CHAPTER ONE

It took a couple of moments after he blinked the sleep from his eyes, but Michael Scofield knew at once where he was. There were no windows nearby—no windows anywhere in that corner of hell on earth, from what he'd seen. He didn't need windows; his own internal clock told him it was finally morning.

And that new day found him there…in Sona. That place that seemed to have been forgotten by man and forsaken by God.

Sitting up, he rubbed a crick in his lower back. Sleeping on a bare, stone floor. Now that was a new experience. Even Fox River, on its worst day, had seemed like the Hilton in comparison to that place.

Once on his feet Michael drew in a breath that he instantly regretted. God, the stench in that place. The walls, the floor, every inch of it reeked of human waste and despair.

Makes sense. This is the kind of place that can kill every last grain of hope.

It took effort, but hel fought off that thought and the nausea that rose in him as he started down the dark corridor. Day or night, it was dark in Sona. He had to get some fresh air and hopefully something to eat. If there was anything there fit for human consumption.

He had to remember that this was a temporary situation. This wasn't going to last. He had to keep focused on that. He had to keep believing. He knew he could afford to lose everything but his faith that he'd be free eventually. If he lost that, he'd surely die there in that place.

Just as he came to the doorway he heard a male voice pierce the air with a heart-stopping scream. Other noises, too—brutal noises, so violent. Michael didn't know the cause and he didn't want to know. He had enough on his plate with getting himself out of there and reuniting with Sara and his brother.

Escaping that place and returning to life…or to put it plain and simple, saving himself. That was all he had to do. This would be easier than the last time. No one was coming with him now.

"You sleep well, Michael?"

For a moment he closed his eyes. Had he really thought he'd avoid crossing paths with Mahone forever? Maybe not, but he'd only seen him the night before, when they'd both stood there with the guards in the rain, acknowledging each other. Smelling each other's fear, the way wild animals that had wounded each other could do.

He gathered the strength to smirk as he faced Alex Mahone.

"Well enough," he replied. "No chocolates on my pillow, though. Guess I should complain to the front desk about that."

"Chocolates on your pillow. Cute." Mahone's chuckle was light, even sweet, almost big brotherly. Then, with lightning speed, his smile faded and his hands grabbed fistfuls of Michael's jacket, slamming him hard against the wall and pinning him there.

"You know, I should kill you, you little bastard," the former lawman muttered under his breath, his face inches from Michael's. "Here. Now. I should kill you for what you did to me."

"Oh. Well, you're good at that, Alex. Killing people," Michael spoke softly, mocking him. He didn't struggle or tense under Mahone's grip, so far past the point of caring.

Mahone ignored the remark, but he couldn't conceal the expression in his ice-blue eyes, the pain so vivid there. "What you did to me, there's no forgiveness for that."

"Yeah? Like there's forgiveness for what you did to me? Killing my father? How you would've sacrificed me and my brother if I hadn't stopped you?" It gave Michael some momentary satisfaction, seeing that burst of surprise on his enemy's face when he shoved him roughly, effectively loosening the man's hands from his jacket. "Look, Mahone, you did what you felt you had to do, and I did what I knew I had to do. Let's leave it at that, all right? Now either you kill me or you get the hell out of my way."

The fire of rage burned in the other man's eyes. Michael fully expected him to fulfill the first suggestion, right there in that courtyard in front of the other prisoners staring their way.

Then he noticed Mahone's hands shaking at his side before he sunk them into his jacket's pockets, out of his adversary's sight.

"Yeah, all right. I'll leave you alone." He sniffed, then flashed a mirthless grin. "For now."

"Cool. Take care, Alex."

Michael waved at him as if they were two buddies departing after a football game. He heard Alex call something out behind him, peppered with some colorful language, but he kept walking without looking back.

Breakfast—or what passed for it—was served in a huge room much like the one that had been in Fox River, only filled with squalor. Another key difference was that the food at Fox River was at least edible. Whatever that slop was that had been slapped onto a plate by the inmate on the other side of the counter looked as rancid as it smelled. Michael wasted no time tossing it, though he kept the coffee. It tasted slightly burnt, almost muddy, but it would hold him over. Right now he wasn't hungry enough to eat something that absolutely turned his stomach. Perhaps later he'd have no choice.

From across the courtyard another familiar face was beckoning him with a waving hand. Michael was conflicted. What should he do? Pretend not to notice and go his own way? Go where, exactly? There was nowhere to go in Sona.

And, however it killed him to admit it, he took pity on that one. The night before he'd had to force that image of Brad Bellick from his mind. Either that, or he would've never been able to sleep.

Don't forget what he did to Sucre and Maricruz.

That was a problem. The memory of that dogged him as he waved back and slowly dragged his feet across the yard.

Still, did Bellick deserve such cruelty? Did anyone? Bellick looked smaller, somewhat. Beaten, certainly. Now, up close, Michael could see the man's soul had been ravaged as badly as his body. That other inmate from last night, he might have—no. Michael couldn't allow himself to dwell on that. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end with dread at the mere thought.

