The Earth is My Prison Read online

  "By the War!" Paul yelled

  Tag climbed into the tower.

  "You should always be ready for an attack from inside," he said to Paul.

  Paul took hold of the harpoon cannon that was mounted on the window and pointed it at Tag.

  "What makes you think I'm not, fucker?"

  They both laughed and Tag slapped his friend on the shoulder.

  "Aw man,” Paul said, “I wish someone would attack. The only thing I'm in danger of being killed by is boredom."

  "I have something for that."

  "Ooh, what did you bring?"

  Tag removed the book of short stories from his backpack and handed it to Paul.

  "I marked the ones I thought you'd like."

  "Oh, nice. Thanks, Tag."

  Paul lifted the top of a defunct instrument panel where he had his own little stash of books.

  Paul was more a fan of comic books and inside Tag saw Wanted by Mark Miller and Preacher by Garth Ennis. He took out John Carter of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs and handed it back to his friend.

  "How did you get on with that one?"

  "Eh, I gave up after a while."

  "Yeah sorry, I guess it is pretty boring. The short stories are better."

  "Any sex in them?"

  "A little."

  He laughed. Paul was such a perv.

  "See anything today?"

  Tag looked out the window. The desert was remarkably uninteresting. It was like trying to find meaning in an abstract painting. Though they could see out, because of the ingenious design of the prison no one could see them. All they would see is a mirror in the sand.

  "Nope."

  "No giants?"

  "No, man. Not even the Jolly Green kind."

  Paul's father had been a Lookout, not long in the job the day the mutants came. He told stories about it, how they had moved so fast that he had barely had time to raise the alarm.

  He said they had been laughing and joking on their way to kill them all, like men on a fishing trip. He told so many stories it was inevitable that one day Paul would follow in his footsteps.

  That was over 50 years ago. Neither Paul nor Tag had never seen a mutant and most of the people in the prison hadn’t even been born when they attacked.

  When Tag was young he had heard his Father mention something about a "Green Ripper" and had spent many nights wide awake, waiting for a giant praying mantis to come into his room and tear off his head. Only later did he realize he had been saying "Grim Reaper".

  "My eyes are tired,” Paul said, rubbing them, “it's the sun."

  "I'll take over for a while."

  It wasn't long before Paul was napping. Tag took the opportunity to read, enjoying the quiet. He sighed. He had a friend, a girlfriend, Paul liked the book. Maybe life wasn't that bad. Allowing himself to feel happy was his first mistake.

  ~

  "Whoever's up there, IDENTIFY YOURSELF!"

  The voice came from below, ringing with false authority and the promise of punishment. It was one of the Prison Trustys, the worst one in fact. Not wanting to get his friend in trouble, Tag carefully lifted the instrument panel and took back the anthology.

  "Hey, it's just me and Paul," he shouted down.

  "Get down here, right now!"

  It was Barton, alright. He watched them descend the ladder from behind the glare of his reflective sunglasses. Barton wore his Trusty’s uniform like a bad actor. He had one Stripe but acted like it was three. He had shaved his head so close you could see his skull poking out from under his pink skin.

  Tag knew from Barton’s medical file that his Dad had been a prison bitch. He used to remind Barton of that from time to time until his higher rank made such accusations improper.

  "Do you mind telling me what you two faggots were doing up there?"

  Some Defense had gathered to watch. That was worse, it meant he had an audience.

  "Or do I want to know?" he asked suggestively.

  Tag shifted uncomfortably. Don't say anything clever, he warned himself.

  "I was just delivering something."

  "Oh, I bet you were."

  It was all for the benefit of the men watching from the sidelines, who gave obliging chuckles.

  "What was so important that you had to distract Inmate Walsh from his duties?"

  Dammit, Tag thought, I should have had a reason ready.

  "A message, Sir"

  "What was it, a love letter?"

  More laughter. Tag felt the anger rising in him, the urge to lash out. He forced it back down.

  "No Sir, from the Chief, Sir."

