It looked just like any other desert that you would imagine or find in the pages of a nature magazine. Sand, always full of sand, few cacti here and there and some red and brown rocks that pop out of the flatness like teenage acne. In the day the temperature reaches such a high that a few tires have been known to melt while they were rolling down the only road that cuts through it; at night, penguins can fall asleep and be comfortable in the sand, though this hasn't actually happened yet.
The east side is the rich side of the desert, a town called Lennox that sits on the fringe of the rich suburbs surrounding the state capital. On the west is Frawnville, a village of trailers huddled around a town square. There is less richness or sophistication here, and the citizens of both sides agree. East of Lennox lies the rest of the world - civilization, as it likes to call itself. West of Frawnville is nothing but empty water, north and south nothing but sand.
There's a few roads that nip into the Frawn, going in to a store or some establishment near its boundary and rounding back out quickly like the path of a frightened puppy. Only one road crosses the entire 200 mile diameter of the desert, east to west. Formally referred to as Heaven's Row highway/US-53 on maps and government records, colloquially known as The Desert Road, it carries transport trucks and commuters on a daily basis. Just every once in a while though, amidst the browns of the vehicles that come from the dust they kick up, comes a spacious steel-colored box van in the style of a school bus. The state logo is painted on the side with the words "State Penitentiary" under it.
"Any of you ever hear of Timon Grange?" a future inmate would start.
"Isn't he the only guy that's ever broken out?"
"The only guy that's ever broken out?" the instigator would continue. Why, Timon Grange is a legend in the prison mythology. Not just here, but in the entire country, maybe even the entire world. He was like the Count of Monte Cristo, except he was in the middle of sand. An sea of sand, you could call it, and he jumped right out into that sea and out of prison for good. Tricked the guards silly, double crossed 'em until their eyes were in the wrong sockets.
Someone in the audience would snort. The sand in the air would get up into his nose and make him choke for a while, and when he gets his composure he would ask, "Where, exactly, would he run to? If runs by the road they would've caught him by the next morning, and if he runs out in the desert..."
The storyteller would grin.
Someone else would snort. "Well he was just crazy then, probably toasted out there within a day or so, or if not died by trying to eat a sand crab or a cactus."
"Did the Count die? Once in the sea, did he flop over and die on his face after years of toiling, years of waiting, years of formulating his escape and his ultimate revenge? Absolutely not. And neither did Timon Grange, fellow criminals, for he made it out of this desert alive."
People who live around it say that the Frawn is not a desert but a living, breathing being, the most unforgiving being in existence, and the escape is one of the things they point to as evidence. You wouldn't find it in any biology textbook, but in the middle of the day, right at noon, when the sun is highest in the sky, you feel it. There's a slight lick of air that comes and tickles your sweaty neck and your sweaty face - you feel it. The desert just exhaled.
---
There's the rumbling of the truck pulling up into the loop, a loud grating sound of aging diesel machinery and sand filling in where the lubricant failed to do its job. A new batch of criminals were coming down into their new permanent home. The baggage was each taken out and given to its respective owner, who then walked into the first building to the front. Names, IDs, birthdays, fingerprints, life details were given to the ledger man. In exchange, each prisoner got a number and the first week's supply of soap.
A530 to A540 piles onto the left side of the room, B390 to B400 piles on the other side. After everyone was finished, the two groups were lined up in front of two separate doors marked A and B by four guards apiece. No one was in handcuffs yet.
"Single file! Do not touch the person behind you or in front of you, hands behind your back. Hands behind your back! Try anything funny and I will harm you. Eight guys with guns will be on you the instant you think of doing malice to this great social institution that we Americans like to call the Justice System."
B399 looked twitchy and nervous, lifting a leg and shaking a foot every once in a while. He did the same thing to his arms, and he cracked his neck more than once. The guards were double-checking the inmate IDs issued by the ledger man up front one by one. More importantly, they memorized the faces that looked back at them with a mix of contempt and hatred.
"You nervous B399? What's the matter?"
Inmate B399 gulped. He stopped midway from lifting up his short, stubby right arm for the second time. "No, sir."
"You sure?"
"Yessir."
