The Earth is My Prison
Page 1
Contents
The Earth is My Prison
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
PART 1: PRISONER
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PART 2: ESCAPE
20 Years Ago…
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20 Years ago…
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PART 3: FREEDOM
Let Me Tell You How America Died…
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Acknowlements
The Earth is My Prison
Richard Sean Clare
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 Richard Sean Clare
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the Author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
To Marie, for giving me life.
And the rest of my family, for keeping me alive.
Prologue
The prisoners of Highgate waited, tried not to notice they were waiting, fought the system, fought themselves, gave up, then, tired of giving up, tried again. The night was the worst, when the need to be free came as a stabbing anxious pain.
They made promises of what they would do when they got outside but deep down knew outside didn't want them. When they were walking in the world normal people would look at them as if to say: “who let you out?”
Routine is salve to a troubled mind, the Governor said. The Prisoners woke at the same time, worked out at the same time, ate and slept at the same time. Even their mental breakdowns all went according to schedule.
Their schedule held even as the country fell apart. When the guards left their posts they watched each other. When the food stopped coming, they made their own. TV had mentioned something about a war, but that was Outside business.
The Governor was the last to leave, his last act to pardon them all. They stayed. They kept on making license plates, furniture, clothes. Outside had never given them anything, why would now be any different?
They felt safe in their ordered world, right up until the day the enemy, long-limbed and pale, vaulted over their defenses, to inflict bloodshed so precise it was like the culling of an animal for the environmental good.
The prisoners were offended at this break in the routine even as the mutants strode through them, picking bits of their friends from their teeth. Men who were monsters lay like sheep in their cells, awaiting final justice.
Highgate sunk deeper under the heavy cloud of War. Until Hope broke through in a ray of bullets. Bullets from the gun of a US Marine. Hellfire. Vikings with cigars between their teeth, they splintered the evil ones to atoms.
The bravest of them was Pvt. Kawalski, a fresh-faced recruit who moved at locomotive speed. He threw himself headlong between death and the guilty, dismantling the aggressors with angelic grace.
When the last body stopped twitching, he was still standing. The white blood that seeped from his wounds told them he was not a man but a weapon made to look like one. He still cried when his friends were buried.
He had to go, there were other battles to be fought. In return for saving the prisoners he asked only one thing, that they continue working. Only now they would work with a purpose, now they would work for America.
The Effort had begun
PART 1: PRISONER
“Good people are so sure they're right.”
Barbara Graham, before being electrocuted by the State of California
“They're trying to build a prison!
They're trying to build a prison!
They're trying to build a prison!
They're trying to build a prison!
For you and me to live in”
- Prison Song, System of A Down
1.
Chris Anderson had learned the world was an unfair place shortly after he was born. Frightened people had taught him the lesson and it was stored in his cells as a burning pain. He was stored in a cell too. A 6 by 8 feet concrete box that had been his home all his life.
Chris was skinny, not particularly good looking and looked like the kind of guy you could have long conversations with. He never stood up straight and people told him he looked cold even when he wasn't.
His nickname was Tag. He had gotten it when he was a kid. No one could ever catch him. He would run and slide like a baseball player to get away from their hand, avoiding it like it carried the plague. He was never "It" once in his entire childhood career. The name stuck with him as an adult. When it came to work and responsibility, he would dodge those too.
His name might have been "worrier" as that was his favorite thing to do. He worried about his job, he worried about his girlfriend, he worried about his future, worry after worry, in ever-tightening circles of dread. He had a taste for unsolvable problems and he chewed them until they became like gum that had lost its flavor.
Lights out had been at 11 PM. It was an hour later and Tag still wasn’t asleep. He rolled back and forth on his prison-issue cot, trying to burn his excess energy.
There was one trick he had at times like this, to fantasize and leave his body, and he did that now. He imagined himself on the sand world of Dune, hiking through the endless desert in a still suit that reclaimed lost moisture.
His fantasies paved the way for dreams and finally he slept.
~
Tag rubbed his eyes and willed himself to wake up. He threw his feet onto the cold floor, making contact with the Day.
He looked with disgust at the bucket which served as his toilet, knowing that he would soon have to empty it.
He could feel the unblinking eye of the Panopticon on his undressed body. Through the slat-like window of his cell he could see it slowly revolving, like a spider turning to see who had disturbed its web.
He gave the customary salute and shouted "Always Ready!" with a vigor he did not feel, the words echoing with a thousand other voices.
2.
