Cellblock C

I awoke to silence, so I knew something was wrong. I rolled off my bottom bunk, little more than a cot, really, and stood. My cellmate, Tubs, was nowhere to be found. That was a first.

The silence gave me the creeps. Prisons are only quiet at night, when there’s no one around but you and your cold mistakes for company.

I ought to introduce myself. Call me Wakefield. Or pigeon, if you’d prefer. That’s what my boss at the mill called me, back when I could find honest work.

My cell sat open, its wall of bars slid aside. That part was normal, actually. The prison screws always unlocked the chicken coops in the morning, when they announced breakfast.

I lived in Cellblock C, with the other nonviolent offenders. Never mind what I done. You don’t need to know about that. All you need to know is that I felt terrible about it. Didn’t ever mean no one no harm.

I turned myself in. Wanted to get myself clean. The judge wanted to give me a reduced sentence for honesty’s sake, but I wouldn’t have none of that. I was guilty. And until I finished my sentence, I’d stay guilty.

I stuck my head out through my open cell, expected to see my fellow inmates lined up on the metal catwalk outside our cells.

No one. Place was empty and quiet. Kinda scared me. I must’ve slept right through breakfast call. That’s no good. The screws wouldn’t force anyone to eat, but every inmate had to report for breakfast.

Should I stay put or show up late for breakfast? I figured it would be best to park my ass on my bunk. I could confess my absence to my block guard, just as soon as she brought my people back.

I waited. And waited. Waited some more. Something was jacked up, ’cause there ain’t no way breakfast hadn’t ended for my Block by now.

I headed toward the mess hall. Never gone there unsupervised before. I made as much noise as possible, so I wouldn’t look like some lowlife sneaking around.

I passed within earshot of Cellblocks A and B. I didn’t hear nothing. I considered peeking around the corner, seeing what all the quiet was about. Decided against it.

I found plenty of loaded trays on the tables in the mess hall. Not a soul sat in any of the seats. No one attended the chow line. No guards in their nests. It felt as if everyone vaporized right in the middle of breakfast.

I got myself a tray and filled it up. Sat. Didn’t eat, just stared at my food, wondered what I’d missed.

Along the way back to Cellblock C, I turned the corner and stared at Cellblock A. Every cell sat open and empty. Not a sound or a person to make one. Same nonsense in Block B.

I returned to my cell. Waited. When I figured lunchtime had rolled around, I returned to the mess hall, found the same mess. I scavenged around the kitchen for some canned food. Ate. Cleaned up breakfast.

I figured, after that, it was about time for recess.

I walked, unescorted, onto the empty, prison grounds. I strolled around the fence, stared through the chain link. Cars sat along the roads outside. Their engines ran. No one inside any of ’em. Not a soul as far as the eye could see.

I expected panic to wash over me at any moment, but it didn’t bother. People always have wandered in and out of my life. This felt natural, fair even.

It occurred to me that I could just walk away. I wanted to learn what’d happened to everyone, and I wouldn’t learn nothing from this side of the fence.

Everything’s a test, though. I didn’t fail this one. I hadn’t finished paying my time, so I wasn’t going nowhere.

Recess ended. I showered and returned to my cell. When I reckoned the time came, I went to the mess hall for supper.

I thought about grabbing an extra desert plate, but that’s against the rules, so I didn’t, even though there was banana pudding to be had, and banana pudding always reminded me of home (the good parts, anyway).

I returned to my cell. Slept.

I was still alone when I awoke. Breakfast. Cell. Lunch. Cell. Recess. Shower. Dinner. Sleep.

I kept careful track of my time. I needed to know that I had paid every moment of it, before I allowed myself to walk out of there.

I might’ve talked myself into leaving, if my survival had been at stake. Truth was, plenty of supplies rested in the joint. A person could live in there a long time. Plus, the water and electricity seemed fine.

One day, I came across some paper targets, while I was digging around for cleaning supplies. The targets had them dark silhouettes. For shooting practice, ya know?

I also found a couple bottles of White Out. I used the White Out to paint faces on the targets.

A friendly face for Tubs (which I hung over the top bunk in my cell). Stern expressions for the prison screws (which I hung from the guards’ nests).

I caught myself talking to them targets, now and again. I felt foolish each time, so I eventually stopped.

I started getting angry at those targets, about three years after everyone vanished, They never said nothing to me. They just watched me suffer. I ripped them all down, crumbled them up, burned them in my metal crapper.

Day of my first parole hearing arrived. I borrowed one of the warden’s suits from his office. I didn’t really want to go through the motions of the hearing, but I couldn’t deviate from the rules. Rules stated that I got a parole hearing.

I sat down in front of a long, empty desk, and made my case, explained how I’d learned my lesson.

My argument wasn’t great, though, and I didn’t grant myself no parole.

I tried to remember what Tubs looked like. Couldn’t.

I figured for sure that the whole human race had vanished. Mom would’ve visited me by now. If not her, someone would’ve shown up to visit someone. Nah, the world was gone, and I would have to wait to find out why.

I tried to use the payphones. Never got even a dial tone. Just dead air, like the phones weren’t connected to nothing. Just as well. I might not of even remembered how to talk at that point.

My dreams went silent. The faces of the other people in my dreams blurred. Their bodies got all ghostly. Eventually, there weren’t no one in my dreams but me.

I had to force myself to talk, when the day arrived for my final parole hearing. I borrowed the warden’s suit, like last time. I sat before the long, empty table, and tried to remember how to speak.

My voice came out a croak, all rusty and full of holes.

I told those empty seats how sorry I was for all the wrongs I’d done. Begged them to understand, to forgive and welcome me back into society. I even wept.

The seats remained silent, like they hadn’t heard a word.

The last week of my sentence arrived. I felt good, clean. Monday turned into Tuesday. Friday snuck up on me. Only a weekend left. I felt sick. My knees wouldn’t stop shaking.

I tried to handle my out-processing papers on Sunday. I took a longer-than-necessary time figuring them papers out. Truth was, the thought of leaving made my stomach hurt something awful.

I had paid my time, though. I had to leave, like it or not.

With a heavy heart, I packed my belongings (a collection of plastic Pepsi bottles and a couple of rocks I’d carved into lucky coins) into a brown, paper bag. I shook a few imaginary hands and headed out the door.

The sun burned my face.

I heard people. Saw kids chase each other across a playground. I saw a man push a baby stroller.  Two women jogged. A car pounded music while it drove by me.

I couldn’t process it. All these people, doing just fine without me. I didn’t fit into the equation none.

I returned to my cell, like a gopher turtle crawling back into its burrow.

I never came out again.