All things “Emergency” belong to Mark VII Productions and Universal Studios.

 Warning:  This story contains parts with graphic violence, and some offensive language.  Continue at your own risk!

TTHHEE  PPRRIISSOONNEERR

  By Ocean

Sheets of rain fell from ominous pewter clouds onto the boy buried in the thick black mud. Only his head and one arm remained visible above the oozing muck that threatened to entomb him.

            The deep brown eyes of the fireman reaching out to him were filled with a mixture of determination and anguish. Rain cascaded off the brim of his helmet, joining puddles of dark water already made in the mud. The droplets splashed back onto the man’s face, clinging to his dark eyelashes and causing rivulets of brown liquid to run down his straining features. The wet muck was bone chilling as it soaked through their clothing, adhering to their skin.

The fireman’s large gloved hand encircled the boy’s small one as the ten-year-old felt himself yet again being pulled further under the surface. Normally the boy would have worried about the trouble he would be in for getting so muddy, had the situation not turned so dire.

            The fireman gripped the boy’s hand tightly, feeling the sharp pull of the safety belt against his gut as his own precarious position began to falter. The large sheets of plywood he had crawled out on to reach the boy were slowly being sucked downward, and were no longer visible. Turning his head briefly he yelled, “Slack!” to the men nearly forty feet behind him up the hill, who were trying their best not to let their friend get into the same predicament as the boy. Being the lightest of the crew, he had volunteered to make the dangerous descent down the treacherous and slippery slope to rescue their charge. There hadn’t been any time to waste; the boy had been buried up to his chest upon their arrival.

            The boy cried out as a small mountain of mud broke loose and came crashing toward him. The river of black sludge hit the boy and overtook him, slapping him sideways and burying him until only the hand that remained in the fireman’s grip was above the surface.

            The fireman uttered an involuntary choked yell as the force overtook the boy and nearly buried himself as well; his rain-spattered helmet was knocked loose by the power of the torrent and was now slowly being sucked into the mud as well. The boy sank further; the pull of the suction below continuing to force him deeper under the surface. The dark-haired fireman heard his comrades yelling to him from behind, and felt the insistent pull of the belt around his waist again, demanding his attention, dragging him backwards.

            Once again he turned slightly and screamed, “No! Slack off!” over his shoulder at them, against the very brothers trying to save his life, and they reluctantly complied, giving him a few inches more. The men above holding the other end of the line were grim-faced, anxiety creasing their muddy, tired faces. In their minds they knew the boy was lost, but their hearts wouldn’t deny them one more try.

            The fireman dove under the surface of the sludge head first, with both arms extended; one nearly losing the fragile hold it already held, the other groping for a better purchase. He forced himself deeper and struggled to maintain his grasp, searching desperately for something else to grab on to. He couldn’t find anything. He felt the death-like grip of the boy’s desperate fingers slipping from his own and he was powerless to do anything about it. Like quicksand, it sucked him downward. Then the tenuous contact was broken, and he lunged further under the muck to make one last futile attempt to clutch onto something. He finally clawed his way to the surface, gasping raggedly; his lungs feeling like they would explode from lack of air.

            Unable to see from the mud in his eyes, and unable to hear much from the slimy liquid that had seeped into his ears, he felt the pull on his belt again, knowing that they were yelling for him, then felt it more forcefully as they tried to drag him away from his position.

            The boy was lost. He knew it, but couldn’t convince his mind to accept it. One last time he tried to go back, knowing it was suicidal, but it was not to be. Just when he made one last futile attempt to dive back under, he felt an overwhelmingly urgent yank on his safety harness, forcing him the other direction. He couldn’t fight the four men who were pulling him away; his dwindling strength was no match for that of his four brothers, driven by desperate determination. He shook his head, trying to clear the mud off his face, then pulled off his gloves and wiped at his eyes as he scrambled for a foothold.

            Through plugged ears, he heard a distant roar, and felt the ground vibrating. A mixture of instinct and fear kicked in and he began his struggle up the hill, assisted by the ropes. He’d made it only seven feet or so when he was overcome by another wave of mud that hit with such intense force it knocked him down and washed over him like a waterfall. Breathless, he floundered in it like a fish out of water, fighting to keep his head above it as it roared over him. A thought in the back of his mind told him that if the ropes or his belt were to slip away from him, he would suffer the same horrible fate as the child. Wildly, he clawed at his lifeline, trying his best to keep his head above the river of mud, then somehow managed to pull himself out of it and tried to continue upward.

            A huge crack of thunder shook the ground and the cold rain permeated every inch of his being. It felt like the end of the world.

Having left the plywood far behind, his feet sunk down into the thick quagmire with every step, throwing him off balance. The power of the suction was so strong it pulled both boots and socks from his feet and kept them prisoner under its depths. Barefooted, he continued his struggle, feeling the ice-cold slime seeping between his toes. After what seemed like an eternity, he made some headway and came close enough to actually catch a glimpse of the anguished eyes of the other men.

Gritting their teeth, the other men strained and pulled with every ounce of strength they possessed to make sure their comrade made it to the top safely. They watched as he slowly ascended, reeling, almost drunkenly up the hill, hypothermia and exhaustion evident in his every move. The man’s partner had positioned himself in the front, his hands blistering through his gloves in an effort not to let go of the slippery rope. All the while, he was unconsciously cataloguing his friend’s possible injuries, readying himself in his own mind to order the correct equipment he would need to treat his friend. He didn’t ease up on the rope until his partner was safely within his grasp. 

Gasping and exhausted, the mud-soaked fireman finally reached his comrades, and grabbing him under the arms, they dragged him the rest of the way up the hill. Safe at last, he collapsed into a heap onto the watery ground, barely hearing their pleas to know if he was all right.

He lay crumpled on his side for a long moment, panting, his one hand clawing at something not visible. Roy eyed Johnny with undisguised concern as he worked to free the younger man from his muddy safety belt and ropes. With trembling hands, Roy supported and steadied his partner as he struggled to sit upright, realizing his breathing was a bit labored. Roy squinted in concentration as he visibly searched for any indication of injury to his partner. John’s eyes were unblinking and fixated on something down the muddy hill from which he had been pulled. Roy could feel him shaking from the cold as his younger partner sat trying to catch his breath, each one coming out as a raspy pant, his chest heaving. Captain Stanley hovered nearby, riddled with guilt for allowing his junior paramedic to attempt this suicidal rescue, his questioning eyes searching Roy’s for answers.

Gage was covered in mud from head to toe, the whites of his haunted eyes the only thing standing out. Roy bent his head and tried to make eye contact with Johnny while asking if he was all right. After two tries, Johnny finally looked up at him and whispered, “What?” His ears were clogged and he hadn’t heard Roy’s questions.

Roy’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “I said, are you okay?” He gripped Johnny’s upper arm tightly.

The loud wails of the boy’s mother could be heard behind them and Johnny turned his head slightly, taking it in. Though he couldn’t hear well, the sound was unmistakable. Suddenly he felt desperate to get away and started to push himself up off the ground.

Forcing himself away from his young paramedic, Captain Stanley quickly made his way to the mother’s side, knowing that it was his job as Captain to comfort her. However, he also knew that nothing more could be done for her or her son, and the best thing for her and his men would be to get her away from this scene and out of the rain as quickly as possible.

“Johnny?” Roy’s voice was urgent as he stood up with his friend, continuing to support him.

Briefly John looked at his friend and answered. “Yeah,” he said breathlessly. “I’m okay,” and with that he turned and hastily made his way away from the scene, not feeling the wet gravel biting into his bare feet.

The mother’s cries nearly drove him to insanity. With as much speed as his aching body could muster, he practically ran the other direction behind the engine to take refuge from what had happened. All he could think about was the boy; all he could see was the boy’s terrified face. The boy, screaming, as the suction pulled him under to his death, his hand frantically clawing for help above the surface. He sank down and sat on the side of the engine, nearly collapsing, and buried his face in his hands.

He’s dead by now. I know he’s dead, he thought. I wonder how long it took…..oh God…what it must have been like…he was so scared, I could tell. Only ten years old, and his life’s over…I wasn’t strong enough to pull him out. He was expecting me to save him…I know he was…then he went under……… He was all alone under there…oh, God, why couldn’t I save him?  He stared at the ground, watching the raindrops hit the puddles. It must have been awful…suffocating in…feeling that sludge going into his lungs……oh, God…his poor mother……

Johnny lost track of time as he sat alone in the rain, the mud dripping off of him, tortured by thoughts of the boy’s death. It seemed like hours but was less than a minute when he was startled by two pairs of black boots standing in front of him, then felt someone sit down next to him, and lay their hand on his back. He took his hands away from his face, and looked up, knowing who it would be. Roy, sitting next to him; Cap standing in front of him. Hank Stanley squatted down in front of Johnny, concern etched upon his face.

“I’m sorry, John,” Hank said softly. “You tried your best. There was just no way.”

Johnny didn’t respond, but suddenly realized he was freezing, and shuddered.

“C’mon,” the Cap said, and with Roy’s help, pulled John to his feet. “Marco!” he called, and the handsome Mexican man appeared with a hose. “John, let Marco spray you off some, then I want you to make a trip to Rampart and get checked out, okay pal?”

Johnny looked up at his captain with eyes dull with remorse and sadness, unsure of what the man had just said. After a moment he figured out what he was supposed to do, as Marco began spraying a low pressure mist over him trying to get the worst of the mud off of him. Marco kept it brief, knowing how cold the water would be. Nevertheless, Johnny’s teeth began to chatter as the ice cold water seeped inside his turnout coat and mixed with the muddy slime that was stuck all over his body. The spray was quickly turned off, then Johnny felt Roy coaxing his coat off, which made him almost convulse from the cold. Quickly, Roy shrugged out of his own coat and draped it around Johnny, while guiding him toward the squad. 

A tarp had been laid on the passenger seat of the squad for Johnny to sit on, since he was so caked with mud. Roy wordlessly started the engine and pulled away, reaching over after a moment or two to crank up the heater for his friend. Johnny stared silently out the window all the way to the hospital. At the moment, there were no words Roy could think of to comfort his friend, or himself, over this senseless loss.

Dixie McCall was startled when she looked up at the two bedraggled paramedics slowly heading toward her. Concern overtook her features as she examined the two of them, especially Johnny. Both were wet and dirty, but Johnny looked like someone had just pulled him out of the ground. Little did she know that’s exactly what had happened.

The dark-haired paramedic’s face was coated with brown mud, and streaks marked his face in places where water had dripped down. His hair was thoroughly caked with the substance, and was sticking out in all directions. The dark muck extended down his neck, and she noticed his hands were also covered with it as well. Looking down, she was surprised to see him barefooted, his filthy wet pants clinging to his legs. He had a blank stare on his face, which was focused on something somewhere several feet away from him, and Roy had protectively positioned himself very close to his side, an undisguised look of worry on his face.

Roy forced a smile at the nurse as he noticed Dixie’s somber stare, and guided his partner up to the head nurse’s desk. Roy and Dixie locked eyes for a moment, and no words were needed to convey that something terrible had happened.

“Hey, guys,” she greeted softly, then, trying to get the younger man to make eye contact with her said, “Johnny, you look like something the swamp monster dragged in.”

He didn’t hear her, and even though he knew she had said something to him, he didn’t feel like responding, so he glanced at her, offering a slight smile that quickly disappeared. The blank stare returned.

“Hey, Dix, you, ah, think we could see one of the docs?”

She looked at him knowingly. “Sure, Roy. C’mon, Joe is in three,” and she stepped away from the desk, gesturing for them to follow.

Roy nudged Johnny slightly and prodded his elbow, coaxing him in the direction of the treatment room. The fact that his partner didn’t argue with him in the least about seeing a doctor was enough to cause his uneasiness to grow.

Dr. Early turned to greet the two paramedics upon their entry, a jovial smile growing on his face. “Hi, guys,” he said amicably, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He looked from one paramedic to the other, surprise taking over his features as he took in their appearance.

Again, Johnny didn’t hear what the doctor had said; his ears still too full of muck to hear more than a slight buzzing that sounded like it was coming from way down inside a tunnel. He felt Roy’s eyes upon him, and knew Roy was speaking, but couldn’t discern what he said. Dr. Early then gestured to him and he realized he was being asked to climb up on the exam table, so he complied. He detached himself from the goings on of his vitals being taken; instead, his mind was consumed with thoughts about the boy. His stomach knotted up when he thought of the boy’s suffering, and he kept trying to tell himself that the ten-year-old wasn’t feeling anything anymore. It was over; he was gone. He didn’t notice as Dr. Early began irrigating his eyes that Roy and Dixie had stepped out of the room.

Dixie reached for the coffee pot behind her desk, poured a cup, and handed it to Roy. She perched herself on the edge of her chair and looked up at her friend. “Want to talk about it?”

Roy sighed, shaking his head. “It was a bad scene, Dixie.” He curled both of his hands around the steaming mug, still cold from the bone-chilling rain. He then explained to Dixie everything that had happened on the run, including a description of the mother’s mournful wails.

