Room 8472

"Prisoner MKS3S1401B0650. Hands."

I put my hands through the slot and he put the handcuffs on my wrist. I like Guard 365, he never puts them on too tight. He opens the door and puts me at the front of the line of six prisoners. He shackles me at the hip and we walk in unison. We resemble a conga line from a Latin nightclub.

"Hey, 650, how you feel?" Prisoner 482 says.

I shrugged. "Not bad, I guess," 482 is the closest thing to a best friend I have in prison. He's tall and thin as a rail. His rounded shoulders and gaunt look make him appear older than his age of forty. Being a chain smoker hasn't helped him either.

I, on the other hand, have kept myself in better shape than most prisoners. I exercise and eat everything they put in front of me. No matter how bland or spicy, burnt or raw, watery or dry the meal is. I'm a model prisoner, never got a mark against me in the twenty-five years of my imprisonment.

"Let's go prisoners. Move faster, we can't keep the committee waiting." Guard 365 says.

We enter the long hallway after we leave the cell area. I scrunch my nose when the urine smell hits me. I never got used to ammonia flowing through my nostrils.

"Here we are. Room 8472." They lead us through the door. "Sergeant 210, here are the prisoners."

We're in a waiting room with a row of steel benches against the wall. There is a large oak counter with desks behind it. A guard stands behind it handling files. Seven files, I assume mine is one of them.

"Thank you," 210 says. Sergeant 210 is a hulking man whom I've never seen before. He must work only in the administrative section. His bald, dome-like head resembles a bullet. "Prisoners, bend your heads forward."

Another guard scans the bar code on the back of our neck. I had mine tattooed on as soon as I entered the prison. At that point, I lost my name and went by my serial number. We shorten it to the last few digits for ease.

They unshackle us and we sit down. He cuffs us to the bench. I recognize a few of the other prisoners. The man on the other side of 482 is young. I think he's only been here for a few years. He's stocky with muscular arms. He's an enforcer for one of the gangs. The gangs don't bother me; I always pay my tribute on time.

482 looks at the seven of us. He pokes me and asks. "Which ones of do you think aren't coming out of the room?" Only about half of the prisoners ever return from Room 8472. We don't know if you're executed on the spot or transferred out and killed later.

I look at my fellow inmates and shrug. "I dunno."

The inmates that return from Room 8472 say you walk in, an official reviews your file and then they return you to your cell. They don't ask you any questions. Nobody seems to know the purpose of bringing you in if they already made up their minds.

"Hey, do you think I have a chance?" Six pairs of eyes turn to a young inmate I don't recognize. His thin angular body has yet to assume the hunched over look most of us acquire.

"What are you talking about?" 482 looks at the number on his shirt, "955."

"Being released," 955 says.

"Are you insane, man? If they don't bring you back from Room 8472 they bring you to the cremation oven." 482 corrected.

"Really, cremation? I thought they buried you?" 354 says.

"No, I heard they harvest your organs then they process you into cat food." 778 adds.

"No, no, no! That can't be!"

"How long you been here?" I ask.

"Six months."

"You sound like every other newb." 482 says.

I think the odds are with me. I've been a perfect prisoner all this time. I even received an award from Captain 37 for saving another prisoner from choking in the dining room.

"I keep asking 'why me?' I don't get it. I've been good." 482 says. "Not as good as you 650, but still good."

"Prisoner XED5T4539G1778, go in." The guard uncuffs him from the bench and leads him in. He was at the other end of the bench, I wonder if I'll be last.

"Good luck 778." Some of us say. Though none of us care that much.

I wipe my hands on my pants, but I can't dry them. 482's rapid foot taps is making it worse. I clear my throat, "Um, 482, could you slow it down?" He opened his eyes wide. I look at his leg.

"Oh, sorry." He keeps still, but only for a minute.

778 exits the room and the guard takes him out. "One down, six of us to go," 482 says.

"GDD5S8693G011354. You're next."

"Hey, good luck." He nods as he walks by us.

Thirty minutes pass and 482 and I are the only ones left. 482's leg is tapping faster now. Sweat is pouring down his brow and his pupils are the size of 8 balls.

"The first four all went back. That means we're done for. I can feel it. Shit!"

I don't tell him to relax. It would be useless, he's not even aware of me anymore.

"FMR8E6655T657482. You're next."

482 swings to me. He clenches his teeth so hard they might crack.

"354 didn't come out! What did I tell you!"

The second the guard uncuffs him he grabs the gun. They roll on the floor as they struggle. Other guards converge on the pair when a gunshot goes off. The guards step back. 482 lies on the floor with blood flowing from his chest. One of the guards puts pressure on the wound.

"Call for the med team now!" screams Sergeant 210. "And get him outta here!"

They uncuff me and haul me to an empty conference room. "Sit here."

I try to clear my head of all thoughts, but 482's dead black eyes keep reappearing. I can't shake them.

"In with the good air, out with the bad," I say over and over.

"Good morning."

"Ah!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did we startle you?" A large rotund man with black-rimmed glasses says.

"A little. I'm okay." I say.

"We figured we'd meet in here after that kerfuffle in the waiting room." He pushes his glasses from the tip of his nose back up. "I'm committee member HHY3531U658761." He introduces the other two members of the committee. A stern looking woman who hasn't taken her eyes off a writing pad and a similarly disinterested man.

"Well, we reviewed your file and ..."

Here it comes. My last day on earth. The only thing that crosses my mind was, how will they do it? Firing squad, gas chamber, hanging, drawn and quartered ... A smile appears on my face as I giggle inside. Why did I bring up a medieval form of torture?

"I can see by the smile on your face that you're pleased," Mr. 761 says.

"What?" I say.

"By your release, of course" He looks at the file. "Um, your name is Peeta, do you have a nickname?"

I cock my head. What do they call me? "No, no nickname. They call me Peeta."

"Well, Peeta, you have a big day ahead of you. Miss Everdeen will take you from here."

A middle age woman appears in the door behind the committee. She has dark brown eyes and long brown hair to match. She holds a clipboard close to her chest. Her blue dress stands out against the grays of the prison. "Come on Peeta. The first thing we have to do is remove your barcode."

The guard uncuffs me and extends his arm like he's an usher showing me to my seat. I stay frozen in my chair, still having trouble with what's just transpired. She smiles and holds out her hand. I take it and follow Miss Everdeen.

"Good luck Peeta. Hope to never see you again." 761 says before laughing.