The van lurched forward one last time before the driver slammed on the brakes, bringing it to a sudden, violent halt. A thick cloud of red dust billowed up from the dry road, swirling into the hot air and stinging Alejandro's eyes through the small, barred window.
"Why are we stopping here?" Alejandro called out, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. He pressed his face closer to the metal mesh, peering into the blinding sunlight. "Maybe this is it" he thought, a flicker of desperate hope rising in his chest. "Maybe this is the place where they finally set me free."
The side door of the van rattled open with a metallic screech. A prison guard stepped out, boots crunching on gravel. Without a word, he yanked the rear doors wide. "Get out," he barked in a flat, unfriendly tone that carried no room for argument.
Rough hands grabbed Alejandro by the arm and hauled him into the open air. He stumbled, blinking against the glare. Ahead of him stretched nothing but dense jungle—tangled vines, towering trees, and an oppressive, humid stillness. The road had simply ended. No buildings, no other vehicles, no signs of civilization. The place felt forgotten by the world.
His gaze drifted to the side. A lone fisherman sat cross-legged on a fallen log near the water's edge, stitching a frayed net with slow, deliberate movements. The man looked up, his weathered face splitting into a crooked grin.
"Alcatraz," he called out, his voice carrying across the empty clearing. "Where no fly comes out alive." He threw his head back and laughed—a wild, unhinged cackle that echoed off the trees like breaking glass.
Alejandro felt ice slide down his spine.
Before he could process the words, a coarse burlap sack was shoved over his head. The world went dark and musty. The fabric smelled of mildew and old sweat. Someone cinched it tight around his neck, blindfolding him completely.
"Get up, old man," another guard growled, yanking him to his feet. "We've got no time to waste."
Alejandro heard the van's engine cough to life behind him, tires spinning as it pulled away in a spray of dirt. Voices murmured—low, clipped exchanges he couldn't quit understand. At this point, all he could do was guess.
They shoved him forward. His feet found the uneven edge of a dock; wood creaked under his weight. Hands guided—more like forced—him onto a boat. The deck rocked as he stepped aboard. Two guards flanked him, one on each side, their presence heavy and watchful. The engine roared to life with a guttural bellow, vibrating through the hull and up into his bones. The boat sliced into the water, cutting through waves with sharp, determined thrusts.
Cold sea breeze whipped against the sack, carrying the sharp tang of salt and something darker—decay, perhaps, or the faint rot of seaweed. Alejandro tried to steady his breathing. With every passing minute, the life he had known slipped further behind him. The city noise, the crowded streets, the small dreams he'd once nursed—they all felt like memories from someone else's life.
The boat swerved sharply after what felt like half an hour. Then, just as abruptly, the engine cut. Silence rushed in, broken only by the lap of water against the hull and the creak of wood settling.
A guard gripped his arm again. "Move."
They dragged him off the boat onto what felt like rocky ground. No sand—sharp stones bit into the soles of his thin prison slippers. They walked for several minutes. Strangely, no birds sang. No insects buzzed. The jungle sounds he'd expected were absent, replaced by an eerie, heavy quiet that pressed against his ears.
Then the air changed. Warmth brushed his skin, carrying a faint, acrid scent—sulphur, like the breath of something volcanic. They were entering a cave. The temperature rose; the breeze died. Footsteps echoed off stone walls.
Someone flipped the sack off his head.
Alejandro blinked in the dim torchlight. Two cruel-faced guards stood at the cave entrance, arms crossed, expressions carved from stone. They looked as though they'd been waiting there all day—perhaps all year—just for him.
"Alejandro Andrea," one of the escorts said flatly, shoving him forward. "He's yours."
The blindfold was yanked back down over his eyes before he could speak. Hands gripped his arms again, dragging him deeper. The sound of retreating footsteps faded as the original guards left. Now only these new ones remained.
They pulled him along a narrow passage. From somewhere beyond the rock walls came a low, broken cry—human, anguished, quickly cut off. Alejandro's stomach twisted. "This is really a prison," he realized. Not a rumor, not a myth. A real place where men vanished.
They led him into the confinement. A heavy metal door clanged shut behind them.
"Jalar!" a guard barked.
Alejandro knew it meant "pull." He knew little Spanish.
The floor lurched—the lift ascended slowly, groaning, then stopped. They dragged him out into silence.
They stopped. Metal clinked as cuffs were unlocked from his wrists. The blindfold came off again.
He stood before a heavy steel door. Above it, barely visible in the weak light of a hanging lamp, were the numbers **0114** scratched into the rock.
One guard unlocked the door with a key that looked ancient. It groaned open on rusted hinges.
"Remove your clothes," the guard yelled, voice bouncing off the walls.
Alejandro hesitated only a second. Hands shoved him again. He stripped quickly, shivering as the damp chill of the cave touched his skin. A rough, threadbare garment was thrown at his chest.
"Put this on."
He pulled it over his head. The fabric was stiff with old sweat and God-knows-what-else.
They pushed him inside and slammed the door. The lock clicked with finality.
Darkness swallowed him almost completely. Only a faint, sickly glow seeped under the door from the corridor lamp. His eyes adjusted slowly. Two beds—little more than rusted metal frames with thin, stained mattresses—stood against opposite walls. The mattresses were soaked through with dark, unidentifiable fluid that glistened wetly. The smell hit him next: urine, feces, mildew, and something metallic like old blood. Buckets sat beside each bed—open, overflowing, crawling with flies. Bedbugs swarmed across the bedding in visible waves, tiny black specks that scattered when he moved closer. Rats darted from corner to corner, their claws scratching against stone.
There was no window. No ventilation. Just rough volcanic rock walls that seemed to sweat moisture. The air was thick, choking. Every breath felt like swallowing poison.
Alejandro stood frozen in the center of the cell, the oversized garment hanging off his frame. His legs gave out. He sank to the filthy floor, knees hitting cold stone.
He had planned so much. A small house on the edge of town. A garden where his grandchildren might one day play. A quiet retirement. A name that people would remember for something good. All of it—gone. Snatched away in the space of a single, dust-choked ride.
Tears came then, hot and unstoppable. They carved clean tracks through the grime on his face. He didn't sob loudly; he couldn't. The sound would have echoed too much in this tomb. Instead, he wept silently, shoulders shaking, hands pressed to his mouth to muffle the grief.
"I'm a dead man," he thought, over and over, the words looping in his mind like a prayer he no longer believed in.
He curled into himself on the floor, unwilling to touch the beds. The stench pressed down like a physical weight. Somewhere in the distance, another prisoner screamed—a long, ragged sound that rose and fell before dying into whimpers.
Alejandro closed his eyes. The darkness behind his lids was no different from the darkness around him.
He wondered how long a man could survive here before he stopped being a man at all.
Hours passed. He listened to the drip of water somewhere deep in the rock. He listened to the rats. He listened to his own heartbeat, steady and stubborn, refusing to give up even when everything else had.
In that suffocating silence, a small, dangerous thought took root.
"I am already a Deadman" he told himself.
"Suddenly, a loud bang on the door".