“Johnny looks…..” her voice trailed off.

Roy looked at her meaningfully. “Yeah, ….it…it got to him, Dix. Losing that boy…” he took a deep breath, “and then hearing the mother.” He let out the breath. “We almost lost him too. For awhile there, I wasn’t sure we were gonna be able to pull him out of that mud.” Roy looked up to the ceiling, the combination of exhaustion and emotion nearly overcoming him. Dixie’s eyes softened in sympathy at seeing the normally calm and controlled paramedic’s emotions so near the surface. “He tried so hard…to save that boy.” He shrugged. “There was just no way….nothing any of us could do.”

“Guess the power of mother nature kind of puts things into perspective sometimes,” she said softly.

“Yeah. The hard part is…sometimes you just…feel so helpless, you know?”

“I know, Roy. That happens around here nearly every day. You just have to try to appreciate the ones you do save, and go on – try not to dwell on the ones you can’t.”

He gave her a minute smile. “You’re right. It’s just not that easy sometimes. Especially for Johnny. He’s been through a lot of bad stuff lately, and now this….”

“It might be good for him to take a little time off, Roy. We all have to get away from it sometimes.”

Roy nodded. “That’s a good idea. Maybe that would help. I’m…I’m worried about him. He wasn’t talking on the way in here. That’s not like Johnny. Johnny’s a great paramedic; the best, but he tends to get a little more emotionally involved sometimes. Today…it was hard not to.” He looked up at Dixie with sad eyes. “The boy’s mother,” he closed his eyes, “she was hysterical, I think Johnny had a hard time handling that.”

“I can only imagine,” she said sympathetically.

Roy stood motionless, his coffee cup a few inches from his mouth, lost in thought.

Dixie hopped down from her seat. In an effort to snap Roy out of his funk, she suggested, “Let’s go see how your partner is doing.”

Johnny was still on the exam table when they entered, his eyes closed, hands folded and resting on his chest. Dr. Early was in the process of irrigating the inside of his right ear by squirting sterile saline into it at high pressure. An emesis basin was catching all the gunk that was pouring out of his ear. Dixie and Roy quietly watched as Joe Early finished up.

He wiped Johnny’s ear dry, then, turning John’s head to one side, leaned down and looked inside his ear with his lighted scope.

“Looks good, John. How’s your hearing now?”

Johnny slowly opened his eyes. “It’s okay, doc. Much better,” he said in a monotone voice.

Dr. Early ordered Johnny to sit up, then, and the paramedic swung his legs over the side of the table, making eye contact with Roy and Dixie.

Roy offered a small smile and said, “How’re you doin’?”

Johnny looked down. “’M okay.”

Dr. Early checked Johnny’s lungs one more time with his stethoscope. “John, did you swallow any of that stuff?”

“Um….yeah, maybe a little.” That boy swallowed a lot more than I did. His stomach nearly lurched at the thought of it.

Roy cringed at the thought of swallowing that sludge.

Dr. Early looked into Johnny’s eyes once more, then declared him fit for duty. “Johnny, I’m going to give you a prescription for some antibiotics, just to be safe. There’s a good possibility of an ear infection, and I’d like to nip it in the bud before anything gets started. Now, I’ll let you go so you can get cleaned up.” He patted Johnny on the shoulder two times and said, “Take it easy,” then left.

Johnny slid down from the table and made his way toward the door.

“Hey, Johnny,” Dixie tried to stop him from leaving, “why don’t you get cleaned up here before you go back to the station? You can borrow a pair of scubs.”

He looked back at her with dull eyes. “Thanks anyway, Dix, but I can do that at the station.” He glanced at his partner. “You ready?”

“Sure,” Roy said tentatively. “See ya later, Dix,” he said and waved once on his way out the door. Slowly and wordlessly, the two paramedics made their way down the hall toward the exit doors. Johnny thought detachedly that it felt odd to be walking down the hallways of Rampart in his bare feet; the floor felt so cold.

Again, the ride back was silent. Johnny hesitated a moment before he exited the squad, then slowly got out and headed toward the dorm to clean up. Captain Stanley poked his head out of his office upon their arrival, and after Johnny had left the engine bay, called for Roy. “Roy, can I see you a minute?”

Roy knew what it was going to be about.

Captain Stanley gestured to a chair. “Have a seat, Roy.”

Roy sat and tiredly looked up at his captain.

“How’s your partner doing?”

Roy sighed. “I don’t know, Cap. It was a rough run – for everyone.”

Hank raised his eyebrows slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Do you think I need to send John home?”

Roy hesitated, and shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. It might not be a bad idea. He seemed pretty shook up. He’s not talking about it.”

Hank grimaced. If Gage wasn’t ranting about it, he knew it was bad. It wasn’t like his younger paramedic to keep quiet about things that were bothering him.

Roy continued. “You know, if all the other stuff hadn’t happened lately, I’d say he’d be okay. But I am a little worried. He’s been through a lot lately, and he’s been working a lot of overtime to pay for stuff on that new ranch he bought.”

Roy was referring to a recent list of rescues gone sour that he suspected had taken its emotional toll on his partner. Not too long ago, John had been seriously injured in a fall down a flight of stairs while in a building that exploded from a gas leak. Roy had found his partner at the bottom of the stairs, bloody and semi-conscious with an open fracture in his leg, very close to being overcome by flames. He had just recovered from that near death experience when on his first week back from work, he’d almost been killed again when a suicide victim nearly pulled him off the roof of a ten story building. Johnny had been left hanging over the edge of the building as the man fell to his grisly death. Johnny was plagued by nightmares after that one, several times waking up, to the concern of his shift mates, with a yell. Those two things alone had nearly taken years off Roy’s life.         The following week the paramedics had been unable to save an overdose victim; a young girl who, in her dementia, seemed to think that Johnny was her brother, and clung to him until she passed out. Johnny was with her in the ambulance when she arrested and then died before she made it to the hospital. While the run had been particularly hard to deal with for both John and Roy, Johnny had taken the brunt of the emotional toll, since he had been with her at the time of her death.

Then, two weeks later, while filling in at station ten, a late night fire had destroyed a house and killed four sleeping children. By the time the firefighters had made it into the house, it was too late, and none of the children had survived. Johnny had carried two of the dead children out himself, distraught over his inability to save them. The single mother had left after the children were in bed to visit with her boyfriend. Last, but not least, the following shift Johnny worked had involved another death. Roy had taken a vacation day to get some work done on his house, and Johnny had been working with Charlie Dwyer. A robbery had left an old woman dying on her living room floor, after her assailant had assaulted her. Once again, Johnny had been by her side treating her as she clutched his forearm and uttered her last words, which were to please make sure someone took care of her cat. Johnny himself had gone back after his shift was over and taken the feline home with him, so broken up was he about the tragedy. And now, this. It was a lot for anyone to handle, and Roy was afraid Johnny might be near his breaking point.

 As Roy contemplated all this, he stated, “Maybe a little time off would be good for Johnny. He hasn’t taken any vacation time in…I don’t know…a long time.” He remembered Dixie’s words that everyone needed to get away from it now and then. “Maybe if he got away from here for awhile he could relax a little and get some of these bad rescues off his mind.”

Captain Stanley listened quietly, nodding affirmation at Roy’s comments. Finally, he said, “I agree, Roy. I’ve been noticing how stressed out he’s seemed lately. One more bad rescue could push him over the edge, and I don’t want that to happen. You know, I’ve just recently been hearing about something called, ‘post traumatic stress syndrome’. You familiar with it?”

Roy nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve been reading up on it lately, and firefighters are prime candidates for it. I’d like to try to prevent that from happening to any of my men, but at the moment John seems to be particularly vulnerable to it.”

“I agree,” Roy said somberly.

“You think he’s okay to finish the shift?”

Roy thought about it a second. “I don’t know, Cap.” He stood up. “I’ll go talk to him, see how he’s doing.”

“Do that, Roy; and, let me know,” he said, trusting his senior paramedic to make the best judgment about the emotional stability of his partner for the time being.

Johnny sighed as the door swung shut behind him, and methodically began peeling his now half-dry clothing from his filthy body. As he shed his clothes, pieces of mud and dirt spilled out, making a mess on the floor.

The room was silent. Standing naked, he reached inside the shower and turned on the water. Briefly, he looked down at himself, seeing the residue of the mire stuck to his entire body, and was suddenly possessed with the urgent need to get it off. He reached a hand into the shower, and when the water was warm, he stepped in, then, turning it to hot, let the steam surround him. The floor of the shower turned brown as he rinsed all the mud out of his hair and off his body. He watched as it collected in the bottom, then swirled down the drain. Just like that boy’s life, he thought, down the drain. He stood in the hot shower for a long time with his eyes closed, hoping the water would wash  away the feelings of total despair that overwhelmed him. He worked the shampoo into this hair and scrubbed his body, furiously digging under his fingernails, hoping to rid himself of any trace of the wretched substance that had murdered the young boy.

Johnny stepped out of the shower and dried himself off. He grimaced as he reached for clean clothes; his muscles already starting to feel the effects of the tremendous stress he had inflicted on them earlier. Too tired to comb and dry his hair, he flicked off the light and trudged through the doorway over to his bunk and sat down on the edge, resting his head in his hands. He felt drained, emotionally and physically, and closed his eyes, relishing in the temporary quiet.

A short time later he felt a weight next to him on his bunk, and he recognized the feel of the hand that briefly came up to rest on and gently pat his shoulder. Opening his eyes, Johnny lifted his head from his hands and looked forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Roy’s hand fell away from Johnny’s shoulder, and he assumed a position on the bed identical to Johnny’s.

Quietly, Roy said, “You did everything that was humanly possible to save that boy. There was just no way. We got there too late.”

Johnny sighed and his eyes moved to the floor, a shadow of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. Leave it to Roy to understand exactly how he was feeling. He was such a good friend. “I know,” Johnny said softly.

A few moments of silence followed then, “It’s just…I can’t….” he shook his head, “I just can’t understand it sometimes…why? It’s just….so senseless.” Johnny struggled with his feelings, not being able to find the words to explain how he felt. He’d always had trouble with death. Growing up half Indian and half white had left him with confused feelings toward religion; he didn’t know what to believe. Ever since his parents had both died when he was a young boy, death had always made him feel angry and uncertain. He had trouble dealing with the finality of it. It scared him how quickly death could claim its victims, in the blink of an eye. One minute a person was alive, the next they were dead. Gone forever. He wondered sometimes if maybe he was in the wrong profession. He saw a lot of death being a paramedic and a firefighter, and over the years thought he had been able to suppress his feelings about it, or at least keep them controlled.

“I know,” Roy said in a comforting way.

Johnny shook his head minutely, remembering. He closed his eyes. Almost in a whisper he said, “He was so scared, Roy. He thought I was gonna save him….and I…I couldn’t.”

Roy felt for his friend. There were no words to describe what it was like to be right there with a victim, knowing what needed to be done to save them, then not being able to do it – seeing them die right before your eyes. “None of us could, Johnny. Just remember that. You did your best. That’s all any of us can do.” Again, he recalled Dixie’s words. “Just remember, the ones you save far outweigh the ones you can’t.”

Johnny nodded. He knew Roy was right, and he knew he had tried his hardest to save the boy. Nature had won this battle; he couldn’t compete with its ferocity.

Roy patted him on the back once, and decided to leave him alone.

Johnny laid back on his bunk, trying to put it out of his mind. He was half asleep when he heard footsteps near his bed, and he opened his eyes. Cap sat down on Roy’s bunk, across from his. Johnny sat up to face his captain, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed to the floor.

“You okay?” Captain Stanley’s face showed concern.

Johnny nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay.” He sighed, “Just tired.”

Hank Stanley nodded. “I was proud of you today, John.” Johnny lifted his eyes in surprise at the Cap’s remark. “Even though we lost the boy, you did a phenomenal job of trying to extricate him.” He saw the crestfallen look on John’s face. “You know as well as I do that we can’t save everyone. We just have to do the best we can.”

Johnny nodded and offered a small wan smile. “My partner just got done telling me the same thing.”

Stanley smiled. “Yeah? Well, listen to your partner. He’s right.”

“Most of the time,” Johnny said lightly. He was beginning to feel a little better.

A moment of silence ensued between them as the Cap contemplated his next words, then he said, “John…I want you to take some time off.”

Johnny looked up in surprise. Hank held his hand up to silence the paramedic so that he could finish. “I’ve been checking my records, and you haven’t taken any time off in over a year. Now, we all know this is a stressful job, and it’s been particularly stressful for you lately. You can only work under that level of stress for so long before it starts to take its toll on you.”

“Cap – ” Johnny tried to interrupt.

“I’m not trying to insinuate that you haven’t done an excellent job, because you have. But we all need to get away from it now and then. I think after a little time away from here, you’ll come back with a fresher perspective, and you’ll feel much better.” He saw Johnny starting to raise a protest and added, “And that’s an order.”

