Prisoner 392
by
Jon F. Merz
Copyright © 2010 by Jon F. Merz
Smashwords Edition
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Originally published in Borderlands 5 © 2003 by Borderlands Press
Reprinted in From the Borderlands © 2004 by Warner Books
They called it the slit.
And it was the only way Prisoner 392 could see the outside world.
Cut into the iron door of his cell, the six-inch wide by two-inch tall opening looked like a mouth, rusted burs jutting up and down from the unfinished edges like serrated teeth.
The slit giveth; he could see the general population walking in the yard where the sun scorched the fecal brown earth into a fine dust that exploded in the wake of every footstep.
And the slit taketh away; it rubbed salt into the open wound of a life sentence spent in solitary confinement. It teased with tempting glimpses - walking more than eight feet in a straight line, breathing the dust-caked air, feeling a simple breeze, almost feeling…free.
Even the slit’s position in the door reinforced its cruel purpose. Cut exactly four feet from the ground, an average-sized man would have little choice but to stoop in order to peer through. Soon, his back muscles would spasm. His quadriceps would burn. His neck would stiffen.
But still, he would look.
He’d been called Jakob once. He’d been called other names before that. Before the murders. Before the trials. Before everything.
Now he was simply Prisoner 392.
They’d stripped him of his name as easily as they’d stripped his clothes when the transport steamer had finally docked in Belize. Jakob was grateful to have merely survived the journey. Storms had pounded the vessel mercilessly enroute. In the vast hold, three hundred prisoners waded through a viscous muck of urine, feces, vomit, sweat, and blood. The few times the sun managed to pierce the heavy gray clouds that had been the ship’s albatross throughout, it had baked the cargo hold until a cloying mist issued up from the bacterial swill.
Fifty men died crossing the ocean.
Those with the constitution it took to withstand the hellish trip spent the time discussing the impossibilities of escape. Marauding cats the color of night prowled the jungles outside the prison. Heathen tribes that still feasted on human flesh hunted like silent ghosts. Venomous asps slithered through the underbrush. And famished sharks filled the waterways hoping for a tasty morsel in the guise of a foolish convict.
Jakob only smiled. Let the rest of these fools suffer a lifetime away from the fruits of civilized society. He would be going home.
Soon enough.
Tumbling down the rickety wooden gangway toward an equally unstable dock, Jakob got his first glimpse of Belize. It looked like a brothel built onto the ocean. Whores draped themselves over railings of the closest buildings taunting the men with quick glimpses of bare breast or plump buttock. Jakob found himself unable to look without feeling a surge of adrenaline bloat his bloodstream.
Other rogues clotted the streets. Traders in wide-brimmed hats offered up exotic animal skins, revolvers dangling like Christmas ornaments from their hips. Vagabonds loitered by the docks, their clothes ragged and their futures uncertain.
But the children drew his eyes most.
They ran barefoot begging food and money from anyone they could. Their lean legs powered their quest for nutrition. Their eyes gleamed bright with hope. A thin sheen of salty sweat basted their tanned lithe bodies.
Jakob licked his lips. Oh, but he could give them such salvation as they never knew existed. Such delicious delights could he perpetrate upon their innocent souls. And such heinous pleasure would he derive from their screams and pleas for mercy.
The sharp clang of an iron bell – a single toll – fell over the raucous chatter that had assaulted his ears.
And silence dropped like a guillotine blade on a soft fleshy neck.
Everyone in the town watched them march off the dock. Jakob looked around. What did they know? What was this place? He felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.
Armed guards herded them like cattle, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. The trip hadn’t been easy for them either.
Two miles from the docks, down the winding dirt road lined with thorny bushes and spindly trees bearing no fruit, Jakob caught sight of the prison itself.
At first glance, the line from Poe’s poem jumped into his head.
Up Babylon-like walls, he thought. Appropriate given the imposing height of the sun-baked fortifications. Jakob almost smirked. Poe had gotten it right. But this wasn’t the City in the Sea.