  "Is that right?"

  It was clear he wasn't buying it but Tag knew he would be too chicken shit to bother the Chief about it. Barton made a show of thinking it over before admitting defeat.

  “Is this over? I have to go teach.” Tag said. “You wouldn't want to deprive the Board kids of their education,” he could have said but didn't.

  "Alright, get the fuck out of my sight."

  "Yes, Sir!" they said together.

  Paul climbed up his ladder like a spooked spider and Tag was left with Barton. Before he could get away Barton grabbed him by the sleeve. He could smell his body odor, a fragrance of shit mixed in with a little bit of soap. He tried not to gag.

  "You listen to me, Anderson..."

  Anderson, his Father's name.

  "…I catch you one more time, you're dead meat, got it?"

  "You're ridiculous," is what he wanted to say.

  "Yes, Sir," is what he said.

  5.

  Tag walked down the corridor, taking little peeks through the doors as he went. It was like a palace. There was carpet on the floor and no bars on the window, you could even open the window if your room was too hot!

  Honor Block had been where the prisoners with the most privileges had lived. The Board members and their families had moved in after ’52. Just a temporary measure, they assured everyone, until the war was over.

  Tag supposed that the demanding task of administering the Effort must have required some extra luxury

  ~

  The Chief's office had belonged to the former governor and was decorated in a style best described as “Presidential Asshole”. Golden eagles, mahogany furniture, and oil paintings of a kindly but stern shepherd. Behind his desk was a roll-top desk that had fascinated Tag ever since he was young (he liked to imagine it contained a nuclear launch button)

  On the Chief's desk was a large yellow skull that had been hollowed out to hold pens. The Chief was behind it, too busy berating his son to notice Tag's entrance.

  He was middle-aged and stocky, with grey at the temples. Impeccably dressed in a civilian shirt rolled up to show off ornate tattoos that pre-dated the stripe system.

  "I only want to hear good things about you," he said to Brian, gripping him by the shoulders, unaware or unconcerned about the psychological damage he was doing.

  "Everyone is counting on you," he added, putting the cherry on top of the cake of unhealthy conditioning.

  "Yes, Dad."

  He's only four, Tag thought, and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

  "Brian, what does Daddy say about being late?”

  Tag looked at the clock, he saw with horror that he was 4 minutes late.

  "You hate them, Daddy!" Brian said with glee, delighted not to be the only target of disapproval.

  "That's right, and why do I hate them?"

  "Um, because they're the most disrespectful people of all?" he said, repeating it from memory.

  "Very good! That's right. Because they make people wait. So I make them wait. For a very long time. Sometimes it's so long they forget what the sun looks like.”

  The Chief gave Tag a hard stare with grey, implacable eyes.

  “Brian, go play in your room. Christopher and I need to talk."

  Brian ran headlong into his room, leaving Tag alone with those eyes. They were the same color as the the prison walls.

&n
bsp; "I'm sorry, Sir."

  "I'm trying to teach my Son how to be a man and you're not setting a very good example."

  "I know, I…"

  "Don't think just because the boy likes you that makes any difference. I like my dog but if it got rabies I'd have it destroyed. Do we understand each other?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Good, Moving on. I was thinking about Brian's studies. I think we should work on increasing his vocabulary so he can express himself better. What do you think?"

  It was a rhetorical question.

  "I think that's a great idea."

  ~

  In Brian's room Tag felt a familiar stab of jealousy. He had a real bed, a window (to look out of) and toys. Tag's childhood bed had been similar to the cot he'd crawled from that Morning. Brian was on his bed, pretending to read from a book called The Teddy Bears Picnic.

  Members of the Board and their children were allowed to read. They needed those skills, or so they told the other prisoners, to take on the hefty task of administering the Effort. Tag tried not to hate Brian. It was not his fault he'd won the birth lottery.

  “And then the bears jumped out of a bush and ate everyone, arghhhhh!”

  He made graphic sound effects of people being eaten.