The guard looked at him behind huge aviator glasses and a thick walrus mustache. The only thing missing to complete the look was a donut in the guard's hand, which instead held a black-stained wooden baton. From personal experience, the guard knows that it can give concussions with not too much effort. He looked at the inmate, looked down at the picture on the inmate's ID, sniffled a bit and put his empty hand on the inmate's left shoulder.
"That's good, son. That's real good. We don't like any of our new arrivals to be nervous," he said. "You're coming into the family now. We like you here." He smiled. B399 eyed his loose grip on the baton tighten a little as he finished talking. The guard continued down to the last person in line, B400, then stood behind him.
"All ready here."
After the other line finished being inspected, the rest of the guards took their respective positions at set intervals beside the inmates. The ledger man in the front desk, just finishing up the paperwork of the current batch, stood up from his chair. His face was marked by deep lines and drooping cheeks where beads of sweat form. He lifted his thick professor glasses, transparent instead of the aviator's opaque, and wiped his face with a hand. He sat at a small chair that was right in the middle of the wall that connects the two doors that lead to the rest of the prison.
"Alright." 20 sets of eyes looked at him, and he looked back with a soft expression of tiredness and longevity.
"For some of you, beyond these doors lies the rest of your life, for some of you maybe not. I'm not gonna lie. I don't feel the least bit sorry for you being here. From what I know, all of you are scumbags who defile the rest of civilized society. You deserve to be here and you're gonna be here. I don't care how long, but you're gonna serve your time." He scowled a little. "And don't even think about running away, I'm telling you that for your own livelihood."
The ledger man looked down at a clipboard and called off the number and name of each man, then told each man his cell block and cell number. With a wave of his hand and a look of approval directed to the lead guards, the lines went into the doors and into the innards of the complex.
State Penitentiary #6 is one of ten state prisons, the smallest one out of the entire group. It consists of two prison houses, A and B, a common cafeteria, the warden's house, a football field, basketball courts and an electric fence that encloses an area of about 12 acres. Each prison house has 3 floors and holds up to about a thousand men at maximum capacity. Every cell contains a toilet, a bed, and a small window that looks out into the football field. There was just enough room for most inmates to be able to spread their arms and have the tips of their fingers touch the opposite walls. At best, it was a room to one's own, and at the very worst, it was a room that accommodates no company besides its owner.
B399 was walking right at pace with the line, a slow, rhythmic type of march to the steps and into the second floor. No longer under the observance of the ledger man, the guards bunched together at the end of the line and directed the line leader through barking. In between barks, they laughed and told jokes and smirked at the prisoners in the cells.
"Hey B399!" It was the same guard who spoke to him earlier. "Still feeling a little twitchy? Want me to sweep you up like a little princess and carry you up the steps?" The guards guffawed with coarse laughs and bouncing bellies. B399 kept marching without a break in pace. His neck tightened a little and the first semblances of a fist formed in his hand.
"Hey Joe, you see that? Looks like he wants to punch somebody. Reminds me of ol' Timon Grange, man oh man was he something else when he first got here..."
The mention of Timon perked up the ears of the line. They glanced back then kept moving forward.
"Haha! Timon Grange! Bobby, you are one funny guy. You should do stand up."
"I plan to, once I get a ticket into the big shows. I need some connections first. Then I'll be rich and I'll be drinking margaritas like water."
The leader of the line arrived at his cell, number 390. The rest of the line fell in after him into their respective cells. B399 hesitated into the relatively small cell, his head almost touching the top of the entranceway. Doors slid shut as the guards came in after the prisoners and locked them with the respective keys. The guard named George, the same one that harassed B399, locked his door. George jangled the keys in front of the cell and leaned against the sliding bar door.
"What's your name, B399? I seem to have forgotten what the old man said downstairs. Memory isn't what it used to, and I don't aim to keep calling you by your stupid number."
B399 looked down at the floor. "Leon."
George stared at him for a while. "I like you Leon. I can tell that we're gonna get along just fine." He stood up straight, locked B400's door, and joined the rest of the guards downstairs.
