Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

3

Izz’s cellmate pilots him away from the cells, through an archway, and into a wide-open corridor. He’s greeted by blank white walls, a total lack of decorative paintings or anything really. Depression comes to mind once more. If he has to put a face to what depression looks like—in a mental image—it would be this brightly-lit white prison tunnel. Maybe that’s the point? Prison isn’t supposed to be a happy joyous place. Wouldn’t be much of a punishment if everyone wants to be here.

They pass a few closed doors—one door with a label reading, Cleaning Supplies —and a collection of split-off corridors punching out at random intervals in the walls. He has no idea where they lead. He fears he will be here long enough to figure it out. With the time he has in this cage, he will eventually learn all the secrets held within this whitewash of depression. Not a concept he’s thrilled by.

The two cellmates march along until the long corridor spills out into a huge, open cafeteria room with high ceilings. The space is crammed full of long tables lining the two outer walls—two dozen, at least. A clear pathway through the centre funnels the inmates to the food serving bar—if it’s called that?—at the back of the room. A kitchen is visible behind the inmates’ serving meals to the impatient men forming an ever-growing queue.

Bundled closely together, each table is big enough to seat thirty inmates—perhaps even more if they squish together. The starting table in each row is planted next to the wall on either side of the corridor entrance—the same entrance Izz stands frozen in, numbly gaping at the noisy chaotic mealtime in full swing.

The sheer size of the cafeteria is overwhelming. Multiple, large flapping double-doors are spaced out around the room. High above his head are windows, thick and lined with bars like every other glass window in this cage. However, these bars are on the interior, not the exterior.If you threw a chair at them—if you can find a chair not bolted into the floor—you wouldn’t be able to break the glass. No doubt it’s bulletproof too.

He blinks back into focus when Reni flies straight towards the line to collect food. Izz dodges in and out of the obstacle course of inmates and their food trays. A sea filled with tattooed men—the occasional odd one out with no visible tattoos.

He drags his feet, trailing slowly behind his cellmate. Not keen to find out how bad the food will be. Food he is required to eat during his stay here—unless he wants to starve to death—

Will the prison let him starve? Or will they strap him down and force him to eat? They’re forcing him to stay in this cage, against his will, isn’t too much of a stretch to imagine them shoving food down his throat—

Why don’t they call this abduction? It feels abductiony, to say the least . . .

Prison, a fancy word for abduction .

His head twists—eyes scanning—to keep a watchful eye on the inmates brushing past him. So many of them everywhere, at least five hundred. The tables filling fast. The noise level rising as hundreds of voices compete for airtime. Adding on to the thick smells of men and multiple food choices.

The thick queue Reni lands in, is a decent length, with more inmates filing in by the second. Izz shuffles along the line to his cellmate, who is high fiving another inmate, and starting a rapid fire conversation. One Izz can’t keep track of, too many confusing words and half sentences, which make no sense to an outsider. And that’s exactly what he is.

For now.

No way is he living here for months and months without making friends, how boring would that be. He doesn’t do floating on the outskirts of socialisation. He’s more a dive headfirst—and make a fool out of himself, without a care in the world—type of person. He’s liable to find out the waters are full of unexpected jagged rocks, tangling driftwood, and fast-moving predators, to snare and maim him. He has to be more vigilant of the way he interacts with people in here. Unless he wants to get stabbed—shivved? Do they still call it a stabbing in prison? Or is that only an ‘outside-world’ term?

His focus is drawn away from his rambling thoughts—and his cellmate’s hyper conversation—by an icy warning shooting up his calves into his ass and exploding through his stomach. As if he were electrocuted with a cold chill—

His eyes latch onto a tall, well-built, inmate, dressed in prison grey. 6’, with a messily spiked mohawk—black sides, and a red stripe down the middle, reminding him of a redback spider.

He’s curious with the way the sea of inmates’ part to give the mohawked male a wide birth. Perhaps they too are experiencing the same assault to the little hairs on the backs of their necks, as he is.

He’s drawn to the tantalizing male by something he can’t put his finger on—as the male strides directly to the front of the queue. Cutting in front of the dozens waiting, and no one expresses any issues with it. No one speaks a word about it, the majority all around Izz deliberately avert their eyes.

