AN: Here's Chapter three! Hope you are all enjoying the story thus far! Please read and review, comments are appreciated. And the follow and favourite button is just below as well.

Take care lovelies!

Analysis:

The four guards on E block, Harry Terwilliger, Dean Stanton, Brutal Howell and Paul Edgecomb all sat in the heated office. It must have been over a hundred degrees inside the office, and no matter how hard they tried to get air ventilating through the room, there was no way they could get past the sun; it was too damn hot. Everyone, but Harry took their belts and coats off; their shirts and ties clinging against their bodies. They were sweating uncontrollably. As some stared at the paperwork before them, Paul was busy reading the new inmate's profile. He was curious as to what he had committed. His physical traits wouldn't be able to hurt a fly, and the way he dressed and talked didn't seem to fit the bill; he was too perfect. I guess the truth had to come out sooner or later: you could be the sweet little old lady standing at the corner, and still be a killer.

According to Freddie's case file, several suicides had taken place over a period of two weeks. The police knew that they were linked in some sort of way. The authorities didn't think much of it until a large group, about sixty or so activists got together and gathered around their leader; of who convinced everyone to kill themselves. They all drank poison, simultaneously. They died together; except for their leader, who was too chicken to do so himself; or too sick to do himself. Was it for his own benefit; and entertainment? Did he take advantage over those sixty people who truly believed in themselves and their ideas? The authorities and the state of law seemed to agree with those questions, and sent him to the green mile; to be electrocuted. Paul had never heard something like this before. Technically speaking, the activists killed themselves as a group, but their leader was the head and the mouth of the group; persuading each individual to do themselves in. He did kill them; psychologically, and then it made sense to the group at E block. The man couldn't kill with his hands, he could kill with his mind; and that is what made him so scary.

"Everyone," Paul raised his voice with concern. "You all read his case file?"

"Yes," Dean projected.

Both Harry and Brutal stared at Paul with a neutral expression.

"I want you all to be careful if he tries to talk to any of you." Paul tossed the file back to Harry. "You all saw the case file, if he can convince sixty people to do something like that to themselves; he might just have the urge to play with all of our minds."

Brutal sighed. "Listen Paul, I agree with you on this, but we still have to treat him with the dignity and respect that we give to all of the other inmates."

It was Dean's turn to speak. "Well, I know that we are all caring and considerate, but isn't that kind of scary? Sure, the folks were activists fighting for rights that really never made sense to us, but he took advantage of that, and turned everything against them. He might take what matters the most to us, and do the same if we are not careful."

Brutal nodded. "Well, if he gets into anything personal, just stop him and walk away. And if he gets out of hand, we can stick him into the restraint room." –

"In which you turned into a storage room," Paul added, giving his friend a menacing look. Both Brutal and Paul chuckled together.

Harry placed his glasses onto his nose, and stared at a file before him. "We will all be careful, but he didn't seem like much of a talker either. Things may be boring as usual."

Brutal rose to his feet, and placed a firm hand onto Paul's shoulder. "Let's focus on cleaning Ol' sparky and rehearsing tomorrow. Then we deal with Winnie's execution. After that, well…I'm sure we will see the true personality of our new friend."

All of the men in the room smiled. Brutal then grabbed his coat and wrapped it around his arm. He took a hold of his belt, accessorized with guns and bullets, and placed it around his waist, so he didn't have so much to carry. He snatched his lunchbox and scurried towards the door, his shoes squeaking against the ground. He opened the office door, and before leaving peered at the rest of his co-workers with a grin. "See you on Friday boys."

"Bye," all the guards said in a chained reaction.

Once Brutus was gone, that's when the many questions occurred. Paul couldn't help, but answer them.

It was Thursday night, which angered Brutus. The next day was a morning shift, and he would be stuck cleaning the individual cells. He would be sweeping, mopping, scrubbing the walls; damn, he felt like a maid. These weren't officer's jobs, but it was extra duty, because of the slow work; it had to be done whether they liked it or not. But all Brutal could do now was enjoy the evening to himself; like most of the time. He was a lonely man. He never had anyone special in his life. He had friends, but it was hard to get together when work got in the way. Paul invited everyone for dinner on Sunday; all were working the day shift, so nobody but floaters would be stepping onto the mile. Paul was sometimes on call, but nothing out of the ordinary has happened lately.

But Brutal couldn't help but wonder about the new prisoner; Freddie. If the convicted wasn't wearing a uniform, Brutal would have thought that Cold Mountain had gone insane; just picked an average, good looking man on the street. This was a new era, and they were going to have to get used to it. The depression was now hitting America hard, and Brutus hadn't bothered to check his accounts. Unlike Harry and Paul, he wasn't that interested in the stock market. Brutus was just an ordinary man, living inside an ordinary home, living an average life. It humbled him. He had great friends, of who were treated as family, and a wonderful job that he couldn't be more thankful of. Dinner on Sunday was going to be great; he would get to spend time with Paul, Dean and Harry of who were all going to be accompanied with their wives; and Dean's kids. Brutal had met them once before, the eldest was six years old, the youngest four; Dean was in training at the time. Dean and his family were very young; thinking about it made him feel old. When he realized that the big 4-0 would come around the mountain eventually, it made him feel ancient.

