There were two jobs the prisoners coveted highly. Quarterers like Samson who could tell who would die next and diggers like Jameson who went beyond the wall every day to dig graves and drainage ditches. It meant he got to see the outside world for just moments, but that was the only freedom ever allowed.
The earth was hardened by winter and packed with hard clay. It was even harder to dig with blunt shovels and feet shackled together to the rest of the diggers. But even as Jameson worked the earth, he was momentarily free from the prison. It was just the earth and the ground and shovel loads of packed red clay, and the bite of winter air against his skin. If he focused hard enough he didn't hear the chains, or see the makeshift rock markers, or smell the rot from decomposing bodies.
The guards had dragged out two more dead—both killed from the plague for which the prison was quarantined. Jameson stopped digging, measuring the depth of the trench. It would require another two or three feet before it was deep enough to throw a body inside. He glanced back at the body behind him. It was a man old enough to be his father, with stomach distended and face contorted from rigor mortis. Livor Mortis purpled the man's face, the purple coloring darkest around his cheeks. He must've died in the night, sleeping on his side. The guards probably found him when he didn't report for roll call.
"26X." There was a pain across his back and he stumbled forward, jerking the prisoners connected with him. He looked back up to the guard, taking a deep breath as the pain began to dissipate. The guard held a baton, patting it against his open palm. "Would you like for me to use this?"
Jameson didn't respond, just shivered as a cold wind sliced through his thin tunic.
"I believe I asked you a question, 26X."
"No sir." Jameson coughed. When was the last time he had spoke? It was at least a week, in the mess hall with Samson. His voice sounded rough and shaky, a foreign noise to him. It was dangerous to talk and so he didn't
"Good," the guard snorted. "Now get back to work and stop daydreaming."
He didn't respond, simply drove the edgeless shovel into the ground and dug up another shovel-full of dirt and rocks.
A whistle blew and work stopped.
Jameson lifted his head, wiping his calloused hands against his trousers. There was a commotion amongst the diggers at the head of the line. There were noises of joy, thanking. Jameson's right leg slipped as the prisoners strained in their shackles. A cry of "What is it?" ran rampant through the line behind him. He struggled out of his ditch, squinting as the figures passed them.
The Sisters. They passed in front, multicolored rosary beads glistening from their necks. Four of them today, arms heavy with something, Jameson couldn't tell what. Today it was the older Sisters—the ones old enough to be his grandmother with round bellies and unmarked skin. What did they know about work or prison?
"Repent, for the time of judgment is upon you!" The abbess was yelling now, making sure her words could be heard by all prisoners. She was far enough away from them that if any carried the plague, she would remain untouched. The Sisters, however, were touching hands.
The abbess continued as she watched Jameson with disdain, turning towards the others. "The blameless shall be upheld, but the wicked cast into the depths!"
They passed him and he cast his eyes to his dirty bare feet. A cold hand touched his and he looked up. Underneath a brown habit a woman's eyes watched. She was younger than the others, perhaps a couple years younger than Samson. His gaze lingered on hers for a moment before she pressed a small brown pouch into his hands.
"Repent for the days are short." She whispered mechanically, her hand lingering on his. Jameson thought of how strange a thing to be touched by such a delicate creature. Her bright eyes flicked up to his face, her thumb rubbing against the back of his calloused hand. For a moment he wanted to grab her and press her against his body, to absorb the purity of her soul. It wouldn't make him any more innocent or any more guilty. He refused to let his thoughts guide him.
The Sister pressed his hand against her forehead, the skin cold and damp from sweat. "Call out for forgiveness and you shall receive it."
Jameson was startled by the contact, but nodded, lowering his voice. "You are..." He couldn't find the words.
"Nothing." She whispered, eyes darting to the abbess and back to him.
"An angel." He whispered back.
"No." She said forcefully. "I am nothing, I will be nothing."
"Sister, come along." The abbess called back and the Sister released Jameson's hand with a startled and fearful look.
She managed to control her face and drew a small cross in the dirt. "Your poor soul," she whispered, dirty bare feet slapping against the earth. She cast a look over her shoulder at Jameson who stared back. The Sisters passed by in silence, no more words of judgment or calls to repent. And that was why the job of digger was so highly coveted. They did bring judgment, but they also brought gifts, usually of candy or other sweets. Last time they came it was chocolate, the time before peppermint and lemon drops.
