Chapter 2
“Michael, how’s that study coming?”
He was lagging behind Elaine as she turned briskly around another corner. His pants always hung almost under his shoes, and it was a constant struggle for him to move with any efficiency. He was the epitome of the effete male; thin, with stringy hair perpetually obstructing his pale forehead, blessed with neither a strong voice nor bold convictions. His actions were governed by the whim of the moment, and usually it was the wrong whim.
“Uhh . . . it’s almost done, Lainey. We’ve got two more prisoners to interview, then I can tally the results.”
“How does it look so far?”
Michael flipped through the pages as he walked, stumbling over a small box someone seemed to purposefully leave in his path. The class buffoon of the prison, everyone loved to ridicule and push him around, mostly because he took it well. The middle son of a tight family, he was used to always being the negative center of attention.
“It seems like, well . . . there’s some progress being made.”
He looked over at her with yearning eyes, reminding her of someone’s favorite pet. She had begun to notice he was smitten with her, yet at the same time, was jealous of her and her position. Often she wanted to violently shake him back and forth, shout into his mind to get him to wake up. But she always just shook her head and took the lead, as one learns quickly in a prison not to get too emotionally involved with its inmates, whether they be voluntary ones or involuntary.
“So, we’re reaching a few of them?” she asked, pausing in the middle of the corridor. Around her were the counseling offices—a few were even in session, with dim shadows moving back and forth behind thick panes of frosted glass. Her office was just down the hall, off to the right, a little too close to the main hallway the inmates went through for meals, yet far enough from the other counselors to give her a little privacy.
“Yeah, it seems like the music’s working out better than we thought.” Lately they piped in instrumental versions of religious chants just before, during, and after counseling sessions. “Even James seems to have calmed down.”
She let the tension flow out of her, if only for a moment. “That’s always good to hear. I’ll be damned if he’s gonna get me like he did before.”’
Michael smirked, thinking on the incident. He remembered getting the call that she might not make it, and for a brief moment he was happy, thinking he might finally have her title. Then disappointment, as word came that she was alright.
“Mornin’ Lainey!” bellowed a heavy-set man who came around the corner before them.
“Morning Isaac!”
The assistant warden of the prison, Isaac wore a dingy, grey uniform with three gold circles embroidered onto the lapel of his shirt – a faint imitation of the current military stock. His hair was stringy and matted against his scalp, as if he used grease to slick it back. Small, beady brown eyes peeked out from narrow slits, just above a beak-like nose. A long black stick hung low at his side, just under a few grease and jelly stains. The first time Elaine saw him, she thought he was the janitor, not the second-in-command.
“You two had breakfast yet?”
“Nah, too much work to do.”
“Well, ya better hurry up!” He reached in his deep side pocket, and brought out a flakey and fluffy pastry wrapped in a white napkin. “They got those tasty claws again.” He took a big bite out, curdles of white ooze spilling down his face, licking his lips as he chewed. “Mmm! These are so damn good.”
“What’s that, your third?” sneered Michael, backing a little away, like a jackal yipping at a lion. Isaac smiled, swallowing what was in his mouth. He wiped his face with his sleeve, slowly, glaring at Michael with small, glistening brown eyes.
“You know, for a little shit, you’ve got some balls sometimes,” he said low and soft, the menace creeping into his voice. He shoved what was left of the pastry back into his pocket. “I hope you still got ‘em after your session today. You never know what could happen in those rooms; just you and a man who might’ve eaten his whole damned family. Sure would be a shame,” he mused, walking past them, shaking his head in mock remorse. “Sure would be a shame . . .”
“Why do you piss him off?!” Elaine hissed, pulling Michael close by the lapels of his white labcoat. “You had too many stims today? I don’t like him either, but they’re the ones that stand between us and them. And that’s what I’ve learned, in these short months. It’s us, and them.”
Suddenly, they heard a scream from a nearby room.
“Dammit, no! Get away, get away!” yelled a male voice, familiar to them both.
“Wasn’t that Oliver?”
“Damn,” grumbled Elaine, as she moved cautiously to a nearby door. Even though he might be in trouble, she hated the thought of being near him. “I think it was.”
