THE DEVIL YOU KNOW:PART1

I've been in and out of prisons and jails ever since I was 17. I thought I had seen it all. Aryan Brotherhood members stabbing guards, gang wars, escapes, and torture. I saw many things that still give me nightmares to this day. McDonald, 402-202, the guard barked out. I jumped up, the thin mattress under me exhaling a whiff of stale air. I looked through the bars, seeing Correctional Officer Shea. C.O. Shea was a morbidly obese man with a penchant for being loud and lazy. I had seen a member of the Bloods punch him straight in the nose before, a scene I still remembered with some humor. 

 Shea had crumpled like wet paper on the floor, screaming and crying as more C.O.s ran over and tackled the inmate. Yeah? I asked. Shea handed me a sheet of paper. He regarded me with his gray, colorless eyes. Congratulations. You're being transferred. Pack your shit. This is your last day at Springfield Correctional Center. You might think I would be happy to get a transfer. SCC was, after all, a shithole. The food was terrible and always cold, the place always smelled like bleach and chemicals, and at night it got so cold with only my flimsy sheet that I regularly woke up shivering.

The building was nearly a century old, and the fact that it still functioned at all was a miracle in itself. But to be honest, I was not thrilled about the transfer. I had made friends here and knew the lay of the land. I didn't have to worry about getting jumped or stabbed to death in the showers. As the old adage goes, it's better the devil you know than the one you don't. I was let out of my cell the next evening with all the worldly possessions I owned, which fit neatly into a clear trash bag with room to spare. I owned some prison clothes, toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, a Bible, a pair of sandals, and a radio. 

 I felt the unbearable lightness of my existence reflected in that bag as it smacked rhythmically against my leg. Good luck, friend Josh. A rather insane acquaintance of mine named Alvin called out from his cell as I passed down the bleak concrete hallway. Take care, man. I hope we meet again on the outside, I said, waving, knowing I would almost certainly never see any of these people again. Hell, I hadn't even seen my family in over five years. None of them came to visit me anymore. No one wrote me letters or put money in my commissary account or sent me books to read. Well, we're all born alone, and we all die alone, I thought to myself as C O'Shea walked by my side. 

 He was breathing heavily, as if he had just finished running a marathon. I looked over at his face, seeing the burst capillaries on his nose from years of hard drinking and the squint of his little piggy eyes. There was a slight gleam of intelligence and slyness behind that ugly mug, though. Well, amigo, Shea said in his slow, plodding way, I got assigned to go with you. I'll be your ride along buddy. You excited or what? I smiled faintly at him. There are worse people than you here, Shea, I said. Far worse. I got on the prison bus in my bright orange jumpsuit. 

To my surprise, I saw the back was nearly empty. There was only one other prisoner in the back. Shea sat with us to monitor us. We were also handcuffed and ankle cuffed. A chain ran down and connected the two. I looked over at the other prisoner, a black guy with a shaved head. I think he also shaved his eyebrows. I mean, I literally didn't see a single hair on his head besides eyelashes, which he apparently hadn't found a way to shave. Yet. Sup, he said. I nodded. Sup. We sat there in awkward silence as Shea plopped down hard on the bench between us.

It groaned like a confused old man. So, what do you know about this place, Shea? I asked. He sucked down half a bottle of coke and then heaved a deep sigh. I don't know much about it, to be frank, he admitted sheepishly. It is apparently brand new, though. They asked us to send a couple people who met certain criteria. What does that mean? The black guy asked. Shea gave him a serious look. Come on, Timmy, you know what I mean. Hardened criminals. People with long records who tour prisons like some people tour French beaches. 

 I scoffed. There are far worse people than me in prison, I said. Well, they asked for no murderers or gangbangers, too. I don't know why, but maybe it is some new government program. They apparently call it an experimental prison. What about me? Timmy asked. Shea apparently knew what he meant. You're not a murderer, Timmy, Shea said, his lips forming the faintest twitch of a smile. You never... Well, there was that time my girlfriend got me to drop some acid with her. She went and killed her parents. Then we hit the road, Timmy said fondly, his eyes rising as if he were looking at a hovering angel in the far-off distance.