"Hey, Scofield," Bellick called out as he approached. He smiled, as if the sight of Michael had produced even the slightest shred of hope in his empty heart.

"Hey." Michael sat himself down against the wall beside him. "You, uh…you don't look so good. You okay?"

"I been better." Bellick's laugh was strangled by a sob, yet he was able to compose himself. "You…you look like you're holding up."

"That's a good way to put it. I'm holding up. Or trying to."

Bellick nodded. Michael noted the dried blood on his lower lip and the missing teeth.

Drawing nearer, Bellick confided, "Scofield, I don't wanna die here."

Michael couldn't suppress a frown in time. Consoling someone—other than Sara, it seemed—and emotions in general weren't his thing.

"It's only one day," he reminded Bellick.

"Is it? Feels like a century." Pausing, the man wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand. "And something else…did you hear the voices last night?"

"Voices? What do you mean?"

"The voices of…the dead." Bellick obviously forced that smile. "Don't tell me you didn't hear them. Scofield, this place is haunted."

Michael knew to proceed carefully. The man had to be delirious. Just how badly had they pummeled him?

"I think in this place," he ventured, "we have enough to worry about with the living. The"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Bellick inched closer again. "I know what I saw, Scofield. I know what I heard. That was no human. And they're evil. All of 'em."

For emphasis, Bellick clutched Michael's shoulder, so hard that it caused the slim man pain. He shrugged a little to free himself.

"Come on, now. Get ahold of yourself," he advised quietly. "You can't do this right now. You have to keep your wits about you—"

"You don't believe me. You think I'm crazy." Tears welled in Bellick's bloodshot eyes. "I'm telling the truth, Scofield. But you'll have to see it for yourself. Then you'll know. You'll know."

Suddenly, his expression changed. His eyes widening, he struggled to his feet.

"If you find a way out of here," he told Michael, "and you will, I know you will, you're smart…you have to take me with you. Please, Michael. Please get me out of here. Oh—I gotta go."

It didn't take a great intellect to figure out what the man was hurrying to escape. Coming toward them was another inmate, not the same one from the night before, either. Big as a refrigerator, faced lined with deep scars and hatred, his sneer menacing.

Michael looked away from him, grateful to see that Bellick was limping away as fast as he could before the mountain of a man could reach him. He downed the rest of his coffee despite the fact that it was now lukewarm. He was hungry, but it was a hunger that could be contained for a while with that shot of caffeine.

Evil spirits. If he hadn't felt sorry enough for the man, Michael felt even more compassion for him now. He stood in the courtyard, watching the inmates who glared back at him, those who were ganging up and beating another familiar con to a pulp—where had he come from, anyway? Was there no getting rid of that one-handed freak?—everyone generally left to their own devices, to the very lowest common denominator.

Evil spirits, there in Sona. Michael had to admit that it wasn't really such a far-fetched possibility at all.

Theodore Bagwell thought the three men who'd beaten him earlier were through with him. Unfortunately for him, he was wrong.

"Hey, friend. Friend—amigo!" He used one of the few Spanish words he knew, succeeding in at least getting the one who'd dragged him to his feet to look directly at him. "Hablas ingles, amigo? Por favor, hablas ingles?"

"Yeah, pendejo, I speak English." One of the other three had spoken up, grabbing his other arm and yanking him down the dank, darkened corridor. Though his words were laced with a heavy accent, he spoke T-Bag's language well enough to be understood. "I can tell you to shut up unless you want to die."

They were going to beat him again. Or would they do even more this time? Bagwell was powerless, every inch of his muscles still bruised and aching from what they'd done to him earlier that day. The onslaught had been so malicious that, in spite of how hard he'd tried to avoid it, he'd been brought to the point of screaming. Every last one of his screams had been in vain, of course. No one, not a single soul, had come to his aid.

That included the Pretty.

Oh, yes. He was there, too. How he'd landed there was a mystery. T-Bag hadn't seen Lincoln Burrows, but he'd seen Michael clear as day, catching a glimmer of those gorgeous, unmistakable blue eyes of his from a distance. Scofield had turned away from him and walked away, making no effort to help him as he was beaten to a pulp by three sets of fists and kicked savagely by three sets of feet. One of his ribs felt like it was busted and he was having trouble standing on one badly mangled ankle, but what had hurt more was Scofield's reaction. He wouldn't be forgetting that blatant disrespect.

"Where are we going?" He realized right after asking the question that the answer didn't matter. It had only served to give them an indication of his state of mind, how filled with fear he was right at that moment.

The hallway looked more like a cave, like the belly of the whale. It was only dimly lit by single bulbs, strategically placed here and there on the stone walls. A scrawny brown rat scurried across the path in front of them as they continued deeper into the corridor, away from the rest of the prisoners.

They were going to kill him. Or were they? Surely, if they'd wanted to kill him, they could have done so before anywhere in Sona. He'd watched another man die in similar fashion, not more than an hour after arriving in that place.