The sounds of tables being overturned and glass shattering could be heard from the room.
“Where are the guards? Isaac! Isaac!”
Elaine scanned the hallways, listening out for anyone approaching. They may all have worn soft-soled canvas shoes, but she had good ears that could hear someone breathing fifteen meters away. “Maybe he hasn’t had time to press his panic button. Press yours.”
Michael fumbled into his pocket, and pressed on a small metallic device, holding down the button as if it was some magic talisman that would instantly summon forth a protector. When no one came, he slowly slipped it back and turned to Elaine. “What should we do? Where’d Isaac go?”
Elaine tried to see through the frosted glass of the room, but could only make out quick moving blurs. Terror gripped her gut, and she broke out in a nervous sweat that stained her clothes.
“Isaac’s the assistant warden – he doesn’t wanna get his hands dirty. Besides, you had to go piss in his face.” She sighed, and then straightened herself up. “We’re going to have to go in.”
Michael stepped back, cringing into his skin. “But—”
“Dammit, he could be dying in there! Come on.”
She flung open the door, and it took a moment for her to register what she saw. Oliver’s office was in a shambles, with his desk flipped over, the six chairs used for group therapy thrown about. In a corner they struggled, Oliver with his head pressed against the wall, straining with all his might against a large, strong inmate who used one of his massive arms to keep it there.
“Come on, John, move away slowly,” said Elaine, in firm, even tones. “He’s not your enemy—he’s your friend.”
John whirled to face her with panic in his eyes. “No . . . no—no!” He pressed harder into Oliver’s neck, bringing gurgling sounds from him. Oliver had pale, white skin, and it was now a deep blue around his neck and face from bruising and lack of air. “He shouldn’t have told me, he shouldn’t have said—”
Suddenly Michael leapt forward, brandishing a chair, in an uncharacteristic display of bravado. John moved with lightning reflexes as the chair came down, sidestepping in a flash, as it impacted on Oliver’s head. Oliver fell back unconscious, blood spilling from a wide gash on his forehead, as John kicked up into Michael, sending him flying in the air. One of his feet caught on a bank of overhead fluorescents, and it all came down crashing on him as he fell into a bookcase. John glanced over at Oliver, who lay back unconscious in a corner.
“Damn shame,” he said, as he scanned the room. “Gotta be something . . . gotta be something . . .”
His eyes found it—a walking cane stashed in a far corner. Elaine cursed Oliver under her breath, as anything that could be used as a weapon was forbidden from being brought into the building. But she knew Oliver protested mightily to Todd, the warden, as he always did, and got his way, as he always did, having the cane smuggled in with food supplies. John charged, and Elaine found herself leaping to get there first. She just made it, and gripped the cane with all her might as she felt the massive bulk of John surround her.
“I don’t wanna hurt you, Lainey! I lik
e you, but you gotta give it up.”
He smelled like urine and excrement, with a shirt wet with perspiration and blood. While she had known him for quite a while, in the prison, she always knew he would be the most trouble in a physical altercation, so she tried mightily not to be caught alone with him, and certainly not to aggravate him. And yet, something in her knew this day would come.
“No, John, no!” she pleaded, trying to reach beyond the rage, to the man underneath. “You don’t want to do this. You need to calm down, and—”
“Give it up, Lainey!” he bellowed.
She could feel his breath on her neck, could sense the bulges on his arms and chest. Often she had seen him working out, lifting more weight than other prisoners would dare. He was by far the strongest, yet usually the most gentle. So long as everyone played into his delusions.
“Are you the hero now, John?” she demanded frantically. “Who’re you gonna save?! I know it’s against your code to hurt an innocent—someone who only does good by you.”
“Lainey!” bellowed John, half in anger, half in petulance.
“Come on!” pressed Elaine, as she felt herself gain control over her emotions, felt the rational side of her mind kick in. She had been through the countless hours of situation simulation like the other counselors, knew that the best weapon against chaos was a controlled, calm mind. “Or have you fallen? Are you finally going to use your power for evil, and not good? This is a symbol I have in my hands, John.” She shook it before him, the confidence returning to her eyes. “This is a symbol of your fall, of your failure, of your submission to what’s wrong and evil and bad! Are you bad, John?”