Deflated, Johnny looked down.

“I’ve made some phone calls, and I’ve arranged for replacements for you to take some medical leave for the next three weeks.” At this, Johnny’s head snapped up in surprise, and he stared at his captain incredulously. Three weeks! Cap must think I’m really whacked out or something!

“Three weeks! Cap, look, I know I’ve had some bad shi – , ah, stuff happening lately with the job, but I can handle it. I’m fine. Really. I don’t need that much time off.”

“Regardless, John, I’d like you to take it.”

Johnny relented, trying hard to come up with excuses. Though he would never admit it, the last thing he wanted was for everyone to think he needed three weeks off, because he was cracking up.  “I…I can’t take that much time off, Cap. I need the money!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be paid.”

Johnny’s jaw dropped open.

Hank raised his eyebrows. “This is not a punishment, John. It’s…medicine. Now, I want you to take this time off and relax and do some things you enjoy. Maybe go somewhere exotic or something. The point is, just get away from the stress of your job for awhile.”

Johnny thought about it for a moment, then, though disgruntled, reluctantly decided that maybe the Cap was right. Maybe it would be good to get away for awhile. Maybe he would go visit his buddy Dan in San Bernardino. Or just get some things done on his ranch. Yeah, some time away from all this was beginning to really sound appealing. He looked up at his captain. “Okay,” he conceded. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

Hank smiled. “Good. Now let me ask you something. Do you think you can finish the shift? I…wasn’t able to find a replacement for you for the rest of the shift today.”

Johnny snorted. “Of course I can finish the shift, Cap. Don’t worry, like I told you, and Roy, I’m fine.”

Hank slapped his palms on his knees and got up. “Okay then. You can start your time off tomorrow. And…remember what I said, okay pal?”

Johnny smiled, “Okay, Cap.”

Night came.

Johnny struggled to get away but found himself unable to move. He watched in horror as first the bloody fingers, then the hands, slowly rose out of the mud. His heart throbbed in his chest and his eyes opened wide in terror as the boy’s arms and head oozed upward, reaching toward him, the fingers arched in a claw. The boy’s piercing blue eyes stared at him accusingly, unwavering in their attempt to lay the blame on the unfortunate paramedic. Lightning zigzagged across the sky as Johnny felt the hands grab hold of his ankles and begin to pull him under. He fought and thrashed violently, but the boy’s hands were too strong. He was going under. His hands clawed desperately at the slimy ground trying to grasp hold of something, to no avail. The icy cold and wet mud slid through his fingers like water, permeating his clothes, and he felt it rising to his chin, then his cheeks, then his whole face went under. Suffocating, he was unable to scream.

Roy was startled from his sleep as he heard the loud gasp made by his partner in the bed next to him. In the dark, he could see Johnny had bolted upright in his bed, and was now sitting vertically, eyes wide with terror, his chest heaving as he gulped in breaths through his mouth.

Concerned, Roy raised himself up on his elbow and watched his friend for a moment before speaking. In the moonlight coming in through the window, he could see a thin sheen of sweat glistening on Johnny’s face.

“Johnny?” he whispered.

Johnny’s breathing had decreased a bit, and he slowly turned his head toward Roy. Johnny stared at his partner, but didn’t speak.

Roy pulled the covers off and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. He looked at his partner and whispered, “You okay?”

Johnny closed his eyes and swallowed, wiping at his face with his forearm. As his shoulders sagged, he replied hoarsely, “Yeah. Go…go back to sleep.” He then turned away and slowly lay back down, pushing his covers off his sweaty body. He laid his left arm over his eyes then, and was quiet once again.

A short while later, Johnny gave up the struggle to sleep, and silently climbed out of bed, pulled up his turnout pants, and prepared to spend the rest of the night in the day room. Just before  dawn, Roy awakened again, not having slept well himself, and discovered his partner’s empty bed. Wearily, he pulled on his own turnouts and trudged into the kitchen looking for Johnny. He found him sprawled in what looked like a very uncomfortable position on the couch, one leg up and one leg on the floor, one arm having fallen off his stomach and almost laying on the floor, with his head bent backward leaning against the arm of the sofa. Snow filled the television screen, the low volume of it in the background sounding like white noise. Johnny appeared to be asleep, so Roy decided not to wake him. Sighing, he went back to bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Johnny turned the key in the lock of his ranch and stepped inside. Home. He was finally home. It seemed like forever since he had last been here. Fatigue from the lack of sleep weighed on him, and he debated whether he should make a pot of coffee and stay up, or crawl into bed and try to sleep. He opted for the coffee, not wanting to relive the nightmare of the past evening.

He puttered around the house doing odds and ends, trying not to think about the past day’s events. He was rather relieved now that he had been given time off, and he tried to think about what he wanted to do with all that time. One thing was for sure that he didn’t want to do, and that was to think about everything that had happened to him in the past few months.

Not having the energy or the motivation to do anything, he turned on the television and plopped down on to the sofa with his coffee. Putting his feet up on the coffee table, he pulled the worn afghan his mother had once crocheted around him. Except for the light of the television screen, the room was depressingly dark. He glanced over at the window, and watched the beads of rain dripping down the panes. He wondered if anyone had been able to find the boy’s body yet.

He sat on the couch all morning, only getting up once to pour himself another cup of coffee. He drifted in and out of sleep, relying on the monotonous drone of the television programming to relax him.

It was nearly noon when he pulled his eyelids open. He glanced lazily at the television which now was broadcasting The Price is Right. He watched with disinterest as Bob Barker displayed the final showcases that the contestants were to bid on. The second showcase got his attention when two of the pretty models walked out on stage in skimpy bikinis. The curtain was pulled back to reveal a huge poster of a trip to Mexico that the contestant was to bid on. This was followed by a short film clip about Acapulco. It showed beautiful white, sandy beaches, palm trees, and gorgeous sunsets, not to mention a myriad of stunningly beautiful bikini-clad women lying on the beach. It briefly explained all the things there were to do there, making it look very appealing. To complete the showcase, the contestant was given a motor boat to bid on as well. Boy, that looks nice, Johnny thought dreamily.

The day wore on. Johnny couldn’t get that Mexican vacation out of his mind. Cap’s words entered his mind. Take this time off and relax and do some things you enjoy. Maybe go somewhere exotic or something. The point is, just get away from the stress of your job for awhile.

Johnny thought about this more and more as the hours went by. What AM I going to do for the next three weeks? He decided to call his friend Dan in San Bernardino. Maybe they could get together and go camping. They could go fishing at Big Bear Lake, or maybe do some hiking in the mountains. The only problem with that is that the weather in southern California had been horrible lately. They’d had an overabundance of rain and lower than normal temperatures lately, and it looked like those weather conditions were due to stay on the horizon for some time, according to Jim Mullins, the local weather forecaster.

He decided to call Dan anyway, and was disappointed to find out that his friend was laid up with a broken leg. At a loss of what to do, he spent the rest of the day puttering around his house. Pumpkin, his newly inherited cat, kept him company, continually seeking out his warm belly whenever he rested on the sofa.

The next day found the weather nearly the same, although the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Once again, he was plagued by thoughts of the boy, and desperately wanted to find some way to forget about it.

His mind wouldn’t let him forget seeing that beautiful beach and those beautiful girls, and all that sunny warm weather that was always guaranteed in that part of the world. So, on impulse, he jumped in his Rover and decided to pay his local travel agent a visit. He needed to get out of the house for awhile.

The enthusiastic travel agent had plenty of ideas to show Johnny, but when he mentioned Acapulco, her face lit up and she relayed information about a special promotional vacation package that she assured him would be perfect. After showing him the brochures of the hotel, the beach it was on, and the special low air-fare, he found himself pulling out his credit card in order to make the necessary deposit. He was so excited when he left, he immediately went out and bought a brand new American Tourister suitcase for the occasion. He would leave on Friday.

Roy and Joanne had invited him over for dinner that evening, and Johnny excitedly told them about his vacation plans. Roy smiled at him as he explained his itinerary, glad his partner would be ‘getting away from it all’.

“This is just what you need, Johnny. I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”

Johnny smiled over a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Yeah. I know. I’m really lookin’ forward to it, Roy.”

“Are you going with anyone?” asked Joanne, Roy’s wife.

“Nope,” he answered, “just me, myself, and I.” He smiled crookedly and added, “I’m sure I’ll find plenty of people to talk to.”

Roy shook his head and smiled knowingly. That he knew was true. His partner would certainly have no trouble finding someone to talk to, especially if they were young, female, and pretty.

Johnny had never had any reservations about traveling by himself. It didn’t bother him a bit. Deep down, Johnny was a loner, not necessarily always by choice, but by circumstance. But he’d learned to accept this sometimes lonely lifestyle long ago, when he’d lost his family as a boy. He’d been on his own for a long time; he hadn’t relied on anyone else to take care of him for years.

That night Johnny left the DeSoto house happy, unaware of the consequences he would soon face that would bring drastic changes, affecting him for the rest of his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

‘At this time please return your seats to their upright positions and place your trays back into the seat in front of you’, the stewardess’ voice said over the intercom. Johnny pushed the button on his armrest on his airplane seat, raising it back to its original position, and leaned over to look out the window. They would be landing soon, and it looked to be a pleasant, bright sunny day.

Elsewhere in the front of the plane, sitting nervously in his first class seat, Vicente Cortez kept his head buried in his TWA magazine, not reading, but staring at the English words he was unable to read. Butterflies in his stomach made him jittery; this was only his second job, and he didn’t want to blow it. It should be easy; all he had to do was pick up the right suitcase, and leave the airport as inconspicuously as possible. Airport security was usually lax, which should make this job a piece of cake. He smiled inwardly as he thought of the rewards the successful completion of this job would bring, and how it was just the beginning of a lucrative new career in the drug underworld. He would not disappoint his uncle.

The plane landed and taxied to the gate. First class passengers departed first, and Vicente disembarked the plane anxiously, trying to appear nonchalant. He had dressed down to appear like one of the locals, instead of his usual dark pin-striped suit, which would have called too much attention to himself.

Nearly first in line to enter the airport security line, he casually handed over his passport to the bored-looking security guard, then passed on through easily. At the luggage carousel, the bags had already begun to weave their way around the conveyor belt. He spotted the correct bag almost immediately; a mundane looking brand new gray American Tourister suitcase, and easily plucked it off the carousel. That was easy, he thought to himself.

Turning away with the bag in his hand, he was mortified to see something he hadn’t anticipated – drug-sniffing police dogs. He hadn’t seen them when he’d first arrived, and as the crowd cleared slightly, he spotted them. Two uniformed security military officers were standing in the large hallway leading out of the airport talking to each other, their German Shepherds sitting next to them at attention.

This was new, and for a moment, he was totally unsure of what to do. Stopping a moment, he turned in the other direction on the pretense that he needed a drink of water from the drinking fountain. After that, leaning against the wall, he lit a cigarette and surveyed the situation. Damn! He thought; what was he to do? This airport was small, and there was only one exit. In order to get himself and the suitcase out of the airport, he would have to pass the dogs. They would smell the drugs immediately, and he would be busted. He thought it lucky that they couldn’t smell it from where he was, but then decided he needed to figure out a new plan. Eyeing a small men’s restroom nearby, he ducked into it quickly with the suitcase in tow, and closed the door, locking it. Unzipping his fly, he decided to take a leak and think about the situation.

After several minutes of careful consideration, he decided he would have to leave the airport without the bag, and come back for it later, when there were no dogs. Now he had to find a place to stash the drug-filled suitcase where no one could find it. He racked his brain to think of a solution. It was imperative that no one else find the bag, else thousands of dollars worth of heroin would be lost. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling, and his mind developed a plan.

Standing on the commode, he reached up to the ceiling and pushed on the ceiling tile. It lifted easily, so he pushed it all the way up and over. Jumping down, he grabbed the suitcase and climbed back up onto the commode, raised it up over his head, and slid it up into the ceiling. At first, the other ceiling tiles bowed slightly under the weight, but he adjusted it, and it fit nicely. He then replaced the other tile and examined his handiwork, declaring himself a genius at this inventive way of hiding the suitcase. Lighting another cigarette, he quietly exited the bathroom.

Having been seated near the back of the plane, Johnny was one of the last ones off. Heat was pouring into the plane, and he was already sweating when he finally got off and stepped outside into the intense Mexican ninety-something degree temperatures. It felt good though to be out of the rain he had left that morning. He quickened his pace as he thought of what he wanted to do that afternoon.

He showed his passport and was checked through, then made his way to the baggage carousel. Most of the bags had already been claimed, but he picked his new gray American Tourister bag out easily amongst the rest. Suitcase in hand, he made his way toward the exit, anxious to find a cab to his hotel. The first thing he was going to do was to put on his bathing suit, go down by the pool bar, grab a beer, and look at the pretty girls going by. Ah, it feels so good to be away, he thought to himself.

