends to follow these sorts of things. If we weren’t in a desert, there would’ve been a cricket chirping. He tried to speak again, but gagged slightly.s

I slowly let my head out of the little bubble formed by my knees and arms in order to help take stock of what the bloody hell just happened.  All the windows were broken and the bars were bent and misshapen, and there was the distinct sound of an exhaust system falling off.  I saw the driver dig his way out of an airbag, open the driver-side door, and fall out. The faint wretches of puking were audible through the damaged not-windows. I saw a few people struggling against their seatbelts with their newfound adrenaline, but found that the locking mechanism was still on. The somehow-still-working doors to the passenger part of the bus slid open with the slight exhaling of gas; adding a little comical punch line. A shadow moved round to the driver side door, and a message popped up at the now-cracked screen at the front of the bus; the one that tells us when the seatbelts have been unlocked.

Plenty of the prisoners took this as their cue. Almost immediately, the residents of the vehicle were down to me, Flake, and Slim (who appeared to be hyperventilating). I handed him one of the paper sick bags they store under the seats, while Flake headed up towards the front. I was groggily stumbling after him with barely a thought on my part. Almost in sync, we bailed out of the door and began decorating the dusty soil with the contents of our stomachs.

My mind was at the very least given a moment to think. I was bent double over a pool of my own sick, my pulse was in the thousands, my right arm was throbbing violently with the pain dampened by latent adrenaline and the bus I was in had just crashed. My brain was running in cycled. It was overloaded; it couldn’t process it all. I tried to focus, but it panicked and shook from my mental grip. With superhuman effort, I began to picture a dot. Just a black dot in the centre of a white piece of paper. I focused my breathing until it had come down to semi-regular levels. Right, now I just need to-

Another sodding gunshot. There goes my little moment to myself. I cracked my head up, and saw the same rifle from before aimed skyward, the man wielding it obscured by a forest of neon-orange legs. I slowly crawled my way up just as Slim disembarked; having gotten a grips with himself. He knocked his head slightly on the top of the frame, but didn’t seem to notice. I grabbed his arm to stop him collapsing, and gestured tiredly to the man now addressing us.

In defiance of the current climate; he was coated in a deep black suit, with a grey tie and sparkling dice cufflinks. That, paired with the aviators shades, made him look like how a fifteen year old from the 1980s would describe an FBI agent. A few drops of sweat and an overly red complexion were the only signs of his discomfort. He mopped his brow with a pink embroidered polka dot flannel, then tucked it somewhere deep in his left pocket. There was a slow deliberation to his movements, like he was relishing how everyone was waiting on him. He finally looked up towards the mango-shaded crowd formed from the remains of our transport; and spoke.

“Well, how’s everyone doin’ this fine morning.” He spoke with a generic English accent, but with a slight hint of hillbilly he was seemingly trying to bury. “My name is Mr Robinson-“

“Well it’s about time!” blurted someone deep in the crowd to my right. With somewhat difficulty, he clawed his way out of the mob. He had a deep tan, and appeared to be heavily coated in tattoos on every piece of skin available. He started walking towards the apparent Mr Robinson, but someone stepped in front of him. I hadn’t even noticed them, but there was a strict semicircle of goons dressed exactly as Robinson behind him. I hadn’t noticed; because they were standing stock still regardless of the suns likely attempts to turn their outfits into walking saunas. They all appeared to be sporting handguns in their belt holsters; except for one who was holding a very familiar rifle.

“Hey man, what gives!” was about all the tattoo-eager now-not-prisoner could say before his outstretched arm was pinned on his back and he was thrown to the dirt. “What the he-“ a boot was planted against his head, silencing him.

“Now, it’s very nice to see you there, Carl; but don’t cut me off” he said, leaning down to whisper in his ear; doing that slow deliberation thing again. “You remember Doug, right?”