  "I love the imagination, kid, but was any of that stuff actually in there?"

  "I dunno," was Brian’s answer.

  Brian carelessly tossed the 100-year-old book aside. Little asshole, he thought. I would have loved a book like that.

  "Tag, do the shooting with me."

  "Maybe after."

  "No, now. Pleeeeeeeeease!"

  Tag knew no work would happen unless he complied.

  "Okay."

  Brian took aim with his imaginary gun and fired, the sound of the gunshot carefully slowed down and exaggerated. Tag raised his arms in a futile defensive gesture. He screamed a last desperate, "Nooooooooo!" before the bullet hit, smashing his skull to pieces and spraying his brains everywhere, which he demonstrated with expressive hand gestures.

  "Again, do it again!"

  ~

  They played for a while and afterward Brian knuckled down and did a half hour’s work painfully learning new words. Tag would have liked to play for the whole hour himself. One day Brian might be a cold hard bastard like his Father, but right now he was his friend.

  "Is there anything else to read, Tag?"

  Tag did have another book in his bag which he could read, one from his secret stash. It was a book of short stories from the 1980s. There was a real good one about a little boy that brought down a Tripod from War of the Worlds with a well-placed grenade. It was a gripping story with lots of new words. Isn't that what the Chief wanted?

  "Okay, I do have something, but you can't tell your Dad."

  "I won't I promise!" he thrilled.

  “Alright, settle down now.”

  He felt the excitement himself. New worlds to explore and friends to explore it with. There was nothing like it in the world. He opened the book and began to read.

  6.

  The Green was the closest thing the Prison had to an outside. The walls were dark green with hanging ivy and the ground was covered in a lush carpet of moss and ferns. Nature was showing off, making fireworks with colored flowers. The cracks in the stone bled green and in the sweet summer heat the Oranges and Strawberries grew in meaty stacks whilst the rows of corn decadently sunned themselves.

  Of the food the prisoners produced most was given to Kawalski for the War Effort with only a small fraction left over for themselves. One bite of an apple and it would be Snow White for Tag.

  Tag had worked in the Green himself for a time but hadn't taken to it, he forgot about things and they died. The Growers were a breed apart. He looked at them with their little flower tattoos, digging away. They looked happy.

  "Boys, boys, give me that sweet stuff."

  He recognized the owner of the voice, it was Moss. He was wearing a special hat with a cloth hanging down and covering his face and attending to two makeshift beehives he had installed himself.

  Moss was considered mildly eccentric by the other growers. His philosophy of gardening was to do as little work as possible, but that didn't mean you couldn't fuss.

  Having successfully extracted two honeyed boards without being stung, he turned to Tag, his bright twinkling eyes framed by a hundred rich laughter lines.

  Tag knew from the prison records that Moss’s father had been put away for killing a man after an argument got out of hand at a McDonald’s drive-thru. He had gotten life.

  "How-do Tag, here to help?"

  Seeing Moss always made him think of Dr. Pepper…

  Tag was 16, his parents were gone and he was getting into trouble every week. He’d start off with good intentions but all it took was one of the guys making a joke about his Mom or Dad and he would get in a fight and get his ass thrown solitary. No one knew what to do with him. Finally, Moss stepped up and took on Guardianship of him.

  The first thing he did was introduce him to Dr. Pepper. He told him all the legends; how it was supposed to contain prune juice, how the recipe was kept in two locked safes. They had a simple arrangement: if he could stay out of solitary for the week, he got a can. When the guys started egging him on he just clenched his fists and thought about Dr. Pepper. Moss had 12 cans and he got 11. (He shanked a guy for badmouthing Sophie, which he thought was worth it.)

  After 3 months he had broken his pattern enough that he was able to stop and think instead of simply reacting. There was something about changing from a system of punishments to one of rewards that worked. Funny how a simple gardener like Moss could figure that out but the justice system never did…

  "Not today, sorry, Moss."

  "Alright, well, stay and enjoy the sun."