Jameson held the pouch in his hand, emptying the contents into his hands. He could tell what it was by the smell immediately. Black licorice. His mouth watered at the smell, but he shoved the candies back into the pouch and then shoved that into his pockets. He'd share with Samson later at dinner. Samson was the only one in the hell hole that actually cared. The rest would slit Jameson's throat for a half-clean pair of underpants—if that.
The guards were behind him again, he could sense their presence by the quiet of the prisoners at his side. "Are you digging to plant flowers, 26X?"
Jameson knelt down, picking up his shovel. A vision flashed by his eyes of him bashing the guard in the head with the blunt end of the shovel before inciting rebellion among the others of the chain gang. But what would twenty-something prisoners on a leash accomplish? Other than to make the lives of those in Greenwater even more of a living hell?
"26X!" There was a blow against his shoulders again. He grimaced internally. "Are you dumb? Deaf, eh? Want to incite rebellion? Face me 26X."
"Not rebelling," Jameson muttered, watching the faces of the prisoners turn away from him. He slowly turned, stepping around the shackles. It was an awkward thing, but so were most things pertaining to prison life.
The guard laughed, brandishing the butt of a pre-war rifle. "Death's quite terrifying, isn't it?"
"Yes sir." Jameson wanted to cover his face and cower, but that would only get him killed slower.
The guard slammed the butt into Jameson's chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. He bent over, gasping.
"Straighten up," the guard laughed, slamming the butt into his shoulder. Jameson fell, tripping a few other prisoners who growled low at him. Jameson crawled back on his hands and knees like a dog.
There was a crack as the stock came back down on his spine. He couldn't help but cry out. There was a boot on his back, pinning him to the earth. Jameson stared into the contorted face of the dead man, his hands reaching instinctually towards his dropped shovel.
"The day of judgment is coming for you 26X." The rifle stock came down on his head.
~~~
His body ached and his skull pounded. The world spun as he opened his eyes and stomach heaved bile. Blood trickled over his forehead from a gash above his right eyebrow. The world tasted and smelled of blood.
"Welcome back." Dirt flew into his eyes as he lifted his head to see a guard looking down at him. He was being dragged like dead weight by fellow prisoners. None of them seemed particularly happy about the action.
Jameson skittered to his feet, swaying as the world spun. Blood colored his hands and dripped into his eyes. Light stung his eyes but he had to keep going. If he refused to walk, the other end of the rifle would find him. Then the guards would just leave him and let him bleed to death outside the walls.
Jameson limped on, watching the wall in front of them. The monstrosity was brick, approximately thirty-something feet high, and with guard towers that peeked out every so many hundred feet. It was an efficient layout, because in Greenwater, nobody ever escaped.
Jameson felt a wave of relief wash over him as his feet touched the inside of Greenwater prison. At the moment he wanted to collapse and let the others just drag him wherever.
Guards began the pat down of each prisoner, unshackling them as they went. Everyone knew the drill. When they came to Jameson, he stood still, feeling the hands around his body searching for anything he could have brought in that could be a weapon or a tool. A man had once brought a rock in, the guards beat him to death for it. Anything that could be remotely considered a weapon was treated as such.
Jameson was unshackled and released, immediately stumbling towards a fair-haired man.
"Jameson? Are you alright? What happened?" Samson's voice was lowered and a little rough from not speaking, but that was just the way things were. "You're bleeding."
He wiped a hand against his face, smearing red against his palms. "What do you think happened? It's not important anymore."
"We need to talk." Samson helped Jameson limp across the compound to the mess hall, each step bringing a new bought of pain. "Look we need to talk now, food is unimportant but this... this is critical."
Jameson's body ached even worse as he dragged himself along, sitting at a wooden table at the back of the dimly lit hall. "The Sisters came today, they brought licorice." His hands shook as they reached into his pockets to find them empty. "Oh no."
"What?"
"They took it! Those damn—" his eyes watered up as he desperately searched again, finding just empty space. Desperation welled up in his chest as a tear dripped down his face. "They took my licorice. I was going to give you some but it's gone. I—"
"Jameson," Samson interrupted, handing him a somewhat clean piece of cloth. "Put this on the wound and hold it there. But look, today I was working. And I... I—" he sighed, closing his eyes. "They're cleaning out cells."