The spikey-haired inmate collects a tray, sliding it along to select his food and moves on. Swallowed up in the sea of grey, as everyone once again parts to get out of his way—

“ . . . this is Izz.” Reni’s voice spears into Izz’s skull, a hand slapping down on his shoulder. He barely catches the ending of his cellmate’s sentence—what is Reni talking about?—

Izz comes face to face with the inmate Reni had high-fived earlier. A little too close for comfort, considering they’re strangers, and in prison.

This inmate is marginally taller than Izz. Black hair covering his ears to hang over a well-formed jawline. His skin pale white—vampire, in a dark cave, pale—resulting in the black tattoo, on the side of his neck, to stand off his skin, the colour contrast freakishly flawless. His eyes, a pale blue, soft and light, matching his skin tone.

Izz has to admit the vampire look-a-like is cute. Not his type but he can appreciate the allure.

The vampire inmate smiles at him, revealing a smooth set of teeth and no fangs, much to his disappointment. He would not have been surprised if the guy sported a set of permanent dental fangs. Those fake fangs dentists will stick to your teeth for the right amount of money.

“Name’s Blake,” vamps drawls, as he holds out his hand towards Izz.

He caught a glimpse of a black rose, on the vampire’s palm, in the seconds before they clasp hands—

Izz scolds himself for not remembering the rule about shaking hands. Not greeting people in this way is going to take some getting used to—he better learn fast. He doubts his cellmate is exaggerating the warning. He will be disappointed in himself if he’s sent to the . . . infirmary? . . . leaking blood, on his first day.

“Izz,” he mutters, grinding his teeth in frustration—

Izz jumps out of his skin as someone’s hand grips his shoulder firmly, as a collective weight drops down on him. A warm body half draping over his shoulders, to bellow right in his ear, “new guy. Hello.”

He jerks his head away, wincing as his ears scream at him, yelling silent profanities at the loudmouth who nearly killed them. Squealing and ringing in protest, to drag his skull into the suffering right alongside them.

“Zid. Jesus, man,” Blake reprimands, pulling his hand away from Izz, taking an offended step away from the inmate in question, “lower the volume.”

“Oh, my bad. My bad,” Zid shoves his face into Izz’s personal space. Sticking his hand out, this time Izz remembers not to shake the hand and receives a devilish smirk from Zid as a result, “I’m Zidie.” He breezes over the lack of reciprocation to the hand-on-hand action, “you can call me Zids, Zido, Zida, Z—”

“I think he gets it, man,” Reni butts in, cutting off Zidie’s long list of self-appointed nicknames.

The first thing Izz notices about Zidie, is his crazy blue-tinted blond locks, scruffy and wind swept, as if he ran to the cafeteria. With a tattoo under his left eye of some kind of little cupcake covered in frosting.

Why would you put a cupcake right there on your face?

Inwardly, Izz chuckles. Luckily, it’s a well-done tattoo, and not some back alley, five bucks job by a colour blind crack addict. He must admit, it does suit the man. Even though they met a literal second ago, he’s already sensing a playful child-like attitude from Zidie. Cupcake is going to be fun to hang around with.

“Hi,” Izz responds, still fighting with his ears to calm down and do their job—their protest is painful. “I’m Izz.”

“Izz.” Zidie purses his lips, his nose scrunching as he scrutinises Izz, “why Izz?”

Apparently Zidie has no filter from his brain to mouth, either. To go along with his loud boisterous energy.

“Dude,” Blake cuts in, glaring daggers at Zidie, a displeased noise escaping his throat.

“What?” Zidie asks with an innocent expression plastered on his face, his devilish grin growing wider by the second, “it’s a weird name.”

“And yours is normal?” Blake shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest. Presenting awfully close to a disapproving older brother.

“Never said it being weird was wrong, us weird named individuals gots’ to stick together. Ain’t that right? Izz,” Zidie turns his colourful cupcake face to Izz, grinning from ear to ear.

This feels normal. The interaction. The teasing friends. He could almost forget where he is. Where they all are. He has no idea what these men had done to get themselves thrown in here—he prays it’s nothing terrible or malicious. But he can see himself becoming friends with them.

“My real name’s Jasper,” Izz offers. Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, unsure how much of his personal life he’s willing to share with these unknown inmates. “Jasper Marcelo. People call me Izz—it’s a long story.” A story he’s not willing to share with these men. Not so soon anyway.