It was better if they did kill him, actually. Better for them. Because in Bagwell's psyche, rising from the fear, was that uncontrollable wrath that often rose in him. Almost of its own volition, his one remaining hand, though sore from how he'd fallen on it that morning, balled into a fist. If they didn't kill him, they should pray the opportunity never arose for him to take vengeance on them. Oh, what he would do to them. Just thinking about it comforted him, even as, without warning, the men tossed him down to the floor like a small child. Without speaking, they made quick work of binding his wrists and feet with rope.

His worst fears were confirmed: They were going to kill him, but it appeared they would be torturing him first. He felt compelled to appeal to them, though he was careful to keep his voice from shaking.

"Friend, listen to me. You don't want to do this."

The English-speaking one, with his long, greasy hair drawn back in a ponytail, addressed him. "What is it you think we're doing?"

"I don't know. But I know it would be explicitly advantageous for you not to make an enemy of me. I could be, how shall we say…efficacious to you and your friends."

"Efficacious," the man repeated. Then he laughed. "Look, friend, if you make me get a dictionary to understand you, I may put it someplace you won't like. Me comprende, amigo?"

Heaving a heavy sigh, T-Bag resigned himself. His nose twitched from nerves, something that couldn't be helped. Confused, he watched as they gave the ropes a final inspection, rose, and started walking away. Very quickly.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

One of the other three surprised him by also speaking English, glancing at him over his shoulder and explaining, "We want you to meet someone."

"Who?"

"Someone who has been in this place for a long time. If they let you live, we'll come back for you tomorrow. That is…if you haven't totally lost your mind by then." With a flash of yellowed teeth, the inmate disappeared down the corridor.

Someone who has been in this place for a long time. More than one of them, too. T-Bag rested his head against the wall behind him and kicked at the dirt in his frustration.

He closed his eyes. Was this the way it ended for him? It wasn't supposed to have been this way. He'd had Westmoreland's money in his possession. With it, he was supposed to have bought a reprieve from the past. A future. The chance to live. A fresh start, maybe somewhere exotic and tropical. And he hadn't been selfish, either. He'd meant to share that life with a woman, the one woman he'd loved passionately, and with the children he would have treated as his own. It would have been beautiful. It would have been perfect.

And then she had to go and spoil it all by being such a stupid bitch.

This is the way it ends.

Someone would be coming. Another trio of men, perhaps, or more. They were certainly taking their sweet time about it, too. Whatever they were going to do, why couldn't they just do it already and get it over with? If they were going to torture or maim him, any more than he'd already been maimed, why the delay? Was it supposed to be some kind of useless dramatic effect?

Maybe he could sleep. Steal some dreamless moments of peace before fate caught up with him. T-Bag tried to prop himself against the wall, tried to forget the rats and the cockroaches he'd seen scurrying across the floor, hoping to hide himself in sleep.

Yet his mind was too alert and fought him. What had those men mumbled amongst themselves? He'd caught a word or two. Vamos, apurense!

Vamos. That was "let's go," wasn't it? He didn't know what apurense meant. And there was one other word, one he'd never heard before even back in Fox River, where there'd been other gents who'd spoken that Spanish lingo. What was the word again?

Oh, yes. Fantasma. Whatever could that mean? Someone stupid, not as skilled with words as he, would have erroneously translated that to mean, "fantastic," but Bagwell knew that was a ridiculous guess. "Fantastic" in Spanish was fantastico or fantastica or something along those lines.

So what was fantasma?

"Teddy."

He may have been in pain, frightened and bound, but his reflexes were still as rapid-fire as ever. T-Bag snapped awake and stared into the near darkness.

"Who's there?" he croaked.

No answer. Funny how the sounds of the prisoners' voices, all noises were silenced, here in this lonely corner of the prison. The patter of a rodent's paws a few feet away startled him.

Teddy. He'd heard his name. Or had he at last drifted off to sleep as he'd hoped? That had to be it.

"Ted-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

He swallowed hard. His tongue darted out to moisten his chapped lips, but he refused to answer that time.

Had the voice been male or female? Strangely enough, he couldn't decipher the gender. That wasn't so odd in itself. After all, he'd seen some boys dressed as girls and the like since he'd been in that place.

But this was different. This voice sounded…how to describe it?

"Teddy, how could you do that to me? Those terrible things you did, Teddy…"

That time, his blood chilled. He scrambled further away, losing his balance with his feet tied.

Unearthly. That was the word to describe the voice. More patter was heard, and not that of a small animal, either. A light flickered several feet down the corridor.

"Leave me alone!" T-Bag cried out hoarsely.

A single figure appeared. Just the outline, there in the hallway. Stocky build, head down.

"I'm comin', Teddy. Did you miss me, boy?"

That's….my…father.

How was that possible? What was happening? His heart thundered in his ears.

"You sonsabitches wanna beat me, fine!" he shouted. "You wanna kill me, fine! But please, please, don't do this. Y'hear? Don't—"

Someone who has been in this place for a long time.

The figure came closer. A long, black shawl was draped over its shoulders. It lifted its head.

T-Bag shook his head wildly. "Oh, no. Oh, no, oh my God, no…"