Tag stepped into the Canteen. He took in the range of colors; the pinkish white to heavy black of bared skin, the faded blue of the tattoo ink and the brilliant orange of lovingly laundered Prison Scrubs. Testosterone hung in the air like smog. Tag's shoulders automatically went to cover his neck, just like his monkey ancestors would have done.
He looked at their tattoos to avoid looking in their eyes. A man's tattoos told you his life. Defenders had a pair of crossed shanks, Trustys had a sheriff's six-pointed s
tar, and Growers had a tiny flower on the top of each knuckle. All Tag had was a tiny x on his left hand which he rubbed absentmindedly from time to time.
“Juvenile Wing” housed two hundred desperate men. It worked because the men had invented rules and then agreed to forget they had invented them. Most important were the Stripes. Simple black bands on the upper arm that told others and yourself that you were a man.
Tag's arm was still bare but at 20 it was not yet time to panic. There were men here in their 30s who had long ago given up hope of getting one. With a stripe you could ask a girl to marry you, and that gave hope of being transferred to the promised land of East Wing, where the families lived.
Tag kept his head down and took his place at the back of the line with the other Stripeless. A friendly hand fell on his shoulder.
"Dreaming again?"
It was Paul. Tag’s best friend. They clasped hands and gave each other a masculine hug. Paul was older than Tag at 24 and generally more good-natured.
He was a Lookout, his job was to sit in a guard tower and raise the alarm when the enemy came. Once he had raised it after spotting a sinister object in the East. It turned out to be a ball of trash. The subsequent drop in status was how he had come to know Tag.
"Are you excited about the Effort?" Tag asked.
"Yes enormously, are you?" Paul replied.
"Yes, enormously."
It was a private joke, a small but necessary act of rebellion.
"It's a little hard to distinguish yourself in that tower," Paul said. "The reports I'm turning in on the beautiful sunsets aren't doing much for my rep."
Tag couldn't really relate. Being one of the few prisoners able to read had its privileges. He was a tutor to children of the Board and as long as he didn't make the kids any stupider he was guaranteed a stripe.
Before that his job had been to go through files of the original prison population and check their medical records for any inheritable conditions. This had the added bonus of letting him know what all their parents and grandparents had been imprisoned for.
Paul’s Grandfather, for example, had been a serial rapist from Atlanta which given Paul’s overabundant interest in the opposite sex, didn’t surprise Tag at all.
"I'm going to see Veronica soon,” Paul said. “She gives me such a boner I could break through the glass!"
“Lovely, charming,” Tag said. “I'll be seeing Sophie soon.”
Seeing and not much else, he thought. One of the strange features of prison life was that the only way for a young man to meet a girl was through a half-inch of reinforced glass in the Visiting Room. At this point Soph could have been made of cheese for all he knew. Her skin was white enough.
Tag turned his attention to the serving station, to the man who was serving them porridge. He was middle-aged, flabby, and had a small black X inscribed on his forehead.
It was a strike, the opposite of a stripe, he had probably gotten it for trying to escape. He stared into the vat of porridge like it was a crystal ball that contained his future, though Tag knew he had none.
"Hey Tag,” Paul said, “if Sophie turns you down, you can always marry this guy."
"Knock it off."
Tag didn't join in the mocking. It was never wise to diss the man who made your food. Still Paul had a point, he had never seen a man look so useless.
They collected their bowls, though Tag had lost his appetite.
"It's getting a little boring up in the tower," Paul said in a low voice.
It was a code Tag understood.
"I'll fix you up, don't worry," Tag said.
"Thanks, man."
They embraced awkwardly causing a nearby prisoner to make a comment about their sexuality that they wisely ignored. As members of different Details they couldn't sit together. Paul went to sit with the other Lookouts. Tag, as the only tutor in Juvey, just went wherever there was a spare seat, further adding to his strangeness.
3.
Tag went back to his cell to retrieve his teaching supplies as well as something for Paul. The Juvey cell block was a dump. Nothing worked. There was no artificial lighting and the doors to their cells opened and closed at random in the middle of the night.
He added a fresh urination to the slop bucket. One day, he thought, I’ll have a toilet that works.
Timing his action with the Panopticon's rotation, he pulled the mattress away from the bed, revealing a patchwork slab of ancient paperbacks. He smiled at the shiny robots of the sci-fi, the twisted mutants of the horror, and the black-robed warriors of the fantasy.