---
Dinner that first day was Leon found out who his immediate neighbors were. Not having anything in common with anyone else, he felt a natural tendency to sit with them at the cafeteria; B400, B398, and the guy in the cell directly across from him whose number he did not know yet.
Typical pleasantries were exchanged. Hi, hello, how you doin'. Fine, thank you, glad to meet ya. What are you in for?
B400 beat up a guy in front of a cop, then beat up the cop. B398 stole money from his grandma.
"Your grandma? What's the matter with you? All the old lady's got is medicine and bingo and you gonna take even those two things from her? Me, if I needed money," mused Pete, the guy in the cell across Leon's, "I would've robbed a bank. That takes actual skill, y'know? Old lady, all you gotta do is mix a little alcohol in her coffee, I kid you not, she will hand her money to you herself. Trust me. I had a grandma too." The whole table got a kick out of that one. Wish my grandma was that cool, they all thought.
Leon spoke for the first time. "That what you in for too?" Pete snorted a little, and some dust came up into his nose and he choked for a little while.
"No, no, my man, that was a long time ago. I'm old and mature now. I did rob a bank and that's why I'm here."
"What, did you give the guards alcohol too?" someone else asked.
Pete robbed a bank using a fake pistol, a water pistol he bought from a dollar store. He painted it black to make it look more realistic, which worked, since the bank tellers fell for it. They were on the ground whimpering before he could yell threateningly.
"Wicked bunch of wussies, I swear. I waved the gun around once, they dropped like cardboard targets. That made it almost easier than my grandma, actually." After taking all the money in the vault, he calmly walked to his car and drove off. One of the braver tellers got enough sense to call the police and look outside for the plates of Pete's car. He was run down after a half-hour car chase that criss-crossed several fields and left 2 cows trampled. "Would you believe that? They gave me animal cruelty on top of robbery and obstruction and trespassing! That's ridiculous. I love animals. The cows just sort of got in the way."
It was dinner time, Leon's first dinner in prison. Pete was munching on a stale looking hamburger. Leon smiled weakly at his story, then looked down at a plate of yellow mashed potatoes and a sloppy joe. There was a quiet that lingered while the 3 others in the table waited for Leon to take his turn at telling his story. He finished eating last, stabbing the potatoes and slowly bringing a tiny bit into his mouth. Pete looked at him.
"Well? I know you aren't just vacationing here. Your name's Leon right? What'd you do?"
Leon wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "I've got 25 for murder."
The silence lingered a bit further before B398 let out a low whistle. "We just ate, we're not gonna ask you for details."
Pete kept looking at Leon, whose eyes were forever glued to his plate.
"Now how 'bout some dessert, yessir..." B398 and B400 got up and went back to the lunch line. Dessert that night was crushed ice flavored with cheap cherry syrup. Most of the inmates lamented its similarity in taste to diet cranberry juice. Leon finished his potatoes at last and got up to dump his tray, and Pete got up to get some dessert. Leon didn't get flavored ice that night, nor would he get flavored ice on any night after that. His grandpa told him ice was for wussies.
"You're out in the desert boy, you don't have time to find ice! You drink your water in liquid form instead of solid, that's what's gonna keep you alive out here. Only wussies feel the need to make their drinks colder. When you're out in the desert, boy, anything you drink'll feel like a bucket of ice cubes down your throat." State Penitentiary #6 was smack dab in the middle of a desert.
Everyone got back to the table, and everyone except for Leon was licking shards of ice with pale syrup poured on top.
"Y'sure you don't want any?" B400 was french kissing his paper cone to get the last drops of cherry.
"No. I'm good." Leon had his arms crossed on the table. His orange long sleeve jumper suit was shades darker underneath the pits, and there were streaks of dark orange coming from the cuff. Standard issue for all inmates in a prison where temperature highs regularly hit past 100 degrees in daytime. There was a fanning technique to cool off a little - grab just below the collar and started pumping like a mad man. Pete picked this up quickly by looking at the veterans around him.
"Hot as a mug up in here..."
A guard sounded off a handheld bell to signal the end of dinner time. The whole cafeteria got up from their seats and headed back to the prison house. The 6 o'clock sunlight was still out in the horizon, squeezing in a few more rays before the darkness of the night.
