by Gary Hoover
Duanan pushed harder and asked again, more loudly this time: “Are you from Doclotnury!?”
“You know,” Jeff said – his voice wavering a bit from the pain. “That hurts like hell, but I’m not sure how that’s going to change anything. I’m not from Doclotnury, and I’ve never been there.”
Duanan put a little more pressure on his finger and Jeff feared something was about to snap, but then Duanan quickly released it. He walked toward his desk, fiddling with random objects distractedly.
“Are you aware,” Jeff asked. “That there seems to be some kind of war brewing? Don’t you have more important things to do?”
Duanan’s head snapped around. “What do you know of the war?”
Jeff considered shutting up, but he knew Duanan wouldn’t quit. He shook his head. “Not much.”
Duanan rounded on him and Jeff flinched. Duanan grabbed the locket that was hanging around Jeff’s neck. He jerked it and the chain snapped. Duanan examined the locket, turned it over in his hand several times and then opened it.
He looked at the photo for a good 15 seconds. “What is this? Where did you get it? Who made it?”
“It’s a locket with a photo of my father. He bought it for me and put his picture in it, but I have no idea who made it. There may be some logo or. . .”
Duanan slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t even DARE . . .” His voice trailed off and he went back to examining the locket. He looked at it from various angles and held it to the light. “Winfred must have something to do with this . . .” He seemed to be thinking out loud. “. . . but he’s going to be more difficult to deal with than an unregistered boy . . .”
He walked around and dropped the locket in a desk drawer. He pulled the chair out and sat.
There was a long pause.
Jeff tried to concentrate to see if he could get a sense for what Duanan was thinking.
He couldn’t.
Jeff had been getting glimmers of insight when he hadn’t been trying, but now that he was trying, he couldn’t get anything.
Duanan tapped his fingers on the desk and seemed to be staring at a point on the wall behind and above Jeff.
After several minutes he pushed a button on his desk. “Guards, take the boy to E. L. B. prison for detention. I’ll contact the warden personally to make arrangements.”
Chapter 35:
Jeff spent an unpleasant hour being pushed and jostled. When he wasn’t being pushed or jostled, he was sitting somewhere waiting for someone else to come along and push and jostle him some more.
They pushed and jostled him into a windowless transport where he sat on a hard metal bench. From there, they took him to the prison building where he sat on a hard, wooden bench with his hands bound behind him in a large, open atrium waiting for processing.
Jeff realized that, after spending the last few days sitting on some of the most comfortable chairs he had ever experienced, he had been sitting on uncomfortable chair after uncomfortable chair ever since the hard, uncomfortable chair rose out of the floor in the council chamber,
He looked around the atrium. This building was much different than any buildings he had seen so far.
It actually was a very impressive space with vaulted ceilings. The structure itself seemed to be stone. The other structures Jeff had seen since he had arrived were made from advanced materials and had curves and textures very different from what Jeff was used to.
This building looked much more familiar to him. It had a cold, dark feeling to it - as might be expected with a prison - but Jeff still appreciated that someone had spent a lot of time . . . and money designing and building the structure.
The area in which Jeff sat was more secure than it appeared at first glance. The room was open, but there were invisible force-screens sealing the arched doorways to Jeff’s left and right. Beyond the doorways and force-screens were more than ten guards who had nothing to do but prevent anyone who managed to get past the force-screens from going any farther. There was only one other person in there with Jeff, and his hands appeared to be bound behind his back also, so Jeff inferred that he was another prisoner awaiting disposition.
Jeff fidgeted nervously wondering what to expect next. He wondered if he should have acted differently . . . maybe been more placating. He shook his head. I have a feeling Duanan was out to get me from the start, he thought. I’d probably have ended up here no matter what.
I probably should be pissed at Artimus. Again he shook his head. Artimus may have gotten me into this, but that clearly wasn’t what he wanted. I half expected to end up somewhere like this ever since I’ve been here. If anything, he just delayed the inevitable.
Jeff fidgeted some more, tapping his feet nervously. I wonder what’s next. I guess I’ll get ‘booked’. Hopefully I’ll get some kind of orientation or something to get an idea how this will work.
For a moment, Jeff allowed himself a laugh at the humorous thought of an educational slideshow narrated by a whimsical cartoon otter: ‘So you’re in jail. Here’s what you need to know . . .’
Jeff laughed briefly to himself before getting back to more serious thoughts. . . I hope they’ll put me with other juveniles or keep me alone. He tried to not think of the more frightening possibilities.
His stomach churned violently as he wasn’t quite able to completely avoid thinking about the more frightening possibilities. He felt himself beginning to flush and sweat.
He looked up at the high ceiling and tried to think about how they constructed it - anything to occupy his mind and get it off more unpleasant thoughts.
He wondered if the guy sitting 10 feet down the bench could offer anything to ease his mind. He glanced over and saw that, while the man looked a little disheveled, he didn’t seem like a bad guy. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Jeff tried to see if his sense would give him any read, but again, when he really wanted it, he wasn’t getting anything.
“Hey,” Jeff finally said after working up the courage. “What are you in for?” It seemed like the hip, jailhouse thing to say, but as soon as it came out of his mouth, Jeff cringed and flushed with embarrassment.