Johnny noticed the armed guards and the dogs with disinterest as he neared them, his mind set on getting to his hotel as quickly as possible. One of the dogs started barking as he began to pass them, and then the other dog started barking. He turned his head backward to see what the commotion was, and saw that the dogs were straining against their leashes, and seemed to be staring right at him. Shrugging, he turned away and continued on, only to be accosted by the loose dogs seconds later. The dogs surrounded him, keeping him from moving, as they pawed at his suitcase and barked viciously. Johnny’s eyes widened in alarm, wondering what the hell was going on.

Johnny tried to withdraw away from the dogs, and looking back at the security guards, yelled, “Hey, get these dogs off me!”

The guards quickly ordered the dogs off and were flanking Johnny with ominous looks in their eyes. One of them reached for Johnny’s suitcase, forcefully taking it out of his hand, while the other grabbed his upper arm and began leading him away. “You weell please come with us, Señor.”

Totally confused, Johnny said in a raised tone of voice, “Why? What’s going on? Who are you?” The one officer’s grip tightened on his arm as Johnny tried to pull away. Not responding, they continued to pull him the other direction toward a set of double doors.

Johnny was getting angry. He wrenched his arm free and shouted, “Now just hold on a minute!” Immediately the dogs began to bark, and the two guards drew their guns. Johnny’s eyes widened in shock and slowly held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Okay,” he said more softly. “Okay. Can you at least tell me where you’re taking me and why?”

“We are airport meelitary security. We need to look een your suitcase. Eef everything ees okay, you are free to go. Now please come weeth us.” The officer again took Johnny by the upper arm and guided him through the double doors, followed by the other security man and the two dogs, leaving a group of tourists staring in their wake.

Vicente Cortez watched the entire incident from behind dark sunglasses. Pretending to look at a map, he stopped and observed the arrest as nonchalantly as possible. His jaw tensed as he took in the gray suitcase that the security had apprehended, then slowly, a sickening malaise grew in his stomach as he realized what may have just happened. Folding up the map, he threw it into the trash and hurried back toward the men’s restroom.

Locking the door behind him, he once again climbed up on to the commode, lifted the ceiling tile, and pulled the gray luggage down. With frenzied movements, he flipped open the metal latches and opened the suitcase. He tore through the clothing on top and felt around on the bottom of the suitcase. Fishing a knife out of his pocket, he sliced open the new fabric inside the suitcase and tore the bottom open. It was empty. He swallowed tightly, and suddenly had trouble breathing. Closing the lid and spinning the suitcase around, he suddenly remembered what he had forgotten – the suitcase was to have a telltale piece of blue tape on the bottom of it. There was no blue tape on the bottom of this suitcase.

Kneeling on the tile floor of the bathroom, Vicente sunk down onto his heels, his head bowed. He had failed. His hand made a fist, and he slammed it down onto the suitcase, denting it. He began to shake, the thought of his fate slowly seeping into him. Panicked, he tried to decide what to do. What would he tell his uncle? That he was so idiotic that he picked up the wrong suitcase? They would think him a total imbecile! How could he have forgotten to look on the bottom of the suitcase? That was such a simple thing to remember, and he had forgotten! He had been so anxious to prove himself that he had not been careful enough to remember even the tiniest detail! What a fool he was! He pounded the suitcase again. A moment later, someone tried the door, finding it locked. He called that he would be out in a minute, then hastily packed up the suitcase again. Once more he hoisted it up and hastily shoved it into the ceiling, and quickly pulled the tiles back in place. He had not been quite as careful this time, and when he left the bathroom, the weight of the bag was already beginning to cause one of the tiles to bow down slightly.

They led Johnny into a barren room with no windows, and only a table and two wooden chairs in the middle. After being told to be seated, he lowered himself into the hard chair and watched as one of the officers opened his suitcase. They had already asked his name, and confiscated his passport, along with his wallet. Growing more and more nervous by the minute, he watched silently as they pulled his clothes out of the suitcase.

His brow crinkled in confusion as he noticed the items being taken out, and then realized that they didn’t belong to him. Craning his neck toward the open suitcase, he said, “Hey, that’s not my stuff.”

The two men ignored him and continued to empty the suitcase, looking inside his socks, shoes, and toiletry bag. His eyes settled briefly on the bottom of the bag, which was facing him, and he then noticed the blue piece of tape. He began to stand, saying, “That’s the wrong bag! That’s not my suitcase! How – ”

He was interrupted by a large hand shoving him back down into his chair. Then one of the  guards pulled a knife from his belt and began slicing open the bottom of the bag. Johnny stared, horrified, as the guard lifted out a large clear plastic bag filled with a white powder. The entire bottom of the suitcase was filled with these bags of powder. Remaining silent, the two guards looked at each other meaningfully, then one opened one of the bags, licked his finger, and lowered it into the bag, collecting some of the white material on the tip of his finger. He tasted the substance, then a smile grew on his face, and he set the bag back down. He said something in Spanish to his partner, then turned to face Johnny.

“Señor Gage, you are under arrest,” he said in a thick Spanish accent.

Johnny stared open-mouthed at the man for a moment, so shocked he was unable to form any words. Gathering his wits, he managed, “Now wait a minute. There’s been a big mistake here.” He pointed at the suitcase. “That is NOT my bag. I told you that. Now, somehow, I must have picked up the wrong suitcase by mistake. It was brand new. There’s probably a million of them like that.”

Both guards had small smiles of disbelief on their faces. One of them picked up a pair of jeans that was in the suitcase and examined the label on the back. He looked up at Johnny out of coal black eyes and said, “Tell me, Señor, what size blue jeans do you wear?”

Johnny hesitated a moment, then said, “Thirty-four, thirty-six.”

The man smiled wider, and showed Johnny the size. Incredulous, Johnny stared at the size in disbelief. They were thirty-four, thirty-sixes.” He swallowed, shaking his head. “That doesn’t prove anything! I don’t even wear those kind of jeans! See?” He stood up and turned around, pointing, “I wear Wranglers - ”

He barely got to his feet when he was again shoved back down into the chair. The larger of the two guards approached him, pulling handcuffs out of his pocket. He grabbed one of Johnny’s wrists, and in the blink of an eye, had the cuff around it. Then the other cuff snapped shut around his other wrist. Johnny stared down at his cuffed hands in shock. This can’t be happening. This is not happening. He tried again, his teeth grinding together. “Look, this is a mistake. That’s not my suitcase, and those aren’t my drugs. Now, can’t you just go out and see if there’s another bag like this out there?”

The larger guard shrugged as if he would humor Johnny. He said something to the shorter guard in Spanish, and the shorter guard turned and left. Five minutes went by with no conversation, giving Johnny time to contemplate his situation. He closed his eyes, feeling sick. All he had wanted was a nice quiet vacation, to get away from it all, and now here he was under arrest in Mexico. He prayed they would find his suitcase.

The shorter guard reentered the room, minus any suitcase, and spoke in Spanish to his comrade. He was shaking his head. The taller guard then began to question Johnny. He asked him his full name, where he was from, what he was doing here, where he worked, his address, and his telephone number. He asked Johnny who he was working for, and where he got the drugs. He promised Johnny that if he would just reveal who set up the deal that he would make sure he got a lighter sentence. Over and over, Johnny gave the same answers, denying he knew anything about the drugs. The questioning went on for over two hours, the guard becoming increasingly agitated at Johnny’s answers. Johnny was also becoming upset and frustrated that the men wouldn’t believe him.

Johnny’s temper finally got the better of him after they asked him for the tenth time where the drugs came from. He screamed at them, “I don’t know where the goddamn drugs came from, you asshole! You’ve got the wrong guy – ”

Before he could finish his sentence, a beefy hand smashed across his face, knocking him out of the chair. Rolling onto his side, Johnny brought his handcuffed hands up to his throbbing face, only to find blood seeping out of his split lip. A moment later, he felt an agonizing blow to his back, then another. The guard had kicked him, and now loomed ominously over him. Johnny looked up at him through squinted eyes, gasping in pain.

“You would do well to tell us what we want to know,” the guard warned. “The police will not be so easy on you.”

“I don’t know anything,” Johnny whispered, half expecting the thug to land another blow to his back.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Wanting to avoid another blow to his back, Johnny rolled up onto his knees, then pushed himself up with his cuffed hands. Slowly, he got to his feet. Each of the two guards grabbed an arm in one hand, and the leash of their dog by the other, and proceeded to escort him out of the room. They were met by two other military security guards, who took over the possession of their dogs, then the two of them escorted one very scared paramedic out of the building.

Johnny sat silently in the back of the small cramped car, his mind in a whirl. He assumed they were taking him to the police station. In despair, he looked out the window thinking that right now he should have been down by the pool enjoying a cold brew, but instead was probably being taken to jail by these two thugs. How had he picked up the wrong suitcase, he wondered. And who had his? He imagined that the drug dealers who had wanted that suitcase were going to be very angry at someone for taking the wrong bag. His suitcase was probably in the trash somewhere by now.

How was he going to get out of this? The two guys in the front seat obviously didn’t believe him, and the police probably wouldn’t either. Not being in America, he wasn’t sure of his rights, or if he even had any. He had wanted to ask them if he could see a lawyer, but after that first blow to his face, he had been afraid.

Now he was just plain terrified. He didn’t know much about Mexican prisons, but had heard only bad things about them. As he sat contemplating his fate, he grew nauseous almost to the point of having to vomit. Trying to calm down, he forced himself to take slow, deep gulps of air.

The car was suffocating, and stunk of stale cigarettes, which didn’t help Johnny’s queasy stomach any. Even though the car windows were open, it was hot, and sweat rolled down Johnny’s face. The guard drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic, honking his horn at anyone and everyone, going at a speed that was much too dangerous to be traveling on this road. They drove away from any tourist areas, passing dilapidated and crumbling stucco buildings with scruffy  looking people leaning against them. Here and there, children played amongst the trash that littered the tiny yards and streets, while their parents sat idle drinking from beer bottles or just staring into nothingness. Every now and then a scroungy dog barked. Johnny saw several going through trash cans.

After what seemed like forever, they pulled up next to a worn-looking white stucco building and parked. The two officers exited the car, one opening the door in the back seat and gesturing Johnny out. They escorted him inside the building, instructing him to sit while they talked with another official. Johnny waited thirty minutes while the guards talked with the official, presumably about him. They were conversing rapidly, and though Johnny knew a little Spanish, they were speaking much too fast for him to understand what they were saying. He did catch the word, “American”, and noted the distasteful expression on the man’s face upon saying it.

After the paperwork was done, he was fingerprinted and photographed. As the camera flashed in his eyes, he stood stonily silent, still in utter disbelief at what was happening to him. He felt humiliated at being treated like a criminal.

The two guards who had arrested him then left, and two other men appeared at his side. Johnny looked up at them. One was tall and lean, with a bald head and pockmarks from a bad case of adolescent acne scarring his face. The other was shorter, but powerfully built. He had dark hair but was also balding, and a large mustache. The looks on their scowling faces were frightening, and then they placed their hands on his arms, forcing him to stand. They took him through a doorway and were about fifteen feet down a hallway when Johnny finally got up the courage to ask if he could speak to a lawyer. When they didn’t answer, Johnny asked in desperation, “Don’t I at least get to make one phone call?”

The tall one said, “You weell be able to make one phone call, after we are feeneeshed with the questioning.”

Johnny felt his stomach flip then, and he became filled with dread. He remembered what the thug at the airport had said to him about the police not being easy on him. He swallowed, then felt his swollen mouth with his tongue. The taste of blood was gone; at least the bleeding had stopped. A dull throb still pounded away in his cheekbones. The only sound heard was the echo of their sharp heels on the tile floor as they continued down the hallway. Johnny felt as though he were being taken to face an execution squad.

The bald-headed guy stopped and reached for the handle of a large metal door. He pulled it open, and they guided Johnny inside, where another man was seated at a table, smoking a cigarette. The door slowly clicked shut, making an unnerving squealing noise as it did so. The tall officer reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, then proceeded to unlock Johnny’s handcuffs.

Johnny was relieved to have them off, and flexed his arms and shoulders, trying to work out the kinks. Then he heard words that sent a chill through him.

“Take your clothes off, Señor.”

He looked at the man in the chair who had spoken those words, and saw that the man was smiling. Looking like a cat who had just caught a mouse and wanted to play with it for awhile before he ate it, the man could sense Johnny’s fear, and seemed to be enjoying it. Johnny gazed around the room at the three large Mexicans, and had an almost uncontrollable urge to make a run for it, but knew it was an impossibility. Johnny stood there dumbly for a second, not quite able to comprehend at the moment what he was being asked to do.

The man in the chair stood up, and lost his smile. He nodded at Johnny. “Your clothes, take them off,” he barked, and Johnny saw the other two officers take a step toward him.

Barely able to breathe, he started to unbutton his shirt, then slowly took it off. He stopped a moment, then when he sensed them ready to advance on him, he swallowed, and took off his shoes, then unzipped his jeans and pulled them off.

The man in the chair looked down at his feet; his socks were still on. “Socks too,” he said.