The tanned complexion that had been barely visible turned pale; nearly to the colour of a normal person’s skin. A flexing of a heel muscle prompted him to respond. “Yes sir, I do”

“Well then, do you remember the lesson he had to learn: about cutting me off?” Carl gave an exceedingly loud swallow before responding. “Yes sir, sorry sir”

“Good to hear!” he lifted his foot from Carls face, and strode a few paces towards us while his goon took up his position.

“Now then” he said, rubbing his hands together like he wasn’t hot enough already. “I have a… proposition for you all. Me and my family; we work as problem solvers. Now, this job tends to have a high turnover rate, so were always on the lookout for new recruits.” He paused for a second to either get his breath or let that sink in.

“Anyway, I feel it’s worth sayin that your choices are sign up or get left alone in a desert with a broken bus and a dead driver.” One of the identical goons came around from the front of the bus, apparently changing his gloves. He took up position at the edge of the semicircle. I heard a sharp intake of breath from my right, and saw Flake with a look of exceeding concern. About half the crowd, myself included, appeared to be wearing varying levels of the same expression.

“Though of course, we can’t let you guys live with knowing what happened here” he continued. His tone of voice was outwardly casual; which just made it come across as more horrifying. “That would just be unprofessional; and I don’t want anyone thinking I go around leaving loose ends. So anyway.”

He raised his left hand up towards two parked vans that had been crudely pulled up, with the back doors thrown wide. “Anyone who wants a new career choice, hop in. the rest of you, just stand still and get shot.” The goons behind him placed hands on their guns in choreographed unison to emphasise the point.

There was an almost stunned silence that followed him; a silence greater than any dropped glass in a ballroom or fart on a crowded elevator could ever live up to. Mr Robinson coughed, and the crowd began its small trek to the vans. Some of the crowd seemed to have heads held high, and semi-confident or smug faces plastered on; those that were used to the mob life. The majority though; they were wearing expressions of reluctance, worry or even panic. Despite popular consensus; not everyone wearing a max sec uniform is instantly a double manslaughter or drug trafficker. Either way; anyone would be panicking after what the hell just happened.

Drawing myself back into reality; I noted that Slim and Flake appeared to be firmly pitching their tent in the ‘panic’ group, and while I couldn’t see my own reflection as the van had no windows in the back, I hazarded I was wearing the same look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2.2

“Well now what the hell do we do?!” slim whispered as loud as he dared. Flake, he and I had made our own little circle of poorly-maintained seating. He seemed only vaguely composed; and his voice held the slight hints of mania to it.

“I don’t know?!” added Flake. He was even worse. His hands were shaking and he looked like he was about to start crying.

“Look, guys, hey, it’s Ok. We’ll ride this out; get indoctrinated into whatever-the-hell this mafia-type thing is, and leg it the first second we get. No dealing with angry goons or murderous mobsters.” They were both panicking, but I seemed to help them somewhat. Flake moved to respond again, but Slim beat him to it.

“Then what? Go into hiding? Turn ourselves in? They might follow us”

“Why would they follow us? The bus jacking had more than the hints of routine about it. I doubt Mr Robinson would give a crap about three idiots who haven’t done anything to him.” I neglected to mention Mr Robinsons displayed hatred of loose ends and lack of regard for human life.

“But he said he hated loose ends!”

Damnit. “Well, maybe he’s busy. He seemed like he has to handle plenty of stuff. Who’s going to train all those guys to cough in unison?”

“Now aint the time to be joking!” Flake interjected, keeping to the idea of whispering as liberally as possible. “We’re being driven to who-knows-where. Even if we get away; we’re out of our element”

“We’ve been out of our element since yesterday. Now, that’s not a very good track record; but we will figure it out.” I was panicking too. Internally. Being British, my emotion had been constantly smothered since birth. Luckily, this left me in the unique position where I could comfort myself; and others by proxy.

“Oh so that’s our plan! Just ‘figure it out’. Well, thanks!” Slim ranted. Against our previous hushed tones, it was the equivalent of a fog horn at a tea party.

