"You're sure, Ken? It's really necessary?"

"The mayor and an ad hoc council committee decided it yesterday—they specifically stated that they wanted a full evacuation of the facility. They expect the biggest storm of the century—a damn monsoon. Pass the word to your warden about the transfer."

"This is one hell of a screw-up, Ken. One hell of a screw-up."

"Just tell Joe and Greg to get the prisoners in the busses and your problems will be over. You better get out of here yourself, too, man. I would if I were you."

"Thanks for your concern, Ken, but I can take care of myself. I'll pass the word on to the boys."

"Good. I hope to hear from you soon. Let me know when you make it out."

"Sure thing." Fred Cressner hung up the phone. His heart was sinking faster than the titanic. He had never had to do a prison transfer before; he doubted if Joe or Greg had had to either. The last major storm had been back in '57, and had been recorded as one of the worst downpours in Florida history. This one, however, was expected to top even the '57 storm. This one was supposed to make history.

Fred had heard of the tropical storm a few weeks ago, but hadn't thought much of it until it became an actual hurricane. Hurricane Gwyneth, they called it. There were warnings from officials that an evacuation was underway, but Fred wasn't allowed to evacuate the town immediately upon on issuance; he had a job to do. The mayor had bestowed the wonderful job of him and two other prison guards—Joe and Greg—to watch over the prisoners and make sure they get their three hots and a dry cot. When the evacuation became mandatory, Fred was worried that the three of them would have to bus the prisoners to a nearby facility as per the evacuation requirements. And his worry had proved legitimate enough: indeed, the call from Ken

had come at the worst possible time—the traffic was going to be horrendous going out of the city. Drower St. was already backed up for miles.

Fred figured that the mayor had chosen him and the other two guards because they were the only people who weren't married and didn't have any close relatives in Hurlington—they could afford to spend a little time babysitting before having to leave the city. It was just like that old proverb: love not, have not. Fred certainly had neither.

After hanging up the phone, Fred figured he better get right to it. If they wanted a head start out of the city and maybe a chance to avoid some traffic, they better just round up the prisoners quick and skedaddle. He pressed the button on his radio and signaled for Joe and Greg to come into his office. While he waited, Fred mused an ironic notion: he was probably the youngest guard left, yet he was the one in charge of it all. The head hauncho. The El Capitan . He would be the one who would have to moderate the whole procedure, even though he (or anyone else, for that matter) had never had to transfer so many prisoners at one time ever before. He could tell it was going to be one pisser of a day.

Joe and Greg entered the room a few minutes later in unison. Joe was a tall, stalwart man who didn't talk much. Greg was significantly smaller in size—at only five-six and what couldn't have been more than a hundred and thirty pounds of sticks and bones, he was subject to chronic taunts by the prisoners. The prisoners loved effeminate, small men even more than they loved to dwell in their own truculence. Both Joe and Greg looked up (or Greg did, at least) at Fred when they entered the room. Fred gave them the 411 on the mandatory prison transfer. "Why us?" Greg asked. He had the pissed-off look on his face that Fred had predicted.

"Because the warden said so. Let's just round them up, bus them and be done with it, guys. No complaints."

"They better pay us compensation for this," Greg said miserably.

"If it'll cheer you up, Greg, the warden did say he'd pay us double, on account of the crisis," Fred said. The conversation was going just as he had planned.

"Alright, well let's just get this sh!t over with. I want to get the hell out of Hurlington as fast as I can." Fred didn't say anything more, but nodded in agreement. He knew this was exactly why he was in charge in the first place—Joe was always too quiet to be a leader and Greg was just an asshole. No love lost there. "Ok, guys," Fred said, "have your radio lines open. Call in if there is any trouble. Greg, you take care of A block. Joe, you got B; I got C. Transfer one prisoner at a time. Be sure to be safe; as you know, some of these assholes can be aggressive. Three buses are out in the detention lot—make sure you restrain the prisoners before loading them on the bus. Most of all, be safe. We don't want any accidents on a day like this."

"We will, daddy, don't worry," Greg chortled. "Why'd the warden put you in charge anyway, eh? I'm six years your senior!"

"You're also six times more of an asshole," Joe said, speaking for the first time. Joe was perhaps one of the few people in the world that was able to insult Greg and get away with it. Despite Greg's small frame, he was an aggressive little man, similar to some watchdogs you see on guarding a person's house. Small but ferocious; weak but tenacious. Greg simply gave Joe a disapproving look before refocusing his eyes on Fred.

"Let's just do this," Fred said. "Remember: radio in if you get into any trouble."