Johnny took a deep breath and yanked his socks off. Each article of clothing was handed to the tall balding guy, until Johnny was left standing only in his boxers. He prayed that was it, then felt himself going light-headed when he was ordered to take off his underwear as well.

Anger began to build up inside of him, and he crossed his arms in front of him and defiantly said, “Why?”

“You are to be searched,” the man in the chair said.

He knew what this was about now. They were going to strip-search him. Part of the process was probably to humiliate him so that he would cooperate. They were doing a good job of it.

Johnny stood there rooted to the ground, unable to comply with their demands. He couldn’t bring himself to disrobe and stand completely naked under their scrutiny.

The two guards were tired of waiting. Taking matters into their own hands, they advanced upon Johnny and stripped him of his boxers within seconds. They roughly forced him over to the wall and placed both his hands against it in front of him, while the man in the chair walked up behind Johnny. The two guards held Johnny’s hands against the wall, then the third man began to search his body.

Johnny stared at the crumbling paint on the dirty white-washed wall, shock washing over him. He first felt the man’s hands searching his hair, then they began working their way down his body. Johnny squinted his eyes shut when he felt himself being groped between his legs.

His eyes snapped open when he was jerked away from the wall and led to the table. First he was ordered to open his mouth so that they could look inside. They checked his ears too, and then his arms were pulled out to the sides and he was told to lean over the table. Terrified at what they might to do him, he began to struggle, and the more he struggled, the tighter they held him.

That’s when the blows began. First something hard slammed into his shoulder blade from behind. Then several more blows landed on his back. He began to sink to the floor in anguish, when he felt them lift his body and push him face down on top of the table, holding him there. One guard had pinned his arms, while the other was using his hand to mash Johnny’s face down onto the table top. His feet dangled, almost touching the floor. Caught off guard, Johnny gasped when he felt the gloved finger shove its way up inside of him. Crying out from the pain, he tried to wrench himself free, and then it was over.

They let him go, and he fell to the floor. Mortified and stunned at what had just taken place, he looked up at them, eyes wide with fear and humiliation. One of the guards was looking down at him contemptuously, while the other one lit a cigarette. The man who had been at the table had pulled the glove off his hand, then threw some clothing down at him ordering, “Get dressed.”

Gasping in pain, Johnny raised himself up off the floor. He swayed slightly as he quickly pulled on the prison clothing, a slow burn of anger rising up inside of him. Glaring at the man who had performed the search, he spat, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

The man smiled at him. “Just preparing you, amigo. You’d better get used to eet,” and he laughed.

Johnny frowned and crossed his arms in front of him. “Is that a threat?” he challenged.

The man shook his head. “No, a promise, Señor. A promise.”

With that, the handcuffs were once again around Johnny’s wrists, and they were escorting him back out of the room.

Johnny was led down a long narrow corridor, through a metal door, then down another hallway. At the end, one of the men opened yet another metal door and pushed him inside. Behind him, the heavy steel door creaked, then echoed loudly as it swung closed with a reverberating bang. He heard two sharp clicks, then footsteps moving away from the door. He was alone. Looking around, he was in a damp and very dimly lit room with cold concrete walls and no windows. A stool sat in the center of the room.

Johnny ran his fingers through his hair as he looked around, examining the room. A sick feeling came to his stomach again. He wondered what they had in store for him now, and decided maybe it was better that he didn’t know.

A half hour went by, at least, it felt like about a half an hour that he’d spent endlessly pacing the room. They had taken his watch away. He had no idea what time it was, but assumed it was early to mid evening. Grimacing, he finally decided to take the only seat available; it was a hard wooden stool.

Staring down at the handcuffs around his wrists, he felt a wave of despair and loneliness wash over him, almost suffocating in its intensity. It had been a long time since he’d felt this alone, but the familiar ache was back, a reminder of wounds inflicted long ago that would never fully heal.

Another half hour went by, and he shifted continually on the stool, trying to get comfortable. His back ached from the earlier beating, and he couldn’t find a way to get comfortable. Sighing, he got up and once again began to pace the room. He put his ear to the door for a while, trying to hear anything that might be going on outside. The room was eerily silent. Tiring of that, he sat back down on the chair, and rested his elbows on his knees, bowing his head. The day had begun to take its toll on him; his eyes began to droop shut; he was exhausted.

Another hour went by, and his uneasiness grew with every passing minute. Where were they? Was he going to be kept here all night? He felt himself going crazy with the waiting, and with the wondering of what was going to happen. They probably want me to lose my mind, he speculated.

Half dozing with his arms resting on his knees, his cuffed hands dangling between them, he was jolted awake when he heard the door click. Two uniformed Mexicans entered, and by the looks of them, he found himself wishing that he was still alone. They were both large men; not terribly tall, but powerfully built. One held a clipboard and stood with his arms folded next to the door while the other one approached Johnny.

Unlocking the handcuffs, a chill ran down Johnny’s spine as he instructed Johnny to remove his shirt. He then rearranged Johnny’s hands so that they were behind his back, then cuffed them back together. Next, he bound Johnny’s feet tightly to the legs of the stool. It was a very uncomfortable position. Despite the chill in the room, Johnny began to sweat from the terror he felt coursing through him. The man casually lit a cigarette, and looked down on Johnny. He took the clipboard from the other man, and after examining it for a moment, began to speak.

“Your name?” he asked shortly.

Johnny cleared his throat; he tongue felt dry and thick. “John Gage,” he answered.

“You are an Amereecan?”

Johnny nodded. “Yes.”

The man turned away and paced a bit, then turned back to face Johnny. “I am going to ask you some questions. You answer them truthfully, and you weell not have any trouble. You do not answer them truthfully, then things are going to be much harder for you.”

Johnny swallowed.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “From what point did your flight depart?”

“Los Angeles,” Johnny answered, dread building in the pit of his stomach with every second that ticked by.

“Where did you get the suitcase?”

“I…I bought it at Sears. It was new. Look – it wasn’t mine,” he tried, “I picked up the wrong suitcase and – ”

The man drew back his arm and backhanded Johnny against his face. Stunned by the blow, Johnny tasted blood in his mouth again. He looked up at the man in panic.

“You weell answer the question truthfully. Who gave you the suitcase?”

Johnny knew now the real depth of the trouble he was in. He was not going to be able to give the man the answers he wanted. He hesitated for a moment. Trying sound as sincere and convincing as he possibly could, he tried, “N-no one. I bought it myself. I was going on vacation…” Johnny cringed and turned as he saw the man draw his arm back again, then felt it slam into the side of his head, hitting him on the ear. Reeling from that blow, he sat hunched over on the stool, his eyes tightly squinted shut, trying to deal with the pain that was throbbing through his head like a freight train.

Again, “Who gave you the suitcase?”

Still recovering from the blow, Johnny found it hard to answer. “I…I’m not lying….I told you, no one gave me that suitcase. I bought it myself, only, that’s not the one I bought.” Desperately, he tried, “You’ve got the wrong guy!”

The man approached him again, and Johnny’s stomach felt tight with fear. He tensed, waiting for the next blow. Instead, the man reached out with his lit cigarette, and crushed it down onto Johnny’s shoulder, as if it were an ashtray. Johnny cried out while he held it there, trying to jerk free. Water formed in his eyes, and his breaths became short and shallow.

The questioning continued, just as it had at the airport. He was repeatedly asked the same questions, and he kept answering truthfully, desperation evident in his voice as he tried to get the men to believe him. The man interrogating him now had pulled a short club of some type from his belt, and began delivering blows to Johnny’s body with each unsatisfactory answer, some to his back, some to his side, and some to his front. Twice Johnny was knocked from the stool, falling onto the floor, only to be picked up and settled once again upon his seat. At one point Johnny considered lying, making up some story so that the abuse would stop, but he could not conceive of anything believable to say. He never had been a good liar.

The man got in his face, his own cheeks flushed red with anger, and tiny bits of spit flew from his mouth as he growled at Johnny, “Señor Gage, thees ees not a joke, and I am getting eempatient with your lies. I’d advice you to tell us what we want to know, or things are going to get very bad for you.”

Johnny was desperate for the punishment to stop, as he sat hunched over on the stool. Never in his life could he have imagined experiencing this nightmare of abuse that he was now living through. In despair, he choked, “Please…you’ve got to believe me.” He took a breath, “I’m just a fireman. I was just coming here for a vacation. I don’t do drugs….I don’t sell drugs….I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He looked imploringly into the man’s deep-set brown eyes.

The man straightened and gestured to the other man in the room with a foreboding look in his eyes. The other man approached Johnny, and began to unlock his handcuffs. For a moment, relief washed over Johnny as he thought they were going to let him go. Then, as his right hand was once again cuffed to the top of the leg of the stool, and his left arm was held tightly under the arm of the other man, terror flooded back into him.

The large quiet man took a hold of Johnny’s pinky finger and started to bend it sideways. The one doing the interrogating began peppering Johnny with questions once again. Johnny struggled as he felt his finger being pulled unnaturally and painfully sideways, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, while his breaths became short and panting. The man only tightened his hold on the paramedic’s hand. Beads of perspiration popped out on Johnny’s face, and a fierce sickness in the pit of his stomach built to overwhelming proportions with the realization that they were going to continue torturing him, maybe kill him.

“Who are you working for?” the interrogator asked. Johnny cringed in pain as he felt the finger stretched to its limits.

Johnny stared at him, his mouth hung partially open, and he voice shook. “I’m not – ”, his finger was pulled further, “please….oh, God….” he moaned loudly, and then the finger was forced back all the way until it broke, and Johnny screamed in agony, twisting on the stool, nearly falling off, trying to wrench his arm free.

Twenty minutes later, Johnny lay unconscious on the cold concrete floor, his right arm still cuffed to the leg of the stool, which had tipped over, his feet still bound tightly together. After the fourth finger had been broken, he had vomited, then mercifully had passed out completely as the policeman forced the breakage of another finger on his other hand, his body collapsing and then sliding sideways off the stool and onto the floor.

He had no idea how long he had lain there when he was abruptly awakened by cold water being thrown on his face. Groggily, he opened his eyes, and jerked when he felt hands around his wrist as he was being freed from the chair. He felt the coldness of the hard concrete floor under his cheek pressing on the tender places that had been abused earlier, and he tried to lift his head. Instantly, all the other injuries that had been inflicted on him came alive; the cigarette burn, all the places he had been beaten, and the throbbing in his hands, which, with every beat of his heart, shot the pain all the way up his arms to his shoulders. A low moan like the sound of some injured animal emerged from deep down inside him, and feeling saliva seep from his mouth, he tried to swallow. His throat was raw and tender from screaming.

After his feet were unbound, someone pulled him into a sitting position, and slipped his prison shirt over his head. That act made every nerve ending in his body feel like an electric current was running through it, and he couldn’t hold back a whimper of pain. Then Johnny felt himself being lifted off the floor and dragged out of the room. He tried to get his feet under him as they pulled him down the same hallway he had come down, and finally he managed to do it, stumbling along in between the two officers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At twelve-thirty p.m., the dorm at Station 51 was filled with the quiet breathing and snores of the six tired firemen of A-shift. Exhausted after fighting an evening fire, all had quickly fallen asleep over an hour ago.

The telephone rang, jolting the Captain, who was closest to the phone, out of his sleep. Disgruntled at being so rudely awakened, he grumbled something about the fact that it was bad enough to be woken up by the klaxons in the middle of the night, much less by the phone; then stumbled over to his desk, sat down, and picked up the telephone by the fourth ring.

“Fire Station 51, Captain Stanley speaking,” he answered softly, trying not to wake up the rest of the men.

“Cap?” the raspy and unfamiliar voice croaked.

“This is Captain Stanley,” he paused, his brow furrowing, “who’s this?”

“It’s John, Cap.” The voice sounded not only hoarse and strained, but downright frightened.

For a moment, Captain Stanley’s groggy mind wasn’t one hundred percent sure who it was.  “John?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah, Cap. It’s Johnny.” His voice had a strange quality to it. It was gravelly and trembling – not at all sounding like Johnny’s usual voice.

“John?” What the hell - I thought he went on vacation? Why is he calling so late? A niggling in the back of the Cap’s mind told him something was terribly wrong; he could hear it in the very stressed tone of his youngest paramedic’s voice. Instantly, Hank Stanley became alert. He held the phone tighter to his ear; Johnny sounded far away. “Is something wrong?”

“Cap, I’m….I’m in trouble. A lot of trouble.” Johnny’s voice was low and broke on the word trouble; and a bad feeling settled itself in the pit of Hank’s stomach.

“What do you mean, ‘you’re in trouble’? What kind of trouble, John?” he tried to use his most soothing, fatherly tone, sensing whatever had happened was bad. His youngest paramedic would never be calling the station that late otherwise.

The rest of the men had been awakened by the ringing telephone, and had rolled over in bed, listening in on the Cap’s conversation. Upon hearing Hank Stanley say he was talking to John, and that he was in trouble, Roy immediately pulled his covers off and got out of bed.