They both knew what that meant. His hands shook more as he pressed the cloth against his forehead. "Who?"
Samson opened his eyes to glance evasively at him, before tracing his finger against the well-worn ruts in the wood table. "It's your cell, Jameson."
Jameson went numb, his hand releasing the bloody rag to thwap against the table. He shook his head. It seemed his throat was closing in, making it harder to breathe. But this couldn't be happening to him. He was a model prisoner, a worker. "No," he finally said in shock.
Samson nodded, refusing to meet his eyes. "That's why you're going to escape."
"Escape?" Jameson lowered his voice. "Escape Greenwater? Are you mad?"
"Me and you. Tonight. I've got it planned out. You're going to have to trust me."
"Well I'm going to die anyways, so why the 'ell not? What do I have to lose at this point?" Jameson picked up the rag and slapped it against his forehead. "Why me?"
"You've been here for longer than most, I guess they want to bring in fresh blood. I don't know, I don't want to know. Just listen to me. We're going to get out of here alive, we'll be the first people to escape Greenwater."
"Nobody escapes, Samson. There's a reason nobody escapes."
"But nobody has the advantages I do." He scooted closer to Jameson, making passionate gesticulations now. "The guards burn the uniforms of other guards who died from the plague, but I managed to save two of them from the fire. The whole uniform, down to the boots and hats. I've got them hidden. And I know how to get into the sewers. From there, it's a straight shot out of this hell hole and into the nearest river or the ocean."
"The sewers? They have grates on them, you can't get past the grates." Jameson lowered his face into his hands. "I'm going to die. They're going to hang me." He wanted to sob, but he didn't. His head hurt too much to sob.
"These did have grates at one point, not anymore though. I've been down there, that's where I go sometimes and I've been removing them. I'm glad too, because I'm not going to let us die in here. Especially because we're both innocent."
Jameson didn't respond.
"But look, we're going to have to move fast. Like now fast." Samson glanced around the crowded mess hall. "In an hour, they're going to take you to cell block three. You're going to receive the best treatment ever, but you'll understand why. In the morning they'll take you out and hang you. But we have to act faster than them."
"Do you know what happens if we get caught?" Jameson squeezed his eyes shut. "We'll be tortured to death. I've seen the bodies. They drained one of blood once. In another case, they sewed his mouth shut and carved a hole in his chest cavity. Do you want that to happen?"
"It's a risk we have to take, Jameson. Look, here's the plan, in about two or three minutes you need to walk to the Quartering office, if they question you, say you're going to the physicians office so they can sew your head. We'll change into uniforms and then make our way to the guard's quarters. I'll lead you there. And if anything should happen, I've rigged the tunnel with explosives."
"Were'd you get explosives?"
"I made them. Back when we had a large shipment of gunpowder, I siphoned a portion whenever I could." Samson's face lit up with excitement, "I have a plan. Now let's execute it."
"Please," Jameson muttered, "don't use that word."
"Good thinking. I'll meet you there." He casually stood and walked through the mess hall before disappearing into a different hall.
Nobody followed him. Prisoners received free-range during meals when guards usually took breaks to eat or smoke or do whatever free men did. As long as they didn't near the wall or make any sudden movements, they were allowed that freedom.
Jameson counted the seconds until a hundred and eighty-something seconds passed. He stood shakily, taking the rag away from his head. His heart pounded in his chest, drowning out the sounds of the prisoners around him. Escape? Impossible. Nobody ever escaped from Greenwater.
He made his way down the corridors, one hand nervously touching his throat. Tomorrow—if this plan failed, he'd be swinging at the end of a rope. Who would tie his rope to the tree? Guards? If they tied it he'd be gasping and kicking and choking for somewhere between ten minutes and half an hour—that was the record. He wondered how it felt to die like that. It probably didn't fee so great. He pushed the thoughts away, limping onward.
His footsteps were light against the hard floor, it came with years of trying to silence yourself into prison life. The loud ones were always the first to go. He was almost there, he could see the door for the Quartering office and it was closed and locked. Did Samson make it? He could only hope so. He was risking one death for another worse death.
"What are you doing here?"
Jameson jumped at the voice as the back end of a baton pressed against his shoulder. "Ah, you're prisoner 26X? They're awaiting you, you know."
