'You remember anything further?' questioned a guard as he unlocked the bathroom. He gave Tony a meaningful look.
He chewed his lip, shaking his head. 'No, sir.'
The guard also shook his head. 'You're a fool, convict. Go stand against that wall,' he ordered, pointing to the far side of the bathroom. 'Make any movement, you'll feel the baton,' he threatened, watching as Tony walked over to the other side of the room and faced the wall.
He saw the shadow of the guard beckoning the other nine convicts over but failed to hear what he told them. Almeida, watch out. This guard is giving them permission to deal with you right here. As though that bastard Summers needs any encouragement. He felt his body tense, preparing for an inevitable fight. Despair rushed through him. He had been punished several times that day already, starting with his visit being terminated in the morning, to being placed on reduced rations shortly after returning to his cell. Two guards had caught Summers beating him, watching until he retaliated before banging on the door. Tony had been written up for another D-report, while nothing was said to Summers, and the supervisor had arrived an hour later, informing him of the loss of yard time for an entire week. They're really out to get you, Almeida. Hang in there. Sooner or later they'll run out of 'privileges' they can remove and they'll be forced to sentence me to a week in A-Seg. He found himself longing to spend a week in the cage to rest his aching body.
'Convict Almeida, you may return now. Remove your clothes,' ordered the guard. Tony shuffled across the bathroom, removed his clothes and threw them in the large basket with the other prisoners. He shivered slightly in the damp cold, waiting for the order to turn the taps on.
The guard moved to the back of the bathroom, chatting to his colleague while the prisoners waited, arms pressed against their sides. 'Alright, turn the taps on,' one ordered finally and they turned the water on, the cold making Tony gasp. No matter how well he prepared his body for a sudden drenching in icy water his heart never failed to beat harder. He watched the hair rise along his arms, reaching for the soap, resolving to wash quickly and get dressed.
A hand grabbed the soap before he could reach it, pushing it into his eyes, while he received a sharp kick from behind simultaneously. Unable to see, he still managed to keep his balance, turning his face upwards, knowing he needed to rinse his eyes to save himself. Another couple of kicks landed on his legs, and he was slammed into the tiles before he rinsed enough soap out to see. Leaning against the tiles he defended himself, kicking two of his attackers down. Six of the men attacked him together, blows reaching him from every direction until inevitably he slipped, banging his knee hard. His beating began in earnest once he was down. All nine took it in turns to kick or punch him, Summers slamming his head into the ground. Tony was unable to rise under the assault, managing to kick a few. The icy water rained down on him, washing away a thin trickle of blood from his nose. Pressing his eyes shut he fought to slow the spinning world enough to see the next blows.
'That will do,' called a guard, moving close to the showers. 'You've got two minutes to wash.' The prisoners moved away from him, leaving him alone on the ground. 'Convict Almeida, get up at once. You look disgraceful. You should learn to share the soap.'
Tony pushed himself up slowly, feeling a stinging in his lower lip. Dark blood remained on his hand when he touched it. He stood under the icy stream, hoping to numb the pain and lower the swelling he could already feel. Lowering his head he took short breaths under the water, steadying his breathing.
'Ok, that's enough,' yelled the guard, and they turned the taps off. Tony stumbled over to a towel, patting himself dry. He pulled on his fresh clothes, struggling to keep his dinner inside. The prisoners lined up, hands behind their backs, being led out of the bathroom by four new guards. 'Convict Almeida, stop,' ordered a guard, and Tony waited, left alone with the original two. 'That was a warning, convict. Next time I might not notice and intervene so soon. You'd do well to recall a little more of your conversation with the Mexicans. Now move it.'
He stumbled back to his cell, the world swaying slightly under his feet. The moment his cuffs were removed he sank onto the bed, curling into a ball. Summers stared at him for a moment before sitting at the table and reading a book. Tony pressed his eyes shut, leaving his ears 'on duty.' Every part of him ached – he felt dangerously close to tears which he fought against. Mercifully the lights dimmed minutes later. He felt the bunk sway as Summers climbed up.
'You'll get bashed again tomorrow, Agent Almeida,' Summers told him cheerfully. 'The guards don't like you!' He chuckled cheerfully to himself for a while.
Tony awoke stiff and sore, every part of his body aching. Sitting up required intense effort, but he dared not remain in bed after the siren wailed. Breathing heavily he pulled his t-shirt and jumpsuit on, returning to sit on his bunk, his back against the wall. When the doors opened he stood silently in the queue before Summers, totally uninterested in the prospect of food.
'Convict Almeida, to the back,' snapped a guard. 'You're on reduced rations, remember? You don't get to go in with the others.'