Hank heard Johnny take in a shaky breath. “I’ve been….arrested. I – ”

“Arrested! For what?” Hank was shocked.

Hank could hear John take in a shaky breath. “Drug possession,” Johnny answered softly.

“What?! John, what’s this about? Where are you?”

Roy had moved across the cool tile floor to his captain’s side in an instant, trying to ascertain what was going on. Alarm bells had been ringing loudly in his head ever since he heard Hank Stanley say, ‘What do you mean, you’re in trouble?’.
            “Cap, I’m in Mexico. I didn’t do it. I swear!” Johnny’s desperate words came faster now. “I picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport. It was full of drugs. The dogs sniffed it out, and they arrested me. They think I’m a drug dealer, Cap.” Johnny’s voice had risen a notch higher as he rapidly spoke.

Hank Stanley swallowed as he listened to the desperate tone in Johnny’s shaking voice.

“Cap, you’ve gotta help me. You gotta get me outta here,” Johnny’s voice begged. “They’re gonna put me in jail.”

Hank took a deep breath and blew it out. “Okay, John. Just calm down. Where are you right now?”

“I’m…I’m – ” Johnny dropped the phone. They had once again handcuffed him, and between the awkward position of his wrists and the pain of his broken fingers, the telephone had slipped from his hands. Lunging for the receiver, he clawed it back into his fingers, his injured digits shaking with the effort.

Hank heard the clatter of the phone hitting the floor, and some shuffling noises, and wondered what was going on. “John? Johnny?” he called, leaning forward, alarm in his voice. He waited a few more seconds, then John was back on the phone.

“S-sorry,” the pain in his fingers was excruciating as he tried once more to hold the telephone to his ear. “I…I dropped the phone. It’s hard to hold….with the handcuffs.” Johnny sounded like he was ready to break.

Hank’s brow crinkled and he swallowed; his expression was one of great concern. Johnny’s voice sounded thick and slightly slurred. He had also never heard John so panicked, and it not only unnerved him, it frightened him. He knew things must really be bad for his younger paramedic to be acting this way. “John, are you all right?” Hank asked softly.

 It took him a moment to answer. “No,” he finally replied, his voice breaking. Normally in dire circumstances, Gage had always kept his cool and was very level-headed, even in the worst situations. However, during the last eight hours of his life, he had been arrested, handcuffed and humiliated, beaten, interrogated, beaten again, then tortured, and now he was exhausted. His nerves were shot and his emotional state was quite fragile at the moment. In a rare display of raw emotion, he broke down and confessed with a shaky voice, “Cap….they…..they broke….my fingers during the questioning. I don’t think I can hold the phone….much longer.” As if in response to this statement, his fingers throbbed in agony and Johnny could not hold back his groan of pain.

“Oh, God,” Hank said under his breath, his eyes closing. He leaned his elbow on the desk and cradled his forehead in his one hand.

            At this point, Roy was beside himself after watching the gamut of emotions passing over his captain’s face. Never had he seen the Cap look so worried, so rattled, and he knew it was Johnny he was talking to, knew Johnny had been arrested for some reason. He stood rock solid next to the Cap, watching his reactions, a terrible sinking feeling of dread filling his stomach.

Gritting his teeth, Hank asked again, “Where are you right now, John?”

“I’m in Acapulco. I…I don’t know where they’re taking me – ” With that, the telephone was snatched out of Johnny’s hand. In the background, Hank faintly heard someone with a heavy Spanish accent say, “Time ees up, Señor.”

“John? Listen, pal. Now, don’t panic. Just…let me figure out what to do, and I’ll find a way to get you out, okay?” There was no answer. “John? John?” Hank heard a click, and knew the phone had been disconnected.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Johnny looked up at the officer in disbelief as he watched him hang up the telephone. He hadn’t been able to finish his conversation, and now he had no idea if the Cap would be able to help him.

The officer prodded him to stand, then led him away. He and two officers took a walk down another hallway, then through a doorway to a more open room. Johnny could smell the stench of urine and vomit before he could see its source. His stomach rolled as they approached where he would be spending the night.

They shoved him into a large cell big enough for about eight people, but actually held approximately fifteen to twenty men. He shuddered as the barred door closed behind him with a loud clank, and the key was turned in the lock.

He surveyed his surroundings, searching for a place to sit, feeling like he was about to collapse. The cell was inhabited by dirty looking prisoners who were sprawled out on the filthy concrete floor, taking up nearly every inch of available space. There were no beds; there was nothing, except a hole in the floor for a toilet in the back of the cell, which was currently being vomited into by one of the prisoners.

Johnny found a small spot against the wall and sat down. Drawing his knees up, he rested his head and arms on them, and closed his eyes, trying to block out the nightmare that this day had turned into.

                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hank sighed, hung up the telephone, then ran his tired hand through his hair. As he slowly turned, he noticed Roy for the first time standing next to him, his somber face frozen in a worried stare.

“Cap?” Roy said anxiously. “What’s going on? Was that Johnny?”

Hank looked up at Roy and rubbed his chin, trying to think of a way to tell Roy that his best friend was in serious trouble. “Yeah. I’m afraid it was.”

Roy could see the troubled look in Hank’s eyes. “Cap? What’s happening?”

Captain Stanley looked away. “It seems your partner’s in some trouble.”

Roy was desperate to know. “Cap, c’mon. What did Johnny say?”

Hank took in a deep breath, then told his crew, “John’s been arrested for drug possession.”

“What?!” Roy exclaimed incredulously.

Hank’s stare told Roy it was the truth.

“I don’t believe it,” Roy nearly whispered, the shock of his Captain’s statement evident on his face.

By now, all the other guys, having heard the conversation, had exited their beds and had gathered around the Cap’s desk, waiting to hear the details.

“Gage has been arrested for drug possession?” Chet mimed in a high voice. “I don’t believe it either.”

“Cap, what exactly did Johnny say?” Roy wanted to know.

Hank was shaking his head. “He said something about…picking up the wrong suitcase at the airport. Then there were some dogs who sniffed the suitcase; they found drugs in it, and he was arrested. That’s all I know. We got disconnected.” Roy stared at his captain, knowing he wasn’t telling him everything. Hank averted his gaze from Roy, knowing all too well his senior paramedic suspected he had left some things out.

“Where is Johnny, Cap?” Marco wanted to know.

“He’s in Acapulco on his vacation – ” Before the Cap could finish his sentence, the klaxons went off, summoning the entire station to a structure fire. “Aw, shit….” He lamented.

Roy stood rooted to his spot in disbelief, continuing to stare at the Cap, his mouth hanging half open, eyes wide. All he knew is that his best friend had just been arrested in a foreign country for drug possession, a crime Roy knew he could never have committed, and whatever was happening was so bad it had shaken his captain up terribly.

Hank tapped his shoulder and said, “C’mon, Roy, we gotta go.”

With that, the crew loaded themselves into their vehicles and headed out into the night, their concerns for their friend temporarily forced aside in order to focus on their upcoming task.

At four-thirty a.m., the tired crew pulled their bodies from their trucks. The apartment building fire had been a mess, and extinguishing the fire and the clean up had taken up most of the night.

Roy had been on edge ever since leaving the station, wanting to know about Johnny. As soon as he exited the squad, he sought out his captain, who was climbing down from the engine.

“Cap?” Roy beckoned.

Hank Stanley knew Roy wouldn’t rest until he had more details about his partner. “I’m right behind ya, Roy. Let’s go in the day room.”

The others followed Roy and Cap into the dayroom, also anxious to hear about their friend. Everyone took a seat around the table as the Cap began telling them about the telephone conversation. When he had finished repeating what Johnny had told him, or almost everything he had told him, he said, “That’s all I can tell you. It sounded like someone took the phone away from him before he got a chance to say any more.”

“So what are we gonna do about it, Cap? We can’t just leave Johnny in prison. He’s no drug dealer!” Chet stated.

Hank sighed. “I don’t know, Chet. It’s a bad situation. Johnny’s a long way away from us. Do any of you have any ideas? Marco, your family’s from Mexico; what do you think?” Everyone turned to look at Marco with equally weary and worried eyes.

“Well, Cap,” Marco answered, “I do know a little about prisons, and I can tell you they’re not good places to be. Mexican prisons aren’t like American prisons. All prisons are dangerous as far as I know, but the ones in Mexico are notorious.”

Roy looked at Marco with a somber expression, still too overcome with shock to participate in the conversation.

“What do you mean, notorious, Marco?” Chet asked with concern.

“Well, they’re very corrupt for one thing. There’s a lot of drug deals going on between the prisoners and even the prison guards. There’s a lot of violence. The prisons are all overcrowded and the guards don’t pay that much attention to what the prisoners do.” Everyone listened intently as Marco went on. “My cousin knew someone once who got arrested for having a marijuana joint on him. He was sentenced to two years in prison.”

“Two years!” Chet exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Marco nodded. “I heard lot of bad things happened to him. He was only nineteen at the time.”

Roy swallowed, his imagination beginning to get the better of him.

“Whatever happened to the guy, Marco?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know, Mike. I haven’t talked to my cousin about him for a long time.”

“What kind of bad things are you talkin’ about, Marco?” Chet pressed, a nervous fear tinged his words.

Marco looked over at Roy, hesitant to say anything, then looked at Chet. He shrugged. “He got beat up a lot; not only by the prisoners, but also by the guards. He got bullied by a lot of the convicts; if he didn’t do what they wanted….” His voice trailed off.

“What do you mean, ‘if he didn’t do what they wanted’, Marco? What did they want him to do?” Chet asked, afraid of knowing the answer.

Marco grimaced. “Well, you know, those guys in prison….well….sometimes they….well, there’s no women around, Chet, so…”

Chet stopped him, not being able to stand to hear what he thought Marco was going to say. The thought of that happening to Johnny made him nauseous. He looked over at Roy, who had turned a pale shade of green and looked sick. “Hey, that’s not gonna happen to Johnny; he’s tough.”

“So was my cousin’s friend, Chet. But he was no match for those animals.”

Captain Stanley interjected at this point. “Look, it’s not going to help any talking about what ‘might’ happen to Johnny. Let’s concentrate on figuring out a way to get him out. Since Johnny doesn’t have any family, it’s gonna be up to us.”

“Yeah,” Chet said softly, thinking how sad it was that Johnny had no one else to call, and had to risk the one phone call he was allowed trying to call the station. What if they had been out on a run?

“We’ll find a way to get Johnny out,” Marco said, mostly for Roy’s benefit, who still looked sick to his stomach.

“We can do it,” said Mike. “Johnny’s going to need a lawyer. Roy, who was that guy you and Johnny went to see the time you were accused of stealing that money?”

Roy finally found his voice. “Um, Barney Oleson, I think.”

Captain Stanley could see the turmoil that was boiling under the surface by the expression on Roy’s face. Just by the fact that Roy seemed incapable of speaking told Hank loads about what was going on in Roy’s mind. “Roy? Why don’t you give Mr. Oleson a call tomorrow and we’ll find out what we can do to help Johnny.”

Roy nodded mutely, his blue eyes continued to stare into space.

“That’s a good idea, Cap,” Marco said, looking over at Roy. While everyone was terribly worried about Johnny, everyone could see what kind of an impact the news was having on Roy. “I’ll see if I can’t make a call to Acapulco and find out the name of the police station where he was taken. I’ll find out what the bail is.”

Roy slowly started to feel a little better now that they were coming up with ideas to help his friend. None of them had doubted for a minute that Johnny was innocent. They’d known him too long, and they knew their friend would never do drugs, much less deal them. The five men sat silently around the table a moment longer, lost in their thoughts.

“Only Gage could get himself into this kind of situation,” Chet murmured characteristically. “Why does this kind of shit always happen to him?”

Marco slowly shook his head.

“Cap?” Roy ventured. Hank looked over at him. “Cap, how….how did Johnny sound when you talked to him?”

Sighing inwardly, Hank answered honestly; he suspected this was coming but had hoped to avoid it – for everyone’s sake. “He sounded pretty rough, Roy. He was scared…and upset; I…I don’t think I’ve ever heard John sound quite like he did tonight.” Captain Stanley looked down for a moment, desperately wanting to end the conversation before he got his men any more upset than they already were. They weren’t the only ones; just listening to John’s voice on the phone that night had shaken Hank Stanley. Deep down he had a foreboding feeling that there might not be anything they could do to help their friend, and he didn’t want to face that possibility right now, not when he was bone tired and couldn’t even think straight.

After a moment, he lightly slapped the table with his palms and began to get up. “Look, it’s late. There’s nothing we can do for John right now. Let’s all try to get a little sleep before the tones go off at seven o’clock, shall we?”

Roy stood up; he needed to know one more thing. “Cap, wait. Um, Cap, was…was Johnny all right? I mean, did he say anything else? I noticed when you were talking to him there was one point where you looked pretty upset – it was after you asked him if he was okay.”

