The Prison by Jo Edd Morris

Author:Jo Edd Morris [, Joe Edd Morris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2016-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

December 21 Sunday

The news from his granddad was an answer to prayers. Tonight his dreams would not own him, Cal thought as he lay down on his bunk. Instead, he almost feared sleep, afraid what he had been told was a dream, and he’d awaken to find it gone. He pulled the sheet over his head to block the exterior and pod lights that stayed on all night.

The sound of a series of clicks, like a gun being loaded, woke him. But guns were not allowed on the prison grounds, even by the guards. The cell was dark. He noticed the lights were out in the pod, the security halogens off as well outside. Perhaps there was an overload outage. Or there had been an electrical storm. But he’d heard no thunder, seen no lightning flashes through his narrow window to the world.

He lay still and listened. He heard the clicks again and realized what they were when he heard the steel door groan open and turned his head to see, from meager light somewhere in the pod, a wedge of shadow expanding, a body stepping into the shadow, another behind it.

“Who is it?” he asked in a small voice that resonated through the cell in the dark silence.

No voice responded, but he recognized the sound of the footsteps he heard day in and day out, two sets of them, clomping quickly toward him. Before he could speak again, two shadows grabbed his hands and feet and yanked him from the bunk onto the floor. A body quickly pinned his arms, another stood on his legs.

“What the—” he attempted.

A hand clamped his mouth, another grabbed his throat. He could hear the radios on their belts scratching with static. All he could feel were huge weights on top of him. “Shut up, Ferguson!” a rough nasal voice with bad breath whispered loudly. “You know why we’re here.”

Cal shook his head back and forth. “No…I don’t!” he mumbled through the sweaty hand that smelled of grease and body odor covering his mouth.

“Where’s the envelope?” the one sitting on his arms pressed, momentarily releasing the hand over his mouth.

“What envelope?”

“The one you got at Ty Doom’s.” A different voice with a thick rural accent.

“I don’t know.” Fear ripped through his head into his heart. “I thought it was mine,” he said, the words squeezing through his throat.

The assailant on top of him slapped him hard, and the one standing over him whispered, “We know better,” and swung a baton into one leg, then the other.

Cal tried to push up, but he was pinned to the floor.

A hand still held his throat, but his mouth was free. He knew not to call for help. Maybe they’d believe him and leave him alone.

The one sitting on his hands looked up at the one standing on his legs, then the one standing hit his legs again with the baton, and again pain swept through him like fire, and the hand again clamped his mouth.

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