  "Okay."

  "Here, let me show you something."

  He led Tag to a patch of purple flowers.

  "Those are my Begonias, aren't they pretty?"

  "Can you eat them?"

  "Eat them? You don't have to eat them you look at them!"

  "Should come in handy for that War we're having."

  "Yeah, yeah, come here."

  Moss got up, his knees audibly creaking, and gave Tag a powerful hug that did a lot for his mood.

  "One day, if you live long enough, you'll realize beauty is its own reward."

  He looked at the flowers. He had to admit they were quite pretty. They made a change from the concrete, glass, and distant sand.

  "They'll probably make you get rid of them,” Tag said, “they'll consider it a waste of space."

  "You're probably right. I just like to push a little, that's all. Begonias were Helen's favorite flower."

  Moss's wife had been dead for ten years, but he talked about her like she was still around. Tag could see there were tears in his eyes. Tears and love. They started to walk around the garden, Tag walking slowly to keep pace with Moss's limping.

  Moss had been a Builder in his youth but fell from a height and injured his back. He claimed it made him a better gardener.

  "I move as slowly as the plants," he would often say.

  "How's it going with Brian?" Moss asked.

  "Hard, I don't think he wants to learn."

  "Nonsense, every child does, you just have to keep trying."

  It was easy for Moss to say, he didn't have to look into the Chief's eyes.

  “Shame you don’t have any Dr. Pepper to tempt him with,” Moss said, smiling.

  Ah, Dr. Pepper…

  Tag was 16, his parents were gone and he was getting into trouble every week. He’d start off with good intentions but all it took was one of the guys making a joke about his Mom or Dad and he would get in a fight and get his ass thrown in solitary. No one knew what to do with him. Finally, Moss stepped up and took on Guardianship of him.

  The first thing he did was introduce him to Dr. Pepper. He told him all the legends; how it was supposed to contain prune juice, how the recipe was kept i
n two locked safes. They had a simple arrangement: if he could stay out of solitary for the week, he got a can. When the guys started egging him on he just clenched his fists and thought about Dr. Pepper. Moss had 12 cans and he got 11. (He shanked a guy for badmouthing Sophie, which he thought was worth it.)

  After 3 months he had broken his pattern enough that he was able to stop and think instead of simply reacting. There was something about changing from a system of punishments to one of rewards that worked. Funny how a simple gardener like Moss could figure that out but the justice system never did.

  “Well, don’t be afraid to use discipline,” Moss said, “You don’t want him to turn into someone you don’t like.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I’m limited in what discipline I can use, with the head of discipline looking over my shoulder.”

  “All you can do is your best.”

  "Thanks. I better go, Moss, I don't want to be late."

  “Okay, see you later.”

  On his way out of the garden Tag’s eye was drawn to the row of revolving spikes on top of the prison wall. It always made him picture an advancing combine harvester. And himself as a helpless weed.

  7.

  Assembly took place in Yard A, the largest yard in the prison and where they would receive Kawalski when the Effort happened. The Prisoners took their places with ant-like precision, lining up in front of the stage and waiting for the Board Members to arrive. All prisoners were in attendance so if the men craned their neck they could catch sight of their favorite women.

  They members came onstage in order of importance. First was Nichols, the grey-faced Prison Accountant, dressed in faded Pre-War suit and spidery spectacles. He unwound the string that bound his ledger and began counting the prisoners with a ballpoint pen.

  Next came Kurtz, Secretary of Defense, the stripes of cloth on his jacket a poor imitation of Kawalski. His head resembled a wrinkly walnut left in a cupboard long enough to attract the grey fuzz that was his hair. He squinted so hard that it looked like his eyes were closed.

  Finally came Chief Kinkaid, Head of the Trustys, Head of Everything. The man was pants-shittingly intimidating in private but even worse in public. The combined fear of the men watching him seemed to magnify his stature to new levels. He cleared his throat into the microphone and the whole prison fell silent.