Hank
The dusty chain link gates of the Bluebonnet Maximum Security Correctional Facility squealed as they slid open, allowing the bus into the courtyard. The guard in the passenger's seat—whose name tag identified him as Officer Lindhurst—walked around to the back of the bus, opened the door, and unchained the men from the metal bar under the seat. Hank and the others shuffled out, still chained together at the ankles.
Lindhurst led them into a large room where two more huge, broad-shouldered guards stood waiting. Another bored-looking older guard sat behind a long desk. There were pairs of thick red and blue lines denoting narrow paths on the squeaky gray linoleum floor, and they led to a row of yellow squares in front of the desk.
“Okay, shitbirds, this is how it's going to work,” Lindhurst bellowed. He enunciated every word as though he was speaking to a room full of slow children. “I'm going to unchain you one at a time. Once I have removed the cuffs from your wrists and ankles, you will walk between the red lines to one of the yellow squares. If you say a goddamn word or put so much as a toe outside of those red lines, Officers Breyfogle and Calhoun are going to beat you 'til you shit blood, and then you can spend your first month at Bluebonnet in the fuckin' hole.”
Hank sighed inwardly. He was already sick of this asshole's attitude, and he couldn't imagine how many more there were in Bluebonnet who were just like him.
“Once you reach one of the yellow squares, you will strip down to your bare ass and hand your clothes and personal possessions to Officer Morton behind the desk. This will include watches, earrings, wedding rings, cock rings, anything you've got that isn't permanently attached to your body. No holding out, no exceptions. He will catalogue these items, place them into storage, provide you with prison uniforms and bedding, and assign you a number. You will memorize this number, and you will by God answer to it when it's called, or you will be one sorry motherfucker. When you have your clothes, bedding, and number, you will put on your uniform, step back and walk between the blue lines to the area on the other side of the room.”
On the outside, with the Warriors at his back, Hank would never let anyone talk to him like this, uniform or no. He'd stomp some respect into them, then hop on his bike and ride off—anywhere, nowhere, whatever he pleased.
But now there was no one to back him up, and nowhere to ride to. Blue skies and free air had been replaced with cement blocks on all sides and the stink of rusty iron, dirty concrete, and body odor.
Lindhurst approached the row of men with his keys, starting at one end. There were three men before Hank, including Foley. As Foley pulled off his clothes, some of the other convicts whistled and catcalled at him. Foley looked back at them, startled, then put on a shit-eating grin and tried to laugh along. Still, Hank could see the first glimmer of fear at the corners of Foley's eyes.
Instead of yelling for the prisoners to quiet down, the guards just smirked to each other knowingly.
When Lindhurst reached Hank, he gave him another hard glare, as though daring Hank to defy him in any way. Hank forced himself to stare straight ahead blankly until Lindhurst unlocked his wrists and ankles. Then he walked between the red lines to the yellow square and stripped naked, tossing his clothes onto the desk.
“One pair of dress shoes, brown, size 12,” Officer Morton droned. He noted each item on a clipboard before tossing it into a cardboard box. “One pair of socks, black. One pair of trousers, black. One leather belt, brown. One button-up shirt, white. One suit jacket, black. One tie, red and white stripes. One pair of underwear, boxers, gray.”
Morton removed the form from his clipboard and added it to the box. Then he put a lid on it and taped it down before throwing it on top of a stack of identical boxes. He produced a magic marker, writing a series of letters and numbers on the side.
“Your prison number is 17H404,” he said, handing Hank a folded uniform, socks, slippers, and a set of sheets. “You'll be reporting to cell block G. Please get dressed and follow the blue lines.”
That's all I fucking am in here, Hank thought. Just a number and a box full of clothes I won't see again for two years.
A suffocating wave of claustrophobia enveloped him, and his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins. He'd been through so much in his life, and he thought he'd be able to take incarceration in stride—just an inconvenience, something unpleasant to get through and forget about. But now that he was inside the prison, he could feel it pressing down on him, as though he'd been buried alive. His head started to throb and his mind jittered crazily, insisting on his individuality even as it was methodically stripped from him.
Hank put on the uniform. The fabric was cheap, and it felt stiff and itchy against his skin. He walked between the blue lines, joining Foley and the others against the wall. He saw Raheem putting on his uniform, and noted that it looked about three sizes too big for him.
When all of the convicts had taken their places against the wall, Lindhurst hit a button next to the inner door. An alarm honked, and the door opened from the inside.
A huge guard stepped through the door. He had a shaved head and a black handlebar mustache, he stood at least six and a half feet tall, and he was built like a professional wrestler—Hank could see the man's uniform straining against his enormous pecs and biceps. There was a deep scar extending from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin, giving him a permanent snarl of disapproval.
He stood in front of the prisoners, addressing them in a booming voice.
“My name is Officer Butler, and I am the captain of the guards. Welcome to Bluebonnet. Life can be uncertain in this place, but I can promise all of you one simple thing: Your time here with me will be exactly as difficult as you make it. The rules are easy to follow. No buying, selling, using, or hiding drugs. No weapons or contraband items. No fucking or fighting. You do what the guards say, when they say it, without cussing them out or horsing around. You abide by these rules, you and I won't have any problems. You break these rules, I will make sure that all of your nightmares come true and I will have fun doing it.”
How many times has this hack practiced this little speech in front of a mirror? Hank thought.
“Those of you who have been assigned to cell block B will be escorted there by Officer Lindhurst,” Butler continued. “Block C, you'll go with Officer Calhoun. Block F, Officer Breyfogle. Those of you going to block G will be escorted by me personally. Line up by cell blocks and follow the appropriate officer, and do not dawdle.”
Hank, Foley, and several other men lined up behind Butler as the others formed ranks behind their respective guards. They were led through the inner door, which slammed shut seconds after the last convict passed through it. The sound echoed with a grim finality, and Hank felt a shudder pass through him.
If it didn't seem real enough before, he thought, it damn sure does now.