Wolf squeezed himself into the matte grey uniform, which was far too small for his lupine form. His damaged eye was now revealed; it caused many of his fellow prisoners tot gag. Most of them didn't want look at him. The wound had festered for years underneath the eyepatch, since the medical knowledge of criminals was…less than average.

Wolf was ordered to work in a furnace room, where he was constantly sweating and, therefore, dehydrated. When the day was done, Wolf clambered up the hill to the kitchen, eager for water. His desire was met with the smack of a pan across his face.

As he picked himself up out of the mud, Wolf began thinking again of water. He eventually found it in the form of a murky pond in some remote corner of Fort Walsworth. His little excursion caused him to miss dinner.

"Sleep! Now!" The guards ordered, guns raised to the inmates' heads. Wolf reluctantly obeyed, snarling and flashing his teeth at them. His rebellious actions were met by shouting and the swinging of clubs.

Why was he here? This wasn't a normal prison. The grounds reeked of death and stale urine. There was something wrong; something sinister about this place. Why did it smell like death? There was nobody here but them and the guards. And then, it hit him like a roundhouse kick to the nose.

The rabbits….

The selection process at the gates…..

They were hand choosing people to execute. The only reason that he was still here was because he could work. This wasn't right. There were so many rabbits that Wolf knew… all good people….. What did they do to deserve death at the hands the government's workers?

…

Wolf awoke, bugles blaring directly next to his ear. Guards stood watch as the bugler blasted his song through the barracks. It was a song that signified the end. The bed Wolf had slept on was hardly a bed; a four foot long, two foot wide wooden slab surrounded by short wooden planks that served as walls, like a crib. Hundreds of these beds were laid on top of each other, row after row. Each one had a person in it.

Breakfast was meager; two slate pieces of bread with black coffee. The starving Wolf gulped down all he was given before he had even reached a seat. He took this time to mingle with some of the other inmates who had been at the Fort for quite some time; the veterans, as they were called. They were identified by their distinct stench and wiry frame.

"Hey," Wolf mumbled, sitting down next to a group of them.

"If you're here for extra food, you'd best piss off, O'Donnel. Yeah, I'd know your scummy face anywhere." Wolf blew off the comment and continued his investigation.

"What's going on here?"

"The apocalypse, O'Donnel. What does it look like to you?"

"Well, it looks like a prison." Wolf said. The prisoner turned and faced him, staring into his eyes.

"Look, O'Donnel. This place is hell incarnate. You work, then you die. That's it. You do what the guards tell you to and stop asking so many damn questions, and maybe, MAYBE, you last more than a month. Don't be stupid."

Wolf stayed quiet for a moment, processing the information.

"What's your name?" Wolf asked, unrelated.

"I thought I told you to stop asking so many questions. It's George; but to the guards, it's Q-169." George rolled up his tattered sleeve, revealing a bright red tattoo of that number. Then, silence. Wolf and George departed when the work bell tolled.

By the way, chapters are going to be a bit shorter than usual for this story. I just like writing it that way.

-ThatWinchieGuy