Lester strolled up to them slowly, casually. He was holding a broomstick.
“Today is a big day. The meeting with the important people. Lester needs the boys and the girl to behave.”
He reached into his bib overalls and removed a pair of handcuffs.
“Lester wants to know the black boy’s name.”
Tyrone said nothing. Lester raised up his broomstick, and Cindy saw it had a nail sticking out of the end. He aimed it at Tyrone.
“His name is Tyrone,” she quickly said. “He’s Tyrone, I’m Cindy.”
Lester tossed the handcuffs into Tyrone’s cell. They made a jingling sound when they hit the floor.
“The Tyrone boy needs to put the handcuffs on, behind his back.”
“Fuck you, you ugly, buck-toothed mutha fucker.”
Before Cindy had a chance to yell, “No!” Lester had jabbed Tyrone on the hip with the nail. Tyrone recoiled, making a small grunting noise.
“The Tyrone boy will put on the handcuffs.”
“You hear me the first time?” Tyrone said through his teeth. “Fuck. You.”
Lester jabbed him again, this time aiming for Tyrone’s crotch. The teen shifted and managed to deflect the strike, instead getting pierced in the thigh.
“Tyrone, baby, honey, please put them on.” Cindy ran her hand over his head, willing him to listen. “Please, Tyrone, for me, just do it.”
Lester raised the stick again. Tyrone scowled at him, then reached for the handcuffs.
“I’ll help you.” Cindy put her arms through the bars, cinching the cuffs loosely on his wrists.
“Now the Cindy girl will put on the handcuffs.”
Lester tossed her a pair, and she dutifully snicked them on behind her back.
“Let Lester see.”
She scooted over, showing him. Lester walked off, moving to Tom’s cell.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
The cuffs jangled the concrete floor.
“My finger, it’s, it’s all messed up,” Tom said. He had the hiccups. “I can’t put them on.”
Lester thrust out the broomstick, poking Tom in the stomach.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
“Jesus! Stop it! I can’t do it!”
Lester jabbed him again, this time in the leg.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
Tom reached for the cuffs, then moaned. “I can’t get them open.”
Lester hit him in the ribs this time.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
“Tom!” Cindy had her face pressed to the bars. “Tom, just put them on!”
“I’m trying.” Hic. “I… I can’t.”
Lester stabbed Tom in the ribs, and he made a sound like tires screeching.
“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”
“Tom, for God’s sake!” Cindy yelled. “Put on the goddamn cuffs!”
Slowly, painfully slowly, Tom managed to lock one bracelet across his left wrist, and get his hands behind his back. Cindy watched, intent but also repulsed at the site of his damaged finger.
“You can do it, Tom,” she urged. “Don’t give up.”
Tom was shaking like mad, still hiccupping, but he managed to finesse the second cuff on.
“Show Lester.”
Tom got to his knees, letting the man see his hands. Lester raised the stick again.
“No!” Cindy cried.
In rapid succession, Lester jabbed Tom four more times. He was raising back for a fifth when Cindy said, “Lester.”
Lester turned to look at her. He was grinning, a thin streak of drool running down his chin.
“Don’t,” Tyrone told Cindy under his breath.
But it was too late. Lester was coming over.
“Is the Cindy girl jealous that the Tom boy is getting all the attention?”
Cindy looked at Lester, then at the nail on the stick, which was glistening with Tom’s blood.
“I just, uh, had a question, Lester. You said we’re meeting important people today. Who are we meeting?”
“It’s a surprise,” Lester said.
“But these people are important?”
“Very important.”
“And you said we need to behave. But if you keep poking us with that stick, we won’t be able to behave. We won’t even be able to move. Is that what you want?”
Lester seemed to think about it, then slowly shook his head.
“No. That wouldn’t be good.”
Then, lightening quick, he thrust out the stick, stabbing Cindy in the arm.
“But one little poke can’t hurt,” Lester said.
Then the giant walked away, across the room, back up the stairs.
Cindy clutched her arm, which felt like she’d been kicked by a mule, and stared out the window fully believing that this was going to be the last sunrise she ever saw.
Dr. Plincer opened his eyes. He stretched, yawned, removed his earplugs, put on his glasses, and then forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he sat down on the toilet to urinate. Running water and electricity were the only two utilities on the island, and both were limited. There were only three toilets and four sinks in the entire prison, and the water they used was rust-colored and tasted muddy.
It was a big day today, so he showered. The electric generator used a lot of gasoline, and one of the biggest power hogs was the water heater, which Plincer kept on the lowest setting. The doctor stoically braved the lukewarm water, toweled off quickly, and then stood in front of the mirror to put on his face.
First he shaved, never an easy task because of the extra bumps and divots. Then he spent ten minutes building up layers of scar putty, filling in holes and smoothing over rough edges. When he was finished, a bit of pancake make-up to blend. He checked his profile, found it to be suitable, and then dressed in slacks, a fresh shirt, and a clean lab coat.
The dart gun was a pistol model, not accurate more than five feet, but able to be fired using just one hand. Plincer made sure it was loaded, and he put a fresh CO2 cartridge. Then it was off to make breakfast.
The prison hallway was scream-free. Either Subject 33 had been unable to restrain himself and had killed his playmate too soon, or he was having a rest. Plincer was grateful for the silence. There was no better way to start a day than a cup of hot coffee and some quiet contemplation.
He used bottled water for the coffee, and while it brewed he scrambled ten eggs in a large bowl. Plincer then took a loaf of bread out of the freezer, microwaved it until thawed, and dumped the slices into the eggs. As the bread soaked, he heated up the large cast iron skillet on the stove top.
The secret to perfect French toast was timing. Timing, and just a dash of cinnamon and sugar. When the skillet was hot enough, he gave it a spritz of non-stick spray, then arranged the first four slices on the pan using a spatula. He flipped them at the exact right time, and took them off the heat when both sides were golden brown but the insides still soft. Plincer repeated this process, sipping coffee and musing about a neighbor he once had, a bitter old man who used to yell whenever anyone stepped on his lawn. Perhaps if the neighbor had taken pleasure from the simple things in life, such as making a nice breakfast, he wouldn’t have been so unpleasant.
Doctor Plincer stocked the cart with the tray of toast, plates, glasses, a carton of orange juice, napkins, some plastic knives and forks, tiny carafes of maple syrup, and some dog biscuits.
Getting it up the spiral staircase was a slow affair, one step at a time, making sure nothing fell off, but Plincer looked forward to it. Frankly, it was the only exercise he got during the day.
He pushed the cart to Subject 33’s room at the end of the hallway, checked the slot to make sure he wasn’t in the antechamber, and took the dart pistol out of his lab coat.
“Good morning. Breakfast is here.”
Plincer waited, and after a few seconds Subject 33 put his hands through the slot in the second door. They were caked with dried blood.