Wales Grim

There are two of us now.

It used to be four. Four cots, four inmates. There are only two now. Me, and a city boy named Frank. The others, whose names I forget, were taken weeks ago. I'd only just arrived here on the island when they were escorted out of the cell, one after the other.

Frank tells me that if anyone is taken in the middle of lockdown, they never return. This statement appears to be true. The prison island of Wales Grim is exclusive to lifers and death row inmates, but it seems that everyone here is on death row, even if that wasn't their sentence.

I can't tell how many days it's been since any meal came through the door-slide. Frank enlightens me with his wall markings. Twelve Xs for the days of the month, and six slashes through the last six Xs. It's been six days since anyone has come to feed us or let us out of this cage. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I've heard the jeers of our neighbors. This block holds a number of cells aside from ours. Are they gone, too? I can't tell. The cells are angled so that you can't make direct contact, or see into the cell adjacent to yours.

Frank speaks to me with a vigor I don't believe I've ever heard him produce. He's been quiet for a while. "I'm finished, Mike!"

"Finished what?" I ask.

He shows me a bar of soap filed down into a blunt fork with two teeth. "Is it edible?" I ask.

"No, man. It's a key!"

"What?"

He's already angling his arm through the bars using the soap-key. He tells me that the locking mechanism isn't a real lock at all, but a simple push-and-twist scheme done by the real deformed-key. I don't ask him how he knows this.

It's empty. The cell blocks, the yard, it's all empty. There's no one here. No one in the towers with high-powered rifles. No one barred to a four-man room. The emptiness induces anxiety, but not so much as to stop us from ransacking the caff-kitchen of all its canned goods. We fill our bellies and return the vim to our bones.

We find the guard's quarters. It's messy. Lockers left open, uniforms sprawled about, even food molding on the tables. They left in a hurry. Among their things, we find nothing of particular value but a black employee handbook. Inside contains all the human resources print and in the very back, a neatly folded map fitting the book.

"Good find." Frank says. "Cause I have no idea how to get to the docks."

Me either, I thought. Being in lockdown twenty-three hours a day with only an hour of yard time doesn't exactly leave room for tours of the complex.

We take the black handbook containing the map with us. Execution wing, warden's office, and the docks. All areas of interest.

The first time we've seen the sun in days, and it's setting. We reach a small opening outside in the center of the complex. A courtyard, but of a more twisted variety.

"A guillotine?" Frank asks. "What is this? the 1800's?"

We stand before an 18ft instrument of death. There is still blood on where the neck rests and in the basket below it. The courtyard is filled with Victorian-era devices of capital punishment, all looking well worn and stained with a dull read. Frank is ready to leave. I have no objections.

I pop into the warden's office. Frank splits for a while and follows the map to the contraband room. I'm more focused on what happened here than sifting through a treasure vault.

I find a file with lists of all the inmates. next to their names is the conviction, and a maroon stamp reading "DECEASED."

Deceased is written all the way down the list.

The last two names read:

Micheal White/ First-degree murder --

Franklyn Xavier/ First-degree murder/ Assult with --

No stamps next to these names.

"We were next..."

I find the stamp and tag deceased to our names.

The map tells us to make our way down a long side corridor that will lead us to the docks. Frank is carrying a duffle bag filled with what I can only assume is contraband. He's smiling madly.

We push open a pair of rusty iron doors and are met with the cool night air and a refreshing sea breeze. Down below are the docks with a singular motor-boat tied to a post, smiling at us. We smile back.

As I prepare to untie the rope, I feel a prick in my back. I swivel on my heels. Frank is wielding the finest shank I've ever seen. A six-inch rod sharpened to the point of a needle, duct tapped to the end of a broom handle.

"You'd think I'd be able to find at least one gun." He laughs.

"What're you doing?!"

"What I got in this bag is too sweet to share, so I'll be taking this boat alone."

He's pointing the shank out to me. He's killed before, and I'm certain he'll do it again. But I've also killed.

I slip on a guard uniform complete with keys and a badge found in the bag. Underneath the clothes are the black handbook and a brick of cash, plastic-wrapped with a sheet of paper reading "$20,000." They must've confiscated it from a gang leader or something. Or a payoff?

As I load the duffle bag into the boat, silhouettes in the distance grow larger. Ships. Many ships. Military ships.

I am captured and interrogated.

I assume the name on the badge, denying knowledge of any and all events. I'm convincing; I'm genuinely surprised at what took place.

The prison island of Wales Grim has been murdering inmates. Torturing them. Replacing the bodies as fast they disposed of them. In theory, all men sent there would either die of old age or be executed humanely at the allotted time. Wales saw fit to murder whenever they felt like it and in ways thats have been deemed unethical for hundreds of years. They must've caught wind of the oncoming authorities and deserted the island.

I am jailed again until my fabricated story of being a new guard checks out. It does somehow, and I am released with my bag, still containing the "20,000."