He returns a smile of his own to Zidie, leaving the explanation at that . . . Perhaps one day he may trust them enough with a snippet of information about his life outside of these walls? His family and friends. His failures . . . But not today—maybe not ever.

“Ugh. Well. Boring.” Zidie pouts, flicking his hand dramatically in Izz’s vague direction. “Don’t spread that around. I’m happy my best friend has a weird name like me.”

“Best friend?” Izz blinks in stunned shock at the phrase. He isn’t sure how long you have to know someone to class them as a best friend , but he’s sure it’s longer than five seconds.

“Just go with it,” Reni mutters, shifting to close the gap as the line drifts closer to the food serving bar. “He calls every newbie joining our group his best friend. He’s like an overgrown puppy.”

“Ay.” Zidie protests. “I am not a puppy.” He glares playfully at Reni, devilish smile in place. “If I’m anything, I’m a falcon. Swooping in to bring joy.” His eyebrows dance mischievously to join his grin, the combination exaggerating his teasing tone.

“Falcons swoop in to kill,” Izz adds offhandedly, rotating his head to take in the room for the umpteenth time. Mentally tallying the inmates constantly dribbling into the cafeteria.

How many more are in this cage?

A generous number of inmates are obviously part of gangs. Easy to distinguish from the other tables of regular men. A few clusters proudly displaying tattoos of a similar nature. One table is filled entirely with men sporting shaved heads—if the shaved head is a condition to join that particular gang, he will never be joining it. He’s rather fond of his hair, thank you very much.

Zidie waggles his eyebrows in mock mystery, “I have many skills,” he ominously informs Izz. Laughing moments later when Izz gives him a sceptical look.

They’re at the front of the line before he realises it. Standing within the surprisingly delicious aroma of foods. His cellmate grabs a tray, slapping it down, before handing another tray back to Izz.

“Thanks.” Izz accepts the tray—with its different-sized sections to hold things separate, like the foods’ have vendettas and need to be segregated.

Reni nods at the gratitude, sliding his tray along to pick out foods. Izz mimics the tray slide motion, shuffling along after Reni.

The food does not resemble the nasty slop he’d pictured on multiple occasions during his hours at trial. Instead, he faces a selection of different soup choices. A rich orange pumpkin soup. A soft, clear, chicken noodle soup. A deep green coloured soup with floating green chunks, resembling broccoli—if the broccoli was frozen and mashed into a soup consistency. And there’s a cheesy pasta dish, next to hunks of bread and different spreads. With small bottles of juice and water huddled together at the end of the row.

“What can I get ya, newbie?”

Izz glances at the towering inmate who addressed him. A beefy dude with hair buzzed into a short, to the scalp, style. Tattoos leaking from his head, over his jaw, down his neck, spilling out his sleeves to run down his arm. His face is clear of tattoos—other than a star above his eyebrow.

Izz peeks at the short blond inmate serving Reni, and notices he has the same star above the eyebrow.

A gang mark?

He clears his throat, turning his full attention to the server. “The pasta, water, and bread with butter, please.” Choosing the pasta as a safe option.

He likes home-made pumpkin soup, that store bought crap tastes nothing like pumpkin. He isn’t foolish enough to believe the prison buys fresh pumpkins to make their soup from scratch. It would be some sort of watered-down pumpkin-flavoured powder.

Gross.

The inmate serving Izz laughs. “Damn, so polite.” He moves along to slap out the foods onto Izz’s tray. “Wish the rest of these pricks had some damn manners.”

Izz slides his tray along, following the server down to collect the food he had asked for. Politely smiling to his server, not sure how to answer the statement, or even if he should.

Don’t piss off the hand that feeds you.

“Extra pasta, ‘cause I like ya, kid,” the server winks at Izz. And proceeds to bellow ‘next’ —so loud Izz’s ears cringe back into his skull—as the server makes his way back to the start of the food bar to serve the next inmate.

The four inmates serving meals are continuously shifting places to run up and down the serving bar, moving four inmates at a time through the process. Working like clockwork to get the meals distributed fast, the coordination is something that could only be acquired over years of practice. These are pros—

How long have they been here? to work together so efficiently. Moving as one, without the need to speak their actions, anticipating the others’ movements before they’re made.

Izz departs the area to follow Reni, who’s waiting for him to finish collecting his meal. He trails behind his cellmate as they head over to a table near the back of the room, three rows down from the corridor entrance leading back to their cells.