He silently thanked his Father, the former prison librarian, back when the prison had a library. It was a simple affair, just a few stacks, mostly made up of charitable donations but for young Tag it was heaven. He was allowed to wander unsupervised while his Dad worked sorting through the catalog. He read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, American Gods by Neil Gaiman and many others. Sometimes he didn't read them, just looked at the covers and let his imagination do the rest.
Tag’s Dad had a respected position. In the early days of the War, EMP weapons were used which wiped out most of the data centres in the US. Books and written records were all that remained.
Most of the prisoners loved reading, they had inherited their ancestors’ love of distraction and most would have a well-thumbed copy of a Lee Child or Lynda LaPlante next to their bed. It gave them something to talk about now that there was no TV to show sports or politics.
That had all changed 7 years ago. The Effort had not been as productive as in previous years and Kawalski walked away with a disgracefully small amount. The newly instated Chief Kinkaid blamed it on our laziness and decadence. He declared all Pre-War Literature to be contraband.
The manuals on Science, Technology, and Agriculture would be kept but all works of fiction were to be destroyed. For what could we learn from those?
Cells were searched and anyone found with so much as a Jack Reacher was flogged.
Thomas Anderson was not one for rebellion. When the edict came through, he never picked up another book. He couldn't bear to deprive his son though and he risked everything to save a few from the fire.
Out of respect for the position he had held Thomas received a new job as a Builder, responsible for the maintenance of the doors in the Family Wing.
His heart had been in the library though and he was never the same after he lost it.
Tag picked up The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks. The only novel ever written where the hero was a board game player. The spine was worn, the pages yellow and the whole thing was only held together by the sentence clauses. He got low down to the floor, out of the range of the viewing window.
Just a few pages, he thought, for old time’s sake.
Tag looked up from his book.
Shit, I'm gonna be late!
4.
Paul's Tower was in Yard D. Tag saw some Defense were using it as a training ground. Defense was the most respected Detail in the prison and boasted the highest number of 3-Stripers. Among them were the Prison's top physical specimens as well as a few throwback Neanderthals. They reminded Tag of the bulky Space Marines from his Warhammer 40K books. Their noble task was to safeguard the Prison from enemy attack.
There hadn’t been an attack for half a century. Still, as the saying went, "always ready!"
It was a big group, about 30. They were kneeling in a circle while an instructor demonstrated some kind of martial art. He was a short stocky man who moved with surprising speed and grace. He would invite one of the group to attack him and in a few fluid movements he would flip his opponent over while the rest watched in awe. Tag braced himself, he would have to walk past them to get to Paul.
He crossed the yard, hoping they wouldn't notice him. The group was breaking up, finished for the day. He was almost at Paul's ladder when the instructor approached him. Tag's shoulders tensed. He had trained to be in Defense in his teens but it hadn't worked out. Since then he always felt war
y around them. He always thought they saw him as a washout.
"You're Tag, right?"
"Yes," he said, prepared for an insult.
"I'm John, I'm the new head trainer, just wanted to introduce myself."
He stuck out his hand and Tag shook it.
"You should train with us sometime."
"Yeah, sure, sounds good."
John gave a respectful nod and returned to the group.
He left Tag standing by the ladder, feeling stunned. That was unexpected, he thought. He decided he might take them up on the offer, the martial art they were practicing did look interesting. Putting that aside he got back to his mission of delivering the book. He set foot on the ladder, excited at the thought of surprising his friend.
~
Paul was looking through his binoculars, though leering might be a better word. Tag knew he sometimes used his vantage point in the tower to spy on G Wing, where the female prisoners were housed.
Tag loved looking at the differences on the female side. The women wore blue scrubs instead of orange and used piercing instead of tattoos to denote rank, using whatever leftover bits of metal could be found. The jobs they did were different too; jobs like cooking and sewing. Women in Pre-War America had stopped doing those jobs long ago but the Prison, devoid of historical context, was free to regress.
10% of the original prison population had been female. That percentage had grown a bit over the years (and been added to by wanderers from the Wastes, but that wasn’t spoken of much). It meant the women were almost guaranteed a mate.
According to Sophie though the battle for status was even worse than on the male side. There was less fighting but the emotional violence was worse. We were all in competition with each other, fighting over scraps of love and security. It brought out the worst in everyone.
Tag would have mentioned some of these thoughts to Paul but he didn’t really think his friend was interested in gender politics, he just wanted to catch a glimpse of boob.
"Always ready!" Tag shouted, causing Paul to nearly drop the binoculars with surprise.