....Third pov.....
Rumble... squeak! Squeak!
The bus drove along a lonely road, vast green plains stretching as far as the eye could see on both sides.
"Argh!"
Trevour woke from his deep sleep. His face was a grim sight, unrecognizable from what it once was. Torn lips, a broken nose, sunken eyes surrounded by dark circles, and numerous stitches littered his skin all the way down to his feet.
He looked like a mummy!
Bandages covered his arms, abdomen, and legs.
His dark, emotionless eyes scanned his surroundings. He was in a prison outfit, handcuffs clamped around his wrists.
He wasn't alone, at least half the bus was filled with convicts like him.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his head.
"Seems like this is where my uncle decided to finish me off," he thought. "Stage it like a prison killing incident... smart!" He chuckled m "But that is if I cooperate." His voice dark, oozing dread.
The bus shook, bouncing around and causing the convicts to squirm in their seats, their behinds sore.
"Damn bus!" one cursed.
"They can't even get a decent bus to transport us, poor blocks," another grumbled.
"Ha! You guys are funny. Who would spend money on a new bus for criminals? Haha!" another laughed.
Their booming chatter and banter turned the bus into a moving cafeteria...complete with handcuffs.
They seemed to have resigned themselves to their fate, but Trevour was not willing to give in.
After some time, increasingly irritated by the noise, he finally caught sight of the prison shuttle.
Its high walls were topped with deadly spikes.
As they drew closer, the true nature of the place became clear. It was...
Massive!
From a distance, it had looked somewhat small, but up close, the outer wall towered two and a half stories high, perhaps even three.
The paint was peeling, rusted iron bars were broken, and chunks of concrete were missing. Clearly, this prison had been built a long time ago.....but rather than appearing old, it felt more terrifying, twisting his gut.
Snapping out from his reverie, voices reached his ears.
"So this is where I will spend the rest of my life..." someone murmured, fear written all over his face.
"Fuck man! I wanna go home!"
"Prepare, boys! This is where they put away hardened criminals and drug lords! Wash your asses and get ready for it to get drilled, hahaha!"
"Shut up, prick! Like you're any better."
"You look..."
The bus came to a sudden stop, silencing the chatter. They were led out by numerous guards, some on elevated platforms holding AKs and submachine guns.
A machine gun mounted a couple of stories above, its muzzle directed at them
"They're really not playing around,"Trevour thought.
They were directed into an old building that told the tales of time
As they where guided into the facility, a sense of terror over took Trevour. The sound of heavy boots rang against the cold concrete. The fluorescent lights flickered above, casting shadows that moved across the walls.
Trevour had heard whispers of Gateway Correctional Facility before...tales of violence and despair, of lives lost. The stories roamed among those who had encountered its hellish conditions and lived to tell the tale.
The guards shoved him through the iron door leading into the processing area, where the air stank of pungent scent of sweat and metal.
A huge light illuminated a large, barren room that housed several long tables, each one flanked by guards and several menacing soldierd
"Get in line!" a guard shouted, his voice booming through the hall.
With a quick shove, he found himself at the back of a line of men, all of whom wore expressions of despair, anger
As they moved forward, Trevour's heart raced. The guard at the head of the table handled the intake procedures with cold looks
"Name!" A guard barked at the man before him...a frail figure who looked as if he had seen too many sunrises that brought nothing but pain.
The man stuttered, fear evident in his eyes, as he gave his name. The guard didn't bother with pleasantries, just checked a list and motioned for him to move along.
When it was Trevour's turn, he swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Trevour," he said, the words barely escaping his lips. The guard looked at him over the rims of cold, metal glasses, his gaze penetrating
"Next!" came the voice, cold
It was a tall, muscular man with a predatory glint in his eyes...
"Strip," the man ordered flatly, producing a pair of rubber gloves that snapped against each other with a crack.
"Turn around," the guard commanded, inspecting him. The man's hands were cold and rough as they searched him, poking with a force that made Trevour hiss
"Alright, you can get dressed. Next!" complying he quickly put on the rough, gray prison uniform, its coarse fabric uncomfortable
After the intake process was completed, Trevour was led deeper into the corridors, each step echoing its looming horror
"Keep moving!" a guard said, snapping Trevour from his spiraling thoughts. He hurried after a group of inmates, their expressions a mixture of wearness
Finally, he arrived at a cell block where the sounds of laughter mingled with the harsh tones of conflict.Trevour could already sense that survival in this place wasn't merely about evading violence
An intricate dance of power and fear.
"Cell twelve!" A guard pointed down the line, and Trevour found himself standing in front of a steel door, its coldness a stark contrast to the warmth of hope he clung to.
The bars sung open, revealing a small, cramped space that barely held two bunks and a shared toilet.
Drawings married the walls, crude letters and unsettling phrases etched into the concrete.
The current occupant of the cell, a man with a gaunt face and tired eyes, looked up with a flicker of recognition. He was tall, with tangled hair that hung down his face, framing sunken cheeks. "Welcome to hell," he growled, a hollow smile breaking across his face.
"Thanks… , yours?" Trevour asked
"Marcus," he muttered, his voice gravelly."You'll learn quickly that trust is a currency you can't afford."