Carlos J. Cortes - The Prisoner

Inferno, Canto III: 79
Before me nothing but eternal things were made,
and I endure eternally.
Abandon every hope, who enter here.
The Divine Comedy, D ANTE A LIGHIERI

17:02

Remain calm and follow the instructions.

Laurel Cole sniffed. Calm? How can anyone about to die remain calm?

The trucks enclosure had a subtle smell ingrained in its polished steel surfaces and expanded metal grillesa smell no amount of steam and disinfectant could remove. It was the odor of fear, of sweat tinged with a whiff of feces and vomit.

There was a shudder, a hollow thud, and the hiss of hydraulic bolts locking; the rear of the truck had coupled against the building. Overhead, the speaker continued its monotonous mantra. Remain calm.

Laurel blinked. Although it was outside her field of vision, she knew every step to dock the vehicle against the admissions entrance of the prison complex. Shepherd had explained the procedure more than once and with the matter-of-fact tone of firsthand experience.

Do people scream? In retrospect, it had been a foolish question, but Laurel had asked her trainerthe man she knew only as Shepherdanyway. He didnt know but offered a warning instead: Whoever opens his or her mouth before theyre told to, or departs from instructions in any way, risks another year.

Another year? In for a pennyNo. Laurel checked the thought. Once youre dead, it shouldnt matter for how long: elastic time, darkness, and nothingness. But it did. How long you were dead was important, and the thought of an extra minute would be enough to drive anyone insane.

Will I dream? Another stupid question. She pushed the tips of her fingers through the wire mesh fronting her cage and narrowed her eyes as a panel behind the truck inched upward, blinding light pouring through the widening gap at its base.

Stand away from the doors.

Laurel disentangled her fingers and pressed her back against the side of the cage. It wasnt a question of stepping back but simply leaning. Her enclosure, two feet wide and eighteen inches deep, didnt have enough space for a step. Twenty-four enclosures to a truck. Twenty-four new inmates on their way to hell.

A blue-white glare lit the trucks interior. Tiny stars shone on the wire grille, perhaps a few specks of dust. The light must be UV heavy. We dont want germs, do we? In the pen across from her own, Laurel peered at a bright orange shape. It was an old man, his shaven head glistening under the glare. Cold sweat. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish in a bowl. Or, better still, like the face in Munchs The Scream.

A snap, and the door to her enclosure swung open smoothly on its hinges.

Five-one-five-eight-five-three-one-six, exit your compartment. Remain calm.

How thoughtful. Ladies first. After standing in the same spot for several hours, the metal floor outside her pen felt cold. No shoes? Nerves had probably triggered her questions, since she already understood the horror, but Shepherd had answered anyway: No. No shoes. What for?

Walk out of the truck and into the adjoining room.

Laurel stepped forward, darting a glance back at the pens, each with an orange outline insidelike gaily wrapped mummies, tucked into as many catacomb niches. Remain calm. Stand inside the circle at the center of the room.

Behind her, she heard the trucks rear panel slide back down, its bolts ramming home. No witnesses, nothing to give the other twenty-three prisoners a clue.

Undress and drop your clothes inside the circle.

She pulled a T-shirt over her head, tore at the strip holding the trousers around her waist, and stepped out of the cloth as it pooled around her feet. Cold. She maneuvered both feet over the garments. No underwear. No need. Warmth seeped through her soles. Her warmth, soon to wane.

The room, a perfect cube perhaps ten feet by ten feet, was featureless, with white polymer walls, floor, and ceiling. No openings, no anything. It was empty but for a gray circle and a terrified, naked woman standing on orange clothes. She didnt notice when the wall facing her started to rise. The continuous floor and lack of features played tricks with her perception.

Advance into the next room.

Although it was difficult to estimate timethere was no urgency to the processthe wretches in the truck would get a glimpse of eternity. Laurel was sure that, year or no year, some would scream. Perhaps that was the designers idea. She stepped forward. The building probably consisted of blocks, every room a carbon copy of the previous one. No, wrong clich. No carbon here; a snow copy.