....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 jolted awake. 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 marred his skin all the way down to his toes.
He looked like a mummy!
Bandages covered his arms, abdomen, and legs.
His dark, emotionless eyes scanned his surroundings. He was in a prison jumpsuit, 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 bitterly. "But that is if I cooperate." His voice trailed off, oozing dread.
The bus rattled along, bouncing around and causing the convicts to shift in their seats, their behinds sore from the jostling.
"Damn bus!" one hissed.
"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 relentless 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. Its high walls were topped with menacing 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 in horror and fear.
Breaking away 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..."
Zzzzzz.
The bus came to a sudden stop, silencing the chatter. They were led out by numerous guards, some on elevated platforms holding AK-47s and submachine guns. A machine gun loomed a couple of stories above, its muzzle pointed directly 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 dread washed over him. The sound of heavy boots echoed ominously against the cold, concrete floor. The fluorescent lights flickered intermittently above, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls, a visual reminder of the instability that lay within this hellish place.
Trevour had heard whispers of Gateway Correctional Facility before...tales of violence and despair, of lives shattered and hope extinguished. The stories circulated among those who had encountered its unyielding grip and lived to tell the tale.
The guards shoved him through the iron door leading into the processing area, where the air was thick with the pungent scent of sweat and metal. A harsh fluorescent light illuminated a large, barren room that housed several long tables, each one flanked by security personnel and several menacing guards. The palpable tension in the air sent terror down Trevour's spine; he could see the apprehension etched across the fellow convicts
"Get in line!" a guard bellowed, his voice booming through the hall. The echoes strolling their ears.With a quick shove, he found himself at the back of a disheveled line of men, all of whom wore expressions of despair, anger, or resignation.
As they moved forward, Trevour's heart raced. The guard at the head of the table handled the intake procedures with cold efficiency, snapping orders at incoming inmates.
"Name!" he 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 and throat tight. "Trevour," he managed to say, 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, blunt
The guard scribbled down Trevour's name and shuffled him along, where another officer awaited. 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 sickening crack.
The humiliation ran through Trevour in waves, but shame quickly turned to anger as he complied. He could sense the eyes of others on him, each gazing with a mix of curiosity and contempt.
"Turn around," the guard commanded, inspecting him with a clinical gaze. The man's hands were cold and rough as they searched him, poking with a force that made Trevour wince.
"Alright, you can get dressed. Next!" complying he quickly put on the rough, gray prison uniform, its coarse fabric scratching against his skin.
After the intake process was completed, Trevour was led deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of Gateway Correctional Facility, each step echoing his growing despair. The walls felt like they were closing in, and the flickering fluorescent lights. The corridors were stark, lined with heavy steel doors, each one a sentinel to worlds filled with despair, rage, and broken dreams.
"Keep moving!" a guard shouted, snapping Trevour from his spiraling thoughts. He hurried after a group of inmates, their expressions a mixture of weary acceptance and underlying tension.
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; it required careful navigation of relationships...
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 had clung to. The door creaked open, revealing a small, cramped space that barely held two bunks and a shared toilet. Graffiti marred the walls, crude drawings 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 rasped, a hollow smile breaking across his face.
"Thanks… I think,What's the name?" Trevour asked
"Marcus," he muttered, his voice gravelly."You'll learn quickly that trust is a currency you can't afford."