Joe and Greg went their own way. Fred went toward C block. As he walked, he could hear the loud clitter-clatter of the rain on the roof, as well as hear the howling winds smacking aggressively against the prison walls. Fred shivered as he walked. He should have put his security sweatshirt on before he left. For a moment he pondered going back and grabbing it, but

then he thought of Joe and Greg. They would already be letting the prisoners out by now—both A block and B block were closer to the office—and Fred couldn't afford to lose any time. He had promised them that it would be quick.

Hurlington Penitentiary was a medium-security prison situated on the coast of Florida . It was not a virgin to strong downpours or winds—it had even been through the hurricane of '57 and came out intact—but Fred doubted greatly if the prison would be able to withstand the oncoming hurricane. The thought of it being crushed by strong surges of winds and a giant flood gave Fred a sadistic pleasure, however. He hated working here—hated the atmosphere of it, from the old-fashioned walls to the stench of the prisoners that they housed—and he would not be the least bit setback to see the fu(ker go. Just as long as Fred wasn't in there when the prison did meet its seemingly preordained fate, Fred was all the more happier. It was one of the few happy thoughts the he retained during this series of unhappy events.

He had been raised in a poor family in a what was then ghetto town. He had been an only child, and his father had died in a car accident when he was four. His father had been a chronic drinker—one of the types that they now called 'problem drinkers'—and had been driving one night after too many martinis. He had been alone in the car when he crashed the '69 Cadillac (Fred's mother had been safe and sound at home, awaiting the return of her never-to-be-seen-again husband) into a tree. He had veered off-road; the police said that he had passed out while driving and had not been wearing a seatbelt. And that was that.

Years later, when Fred was twelve and was in the incipient stages of puberty and was just starting to 'like' girls in that special way, his mom had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. She died within that year, leaving Fred to live with his grandfather of sixty-four. His grandfather, whose name was Jack Cressner, was a retired war veteran of Viet Nam . He smoked

more Cuban cigars and drank more screwdrivers than anyone Fred had ever known. The first day Fred arrived at his grandfather's doorstep, his grandfather had yanked Fred inside, taken off his belt and whisked Fred until large, blotchy red marks appeared on his skin. "You killed my son, boy . . ." he had mumbled. "You killed my only son, and now I have to take care of you, you little sh!t." Fred had later found out that his grandfather had been drunk (he was drunk more often than he was sober) when they had met, and had dismissed his grandfathers disorderly conduct as nothing but an inconvenient byproduct of his drunkenness.

When Fred was fifteen, Jack had been arrested by the police for possession of Cuban cigar contraband and sentenced to six months in prison, during which time Fred had to live in a foster home. Fred had hated his stay there, but had liked it much better than living with his alcoholic, smoking grandfather.

After Fred's grandfather had been released from prison he had asked to regain custody of Fred. But Fred had other ideas—after talking and making friends at the foster home, his new (and first) friends had encouraged him to take care of himself. When Jack—Fred's Grandfather—had asked for custody, Fred litigated to emancipate himself. By then he was sixteen. The court granted him emancipation rights, and that was that.

Fred was hired on for various oddball jobs and took care of himself. Him and one of his fellow foster home friends—Dan—had gotten an apartment together. When Fred was twenty-two he got hired on as a state correctional guard at Hurlington State Penitentiary. During his neophyte years he was mocked a lot by fellow guards and state prisoners alike, but he soon came to be respected as a quiet, but strangely charismatic, man. After a few years working as a prisoner correctional officer, Fred decided to move out of Dan's and his apartment and was able to finance his own home in Hurlington. And that was that.

Nowadays Fred didn't care much for Hurlington. He felt as if he had a big future ahead of him that was autonomously unaffected by his present locale. He would leave this city and possibly get out of Florida and seek his fortunes elsewhere. He may even move to a different country—why not? He had his whole future ahead of him. He had made a pact with himself that before he reached age thirty—he was twenty-seven now—he was have traveled to at least seven different states. And that was that.

Fred finally arrived at C block. Henry Boister, the first prisoner that Fred unlocked, was a tall, red-haired young man who had a mouth as big as his ego. He was in for thirty years without parole for grand theft auto and assault and attempted murder on a police officer. He was a pure reprobate who would amount to nothing in life, Fred thought. Fred hated the ones that were in for a long time; it gave them less incentive to behave. Henry looked at Fred antagonistically when Fred approached his cell. Fred, who was by now in a good mood and lost in his thoughts, approached compassionately.

"Going to get you out of here," Fred said conversationally. "Gotta transfer you to a new facility."