Brutus sat on the edge of the bathtub. He wore a clean white t-shirt, and a pair of shorts. It was nice to get away from their dark, hot uniforms. Brutal's right leg was propped up, and he was cleaning the wound – of which he had received two days ago –thoroughly. He had ignored it all day, but the stinging wouldn't subside. No matter what movement he made, the pain just got worse. The cut was healing though. A scab was created, and it never opened. Puss did seep out of the wound every now and then, but Brutal had a bottle of cream handy for occasions such as this. After cleaning out the dirt, and grime, Brutal reached for the cream, and rubbed it along his skin. It burned, but he was a tough man, a little cut could do him no harm.

The phone rang. Brutal rushed out of the bathroom, and hobbled along the hallway to the phone inside the living room. He answered the caller. "Hello?"

It was Paul. "Hey, I have to talk to you."

Brutal was concerned, "About what, Paul? Did something happen at the mile?"

"No, no everything is fine."

Brutal raised an eyebrow. "Then what's it about?"

"Hal needs to see you tomorrow if you don't comply with me."

Brutal scoffed. "Does this have to do with the test that we took?"

Paul was quick to reply. "Brutus, you listen to me, okay? We've been good friends for a very long time, and I'd hate to see something bad happen to you, so I need to talk some sense into you!"

This was unnecessary. "Hey, I gave you my opinion."

"Hal doesn't compute like I do. He knows that you forged the prisoner's tests, and he could tell in your writing that you didn't give a damn. You have the best writing amongst all of the guards."

Brutal was silent.

"Brutal, the Warden knows you. He can read you like a book." Paul could hear some chuckling in the background; he wasn't impressed. "I'm serious Brute. Harry and Dean put their heart and soul into that questionnaire while you were shitting all over it. Hal wants you to take it again, but this time seriously. He's going to keep your word on the prisoner's tests, but expect a booklet on the desk when you get to work tomorrow. Hal will most likely pop in to see you when you get there, so you better find a good excuse than the one you gave me."

Brutal sighed. "But that's the truth."

"Fuck the truth." said Paul blatantly.

Brutus bore a serious expression, realizing that Paul was right in a way. "I'm sorry Paul. I'll make sure I'll take the test seriously at work tomorrow."

"Good."

Harry Terwilliger was caught in a large line at the bank. There must have been at least twenty people in front of him. There were four tellers, but the majority were at each teller for over forty five minutes; which angered him. He couldn't afford to be late for work. He didn't bother making a phone call to work before he left home, and there sure wasn't one around on the streets; it would be too convenient. Harry glanced at his watch and tapped his feet impatiently. He felt the urge to leave, but soon realized that there was a larger line behind him. He was stuck in the middle, and if he came back later, he'd be in the exact same spot as he was before.

He had to hurry though. Ninety nine percent of the people were either buying extra protection for their accounts, or closing them all, taking the money and running; Dean committed the latter. An hour went by, and he found three more people in front of him. He was so close, but yet so far away. His shift started at ten o' clock, and it was already eight thirty; he was really pressed for time. Harry continued to glance at his watch; and continued to stare and follow the line bit by bit. He couldn't distract himself, but It wasn't long before his name was called, and quickly walked up to the teller.

The proper woman in front of him folded her hands. She was an older lady, and seemed like she knew what the commotion was all about. Harry deemed his guess was true, but coming from a professional seemed wiser. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Harry's eye twitched. "I need to close my accounts."

"I'm sorry sir," she smiled gleefully again. How could she smile in a dire situation such as this? "But because of the economy, we can no longer do that; only the first one hundred."

Harry bit his cheek. "Then what am I to do?"

"What's your name?"

"Harry Terwilliger."

She glanced down at his shaking hands; which were crumpled together. He was afraid, and he wasn't afraid to show it. But it was understandable; everyone was afraid in a situation like this. The woman turned around, and headed to a large cabinet. She searched through it and pulled out a tiny folder; then retraced her steps. The teller opened the folder as she sat down, glooming over the situation. "Harry Terwilliger. You don't happen to be related to Mary Terwilliger?"

Harry nodded, but didn't smile. "Yes, she's my wife."

The teller scanned the pages. "We used to go to High School together. Well, Mr. Terwilliger looks like you lost another hundred dollars since last time you've been here. You had a lot saved up I see." The woman was careful not to speak too loudly. When it came to money, everything was confidential.

A shiver went down Harry's spine. Another one hundred dollars…gone. The most he made was ten dollars a week. He'd have to labour until he died in order to gain back all of the money he had lost. He had hoped for retirement in less than ten years; after all, he had worked at the mile for more than twenty five years. "How much can I take out?"

The woman glanced along his file. She pointed at a specific area. "It looks like you do not have a limit. You can take as much money out of your account as you'd like."

Thank you Jesus!

"But you still have to pay the bank fee of one dollar; otherwise you will be hip deep into trouble. And you do not want that on your plate, trust me." The teller was right; she knew what she was talking about. But why did such a place like this have to be so hard, and trustworthy on its customers? It doesn't make sense, but if you think about it, not much about life makes sense anyway.