“You guys wanna keep it down there?” interjected someone. Turning, it wasn’t the person who had scolded us earlier, but someone I didn’t recognise. He had a 5 inch brown beard paired poorly with a shaved head; and eyebrows like he was constantly frowning. “And what are you guys even panicking for. You just got busted out AND got a new job in the same day.”

His speech gave me pause for thought; which led to me appraising my surroundings. There were about eight other people we were sharing an awkwardly small space with; with seven sitting on the seat-like edges of the van (as we were) and one sitting against the driver side wall. The interior was stripped almost bare, with the usually decorated edges showing a navy blue metal reflecting the exteriors dreary yet blending-in colour. Not exactly first class. Despite that, he was being surprisingly positive about this. Perhaps startling mortal terror was making me a bit apprehensive towards the whole thing.

Yea, no. I may not be on the public urination level, but I wasn’t exactly a hardened criminal either, and the mafia life was something I wouldn’t touch with a double sterilised pole being held by someone else, let alone join. Even without that, I couldn’t decide if being broken out was even something to be happy about.  I doubt that a prison bus could just disappear into the night without anyone noticing, and the idea of constantly being on the run from the police didn’t exactly excite me either. Looking past even that as well, there wasn’t much for me to go back to; my family cut ties with me a while ago and my house was seized under civil forfeiture. I’m just a prick in a prison outfit in a van in a desert. What life did I even have left to break out to?

I was brought back to reality by a muffled crash. The vehicle began vibrating wildly like someone had welded the suspension and was driving us through a cobbled street during rush hour.

“Are we off road?!” yelled Flake. I nearly didn’t hear him over the ear-molesting cacophony of distressed bodywork.

“Got to be!” shouted someone else I didn’t recognise. He was one of the people who had sat above the rear wheels, and was struggling to remain seated. I gripped the back doors’ handle for support, leaning over with my left, unbroken hand.

“The hell’re they doing!” added Slim at full volume. He was sitting opposite me, and also bared the boon of a handle to cling to.

“I don’t know!” In retrospect, that wasn’t as useful a comment as I had thought it to be at the time, but I gave it regardless. “Maybe their… covering their trail!”

“Oh yea, that makes sense! Instead of driving in the road, let’s drive off in the easily-imprinted sand! Let’s see the police follow tha-“ Slim stopped talking when the road evened out again. “Well OK then.”

I saw a blob of ginger scramble up from the floor back into a seating position. I hadn’t even realised, but with no handle to cling to, and without much weight to keep him down, Flake had been enjoying an experience akin to bungee jumping inside of a tumble drier. He looked significantly greener than earlier; and he had thrown up less than an hour ago, so that was quite a high bar. I shared slightly awkward eye contact with Slim, as we both noted how easily we could have helped.

“sorry about that” I eventually said.

“No problem. I think. You better be ready to throw those doors wide, I think my stomach wasn’t as empty as I thought it was.” I heard another bang, this time of flesh against metal, and looked towards the front of the van.

“Oi! You in there! The hell do you think you’re doing!” I hadn’t been paying that much attention to the other passengers, and recognised Flint, someone who had already been due for transfer from our old prison banging his fist repeatedly against the driver side of the front. “you can’t just do that without warni-“

A gunshot fired. A blur of grey pierced the back of the driver’s seat and went up, leaving a ghastly hole in the roof. Through it, I could see the noon sun staring down like the boiling prick it is. Flint threw himself back, and scrambled up, running towards the vans back doors. I moved my hand as a vice grip jostled the handle, but the van had been locked. The interior release had apparently also been removed or superglued or something, as Flint couldn’t make it budge. He moved back a bit, and flung his full weight at it.

If he had been operating on anything but instinct, he probably would have seen how bad an idea that was. The doors capitulated; flinging wide against Flints obese build. He hadn’t exactly thought his plan through, and shot out the back with his scream muffled by the wind. Flake shot to the door, outstretching his hand as if to catch Flints. Nothing. Looking out, I saw him crash against the asphalt, and roll to a halt. His skin had been smeared across the road, and he was bloodied and bruised. He twitched his hand and reached it up to his face, so he could see the damage. From out of my view, another gunshot sounded, and Flints hand dropped to his stomach. His head bared a perforation it didn’t have before.

