Mary McDonald - No good deed

He hunched in a half- crouch, his body quivering. The chain around his waist tightened and tugged him forward. It was either fall again, or give in. Gasping, he took a step and slid the other foot up to meet the first. The length of chain shortened his steps, and he had to manage a jogging shuffle to keep pace with the guards.

When he would slow, the hands on his biceps squeezed, forcing him to quicken his pace. Would they drag him if he fell?

Mark’s toe caught on something and the floor changed from smooth concrete to something rougher. Asphalt? A hand went to his head while the two on his arms lifted. Confused, he balked, but was pushed from behind. The chain around his waist went taut, and off balance, he stumbled, banging his shin on something. He swore at the sharp pain, then realized that he was supposed to step into a vehicle. It took a few attempts for him to find the edge with his foot, and then he climbed in. He sat on the first seat he bumped against. The chains tightened with a little jolt, and he guessed they had secured the ends somehow.

His heart pounded from the exertion and he panted. It felt like he had run a mile instead of what was probably just a short distance through the jail hallways. What was the point of all the security measures? Wouldn’t this transport have been easier on everyone if he could at least see where he was going?

The vehicle started and stopped several times and turned a few corners. Stop lights and traffic. He could almost see it. After that, there was a stretch of unbroken motion with a few bumps. They had left the city and its pot-holes behind. When the vehicle stopped, the chains went tight before loosening, and he realized someone had unclipped him from the seat. Responding to the pull of the chains, he twisted on the seat, and took a leap of faith that the ground would meet his foot as he stepped out.

Wind tore at his clothes and he hunched his shoulders against it. The air smelled of exhaust and gasoline…no… An airport. Where the hell were they taking him? He trembled from more than just the icy blasts of air.

The chains pulled him forward and he resumed his shuffle. His foot rammed into something and he tripped onto an incline. The guards saved him from hitting too hard, but they were none too gentle as they righted him. He felt in front of him with his toe. A ramp. Mark balked. No way was he going to get on a plane until he knew where they were taking him. He turned his head to where he thought the guard was standing. “Wait. Please. I just need to know where I’m going.” Unable to hear his own voice, he wasn’t even sure he spoke out loud.

Despite the cold, he broke out in a sweat. It stung his eyes. More hands joined the ones on his arms, and he was shoved up the ramp. Finally, the chain went slack and the hands pushed down on his shoulders, urging him to sit. The trembling ceased as exhaustion stole his energy.

Hours seemed to crawl by, but he had no real clue to the passage of time. His ears popped, so he knew that the plane was in the air. His stomach rumbled. When was the last time he’d eaten? Breakfast must have been hours ago.

To add to his misery, nature came calling. He squirmed, trying to ease the discomfort of a full bladder. Just when he thought he’d embarrass himself, hands yanked him to his feet and led him twenty steps away. He didn’t know why he began counting the steps, but it gave him a feeling of control to have some measure of space.

His hands were freed of the mitts and the earphones lifted.

“If you gotta take a leak, now’s the time.”

Mark’s face burned, but he hastened to relieve himself.

Afterwards, someone squirted what smelled like hand sanitizer into his palm. How thoughtful. At least they were being hygienic. Then his hands were wrapped around a cold object. Startled, he almost dropped it before realizing it was a cup. Wary of what it might contain, he felt for the rim and raised it, taking a tiny sip. Water. Cold, blessed water. He guzzled, afraid it would be taken away before he finished. When no more poured into his mouth, he lowered the cup and hoped in vain for more.

It was twenty steps back to his seat. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up with a start. His heart thundered in his ears.

The vibration from the plane had ceased. They must have landed. Fear of the unknown rose in him. It was bad in the FBI lock-up, but he had a feeling that where he was going would be infinitely worse.

Mark put one foot in front of the other. He didn’t bother counting the steps this time. It wouldn’t matter. The walk wasn’t long, and soon he sat in what he assumed, from the vibrations, to be another vehicle. After a time the vibrating stopped and he was once again forced to walk, this time for longer. He shuffled along and stopped when the hands on his arms tightened and tugged. Fingers brushed the sides of his head, as the earphones were removed.

The rush of air on his eardrums and the sudden return of sound almost hurt. Wherever he was, it was quiet, and from the echo of the guards’ shoes on the floor, it sounded like another cell.

The goggles came off, and Mark squinted, blinking at the harsh light. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. It was a cell, but one even smaller and more stark than the previous one. Three guards stood in the room with him. Two others remained just outside the cell door. One took the mitts off Mark’s hands, and then removed the chains and shackles on his legs. Another took Mark’s shoes.

“Stand here until the door shuts, then put your hands through the slot,” said the guard who had taken his shoes, as he pointed towards the door. “Then, put on those clothes over there, and put the other clothes through the slot as well.” The man looked Mark in the eye. “You have three minutes. Don’t make us come in to help you.”

Mark nodded. The guards left the room, and the door clanked shut. He shuddered at the sound, then went to the slot and put his hands through. The cuffs came off and his hands began to tingle as blood flow increased. He hadn’t realized how tight the manacles had been until they were gone. As quickly as he could, he changed into the orange t-shirt and baggy pants. A number was stenciled across his chest. His number.

Gathering the dirty clothes, he shoved them through the opening. Nobody came in to help him, so he must have met the time requirements. The bed jutted out from a wall, if it could be called a bed. A thin mattress covered a simple metal shelf; at the foot of the bed was a folded blanket.

He sat on the shelf and rubbed his wrists. So, this was it. He glanced at the steel toilet and tiny sink. Other than the bed, that’s all there was.

Shivering, he took the rough blanket and pulled it around his shoulders. What would happen to him now? Thirst hit him but his body felt paralyzed and he remained on the edge of the bed.

He didn’t know how long he sat. Nothing in the cell changed, the light stayed just as bright, and no sounds penetrated the thick walls. If they kept him here too long, he would lose his mind. He needed color. The photographer in him already missed framing shots in his mind. It was second nature to him, even when he didn’t carry a camera. But here, there was nothing. No shadows, no colors. Just white walls, a dirty gray floor, and dull steel fixtures. Only the orange of his clothing broke up the monotony.

After a while, his stomach growled, and his thirst became over-powering. He shook off his lethargy, got up, and drank from the faucet. Finished, he splashed his face and worked the water up into his hair. He felt grimy and scrubbed his fingers into his scalp and across the back of his neck. The water wasn’t warm but it still felt good. Since he had no towel, he swiped his face along his shoulder and pulled his shirt up, using it to dry off.