"I'll take five hundred. That gives me thirty left."

The woman complied. She pulled cash from underneath the counter, and counted aloud as she placed the money along the desk. Once the five hundred was in place, Harry quietly grabbed the cash and placed it into his coat pocket. Some strange people were lingering the corners. They were watching, and it was nerve-racking. The woman placed her hand on top of his; she stroked it gently. Harry was confused as the teller leaned over, and whispered into his ear. "Take the side door. And run, cautiously. Some people might take advantage over you as you are an older gentleman. Do you have exact change?"

Harry said "yes" in silence.

"The bus will be here in thirty seconds. Take it to your car. They cannot hurt you there."

She was dead wrong about that statement, but she'd probably seen anything and everything; so following her word was probably the wisest decision. Harry, still pressed for time, took another glance at the strange men in the corners of the bank. He kept a watchful eye as he left the bank; he spotted the nearest bus and hopped onto it, hoping that the teller was right.

Harry burst through the doors of E block. He entered a quiet prison once again. As he attempted to catch his breath, he glanced at the clock; five to ten…he was on time. Thank god that it was Paul's day off, or he'd be in trouble for sure! He spotted Dean, stripped down to his white shirt and tie, standing beside the main desk in the mile. He was holding a broom; placing his chin on the tip. Dean was staring at something in the distance. There was some sort of commotion going on inside the first cell to the left. It was left wide open; which worried Harry. He noticed that an inmate along with an officer was missing from the scene, but Dean didn't seem too concerned.

Harry looked at Dean with a worried expression. "What's going on here? Where's Brutal?"

Dean pointed to the open cell. "He's in there scrubbing the walls. I don't know what's wrong with him."

Harry placed his belongings onto the table, and stood adjacent to Dean. He stared inside the cell, finding Brutal on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor; menacingly. Brutus glanced over his shoulder, spotting Harry with a confused expression smothered along his face, "Oh, good morning Harry."

"Brutal," Harry started, "What are you doing?"

Brutal stood erect. He wiped his nose. "Cleaning, why?"

Harry was in silence.

Brutal turned his attention towards Dean. "Dean, remind me why I am doing this. Why am I doing this?"

Dean whispered in Harry's direction. "He asked me that four times already this morning. I think he is going crazy." –

Brutal quickly turned, and pointed in Dean's direction; although he was so far away, Harry couldn't tell who he was throwing his anger towards. "Hey, I heard that." He then turned around chuckling to himself; Dean played along. Harry was still confused at the situation.

Brutal wiped his nose again, and continued to clean the walls of the cell. "Don't be alarmed guys; I'm still my gentle and caring self. I'm still sane. Warden Moore came to talk to me this morning. We had a little chat about the questionnaire. It didn't sit well with me."

Dean's ears perked, "What did he say?"

"He said," Brutal sniffled. "That he was disappointed in me, and that I should take a little more responsibility as second in command. In other words, he fried me like Ol' Sparky."

Harry's eyes widened. "You weren't fired, were you?"

"No," Brutal answered. "I was right. If I'm valuable to them, they will keep me. You two are just as valuable, even more than me." Brutal tossed the sponge back into the dirty pale beside him. "No one is going anywhere on E block; but my punishment…is cleaning duty, and…he's making me do the questionnaire again, but this time, I have to put my heart and soul into this paper."

Harry bore a sly expression, "Should have done it right the first time."

"Well, I didn't have time." Brutus elevated his body, and slowly walked out of the cell. "I was too busy playing cribbage. Look at you, Harry. You look like you've seen a ghost; what's wrong this morning?" Brutal clapped his hands together.

Harry glanced to the side before locking his eyes with both Dean and Brutus. "I went to the bank, and lost another hundred dollars. They wouldn't let me close the accounts, so I took just as much money that I needed, and ran. I'm getting scared Brutal. I'm scared because there are people in poverty, without jobs and living on the streets. People are killing each other for money."

Brutal's smile quickly faded. Dean wasn't too concerned now that he knew that the money was safe for his family. Harry continued, "We might be seeing some new characters on the mile pretty soon, I can guarantee that."

There was a large BANG! The three guards gazed down the mile, and saw that one of the prisoners in the far cell had dropped something; and was desperately trying to reach for it. Dean stared at the other two guards, and nodded. Brutal and Harry exited the Green Mile while Dean made his way towards the cell. It was Freddie's cell. As he drew closer and closer, he saw that a coiled novel had been dropped, and the convict was too short and weak to reach it. Dean took a step forward, and leaned down. He picked up the book; however he found his wrist a little too close to the bars.

Dean heard a sharp click. He shifted his eyes downwards, and found himself handcuffed to the bars of the cell. Freddie grabbed Dean's wrist and pulled him close; clamping his jaw, and covering his mouth. The prisoner told him to hush as Dean struggled and attempted to cry for help, but for some reason, after two minutes of constant struggling, the soothing sound of the man's voice calmed Dean, and almost made him fall into a deep slumber.

"I just want to talk," Freddie whispered. He let go of Dean.

Chapter four is next...