Tony was forced to wait outside the dining hall with three other inmates until all the prisoners had filed in, before a guard allowed them through. He found half a plate of porridge on his tray with a glass of lukewarm water. Swallowing carefully he managed to keep everything down, using the water to clear his mouth of the taste of porridge when it became too much to cope with. Nobody spoke to him, though a few glanced in his direction.
Back in his cell he again curled onto his bed, waiting for yard time when Summers would leave for a couple of hours. Please God, I need a letter. Let me get a letter today. Time passed slowly and he dared not allow his eyes to close, having noticed a strange gleam from Summers.
'Convict Almeida, get up, I won't tell you again,' snapped a stern voice, and Tony opened his eyes, startled to find he had almost fallen asleep. He crawled off his bunk and stood by the door even before he realized the guard was carrying mail. The guard threw him an irritated look and pushed two letters through the slot. 'Not that you deserve it,' he remarked, before leaving. Tony said a silent prayer of thanks and carried them back with him to his bunk, laying them beside the wall. One was in unfamiliar handwriting, whilst his heart leapt on seeing the other. Trembling fingers pulled the papers from the already opened envelope.
Hi Sweetheart
I've almost finished unpacking. I'll be glad when it's over; it'll be good to just get my clothes from the cupboard again, watch my own TV. Still, the work is hard; I really wish I could discuss it all with you. Remember how we used to curl up on the couch after a long day and just talk? So many times, when I'm tired I sit there and speak aloud, and try and imagine what your answers would be. They've really got to let you out, Tony. Seattle's lovely – I didn't realize until now how much I hated seeing the same faces here, all those who condemned you.
Now sweetheart, close your eyes and lay your head down. I'm right there with you, can you feel me? Can you feel my hair brushing your face? I'm giving you a real deep kiss.
I love you, honey. Hang in there, and I'll see you real soon.
Michelle
He hugged the letter close to himself, his eyes burning. Yes, he could imagine her giving him a deep kiss. Eyes pressed shut; he could almost feel her tongue in his mouth. After Summers left the cell for yard time he allowed himself to fall asleep, still clutching her letter on which a faint trace of her perfume lingered. He dreamed of her, seeing her shy smile as they worked at CTU together before either of them had the courage to admit their feelings.
The second envelope contained a short note which he read when Summers' return awoke him. Half of it was blacked out with a thick pen, carelessly in a few places. Tony was no longer able to manage a smile, but the words still brought a lump to his throat.
Lieutenant Almeida (the title was crossed out and had the word 'convict' written over it)
Your arrest distressed all of us who served under you. There's still five of us left from the time when you led us on those patrols, everyone else has retired since. We haven't had anyone as decent as you since you resigned. I resolved to come and visit you, but those (a thick black line blotted out the next word) wouldn't let me in! They said immediate family members only! I argued eight years together on desert patrol qualified me, but they wouldn't buy that.
How can we help you, sir? Think about it for a while. It's a shame you never got round to take up my invitation to my summer cottage, which is still well stocked.
Koskinen
Tony chewed his lip, understanding precisely what his silent sergeant was asking. "You want out, sir? How can we help you?" He rubbed his face, reading the last line again. Koskinen had mentioned his summer cottage several times – he knew its precise location. It was plainly being offered as a hide out, should he decide to escape.
Well, you're the second person offering assistance. I don't deserve such kindness from you. He swallowed again, amazed to find people who still wished him well outside. After reading both letters several times he buried them under his mattress while Summers slept. Softly he picked up the book Marco had brought him and read another escape.
What happens when Palmer's term concludes, and I'm not released? Do I try and survive here for years, waiting till someone kills me, or the conditions do? Or do I try and run for it one last time?
To his dismay six guards appeared on his row after dinner. 'Alright, you scum; you get an extra shower this week. Move it.' Five doors opened while he fought his panic down. What the hell? They NEVER allow anyone to shower more than once a week, often missing a couple! I'm gonna be beaten up again. He remained on his bunk, watching the others stand in a row outside, deciding the strip cell was preferable to another beating.
'Convict Almeida, what the hell's your problem?' yelled a guard. 'Get outside and join the queue this instant, or you'll regret it!'
Not as much as if I do. He remained on his bunk, back against the wall, knees pressed up to his chest. Better if you beat me and take me to the strip cell, it still won't be as bad…
'I see one movement from anyone, it's the strip cell,' warned a guard, entering Tony's cell with his partner. 'Up, Almeida,' he ordered, mercilessly.
'No,' Tony whispered, without bothering to shake his head. The word rolled strangely off his tongue, as he had never refused an order before.
The guards looked incensed. One reached inside and pulled him out while the other withdrew his stun baton. Tony pressed his eyes shut, unable to watch as it was placed against his neck Oh no please don't. Focus Almeida, focus. It's gotta happen before they move you, you know that.