There was a silence. The wind was still howling; with the vans back doors open, but it felt like silence. The world was muffled and still. The vehicle slowed down, but I didn’t notice. The wind quieted, and the blurred road became clear and motionless. I wasn’t paying much attention to that either. I saw Flake evacuating his stomach out the door. Second time today, poor sod. I didn’t look to see what Slim was doing.

I reanimated, like I had been broken from hypnosis, when one of the goons came round the back. He was wearing the exact ensemble the rest of them had been.

“Oh god” came a muttering from my left. I think it was Slims voice, but I couldn’t tell that well. Without emotion or words, the goon shut the van doors again. They creaked open slightly; they had been broken. The goon saw this and disappeared back towards the driver side. Out the crack, I saw Flint: A spec in the distance, a red smear on an orange and black horizon. I blinked. The goon came back around, holding a reel of duct tape. He held the door shut and taped across it. Then again. He was satisfied with the third layer, and went back to the drivers’ seat. I blinked. His polished parade shoes clicked against the dusty tarmac. I turned to face Slim and Flake. Their heads were down, their eyes widened. I blinked. We began to pull away.

The rest of the journey was done in silence.

 

2.3

The light coming from the bullet hole in the roof turned artificial, illuminating the view of a warehouse roof. The van slowed, and came to a sharp halt. Several Click Clacks of quick paces on a concrete floor rung out, and were eventually replaced with the sounds of duct tape being ripped off metal. The doors were flung open, illuminating what I had correctly guessed as a warehouse. Piles of boxes were stacked high on fleets of slats separated out into groups of four. Some were blank; other bared the logos of tech companies or arms dealers. We had been parked in a little clearing in the box-fort forest, and the minions had taken up the usual semicircle formation a few meters away from the back of the van.

Luckily, Mr Robinson seemed absent. In his place, another goon stood in the centre of their huddle, directing his gaze at us. He was wearing a fedora with a red stripe of fabric as its highlight as an apparent mark of authority. He was clutching a clipboard in his right hand, which seemed to have a few sheets of paper on. He directed his gaze to it, then to us, then back to it.

“There appears to be one missing from this transport” he said, directing his gaze left to one of the mobsters on the edge of the semicircle. Someone came round from the driver side, presumably the one who had been driving our van, walked up to the ringleader and whispered in his ear for a second.

“Ah. That’d explain it” he said calmly, nodding to our driver, who took his leave. “That’s a shame. Anyway, hello everybody, my name is Jacob and I will be your enrolment officer.”

His voice was surprisingly calm and polite; a stark contrast to the previous encounters, but it held a sort of flat, emotional-deadness to it. I didn’t relax. “I will be in charge of your career orienteering, job assigning and generally welcoming you all to our little family.”

“you killed a guy” said someone. I crossed my fingers, hoping it hadn’t been Flake, and turned towards the sound. Luckily, it had been some other poor sod, and Flake had his head bowed. “You killed our driver then killed one of us”

“Yes, I did hear about that, and apologise for your previous mistreatment. Public relations wasn’t Mr Robinsons department, he’s in charge of material management, but he was assigned to your acquisition because I was preoccupied.” His voice held nothing but sincerity. It added another layer of confusion to the past day; first a forceful rescue, then a kidnapping, then a murder, now we’re being friendly with each other. My mind was running laps trying to figure out how to respond to it all.

“Anyway, before I orienteer you all, I will need to interview each of you separately. Due to my schedule, this will need to wait until tomorrow. Until then, my assistant, Harry, will take you all to your temporary accommodations”. He gestured to his left again, and the same guy he had addressed earlier walked up to stand beside him. “Are there any questions?”

