Night's coming and they'll be here soon.  The tension slips into our cells, a physical sensation like a Daddy Longlegs creeping across your arm.  The temperature drops and the hairs on my neck prickle up.

"I feel them," a voice says.  "I …"

The voice bleeds into a high, afraid sound, like a young girl running down the hall.

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

That's the newest guard on this block.  All the old ones quit if they could afford to leave.  Walked out … hell, ran away.  The guard's snarl is gasoline on the bonfire of fear.  Guards are supposed to be hard-assed, tougher than us, but his fear reminds us we're all just human.  And that's the problem.

"The Lord is my shepherd ..."

That's David "Slasher".  He got a hot case of the conversions about four months ago when all this started getting bad.  Funny things a man will do when he's in a corner.

"Give it up for the Lord, David," I yell through the door slot, just to be a bastard and stir it all up. "Say me a prayer!"

"Shut your gullet, Becker," screams the guard.  I laugh loud so he can hear me.  No doubt he's pissing down his pant leg.  Mamma always said I had a sick sense of funny.  She called me her Little Twist. 

Well, there's a lot of labels for people like me.

Sticks and stones.  I've broken bones.  And the words they never hurt me.  Mamma used to say I had elephant hide after they tried to beat the devil from me.  I don't feel much of anything.  And I have my means of dealing with what gets under my skin. Not the prettiest of ways, certainly, but then things gotta get done. 

I'm a practical man.

I've been making a new shank out of a piece of a food tray and keeping it hidden in the groove where the toilet meets the wall. Not as fine as the one I used last month.  They found that one and took it away. 

This one's long and thin enough to pierce an eardrum without a lot of fuss. This one is lighter, rough edged.  I work it against the floor, rubbing like it’s a part of my body, with loving attention. 

It wasn't ready yet but I figured I could endure a while to get it just right.

When the cell gets too cold I slide the tool away.

About six months ago we figured it was the new Governor's cost cutting plan. Freeze us and save a few dollars. Not that any of us would be around for more than a few years before we took the stainless steel ride, the quick slip of a lethal dose.

But it wasn't just us whining.  Some of the guards were putting down a fuss.  I noticed it was only the ones that did their share of nasty bashes and beat downs. Yeah, the ones with bloody hands.

The howling started four months back. Every midnight. A stink started rising through the vents, worse then the stink of an animal that’s crawled into a warm place to die.  Something like rot but a lot worse.

But there were no animals dying, only us and we were doing it slow.  We were doing it civilized, waiting for the poison drip.

It got so bad that rumors slipped over the wall and television crews showed.  Even in lockdown we heard the whispers that the Outside didn't believe. Well, who's going to believe people like us?  They called it hysteria. They said we were searching for attention and laughed.

That's when they started crossing over. When the Outside stopped paying attention.  When those of us Inside were left to our own.

"N-no!"  “Kill-a-boy” Jenkins stammers. "N-n-n …" 

Down the hall the first dragging steps starts. Shuffle-shuffle, hiss. Little gasping noises. A ha-ha noise that could only be for Johnny, who was called the “Balcony Rapist” in his wilder days.

Then I smell them.  Bad enough to make me want to puke up dinner.  My throat works the bile back down in convulsive little swallows.  I don't need to add to the misery.  

Behind our plexi-walls and cement cells, huddling on the thin cots, or crouching by our steel toilets we were all getting quiet.  Quieter and more still.  It's called fear paralysis. Fancy way of saying it's like we're a little mouse in a tank with the snake.

There's a theory that goes something like this: put enough people in a close space and they go as crazy as too many rats in a cage. It doesn't matter how well you feed the rats or if you give them a little bit of privacy and let them move around, too many in a small space and lunacy starts up.  They go wilding and wicked.  Gnaw at their own flesh and chew off their legs.  Put a lot of people like us in the same conditions, and it can get worse.

"Aaahhh!" That's “Cat-J” Ray.  He's our early warning system.  They always find him first.  He wails like a banshee on crack.  Or maybe he just wails like the two little kids he did after he broke into their house. 

He's got a string of names he owns.  Used to tat their initials on his skin, a long blurring smear from elbow to wrist.  He used to be proud, but he's paying for that too. 

They're lining up to get to him. 

Prisons are a boiling pot for some serious troubles. That's probably why they stopped putting out the stats to the public about just how many of us are here. Just imagine a few more than there should be.

I'm guessing that's why the dead found us. When we surpassed maximum capacity the prisons must have lit up like beacons in the darkness of the afterlife. And like green bottle flies to a dead man, they came to us.

"That's my theory," I say to my old friend Jacob Pearson when he arrives. "We've put too many souls down, and now you've spilled out.  Or maybe God's got a sick sense of funny."

Jacob gurgles through shattered teeth.  I'm in for the Long Ride on his account of being in the wrong place and interfering in my business. 

He's heard it all, excuses and explanations, and some real honest-to-God contrition.  It's true.  I'm much more sorry now.

Sorry the dead won't let us take the easy way out.  Death is no escape. Cat-J already tried.  But he's got six lives to serve out, and the dead will make sure he does their time. They're going to make sure I do mine.  When Jacob's gone there will be others. 

A few weeks ago I would've watched Jacob nod his head.  I couldn't take my eyes off the bashed-in remains of his skull.  The way the light would shine off the bone that stuck through his hair.  I imagine if the shotgun blast left him more of a mouth he might have something to say.  All the others in their cells have conversations, but I have to listen to the noise.  It's a terrible sound. 

I need the silence.  The bittersweet quiet.

At least I don't have to look at him anymore, not since I took care of my eyes. 

No more gruesome sights. 

No more sights again. 

It was a hard trade-off.  But pretty soon I won't have to hear him either.  They say your other senses, they compensate for a loss.  I know my hearing’s gotten sharper, but I'll take care of that.

That shank's almost done. 

First the sights, then the silence.  

I have to wonder what needs taking care of next.  Sometimes, I know.  That scrape of his fingernails and that warm, wet slick.  He's got a way of laying his hands on you that cuts through elephant skin.

I just haven't figured a way to avoid his touches.

But I will.

END