She waited, listening to his heavy breathing, the creak of his bones as he shifted his legs and clenched his fists. With a focused mind, she willed her voice to be even and sure, demanding with finality; “are you?!”
“No, I’m not bad,” he answered weakly, like air wheezing out from an under-inflated balloon. All the tension was gone within him, and his arms sagged next to his barrel-chest.
“No, you’re not, are you?” she demanded, her voice growing stronger. “You like to save people, to help them, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You were tricked into being imprisoned here, weren’t you?”
He nodded to himself. “Yes, I was!”
“Now how are you going to ever get out, if you keep being tricked by your enemies?”
He backed away, and stood, looming over her. He was over six feet tall, with shoulders seemingly as wide as he was tall. Life in confinement had given him a small gut, but his arms were still like chiseled granite, appearing as perfection even under the blue jumpsuit he was forced to wear. She remained crouched on the floor before him, trying not to make any sudden moves.
His angry face soon broke like storm clouds giving way to sun, revealing a triumphant grin. “You’re right, Lainey! They almost tricked me. But you’re here, helping me! And—”
She heard the crack of a baton, and John collapsed before her, his thick bones rattling on the marble floor. She still sat there, crouched, her hands gripping the cane with all her might. Two men laughed, coming to stand over John’s inert body with smiles of smug malice.
“Look at her, Colin!” jeered a lankey, grimy guard with pockmarks on his face and long scars on his arms. Called Blake, he was the worst of the guards to her, the last person she would ever call on if she ran into trouble, as she could never be sure he would help her. “All those docs seem so smart and tough when they’re in control, but not now!” He knelt before her, and spoke to her as if she was his pet cat; “now what’re you gonna do with that little thing ‘gainst Mr. Big Man?”
Elaine pulled herself together, and forced herself to stand up. “Are Michael and Oliver alright, Blake?”
Two of the overhead fluorescents were broken, and Blake had to squint in the darkness to scan the room. “Damn, didn’t even see ‘em! Wow, Big Man’s been busy. Three docs down. Such a shame. Come on, Colin; let’s get to cleanin’ this mess up.”
“Do we hafta?” whined Colin, whose matted mop of black hair kept falling over black, thin eyes which always darted to and fro. He still held his baton out, and looked as if he’d like to give John a few more blows.
“Yeah dammit. Call over Philip, and have him bring a restraint for Big Man here.” He knelt down and turned over Michael, who was still unconscious. His hair was caked with blood, and his shoulder seemed to be twisted at an odd angle. “Oohh . . . someone got him good! Looks like you’re gonna have a heavy load for a while, Lainey.”
She pulled back her clothes to something approaching neatness. “I suppose I will.” She forced her voice to remain even and controlled – at least as controlled as she could muster. She hated appearing weak in their eyes, hated losing any respect to the likes of them. “Thank you two for coming.”
As she walked out the door, Blake made a low bow.
“Why, no problem, my sweet thang! That’s what we do, protect and serve. When the pretty little docs need our help, why, we come ‘a runnin’!” He grabbed hold of her arm, just as she almost got out. Elaine cursed to herself, knowing this moment would come.
“You just never forget who we are, and what we do,” he whispered in a harsh drawl, spittle spraying her cheek. “Without us, Big Man would’ve done things to you, and you know it. You go around here, spoutin’ off ‘bout how they’re all souman beings, and how they’re entitled to some dignity. But you know they’re not here because of how nice they were. For every one o’ them, there’s a couple o’ hundred of their victims’ kin that would love to see each of ‘em strung up and burned alive, for what they did.” He came close to her and whispered low. “Why, I’ll bet a lot of ‘em probably hate what you do, makin’ it nice for them, in here. I’ll bet they’d even like to do the same to you.”
Elaine kept her gaze focused forward, not wanting to engage him.
“Done?”
He slowly let go of her arm. “Guess so. You just never forget what I say.”
She walked slowly and deliberately, trying not to break into a run. The room behind her exploded in laughter, and all she could do was grit her teeth.
Why am I here? Why am I here?