“Yes, actually” piped the ex-prisoner who had spoken before. “What if we don’t want to be part of your family, and want instead to go home to our actual families?”

“Good question. You are all, of course, free to go should you wish”. I untensed slightly. “Despite that, I feel it is in your best interests to stay; our legal team is capable of wiping your criminal documents, but to do that, you will need to be officially indoctrinated after our interview tomorrow.”

The clone that had been identified as Harry continued. “Feel free to leave now, but have fun with the rozzers”. So much for untensing. My brief encounters with death had made me put my current prisoner-on-the-run status on the backburner somewhat. Wait.

“So you’re saying ALL of our criminal documents will be purged, even those of our previous indictments?” I interpreted, briefly putting on the appropriate legal terms he seemed to enjoy so much.

“Indeed, our legal team has connections in several policing agencies that will seek out and purge all criminal documentation referring directly to any of you”

My body was getting a bit tired of tensing and untensing. Like my brain, my muscles seemed confused as to whether to act excited or scared. Yes, we were talking to a criminal mobster we had known for all of two minutes who was part of an organisation that had been responsible for at least two murder in all of one day, but he was offering a clean slate. That wasn’t just something I could ignore. Then again, it would require the joining of a criminal enterprise with seemingly infinite influence and power; followed by the probable escape of said organisation. I sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around and become a criminal again; I’d had enough of legal buggery and flickering lights for one lifetime.

Under the silence, Jacob the apparent enrolment officer decided to take his leave. He passed his clipboard over to Harry before walking off, and if it wasn’t for the hat, he would have been indistinguishable from the others.

“Right lads, let get you lot accommodated” he did some sort of complex hand signal to his right, and nearly all of his peers went off on some unknown errand, leaving only two that took up position behind him. He started walking, and after a seconds silent debate, we all followed. Slim moved up to my right.

“Well this is a shitshow and a half, isn’t it?” he muttered. He tone was surprisingly jovial, considering.

“Yea..,” I noticed the hints of a grin on his face. “Wait, what’s got you in such a good mood. We’re deep in the clutches of murderers here.”

“Huh,” He said, like he had only just noticed himself. “I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not getting complacent with what they did to Flint, but the idea of getting a clean slate just made me feel better is all. We might even get a second chance at life, eh?”

“Not under the employment of this lot I’m not.” I muttered as loud as I dared with that one. “One wrong move or a violation of dress code and I wouldn’t be surprised if they put a bullet in your head”

“Yea, probably.” He dropped the subject, leaving us to walk in silence. Well, the sort of silence that comes from 20 or so people stomping about in shoes designed specifically to make as much noise as possible with each step. The box stacks we were traipsing through were arranged in a sort of unintended maze. We turned this way and that, but with Harry leading us we were soon approaching the exit.

One of the guards following him broke off, moving ahead to some controls by the doors. He took something out of his pocket and waved it in front of some blank plate, and there was a loud clicking sound that echoed out in the warehouse. He turned the handle, and pulled the door to just as Harry started moving through it. He was polite enough to let us all through before he shut the door, running up to stand alongside his fellow bodyguard when the door was pulled to.

The door led out into a plain-looking corridor. There was no carpet, the floor baring the same concrete as the warehouse. There was a strong smell of fresh paint, and the walls were painted a shade of white too bright to possibly have been there for more than a week. We were directed down one of the side corridors on the left, and led through the door at the end.

“Here’s your temporary accommodation. Sorry about the plain-ness; we just had this building built and we haven’t had time to put in any soft furnishings or the like.” He wasn’t kidding. It took me a few seconds to be let through the door; as some appeared to be more excited than I, but the room was basically just a holding cell. Clean bunkbeds lined the walls with their headboards to the walls; and the whole room was uncarpeted like the rest. Aside from the beds, there was a single door leading out the other side with a sign above it reading ‘BATHROOM’. There was no other furnishings, and the cream wallpaper was only on half the walls; the other two revealing freshly installed plasterboard.