Hank looked at Roy, not wanting to tell him the other thing that Johnny had said, knowing how it would upset Roy. “Roy…” he was having trouble finishing.

“Cap,” Roy said more insistently, “tell me; what did he say?”

Hank looked down, and nervously fingered his wedding ring a moment. He sighed deeply, then ran his hand through his dark hair. His eyes met Roy’s again, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to hide this from his senior paramedic. “He said…ah, well…at one point he dropped the phone; it was because….he said….he couldn’t hold on to the phone because they…broke his fingers…during the questioning.”

“Oh my God,” Chet whispered, as he turned to look at Marco.

Roy’s eyes grew wide with shock and disbelief, and he swallowed hard, the implications of the situation finally sinking its sharp teeth in, taking hold.

Hank saw the look and laid his hand on Roy’s shoulder. He did the only thing he could do at this point, and that was to lie as convincingly as possible to try to relieve the worry his men were undoubtedly feeling. “He’s gonna be okay, Roy.” He gave his shoulder a squeeze and sighed. “Look, it’s late, and we’re all exhausted. Let’s try to get some sleep and we’ll work on this in the morning. Maybe a solution will be a little clearer after we get some rest.”

Roy barely nodded, acquiescing only because he knew the Cap was right. There was nothing they could do right now. Even though it might be an hour or so later in Mexico, it was still too early to be able to place a call and be able to talk with anyone. Reluctantly, the five of them trudged into the dorm, peeled off their turnout pants, and climbed into bed. No one got any sleep.

                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Johnny had no idea what time it was when they came to get him that morning; he only knew that he hadn’t slept, his whole body hurt, and both his hands were throbbing. The night had been miserable; filled with drunks puking into the hole in the floor they called a commode, men continually calling out to the warden for any reason, and the stench of vomit, smoke, and sweat permeating the stale air. Several fights broke out that had to be stopped by the warden. One Mexican prisoner had continually tapped Johnny on his shoulder throughout the night, asking him questions, which he couldn’t answer because he didn’t speak much Spanish. Twice, he was pushed out of his spot against the wall by two different men who wanted to claim his spot. He ended up spending the rest of the night somewhere in the middle of the floor toward the back, his head buried in his arms, which were resting on his knees. There hadn’t been room to stretch out anywhere.

During the time he sat huddled on the cold floor, he tried examining his aching fingers to determine the damage. Scrutinizing one at a time, he diagnosed five broken digits, four on his left hand, and one on his right. One finger appeared to be broken in two spots and was particularly crooked. Johnny knew he needed a splint for each finger, and that they needed to be straightened. However, doing it manually without any analgesic would be excruciatingly painful, and he’d already been through too much that night to inflict any more on himself. The burn on his shoulder was still causing a lot of discomfort, but there was nothing he could do about it. That injury needed to be cleaned and bandaged to prevent infection, but there was no chance of that happening. Johnny assessed that while several other areas of his body, especially his face, were extremely sore, bruised, and swollen, he didn’t think any permanent damage had been done. Not that it was much consolation.

Now he sat riding on a bus with nine other prisoners, his wrists once again in chains. After being released from his holding cell, one of the police officers took him before what Johnny presumed was a judge of some sort, and he’d been given his sentence. When asked, Johnny had been denied access to a lawyer. After everything else that had happened, he became distraught when someone had translated his sentence in English to him: three to five years in prison. At that point, Johnny became so agitated that he began yelling at the prison officials, and struggled against their attempts to pull him from the room, at which point they proceeded to start beating him again. After three hard blows to his shoulders and back, Johnny collapsed to the floor, and they dragged him out, handcuffed, and forced him onto the bus.

Now he sat hunched down in his seat with his head leaning against the window, his eyelids drooping. Resigned, and numb from shocked disbelief, he blankly looked out the windows across from him on the other side of the bus, and watched the dust swirling around the vehicle as it bumped its way down the earthy and desolate road. Now and then, they passed a lonely palm tree, or some broken down shack that some unfortunate family lived in. The shock absorbers had long ago worn out in the bus, and it jostled its passengers around mercilessly. Grey smoke billowed from its tailpipes. 

The other prisoners sat quietly, each contemplating their fate. Positioned at the front and the back of the bus, four armed guards were each clutching a rifle in case anyone decided to give them trouble. All the prisoners had been given a meager breakfast of stale tortillas, plain rice, and a cup of water. Johnny had had trouble eating his breakfast for two reasons: one, because his fingers hurt so badly that he could hardly hold on to the fork and cup, and two, because he felt sick about his predicament and didn’t have much of an appetite. His stomach was turning even now, probably from the water he had drank, which most likely wasn’t purified. More than anything, he was exhausted, and his eyelids slid closed all the way, and he dozed off.

Two hours later, a large pothole that the bus had hit jolted him out of his sleep. He looked around; still on the bus, he thought. He realized he had a dull headache, and he was very thirsty. He licked his parched lips and felt the swelling around his mouth and lip where they had punched him. His soft groan was unheard over the noise of the bus, as he tried to sit up straighter. His body and fingers ached horribly, and he desperately wished he had some aspirin. Bruises covered him from head to toe from the beatings, and he glanced down to one particularly large one spreading across his arm.

Johnny looked out the window, trying to figure out where they were going, and began to feel nauseous, so he turned away from the window and closed his eyes again. It was the same scenery as before, barren and dusty, an occasional shack every now and then. He noticed the road had gotten rougher as the bus bounced along; it wasn’t helping his stomach any.

“You speak English?” he heard a voice behind him say.

Turning slowly, he noticed another prisoner sitting in the seat behind him. The man looked a few years younger than himself, had light brown hair, and quite an impressive build. Except for the scar across his cheek, he was a good-looking young man. Johnny observed him, not really wanting conversation with anyone at the moment, but glad just the same to hear someone speaking English. “Yeah,” is all he said.

“Well, that’s a relief,” the younger man said, “I’m tired of speakin’ Spanish.”

Johnny just nodded. The man’s comment made him think about Marco, who had taught Johnny a little bit of Spanish over the last few years. Even so, he didn’t speak it well enough to understand most of the rapid conversations he had heard so far.

The man was quiet for a few minutes, then said, “My name’s James. James White. I’m from Texas. How about you?”

Johnny didn’t look back at the man. It was too much effort. “John Gage,” he said in a monotone voice, “from LA.”

“Oh, yeah? My mom used to live in LA. Only she’s dead now. So, what’d they arrest you for?”

Johnny sighed. “Drug possession.”

The young man lightened. “Really? What’d they catch you with? Weed? Or coke?”

“Heroin,” Johnny answered, for some twisted reason getting minute enjoyment from the shocked look on the face of the young man.

“Wow, heavy stuff, man. You must be hard core.”

“It wasn’t mine,” he shook his head sadly.

The man smiled disbelievingly. “Sure.”

Johnny turned to face him, his eyes blazing. “It wasn’t mine,” he stated emphatically. “I picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport. It belonged to some junkie. It was full of the shit. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t sell ‘em. They arrested the wrong guy.”

The young man was a little taken aback at the look of ferocity in Johnny’s eyes, and realized he was serious. Johnny had abruptly turned away from him, and leaned back again, closing his eyes.

A few minutes later, James asked, “So, what do you do?”

Johnny opened his eyes. “Huh?” he said irritably.

“What do you do? What’re you doing down here if you’re from LA?”

“I’m a fireman, fireman and paramedic. I came down here for a vacation, and now….,” his voice caught in his throat as he was forced to once again realize the enormity of his dilemma, “….now I guess I’m goin’ to jail for a couple of years, for something I didn’t do.”

James regarded Johnny for a few moments, then looked down. “That’s a drag, man. If you ask me, this whole thing’s a reeeeal drag.” Johnny didn’t disagree one bit.

Thinking it might be best to try to get his mind off his ordeal, Johnny decided to initiate a further conversation with the young man behind him. He reasoned that it might not be such a bad idea to have an ally, given the circumstances. “So, what’s your story?” Johnny asked.

“Ah, got caught robbin’ a store.”

Johnny’s eyebrows rose. He was a little surprised; somehow this young fellow didn’t seem like the type. “What’d you do that for?”

James shrugged. “No money, man. Oh, I had money, but I blew it. See, I lost my job, and I decided to go to Vegas, right? Well, I won big, man, I mean BIG. So, I decided to take a little vacation. I came down to Acapulco; it’s a nice place, ya know? So, anyway, I met this girl. She was awesome, man. Well, I took her all sorts of fancy places; we had a great time. We were together for a while, then money started getting short. I tried to get a job, but I couldn’t find anything. Then, she dumped me, the bitch!”

“Let me guess, some of the appeal died when your pockets went dry?”

“Yeah,” James said dejectedly.

Johnny snorted knowingly. “I know how you feel. That happened to me once.” He remembered the time he had met a woman in the customer service department of his credit card company named Gloria Truelove. He had been trying to straighten out a problem on his credit card bill.  A gorgeous woman, she had been ready to go out with Johnny when she thought he had spent $842.00 on a dinner date. When she had found out that the amount was only $8.42, she quickly decided she had other plans.

“So, anyway,” James continued, “I had no cash, and no place to live. The bitch had kicked me out. I was hungry, man. So, I robbed this little grocery store.” He looked over at Johnny and said sincerely, “I wasn’t gonna hurt him. Hell, I didn’t even have a gun; just had my finger stuck out inside my jacket pocket, you know?” Johnny just shook his head. “Now, here I am in this dumpy bus on my way to the pokey. I’m hopin’ Sylvia will come and bail me out, but I doubt it.”

“Sylvia?”

“My girlfriend; or actually, ex-girlfriend. She’s the one I called when I got arrested. I didn’t have anyone else; no family, ya know?”

Johnny nodded. He knew only too well.

The bus bounced along, continuing along its dusty journey, until suddenly it started to sputter and choke, an offensive grinding noise emanating from its bowels. The driver uttered what Johnny was sure were some Spanish expletives, and then the bus slowly rolled to a stop. The driver opened the doors and hopped out, disappearing around the side of the bus. The armed guards stood, readying their guns, as if daring someone to move. Everyone remained seated, however, and feeling sick, Johnny closed his eyes, his stomach beginning to cramp. His brow creased as a sharp pain invaded his abdomen, which James noticed.

“Hey, you okay, man?” he asked.

Johnny looked over at him briefly, breathing shallowly. “Ah, my stomach is killin’ me,” he answered.

“You drink that water they gave us for breakfast?”

Johnny knew he probably shouldn’t have, but he had been so thirsty. “Yeah,” he panted. “You think that was it?”

 “Probably,” James responded. “Most likely it wasn’t purified. You shouldn’t have drank it. You gotta be careful down here; the food and water take some getting used to. Even when it’s purified, it’ll bother you for awhile.”

“Oh, man,” Johnny groaned.

Fifteen minutes went by and the driver didn’t reappear. It was beginning to look like they were stuck there for awhile. The police guard was letting some of the prisoners off the bus one at a time for a bathroom break, so Johnny signaled to him asking if he could get off. When the next man returned, the guard let Johnny exit the bus.

Since there was no bathroom, the men were resigned to doing their business behind one of the small shrubs scattered around the terrain, with one of the guards escorting them. Johnny stumbled off the bus and ended up having to squat behind a tumbleweed to relieve himself.

Feeling sick and dehydrated, Johnny uneasily made his way through the heat and the dust back to the bus, and climbed aboard. His stomach felt slightly better, but he wondered how long it would be before he would have to get back off the bus and go again.

Collapsing back down onto his lumpy bus seat, achy and sweating, he didn’t think life could get any worse than it was right now. Little did he know how wrong he was.

                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roy stood silently staring at nothing out the back patio doors of his home. It was raining once again, and he watched the rivulets streaming crookedly down the glass doors, like a child’s tears running down a sad face.

Not having gotten any sleep the night before, he was exhausted. It was Sunday, and he had returned home that morning with lines of worry etched upon his face. Joanne had noticed immediately, and Roy had unloaded his story to her about the phone call from Johnny the night before. She had been appalled, and just as worried as he was, but still tried to be optimistic and consoling to her husband, whom she knew was terribly anxious about the welfare of his best friend.

He had tossed and turned in bed after their last call, until the seven o’clock tones finally coaxed the tired men out of bed for a new day. His mind was filled with anxiety about what was happening to Johnny, and what had already happened to him. Roy was tortured by thoughts of horrible things that they might do to Johnny in prison, and was unable to get the awful vision out of his mind of Johnny’s fingers being broken during the questioning. His stomach contracted when he thought of how terrifying it must have been for Johnny. He wondered what else they had done to him besides that. He wondered, but couldn’t imagine where Johnny might be right now, and what he was going through.

