The Program

Epilogue

Two guards came for Crutch early one morning.

“Moving day,” one of the guards announced.

“Where are we going?” Crutch asked.

“You’re being transferred to a federal prison in Pennsylvania. Seems you left some unfinished business up there.”

They helped him dress. Muzzle, handcuffs, a thick leather belt locked around his waist with a chain locking it to the handcuffs. A real fashion statement.

He was marched across the yard. Life was defined by moments. Some came by accident, and forever changed the course of one’s existence. Others were the products of design, and were the results of careful planning, and patience.

This was one of those moments, he thought.

They came to the building where Crutch had lived for ten years. Going inside, he was led to his corner cell, and his handcuffs removed. A cardboard box sat on his bed.

“Don’t take more than can fit in the box,” the same guard explained. “And don’t take off your muzzle.”

“No, sir,” Crutch replied.

Crutch began to pack. He took his time, weighing which items to take, and which to leave behind, never taking his eye off the guards a few feet away.

Soon his moment came. Another guard entered the cellblock, and engaged his two handlers in conversation. Crutch picked up a rubber band from the bookcase, and slipped it around his wrist. He snapped it loudly. The guards paid the noise no attention.

He knelt down beside his bed, his back to the three men. Lifting the bed’s hollow leg, he unscrewed the bottom, and withdrew the metal shiv and the memory stick hidden inside. He slipped the shiv up his sleeve, using the rubber band to hold it secure. The memory stick he tossed into the box.

Rising to his feet, he went to the cell door. The guards were engaged in a serious conversation about college football, and had seen nothing.

“Ready when you are,” he announced.

His traveling restraints were reinstated. Soon he was walking across the yard with the guards, holding his box. He inquired about the weather in Pennsylvania.

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit,” the guard said. “You’re going to freeze your ass off.”

It was a delicious image, one that he would savor whenever he thought of this day. He had already decided that he was not going to Pennsylvania. Once outside these walls, he would be taking a journey to somewhere else. Where, he was not sure.

He passed through a gate into a small yard. A school bus with blacked-out windows sat with its engine running.

“Have a nice trip,” the guard said.

Crutch climbed inside. Two armed guards and a driver were waiting for him. Looking around, he counted five other inmates taking the trip with him. His new best friends.

One of the armed guards escorted Crutch to a middle seat, and had him sit down. The guard took his box, and placed it on a rack above his head.

“Don’t move, and keep your mouth shut,” the armed guard said.

“Are we going on a plane? I hate planes. They make me sick,” Crutch said.

“I told you to shut up.”

Another inmate howled. He was a skinhead, and covered in carnival-like tattoos.

“What’s so funny?” the guard asked.

“He’s wearing a muzzle,” the skinhead said.

Soon they were on the road. The skinhead made barnyard noises under his breath, trying to draw Crutch’s ire. Crutch sat with his head bowed, saying nothing. He imagined the trees passing by their blackened windows and the smell of leaves and all the things he’d been deprived of inside prison. After a few miles, he locked eyes with the skinhead.

“Look at what I have,” he whispered.

Twisting his handcuffs, he stuck his fingers up his sleeve, and drew out the shiv an inch at a time. The skinhead’s face became a thundercloud.

“You gonna make a run for it?” the skinhead whispered.

“Yes. Care to join me?”

“Yeah. I’m doing life.”

“How about the others?”

The skinhead made eye contact with the other inmates on the bus. Silent communication, honed by years behind bars, far more efficient than words.

“We’re in,” the skinhead told him.

“All of you?”

“Yeah. What’s the plan?”

Crutch directed his attention to the front of the bus. The two armed guards stood in the aisle, pretending to be watching them. In reality, they were both day-dreaming, their thoughts light years away. The driver was not much better, whistling under his breath as he handled the wheel, a cup of coffee splashing in a cup holder. Crutch imagined biting each one of them in the neck, their warm blood racing down his throat.

Kill them all, said the voice inside his head.

“Kill them all,” Crutch whispered.

“Then what?” asked the skinhead.