The young man looked at him. “Mistaken identity,” he said with an expression Jeff had trouble reading. “You?”
“I’m not sure.” Jeff laughed uncomfortably.
The other man nodded as if he knew exactly what Jeff meant.
“Any idea what it‘s going to be like?” Jeff asked.
“First time?”
Jeff nodded.
“It’s not bad - typically two to a cell. They try to match people up with people who have committed similar crimes. So unless you killed somebody,” he paused and gave Jeff a good look. “You’ll probably be dancy.”
Jeff nodded. That was some comfort. At least I assume ‘dancy’ is good. It sounds good . . .
“Hey, could you do me a favor?”
Jeff paused before answering – he didn’t want to have to hide a file in his rectum or anything. “What do you need?” he asked a bit nervously.
The man turned his back to Jeff. “These shackles are killing me. I think they’re twisted up or something.”
Jeff slid over and leaned down to look. His heart jumped momentarily as he wondered if it was some trick to get him closer so the other inmate could attack.
But then he realized he was just being paranoid. His experiences over the past several hours had made him somewhat jumpy and distrustful.
He leaned in and got a look at the shackles. They had an unusual design, but there were links of some sort that seemed to be twisted over themselves.
Jeff got a good look and then turned his back so he could get his hands on the links. With some jiggling, he could feel them loosening.
“How’s that?” He asked.
The man moved his hands around some to test. “Good . . . great . . . much better. Thank you. You’re a good guy.”
They both turned back and tried to get themselves as comfortable as they could on the hard ben
ch with their hands bound.
“There should be a toilet in the cell,” the man said. “You’ll get two meals a day through the slot in your door. Not good, but edible and once you get hungry enough, you’ll find yourself looking forward to it.
“You’ll be in your cell pretty much all the time, except for 20 minutes each week for a shower.”
Jeff cringed. He wasn’t sure why the man had originally said: ‘Not bad’. If that wasn’t bad, he wondered what ‘bad’ would be: Maybe the same thing, but with a badger gnawing on your privates.
At least he hoped he wouldn’t be in there too long. I haven’t committed any crimes . . . right? Artimus seems pretty important around here. He must have some pull . . . mustn’t he? They may not believe I’m ‘The Raja’, but they can’t have any evidence of me ‘spying’ on anybody.
“Jeff Browning.” A loud, precise voice snapped Jeff out of his thoughts. He rose to meet the guard who was calling him.
“John,” the man on the bench said.
Jeff was confused for a moment until he realized the man was introducing himself. “Jeff,” he said. “But I guess you already knew that,” he added sheepishly realizing the guard had just announced his name.
John reached his hands around and Jeff realized he was trying to offer up a handshake. Jeff twisted his hands around and the two of them shook hands awkwardly.
“Good luck,” John said.
“Same to you,” Jeff responded and headed toward the guard.
The guard ran Jeff through some sort of scanner (Jeff didn’t have anything except his clothes – Duanan had kept the locket. His father’s keys and his baseball bat – along with his original clothes - were back in Baldwin’s room).
After the scan, the guard escorted him silently down a long corridor. Jeff felt like he should try to make some sort of small talk, but he had nothing to say. Two other guards joined them and they stepped into an elevator of some sort.
No one said a word - not even the guards to one-another - and the silence was making Jeff uncomfortable. The elevator doors opened, and they were in a long hallway filled with cell doors. The doors were metal with small, barred openings at eye height and slots in the bottom. The walls were stone, and the dim lighting gave the whole place a very depressing, intimidating feel.
They stopped at a door labeled “2161C”. Jeff got a sudden sense of . . . fear . . . from guards as one inserted a key into the door and peeked through the opening.
As the door started to open, Jeff’s stomach lurched at the sound of some sort of screeching guttural vocalizations. The three guards stepped with Jeff into the cell. It was darker in the cell than the hallway, but Jeff could see the rough shape of the person making the sounds. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that it was a shabby, hairy, unwashed person . . . with CRAZY eyes – the kind of eyes that would make Charles Manson say: “Yo, this dude is MESSED up.”
There was also a terrible, sickening smell.
Jeff’s ‘sense’ was communicating absolute, murderous RAGE. He could feel the intense emotions battering his mind. The person seemed more animal than human. Jeff tensed and stopped in his tracks.
One of the guards shoved him from behind. “Don’t worry about old Oscar there. He’s chained good and secure.”
Jeff could see that his wrists and ankles were firmly chained, but it was still very unsettling.
. . . And Jeff wasn’t the only one who was nervous. The guards were clearly keeping their distance and staying out of the small range in which Jeff’s cell-mate could move.
“If you need anything,” one of the guards said, “we don’t give a plooch.”
The others laughed at that and then exited.
The cell door slammed loudly.
Chapter 36:
“Hey,” Jeff said to his cell-mate in an attempt to make some sort of connection.
The man just glared at Jeff with wild, staring eyes and made a low, rumbling, growling sound.
“My name’s Jeff . . . how about you?”