"For what, sir?" Jameson squeezed his eyes shut, hands shaking. If he couldn't even make it into the Quartering department, there was no way he'd be able to escape. Where was Samson?
"You're in here for murder," the guard muttered again moving his baton against the brand on his back. Guards could read the mark like a book, every crime he'd committed was laid out bare for anyone who could interpret them. If he did escape, covering the brand would be a constant struggle.
The baton against his back fell away. "Murderer, now what are you doing here?" Jameson heard his boots walk around him and then forward. He was directly beside the Quartering door now. Where was Samson?
"I'm going to see the surgeon," Jameson stuttered. "My head, it needs stitches." He raised his face a little to show the gash above his eyebrow.
The guard tapped a boot against the ground impatiently. "Then you don't mind if—"
He was cut off as the Quartering door opened to slam into the guard. Samson jumped out in a guard's uniform, brandishing a broken chair leg as a weapon. Jameson rushed to his aid as the guard tried to scream.
"Hold him down," Jameson directed, grabbing the chair leg from Samson's hands. He pressed it against the guards throat, keeping it in place with his knees. His other hand covered the guards mouth and pinched his nose shut. Now he could asphyxiate like the others.
"Are you going to kill him? Don't kill him, Jameson, it will only add more to your crimes." Samson held down the flailing legs as the guard desperately tried to free himself. "Please."
"No, I won't kill him." Jameson lied as the guard choked and gagged from underneath Jameson's hand. His eyes bulged as he struggled, screaming for help.
"I'm only going to knock him out," he whispered. Jameson pressed down harder against the guard's mouth, feeling him struggle and scream in vain. He was growing hysterical and desperate. His face was turning a bluish color with every passing second, Jameson continued to stare into his dark eyes.
Samson coughed, "hurry up, will you?"
Jameson pressed the chair leg deeper into his throat. Five seconds later the movement and screaming stopped. He released the man slowly, making sure the deed was well done. A quick press of his fingers against the guard's carotid revealed an empty pulse. So it was done. A third murder on his record. Jameson didn't feel sympathy for him, Jameson didn't feel anything but joy that he was dead. It was one less person to tie his noose.
"It's done," he muttered to Samson who was beginning to panic a little.
"Now what do we do with his body? This isn't what I wanted or expected."
"Open the door, I'll drag him inside. Take all of his weapons, we're going to improvise." He took the now dead guard by the legs and dragged him inside. As soon as the door shut, Jameson began the process of stripping him down to his underwear and removing his weapons.
Samson slowly lit a lamp to reveal his own worn guard uniform. "Do I look like one of them?"
The uniform hung off his starved body, but it would have to work. Everything about this plan would have to work. "You look fine."
"You're going to have to shave your head." Samson held up a razor and pointed to his own bald head. "Guards aren't allowed to have hair."
"Shave me."
Samson did as Jameson asked, running the blade sloppily over his head. Jameson sat still, his head bleeding in places where the blade nicked his scalp. It wouldn't matter in the long run.
"Would you hurry?"
"Done," Samson wiped the blade on his leg and nodded. "It looks awful but it will do."
Jameson quickly changed into the dead guard's uniform, dressing him in his own rags. The fabric was loose on him too, but a belt made his pants stay up. He pulled a hat over his head and faced Samson. "I'm going to kill you if we die."
Samson laughed nervously. "I guess I'll say the same thing. Now we look like guards."
Jameson nodded and ran his hands over the thick clothes. His feet were squeezed in the shoes, but they would work. They'd have to work. "Come on, lead us out of here."
"Follow me, but remember, we're not prisoners, we're guards now. Act like a guard." Samson pulled up his pants even more, pulling his cap over his head. Jameson followed in suit, glancing down at the dead man.
"When will he wake up?" Samson whispered, nudging him with a tentative boot.
Jameson shrugged, managing his lie. "Maybe in an hour or so. He'll buy us some time. Right now, we need to go."
"You're right." Samson took a deep breath, exhaling loud enough to fill the room. He grabbed a lantern from the desk, turning the flame down until it was barely visible. "We'll have to keep this down, we've got a long journey ahead of us."
"I'm just surprised we've made it this far."
"Well, it's do or die, right?"
"Let's hope it's not the second one." Jameson stepped over the body and slipped out of the office.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
