The Ashes: an Eden prequel by Keary Taylor

 
     
     
     
    It’s been three days since they brought any food.  From the shouts and banging that echo throughout the block I’m guessing that I’m not the only one starving.  The inmate in the cell next to mine lets out a string of cuss words you only learn when you’ve spent a few years on the inside. 
    “So this is how it’s going to be?” my neighbor shouts to no one in particular.  “You’re just going to let us starve?   What, did the red, white, and blue finally run out of flow or something?  Just gonna’ leave me here to rot?”
    The guy next door always did have a loud mouth. 
    My stomach rumbles as I lie on my hard bed and stare up at the gray ceiling. 
    Where is everyone?
    The schedule in here is clockwork.  No deviations.  But no one on D block has seen a single guard in three days, not since they brought dinner four nights ago.
    Guards don’t simply disappear.
    Something’s wrong.
     
    42°6′20.1″N   71°17′23.9″W
     
    Five days.
    We’ve all had to dig into our stock piles of hidden food.  Some of us will be good for a week, some us for only a few days.
    The hunger makes the violence and vile words grow worse.
    Today we heard shots being fired somewhere out in the direction of GP.  Even more shots out toward Medical.  I didn’t think they were going to end when I heard them out toward Death Row.
     
    42°6′20.1″N   71°17′23.9″W
     
    Eighteen days now.
    I ran out of food five days ago.
    My hands are shaking and my eyes can’t seem to focus just right.  My body wants to be sick but there isn’t anything except water in it.
    Never thought I’d be so grateful for the tiny sink and toilet combo in my cell.  Never thought I’d have to rely on it to survive.
    I haven’t heard much from the guy next door in the last twenty-four hours.  He’s worn himself out and reduced his ranting and shouts to just the occasional pounding.  He’s getting quieter.
    The whole block is.
     
    42°6′20.1″N   71°17′23.9″W
     
    Twenty-three days since we’ve seen anyone.  At least a week since everyone ran out of their food hoard.  And yesterday morning the water shut off.
    It smells.  D block always smelled bad. 
    But not like this.
    I don’t hear voices any more.  Occasionally someone gives a weak kick at their door.  Every few hours someone moans.  Or cries.
    You don’t cry in here.  Not if you want to stay alive.
    But if I’m guessing right, a few of us don’t carry the status of living anymore.
    I don’t want to think that I might be headed in that direction soon.  I can’t even climb out of this bed.  I can hardly lift my arms or move my head.  I don’t even feel hungry anymore.  I just feel… 
     
    42°6′20.1″N   71°17′23.9″W
     
    I hear something. 
    A door creeks open, or maybe closed.
    And suddenly there’s the familiar buzzing sound of the cell doors sliding open.
    “Hello?” I say.  At first my voice doesn’t work.  “Hello?  Is anyone out there?”
    Feet shuffle somewhere out in the corridor, but they pause just outside my cell.  I sense their hesitancy, as if they’re debating just taking off and leaving me here alone to rot.
    “Please,” I said, my voice sounding weak.  “Please don’t leave.  Get me out of here.”
    They hesitate a moment longer, their weight shifting back and forth.
    “You may as well stay here,” a voice says.  Something is tossed and lands on the floor of my cell.  “Everyone’s as good as dead out there.”
    “What do you mean?” I say as I try and roll over to see what was thrown.
    “Don’t let them touch you,” the voice says.  “Anyone.  Don’t let anyone touch you.  That’s all that matters.”
    And then the footsteps retreat and I’m alone again.
     
    42°6′20.1″N   71°17′23.9″W
     
    I wake sometime later and find that I’m on the cold gray floor.  My arm is outstretched, reaching for something lying on the ground.  I can only assume I passed out