He was given a small shock and hauled to his feet the moment the world steadied slightly. Cuffs were placed on him and he was pushed outside, the stun baton resting on his neck all the way to the shower. The convicts undressed rapidly, throwing their pile of clothes into the large basket while Tony leaned against a wall, forcing his breathing to steady. A guard removed his cuffs and he was stripped roughly as he made no move to do so. The water was turned on and he was given a rough push to the shower, being knocked over before he could reach the stream of water.
Once again he faced nine prisoners, even managing to get up for a brief moment before he was knocked down again. He felt some ribs break, and his head was slammed into the tiles with such force he felt vague surprise he remained alive. A kick to his stomach felt as though it tore all the way through him, his head was slammed against the ground a second time. He opened his mouth for a gasp of air, filling it instead with blood and icy water. Coughing up blood he crawled against the wall, expecting to die.
'That's enough. Shower is over,' announced a guard in a bored tone. The water ceased pouring over him, and the prisoners moved to dry themselves, leaving him unable to move. Tony felt all his warmth draining into the wet tiles, turning numb. 'Convict Almeida, get up, up, up…'
Tony opened his eyes, disappointed to find he was still alive. He lay wrapped in a blanket in a dimly lit cell. He turned his head slowly, rewarded by a violent throbbing in his temple. The room spun sickeningly round him. Tony's eyes shut instantly and he lay still, breathing through the pain. No one came near him as the hours passed. He felt himself sinking through the mattress and lost consciousness.
'What do you think? He still alive?'
'Sure. Bastard's just pretending. He can hear every word we're saying. Convict Almeida, you don't have to open your eyes, you can keep them closed and miss your dinner again, but you WILL go and have another shower tomorrow unless you decide to talk before then.'
'Sir, he looks like he needs a doctor,' said a guard nervously. 'His head's broken.'
'Bullshit,' said the supervisor's voice. 'He's got a mild concussion, that's all. If he decides to talk on your patrol, lemme know.' They left the room while Tony fought and failed to open his eyes. Too exhausted to worry, he decided to leave them shut.
'Alright, Almeida, it's been four days now,' said a guard's voice, rolling him onto his side and pulling his arms behind his back. 'Talk now, coz you're on your way to the shower.'
Tony's stomach gave a dry heave as he was dragged out of bed, collapsing in a heap on the floor.
'That won't help you, convict. We have orders to drag you all the way, if you won't come,' said the same voice, pulling him along. He was dragged along the floor and down a corridor and into the shower block, hearing several voices. The guard removed his cuffs and his underwear, the whole process taking less than a minute as he hadn't been dressed in anything more.
'You may begin,' the supervisor's voice boomed, echoing in the bathroom and reverberating through his head. A guard laid him on the floor under the tap and the icy water was switched on. Tony struggled to formulate his thoughts, trying to say a final silent prayer.
'Why the hell don't you begin?' snapped the supervisor, and he noticed the others standing under the water immobile, making no movement towards him. 'You'll all get the strip cell. What the hell's wrong with you?'
'Sir, it's the Mexicans,' one convict admitted softly. 'They'll kill us all, skin us alive, they said, and our families, and burn our homes, if we touch Almeida.'
'The Mexicans are in another block, they can't get to you. Deal with Almeida at once, or you'll wish you did,' ordered the outraged supervisor.
No movement was taken towards him. 'Sorry sir, the Mexicans don't have no law they need to follow,' said a convict quietly.
'Shower is over,' announced the supervisor, and Tony sank more comfortably against the wet tiles. 'Everyone has the strip cell for ten days.'
They filed past him, Summers turning and kicking him in the head. A wave of agony spread through Tony and he drifted off again.
He awoke in a dark room, unable to see anything though he was certain his eyes were open. Terror struck him as he remembered the final kick. Surely he was ok? A sob escaped him as he struggled against dizziness to sit up. A clang told him his leg was secured to the bed before he felt the restrains. Struggling against an overwhelming urge to scream he forced himself up.
'Easy,' ordered a familiar voice, and gentle hands lowered him. 'Don't try to move, you got a severe concussion. Just lie still, its ok now.'
'I can't see anything,' Tony rasped, feeling dizzy.
'No, your eyes are bandaged, and its pitch dark in here. It's necessary for the concussion, you understand. Now lie still and let me reattach this tube. It's supposed to be absolutely silent here too, Almeida, so I'll explain this once, and then sedate you. You got a real bad head injury, which should be dealt with in a proper hospital, but they won't move you, so I'm doing my best, without any equipment a neurosurgeon would use in this case. All I can do is what a doctor would do a hundred years ago, keep you quiet. Now you can talk, you can move, you can hear me, that's excellent. I'm hoping you'll be ok, despite my poor efforts. Oh, I also fixed a few ribs, and your stomach has almost stopped bleeding. Now lie still, ok.'
Slightly reassured, he allowed himself to drift off again.