Roy couldn’t believe the situation his partner was in. It didn’t seem fair that after everything Johnny had been through in the past few months that now this should happen too. He tried to comfort himself by having hope that somehow they would be able to get Johnny out of this. But what if they couldn’t? Roy shuddered at that possibility. Johnny being in prison with a bunch of murderers and rapists for any period of time was unthinkable. Any normal person would have a tough time in that type of environment, but Johnny sometimes had a certain naivety or even a childlike innocence about him that Roy thought would make it especially hard on him. Johnny had a way of always seeing the goodness in those around him; at times he could be downright gullible. How would Johnny fare living amongst the darkest type of human beings, and how would it affect the rest of his life if he lived through it? How could Johnny possibly come out of this unscathed? He wondered how his younger friend would even survive if forced to live under those conditions.

Roy turned away from the window when he heard Joanne enter the room.

“Honey, you’ve been standing there all morning. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? You’re not going to help Johnny any by wearing yourself down.”

Roy didn’t respond. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he tried. Part of the problem was that it was Sunday, and he knew there was nothing he could do today to help Johnny. He just felt so helpless.

“Roy? C’mon. Will you please at least just go lie down on the sofa and try to rest?”

Roy finally gave in. He knew she was right. Sighing, he said, “Okay,” and headed toward the living room. Before he had a chance to sit down, the doorbell rang, and Roy rushed to answer it.

Marco Lopez stood on the other side of the threshold, his collar turned up against the rain. “Hey, Roy.”

“Marco! Come on in,” Roy gestured him into the house. Marco said hello to Joanne, and they all took a seat in the living room. Foregoing any pleasantries, Roy asked anxiously, “What did you find out?”

Marco had volunteered that morning to call down to the police station in Acapulco to try to find out anything he could about Johnny. Being of Mexican heritage himself, and Spanish being his native language, he would be able to communicate with them better than the others. Marco was only too happy to help; Johnny was a good friend to him, and being a firefighter, he considered him a brother.

Marco grimaced, and Roy tensed at his expression. “It’s not very good news.”

“What is it, Marco?” Joanne asked softly.

Marco looked from Joanne to Roy, almost hating to break the news to them. He’d already been eating antacids on the way there trying to quell the uneasiness in his own stomach. “Well, he spent the night in the jail there at the police station in Acapulco. And now, he’s on his way to El Reclusorio Norte; it’s a prison north of Mexico City.”

Roy closed his eyes and let out a soft groan.

“That’s not all, Roy.”

Roy looked up at Marco, sensing he was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. “What else?” he choked out.

“They sentenced him to three to five years in prison,” Marco said somberly, looking downward.

“What!?” Roy exploded. “They sentenced him – already? How could that be? There’s been no trial; hell, he probably hasn’t even talked to a lawyer yet!”

Marco shook his head. “Roy, Mexico is not like America. They do things differently down there. Apparently, the judge can decide on a case as he sees fit, if there’s evidence against someone. I doubt they would even let Johnny talk to a lawyer. Unfortunately, in my family’s country, people are presumed guilty until proven innocent – especially when they’re involved with drugs.”

“Oh my God,” Joanne whispered.

Roy stood up, incensed. “Well, they’re not gonna get away with this,” he fumed. “Johnny’s gonna have a lawyer; I’ll see to that.”

“What are you going to do, Roy?” Joanne asked nervously. While she fully expected her husband to do everything in his power to help his best friend, the thought of her husband getting involved with Mexican authorities made her a little uneasy.

Roy started pacing. “I don’t know yet.” He looked at his wife. “One thing I’m gonna do is to call Barney Oleson first thing tomorrow and see if there’s any way he can help.” He then turned to Marco. “Marco, can you think of anything else? I mean, did they give you any other information about what could be done to get Johnny out of this?”

Marco shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Roy. They didn’t want to talk to me at all.”

Roy thought a moment. “Marco, what about your cousin’s friend? Can you get a hold of your cousin and see if he can talk to his friend? Maybe they can give us some ideas of how to handle this.”

“I already tried, Roy. I left a message for my friend to call me. I’ll call as soon as I hear from him.” Marco got up. He was tired and worried too; talking about what had happened to Johnny was getting to him. He felt the need for another antacid coming on. It seemed the more they talked about Johnny’s predicament, the more nauseous he felt. “Roy, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. My mother is expecting me over for dinner in a little while. I’ll let you know what I find out, okay?”

“Thanks, Marco.”

“You’re welcome. See you Tuesday, Roy.”

Roy and Joanne escorted Marco to the door and back out into the pouring rain. They watched glumly as Marco ran to his car, trying to avoid being soaked. Roy spent the rest of the afternoon fretting about what other terrible things might befall Johnny in the days to come. Where are you, Johnny? What could be happening to you right now?

                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was late afternoon when the bus finally started rolling again. Everyone was tired and hot, and the men were restless. Everyone was covered with a layer of dust. Johnny continued to sit hunched back in his seat, his eyes closed, breathing shallowly through his mouth, which felt dry as a desert. Surprisingly, he managed to doze for the rest of the trip. When the bus slowed to a stop and sat idling, he opened his eyes and looked out the window to see where they were.

A tall, forbidding solid block building of whitewashed concrete met his gaze, and he shivered at the sight of it. He noticed that only the upper story had narrow barred windows. Around the building was a matching but crumbling wall topped with razor wire. Two tall towers flanked each other at the corners of the walls, and were occupied by armed prison guards.

Johnny noticed the bus was stopped in front of a large wrought iron gate, and the driver was talking to one of the guards standing outside the gate. Eventually, the huge metal doorway swung open, and the bus bounced in to the facility, leaving a trail of dust behind it. They parked near a doorway, and the guards stood up, gesturing for the prisoners to get off. “Bueno, todos del autobús,” he said, which Johnny actually understood. 

When Johnny pulled himself out of his seat, his knees nearly collapsed on his first step. He felt lightheaded, and shaking his head to clear it, managed to stumble off the bus, following the others inside. He was taken to a room with three of the others, where their handcuffs were removed.

“Todos toman de sus ropas,” the guard barked. Johnny squinted at the man in incomprehension, but realization set in causing a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he noticed the other men undressing.  Sick with dread at what might happen to him, he reluctantly began to undress, until he was again standing naked along with the other men. The throbbing in his fingers had worsened, and he was barely able to unbutton his shirt. He gritted his teeth through the discomfort though; the fear that they would rip his clothes from him if he was too slow and then beat him again motivating him. Cowed into obedience, he didn’t think his battered body could take much more.

He was put through the same humiliation as before; the guards checked his hair, ears, and mouth, and then once again he was made to bend over, while they checked for anything he might have hidden inside his body. This time, he and the other men were sprayed with something, probably a disinfectant of some kind, and Johnny nearly choked at the offensive smell. He felt like a lab rat. Once more, he was overcome by the direness of his situation, and despair consumed him; his stomach felt leaden.

After the search, he and the others were given a new change of clothes, a blue v-neck shirt and matching draw-string pants, and they were led into another room where all the new inmates were standing. They had been allowed to keep only their underwear and their shoes. Any other belongings were taken away.

The guard began talking and gesturing rapidly, and Johnny assumed he was giving them some type of instructions. He was only able to catch the meaning of a few words, but kept hearing one word, ‘apando’, over and over again. When it appeared the guard had finished, Johnny said hesitantly, “Yo no entiendo. Yo no hablo mucho español.” He tried to tell them he didn’t speak much Spanish and asked if the guard would explain. The guard looked at him a moment, then walked over to a desk that sat in the corner of the room and opened a drawer. After pulling some papers from it, he asked in a heavily accented English, “Ees there eenyone else who does not understand Spaneesh?” At that point, James slowly raised his hand and said that he only spoke limited Spanish. The man handed Johnny and James a piece of printed paper, which they began to look over.

Printed on it were the basic rules of the prison. It explained that bedtime was at eight o’clock, and the prisoners would rise at six o’clock. Each of them would be given a few personal items such as a comb and toothbrush, and a razor, which they would return after each use. The inmates would be allowed two showers a week, on Wednesday and Sunday. Meals were served twice daily, once in the morning, and once in the evening. The prisoners would be allowed outside in the exercise area for one hour a day, and some would be assigned jobs, depending on their behavior. There was a canteen where they could buy certain personal items such as soap and shampoo, sometimes coffee, cigarettes, pop, and even tennis shoes once every other week. The money they earned on a job could be used to buy things at the canteen; an account would be available for each inmate to keep track of their money. No cash would ever be circulated. All rules were to be strictly obeyed, and whoever disobeyed a rule would be taken to the punishment cell. No fighting was allowed, or perpetrators would face the punishment cell. No sharing of food, else they would go to the punishment cell. No stealing others belongings, no drug use, and no sexual hanky panky would be tolerated, or that prisoner would face the punishment cell. Johnny finally figured out that the word ‘apando’ meant ‘punishment cell’, and wondered vaguely exactly what the punishment cell was. He knew one thing, he didn’t want to find out.

After the guard was done with his explanation, each prisoner was led by a guard to their cell. James and Johnny glanced nervously at each other as they were separated and taken away.

The guard escorted Johnny by the arm down a long hallway. Heavy windowless steel doors flanked them as they made their way down the corridor; the high-pitched squeak of his tennis shoes echoed off the walls. The air was thick and humid. At the end of the hall was a large metal door, and the guard withdrew a key from his pocket and opened it.

Johnny was led into a large cell block, with about fifteen rows of cells on each side of him. They were stacked three stories high, and the upper stories had walkways in front of the cells. His eyes were drawn upward to the thirty-foot ceiling, taking in the enormity of it and the number of men housed there. It was then that the reality of what he was facing really hit him, and he faltered slightly, his breaths becoming short and shallow. The guard prodded him on as they walked slowly down the muggy corridor of cells, the inmates behind the bars all staring.

The odor hit Johnny almost immediately, and his stomach clenched as he smelled the stench of sweat combined with urine and other body secretions emanating from the desperate men behind the bars. Johnny tried to look straight ahead, but was unable to miss the looks he received, or the catcalls some of the men yelled at him. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed that many of the men were missing teeth, and nearly all of them had prominently displayed tattoos on their bodies. Their hideous faces strained against the bars as they struggled to get a good view of the new prisoner as he walked by. Though they couldn’t reach him, several reached out with their hands like animals in cages, trying to touch Johnny as he walked by. Johnny broke out in a cold sweat, his body convulsing in shivers.

About three quarters of the way down the corridor, the guard stopped and withdrew a key from his pocket. First, he unlocked the handcuffs holding Johnny’s wrists, then he unlocked the heavy cell door. He handed Johnny his small bag of personal items, then opened the door and shoved him inside. As long as he lived, Johnny would never forget the shuddering boom of that large steel door closing behind him and the metallic clank of the key turning in the lock. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he watched the prison guard walk away, his heavy leather soled shoes clicking on the cold concrete floor.

 Swallowing deeply, he turned only to face five pairs of dark eyes staring at him. The cell he was in held five men, plus himself, but looked more like it had been built to hold two or three men at the most. Two sets of bunk beds stacked three high flanked the walls; a small rickety table with two stools was arranged against the back wall, along with a toilet and small rusty sink. Two of the men sat upon the stools and each held a hand of playing cards. They sat frozen, staring at Johnny over the tops of their cards, seemingly sizing him up. The other three were lying in various positions in their beds; two had been reading and the other looked catatonic as he sat staring, his head slightly bent to one side. The two men in their bunks exchanged looks with each other, and the smirks that grew across their faces were frightening. They continued to leer at Johnny as he stood uncomfortably, frozen in his spot, unsure of what to do. Aware that they were staring at him, he fought for a decision over what his next move should be, and decided that picking a bunk would be prudent.

He set his bag of things down on one of the center bunks and had just begun to sit down, when one of the card players abruptly stood up to face him. He took a step toward Johnny, and Johnny retreated a step, snatching his bag of belongings off the bed. The look in the other man’s eyes told Johnny he was about to make a grave mistake.

In an effort to placate the man, Johnny stammered, “Ah, sorry. Is…is that your bunk?”

The man folded his arms and stared at him a long moment, then sat back down, not answering.

Johnny looked around for another empty bunk and found one on top. When he gestured toward it, the other man playing cards stood up and looked at him threateningly. Johnny again backed off, and looking around, saw that the only empty bed available was on the floor underneath two of the other bunks. There, a hopelessly thin, torn mattress pad lay, a threadbare blanket thrown on top of it. Johnny sighed, and assumed that was his bunk. With nowhere else to sit, and nowhere to go, he set his belongings down and slid in. There was just enough room to sit there and be able to rest his back against the wall without hitting his head on the bunk over him, but instead, he chose to lie down, desperately wanting to escape the stares of the other men. He listened as the prisoners in the other cells continued to spew what he assumed were vulgarities at him and heard their whistles as they banged items against their cell doors trying to get his attention.

He stared at the bent and broken springs of the bunk above him for a long time, then threw his left arm over his eyes in an effort to shut it all out. The thin mattress was well worn, and its stuffing was poking out in places. It offered very little support, and Johnny could feel the bones in his spine touching the hard concrete floor beneath it. However, exhaustion had taken its toll on him, and in a short time, despite all the noise, sleep claimed him. He never noticed when the lights went out at eight o’clock.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 2