They passed through the main gate – a spiked portcullis held aloft by twin hemp ropes the width of a fist. The chief of the guards turned then and barked out a single command.
"Stop!"
The cloud of dust that had followed the human caravan from the docks settled on their shaved heads and shoulders. Under the blazing sun, they waited.
Two more men died in the sizzling inferno.
The chief of guards bellowed out a list of numbers. Roll call. Prisoners answered in time to their numbers. One by one they were led off to various cellblocks to be deloused and issued their camp garments.
Jakob stood under the blazing sun wondering when his number would be called. He had to close his eyes to keep the brilliant yellow from burning his eyes. The heat hung on him, an oppressive yoke he longed to throw off. Sweat cascaded down his back, soaking through the red and white striped threadbare shirt he wore. With every breath the air grew heavier, bloated with a humidity perfumed by oleander and lilacs. He felt woozy. His thoughts swam through molasses.
He felt the gazes of other inmates – the veterans already serving their sentences here – rove over his moldy, putrid body. Were they singling him out for pleasure or pain? Would they seek some torrid release later that night, dreaming about Jakob? Or would they hope for a chance at him during the communal shower sessions?
Dreams are all you’ll have, he thought. For Jakob knew one certainty about his sentence beyond his inevitable escape.
"Prisoner 392!" The chief of guards barked out his number.
He wavered.
"Prisoner 392!"
Jakob shuffled forward and fell. The chief ordered two other inmates to pick him up. He could barely stand, but finally managed to hold his head up.
The chief glared.
"Prisoner 392," he said. "Solitary."
With that Jakob felt himself dragged to the cell. At least it was out of the direct sun, he reasoned stumbling into it. The door slammed shut; the iron impacted the doorjamb with a solid clang like the bell back in the town. He leaned against the cool rough walls and then drank from the clay water pitcher that had been shoved rudely through the opening at the base of the door.
He sucked down what must have been almost a gallon of the stagnant brew before he heard a pounding against his door. He frowned and slid the container back out. Someone grabbed it and the opening slammed shut.
Jakob turned his attention back to the cell. He paced it out and found it measured eight feet by eight feet. Only eight feet? The injustice of the situation annoyed him. How would he exercise? How would he keep himself in good condition for his eventual dash for freedom?
His gaze shifted to a 12-inch diameter hole in the rear right corner. What was this? His toilet? There was no seat. There was no…he groaned with the realization that he would have to squat and clean himself with his hand. Disgusting!
And what of his slumber? He pressed down on the bed only to discover it was a crude cement base covered with a thin straw mattress, sheet, and single blanket. A burlap sack stuffed with dried grass would act as his pillow.
Surely the warden would have to be informed. No man could be expected to live out his sentence with dignity in such dreadful conditions.
He thought of the children in the town. Lord Byron’s poetry danced in his mind.
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded…
He sighed and glanced skyward.
Bars?
Steel bars roofed his cell. Worse, he could hear guards walking patrols on a walkway that ran atop the cells, able to peer in and instantly ascertain what was going on below.
No privacy, either? But how on earth would he..?
A guard appeared overhead.
"Strip!"
Jakob complied. A torrent of water rained down. The guard tossed a bar of soap.
"Wash!"
Jakob scrubbed himself. He wondered vaguely if the guard was enjoying the show. He risked a glimpse up and saw the guard talking to another. Jakob felt a small measure of relief.
Another deluge rinsed him and Jakob watched the soapy residue slide off and stream toward the toilet hole. He considered this and reasoned the floor of his cell must have been built at a slight grade to enable drainage.
A towel plopped onto his head. "Be quick, Prisoner 392."
He dried himself. New clothes fell through the bars. "Get dressed and push the old rags through the food gate."
He did. The guard disappeared.
Jakob lay on his bed, feeling the coarse straw bite into his back. The pillow offered little comfort. In Paris, he would have dined on figs and dates while reclining on sofas with the softest pillows. He would have drifted off to his deviant dreams while his houseboy plucked the strings of a harp. And now, he had none of it.
But despite that, he soon fell asleep.