The man didn’t acknowledge anything Jeff was saying. He just continued to make threatening, wild sounds while staring at Jeff.
Jeff tried to smile and be as un-threatening as possible . . . while maintaining a safe distance.
The cell was surprisingly spacious - roughly 25 feet by 25 feet. Jeff’s cell-mate was restricted by his shackles to an approximately 8 foot radius area in one corner, leaving plenty of room for Jeff.
There was a mat on the floor that Jeff assumed was his ‘bed’, and a toilet. There was also a single, dim, glowing light above the door. It gave off just enough light for someone to make their way around the cell, but it was dark - about the same level of illumination as one would have outside on a moon-lit night.
There were no exterior windows, and Jeff had the sick feeling that this illumination would be all he’d have - day and night - and there would be no way to even guess what time it was.
Jeff realized that there was no way that his cell-mate . . . Oscar? . . . could reach the toilet. Then Jeff realized what at least some amount of the sickening smell was.
There were little piles scattered all around Oscar’s area. Many had been smashed down, but some still looked fresh.
And then the panic set in.
For a few moments Jeff felt intense, uncontrollable anxiety. He felt like he was going to throw-up or have diarrhea . . . or both. This was all just too much to handle. He felt as if his brain might explode from the stress. His heart pounded, he began to hyperventilate. . .
He concentrated on his breathing - forced himself to relax and tried to take it moment by moment. Right now, I’m safe, I’m reasonably comfortable . . . I’m healthy . . . I can handle this . . . I just can’t let my mind make it seem worse than it is, he told himself.
He wondered if he should think about his father, or maybe Artimus, or maybe home and his mother. Will that make it better . . . or worse?
He sat on his mat and tried to clear his mind - tried to stay positive. Artimus is working on getting me out of here right now, he assured himself.
He managed to let his mind wander and soon found himself in a more relaxed state. Oscar had calmed down, but periodically he would make a grunt or growl that would snap Jeff back to reality.
He had little ability to judge time after a while. Have I been here 3 hours, 4 hours . . . 10 minutes?
He heard a sound at the door, and a long paddle slid in toward Oscar.
“Put it on. Put it on!” A voice demanded. “You know you won’t get any unless you do. I’m not in the mood to play games today.”
Oscar put two plastic bowls on the paddle, and then the paddle retracted. A few seconds later, it re-appeared with two bowls on it. One with water, and one with a gray lumpy food of some sort.
Oscar snatched both bowls and began shoving food into his mouth. After the paddle had withdrawn again, a hand slid two more bowls under the door.
Jeff realized the other two bowls were his and moved cautiously to get them. He saw Oscar’s eyes follow him the whole way, though he never stopped cramming food into his mouth.
He took the bowls back to his mat. There was a strange sense of security on that little spot Jeff had for himself. For the moment, it was his adopted ‘home’.
I guess this will be the highlight of my day. Better try to make the most of it.
There was a very long plastic spoon in the food bowl. I guess they figure it will be difficult to make a shiv out of plastic. The ‘food’ had the consistency of chopped liver and little or no smell. He took a small bite. It also had little or no taste. If anything, Jeff thought it might taste a little like rice.
He assumed it was a ground vegetable meal of some sort. After a few bites, he realized he couldn’t manage much more than that. It will probably taste better tomorrow when I’m hungrier, he thought.
He wasn’t particularly thirsty either, but he forced himself to drink most of the water so he wouldn’t get dehydrated.
Since he wasn’t goin
g to eat it anyway, he thought maybe giving it to Oscar might win him a few points. “Do you want my food?” he asked as pleasantly as he could manage.
Oscar stared blankly at him.
“Give me your bowl, and I’ll put mine in and give it back to you.” Jeff wanted to hang onto his own bowl. He was afraid that if he lost his bowl he wouldn’t get anything tomorrow.
Continued silence.
Jeff scooped the food out and patted it into a ball. He decided to try to throw it into Oscar’s bowl. He made a few underhand swings to try to line up the shot.
Oscar’s eyes were locked on the lump of food.
Jeff tossed it gently toward the bowl but missed by about a foot. The food splatted with a sickening sound on the floor that was filthy with Oscar’s feces. Jeff cringed at the thought of eating food off of that floor, but it didn’t seem to slow Oscar down at all. He scooped it off the floor and began shoving it into his mouth with both hands.
Jeff put his bowls by the slot in the door and went back to the mat.
He tried to keep his brain occupied. Maybe I can actually make some use of this time, he thought. I really haven’t had much time to think since I’ve been here. Everything’s been happening so fast.
He began to think about those strange ‘feelings’ he had been having that seemed to give him insight into other‘s thoughts. Are they legitimate, or am I just imagining them? he wondered.
They seemed to come in bursts. He had little control over them, and the more he concentrated on trying to understand what he was sensing, the less he was able to sense. It was if he saw something out of the corner of his eye that disappeared if he tried to look directly at it
Maybe I’m just imagining all of it, he thought. Or maybe my mind is just interpreting non-verbal clues - a raised eyebrow, a sweaty upper lip - the way everyone does to some extent.
He tried to think if there were any times that his feelings had been clearly proven insightful, but he couldn’t think of any.