“Grab a bed and pass out, I’ll be back to collect you all tomorrow for your interviews. G’night.” With that, he walked out and shut the door behind us. I heard the soft click of a locking mechanism; I suppose he didn’t want random people wandering round the building peeking at all their stolen goods. I wandered over to one of the corner bunkbeds on the far side of the room and sat down on the bottom bunk. Slim took off his cartoonish belt and threw it over the railing of the top bunk as some sort of mark of ownership and took up a seat next to me. Flake came over and took the bunk across from us. His head was down like it had been before; in fact I don’t think he had even raised it.

“Hey, you OK Flake?” Slim voiced our mutual concern. “Flake?” I added, when he didn’t respond

He seemed out of it somewhat, so Slim gently yet firmly kicked him in the shin.

“Ow! Hey, that wasn’t very nice.” He looked up to complain while he rubbed his distressed leg parts, and his face seemed neutral

“ARE. YOU. OKAY?”

“Yes Slim, yes I’m OK! Could ya please not go kicking me if I don’t respond; a tap on the shoulder would do!” he looked down again, but continued. “I’m just struggling to think what’s gonna happen now. We’ve really messed up, haven’t we?”

“Yea… well, it’s not exactly been much of our own choices lately. Blaming yourself here is like slapping the checkout clerk because the price of milk went up, or blaming me for breaking my hand,” I gave a little wave with my crippled arm to illustrate my point. Stupidly, I accidently tapped it against the top bunk and felt needles stab through my nerves. It had been a while since I had had any painkillers applied, and any they were in me had long since worn off. I reflexively yet gently grabbed the cast and clutched it at chest level, stifling a wince. It seems neither of them noticed, or at least chose not to comment on it.

 

 

 

Here's my Notes:

Plot concepts/ ideas/ structures/ scribbles -

Well, it starts off in a prison in America.

Some sort of riot starts (maybe in cafeteria) that the MC is forced to get involved with

MC and other prisoners are designated to be transferred to a higher security facility

Prison transfer bus is captured/rescued by a force sent by drug cartel owner x (motivated by the prospect of freeing someone he owed a favour to maybe?)

Prison bus is brought out to isolated location + unloaded. Drug cartel boss’s right-hand man is there; gets guy he was looking for. Offers other people there jobs. Someone refuses (maybe he was in for public urination or something?) and is killed. Other people accept (as a pose to dying horribly). People are loaded onto vans and driven off, including MC.

MC gets indoctrinated into the crime family which purges his criminal documents. Due to much prodding from Flake and his own unease, he tries to escape despite their seemingly infinite reach and power. In order to keep them off their tail, MC has the idea to blackmail one of the higher ups into letting them go. They cock up and are forced prematurely to leg it.

-

MC realises that since they had to be transferred to be broken out, the mafia-thing couldn’t be able to access prisoners while they were in custody, so he breaks back into his original prison. Sure, why not, that could be something that happens

-

Eventually needs to lead to the MC regaining his faith in the legal system despite him and others regularly being screwed by it; resolving that it’s better than nothing. Give him a contempt of court ruling at the end somehow for something menial he did during the book; it’ll show that he has put faith in the legal system if he accepts the ruling instead of legging it.

 

 

 

General -

I want the MC to appear as likeable and generally a good person that had just been given the finger by life. The more humanising angle should allow me to mock the societal view that anyone who goes to prison or is in prison is this evil or horrible person. I could also add to such ideas through stuff such as the highlight of how few prisoners are actually bad people or have committed serious crimes; its mostly just minor drug offenses or public urination; that sort of stuff.

 

Chars –

(names of prisoners should all be nick-names. It humanises them a bit more while adding that sort of surreal detachment to them.

MC  / Cynic. Got name from being cynical, self-centred and generally just a pessimistic bastard. He may act like he doesn’t care for those he would call friends, but he does.

Flake. Got name from making a joke on his first day involving referring to himself as a flake. confident, adaptable, positive, friendly.

Mace – attempted escapee from the opening