"You can bite my ass!" Henry Boister yelled belligerently. Fred closed his eyes right in time. Henry had formulated a large amount of saliva in his mouth, hawked, and had spat right into Fred's face.

"How you like that one, tough guy?" Henry mocked. Fred wiped his face with his free hand before continuing to unlock the cell. His happy-go-lucky mood was rapidly deteriorating.

"You'd show me a bit more respect, Henry," Fred said. "I'm saving your ass and I am not in the mood to deal with your piss poor behavior."

"Eat me!" Henry yelled. Fred turned the key in Henry's cell and opened the door. Henry walked toward the door as it opened.

"Back up," Fred ordered. "Turn around. Put your hands behind your ba—"

Whap

Henry hit dead on. His fist made hard contact with Fred's jaw. Fred's teeth chomped down in reflex, jabbing into the soft part of his tongue. Fred didn't have time to feel pain, though—his life was on the line and he knew it. He reached for his pepper spray, ready to fire into Henry's face. Henry, knowing this was coming, sucker punched Fred hard. Fred buckled over in pain. Henry moved in. He grabbed Fred's head with both his hands, yanked Fred down and kneed him in his head, breaking Fred's nose.

Fred didn't remember anything after that—he was knocked out cold. When he finally awoke, he found himself in a dark, damp room that was seemingly unfamiliar to him. Then he saw the bars and realized to his dismay where he was. He was in a jail cell—Henry's former jail cell. He was in the middle of it, sprawled on the damp, hard surface of a twelve by nine inch cell.

Just then he noticed the pain. It swept over him like a high tide, causing him to groan in agony. His whole body seemed to be broken in two. His head was throbbing, and he was breathing out of his mouth through copious amounts of dried, crusty blood. He could taste its saltiness. His nose seemed to be numb, but when he reached up to feel it he wailed in pain. It was clearly broken and, by the way it felt, broken badly. He was barely able to think through the pain—it seemed to somehow be occluding and disrupting his cognitive abilities—but he was able to conjure up some reasonable thought. Henry Boister, the inmate that he had first unlocked, had surprised and overtaken him. He had been knocked out and Henry must have dragged his body into his cell and locked him in. Presently Fred reached at his midsection, trying to feel for

his officer effects—his keys and radio and gun—but he was stripped down to his underpants. Henry must have taken all of his gear and ran off.

"Anyone there?" Fred managed to yell. His chest hurt as he did so—he imagined that Henry had broken one or more of his ribs—but he had to do something. He couldn't just lie here till he was magically saved. Deus ex Machina don't exist in the real world.

No one responded except his own distant, fading echo. He tried again. And again. No response. Just then a terrible thought struck Fred—so terrible that he tried to force it away but was unable to. What if Henry took your keys and freed all the prisoners? What if you are responsible for the biggest jailbreak in history—bigger than Attica ? What if you just killed Joe and Greg? What if? What if? Fred felt his heart sink. What if that did happen? It made logical sense—why wouldn't Henry free his fellow inmates? And in the current state of things, who would be there to recapture them? Would they be able to run amok, rampaging and looting the town? Worse than all of these—would Fred be saved? After all, who would be left to save them? Everyone else in town had to have been evacuated by now, and the hurricane would be only a few hours off from touchdown. Hurlington was only about a half hour drive from the coast.

These thoughts were too much for Fred. He closed his eyes, trying to think of what he could do. Deep in his thoughts, he drifted off to a peaceful sleep, filled with dreams of his life: a flashback of all the important events of his life was before him like a film reel. He saw his father and his mom looming over him, watching him. He saw them smiling at him, their faces luminous despite the obfuscated cell. He saw everything he could have done and everything he could have been in life vanishing before his eyes. Then darkness enclosed him, and a strangely cool substance engulfed his whole body. It was icy cold yet somehow comforting. It went up until it reached his face and his nose, and that was when he started to drift away from his body . . . away

from consciousness . . . away from the confusing world with which he had been born into. He saw his mother and father coming closer to him, approaching him, ready to hold him affectionately once more, to show him the joys that he had been missing all his life on Earth, to show him the beauty of what lay in the great beyond.

Fred Cressner died that day, deep in his own intricate dreams. The hurricane struck Hurlington, killing fifty seven its residence that could not make it out to a safe evacuation area before Gwyneth came in all her rage and fury; Joe Russler and Gregory Jenkins were among them. Fred was once again reunited with his long-deceased family, never to worry about the harshness of the world that he had gone into and left in less than twenty-seven years. He is one of the many people in this world who die young, and he won't be the last. And that was that