You were never convicted of any accessory charges, so it doesn't count, Shea retorted. Oh, it counts, Timmy drawled in his slow, plodding way. It counts. Everything in life counts. If I've learned anything in the last 36 years, it's that you can never truly escape anything you've done, good or bad. I couldn't see much from the prison van. There was a small, shatterproof window in the swinging back doors, but it only gave a fleeting view of what was behind us. I noticed the dark forests stretching out to the horizon over rolling hills.

We drove for a few hours, the three of us bullshitted, talking about everything from sports to politics to the recent spate of fatal stabbings at SCC. I felt the van stop. I looked out the back window, seeing more endless trees. I didn't see a single house or car on the road we had taken. This place is a ghost town, I said. Shea nodded. Yeah, it's dead as Frank Sinatra around here, Shea said, wheezing out a high pitched laugh at his own joke. This area used to be big for coal mining, but as it dried up and people lost their jobs, they moved away. 

 You know, my grandfather was a coal miner. Good place to build a prison, huh? Timmy asked. If there is no one around... We were cut off by a clanging alarm up ahead. I heard something large moving, probably the gate opening. Then we were inside. I saw the guard towers and rolls of razor wire for a brief moment as the van pulled into an open garage. The darkness immediately blanketed us. The garage door slowly rolled shut behind us. Shea jumped up. Let's get you boys inside so I can take off your handcuffs and everything, he said, motioning for us to follow.

He pulled out a flashlight from his belt, guiding us through the pitch black. The dim light sent shadows racing across the room like groping tentacles. I caught glimpses of strange objects in the darkness. They looked like medieval torture devices. What is this place? I whispered. My voice echoed far too loudly off the cold concrete floor and walls. Those look like torture devices on that table, Shea. I think those bloody things are thumbscrews, and that might be a pair of anguish. I pointed to the pear-shaped object with three wicked blades whose points came together sitting on a dusty shelf.

The ornate handle had springs connected to it. The object could be forced into any human orifice, and, when the springs were engaged, it would open like a flower inside the person's body, ripping their flesh apart and enlarging that orifice to a bloody, gaping hole. How do you know so much about this? Shea asked, giving me a strange look. He narrowed his little piggy eyes. He continued to fumble with the flashlight, peering around for a door to exit the garage. I looked back at the car and saw the driver just sitting there, his entire body as lifeless and still as a mannequin.

I've read a few books, I said as Timmy interrupted us. I see a little red light glowing under that door, Timmy said. Shea focused his flashlight on the spot. Across the room, I noticed what Timmy was pointing at. It was an ancient-looking black door. The wood had started to crack and splinter down the middle. Engraved in silver on the front, it said, Entrance to North Frost Penitentiary. Hello? Shea called toward the door as the three of us moved forward, the steel chains giving my steps a clinking rhythm. Shea reached the antique crystal doorknob.

Timmy and I stood next to a dust-covered brazen bull, its bronze mouth wide open as if it were silently roaring at us. As Shea pulled open the door, crimson light flooded into the garage. Tinted black glass covered the back wall. A speaker button sat next to the window. I looked to my right, seeing a massive sign sprawled across the wall there. It read, Rules for Personal Conduct. At North Frost, the COs without faces don't work here, and we don't know who they are. If you see one, press one of the buttons labeled Emergency Dispatch that are scattered around the complex. 

 When the red emergency lights come on, hide until they shut off. Do not go into the medical ward for any reason. The warden roams the prison every night at 3.33 a.m. looking for human meat. Don't let him catch you. What is this, a goddamn joke? Timmy asked, his dark face forming into a scowl. Uh, well. Shea rubbed the back of his neck, looking like an obese little boy who lost his parents. I've never been here before, but this is all pretty unusual. I'll admit. 

 A buzzing came from the back of the room, and suddenly a garish, echoing intercom turned on. Please remove their chains and direct them through the door on the left, a female robotic voice said calmly, in a tone as cool as lemonade on a hot day. Your transfer will then be complete. Shea sighed in relief. Good. He grunted. This place gives me the creeps. Bro, you can't leave us here. Timmy protested. What the fuck is this place? Where is everyone? Why is there a room filled with bloody ancient torture devices next to the garage? Shea put up his hands. I'm sorry, son, but I have orders.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING👄 PART II IS COOKING😉