Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

9

Izz’s third day—or well—second and a half day. But he’ll count his arrival half-day as the first day—possibly . . . He’s too tired to figure it out. So he’ll stick with it being day three in this caged-in Hell-hole.

His third day in prison.

Three down, hundreds more to go.

“You going to eat that?” Izz shakes his head at Zidie’s enquiry, sliding his half-eaten tray of food across the table.

He’s already bored with the prison routines. The alarms to tell him when it’s time to eat. Unable to eat what or when he chooses. Only able to eat on the set schedule. He’s sick of it, and it’s only day three. How is he going to get through years in this place?

“How’s your third day? You look rung out?” Blake’s calming voice fills the space. The table turns their attention to Izz, as if they too are interested in his answer.

“Already want to kill the alarms, I miss sleeping in.”

“Wow, I forgot that was a thing,” Zidie lets his mouth fall open in shock, winking as Izz shoots him a glare.

“He did get a new bed,” Reni slips in, nudging Zidie’s ribs and giving the other inmate a look.

“New bed?” Blake questions, frowning at Izz. His pale face an odd contrast—if the man didn’t have black hair and blue eyes, Izz would swear he’s an albino. His complexion is that pale.

“Someone gifted the newbie with a second mattress, and newbie here accepted the gift. Naive as he is,” Reni informs the whole table, waving his spoon at Izz.

“And you just let him do it,” Blake accuses, seething daggers in Reni’s direction.

Izz blinks at them both. Arguing over his life like they’re his parents or something. They need to lay off him and stop treating him like a fragile vase that’s wandering too close to a shooting range. He’s not that daft.

“I didn’t let him do anything,” Reni argues back at Blake, “I told him whoever the mattress fairy is, he’s definitely a stalker.”

Izz’s not sure that’s what Reni told him. It’s close enough so he lets it slide. Let them bicker about the insignificant issues, so he can go back to staring off into nothing and feeling sorry for himself. Even though, technically, he did it to himself, he got himself thrown into this caged Hell-hole. No one else did it. He made choices. Bad choices. That led him to here and now. He may have had good intentions, did what he did for the right reasons, it doesn’t take away from the facts. He broke the law. Now he has to suffer the consequences.

This sucks.

“. . . you’re supposed to be looking after him.”

“I’m not his mother, lay off me. He’s a grown ass man. If he wants to fuck random inmates for comfy living, that’s his choice.”

“You slept with someone for it?” Now Blake’s venom is directed at Izz. A shocked exasperated expression taking over the pale vampire’s entire being.

Izz does not appreciate being in the spotlight. Or that everyone keeps assuming he sold his ass for a frickin’ mattress—

“No. I. Did. Not. If whoever left the thing was stupid enough to do it without arranging a deal beforehand, then they are going to be sorely disappointed when I tell them to piss off, I’m keeping the mattress, their claim to it became null-n-void the moment they left it on my bunk. It’s mine now. They can screw off,” Izz may have raised his voice to quite a degree in his anger, but it is valid and he is not apologising for it.

Everyone at the table gawks at him. Zidie—trying to suppress a grin. Reni—blinking in shock at the outburst. Isco—displaying no sign of caring. Phelix—stunned bewilderment. David’s face is a tight knot, his lips thinned out, like he’s irritated—with what? Izz couldn’t tell. Erik . . . holds an understanding, sad, expression . . .

Erik’s expression makes Izz anxious, so he spuns back to face the rest of the table. The pale vampire is the only one presenting a slightly apologetic face for the crap they were saying about him.

Izz exhales, pressing his fingertips into his eyes, irritated with everything. He’s already on the edge of completely losing it. And the day has barely begun.

Everyone at the table resumes eating in silence. No one wanting to poke the proverbial bear sitting with them. Everyone solely focusing on their own meals.

Great, now I feel like the asshole.

Blake’s clearly worried and trying to look out for him, and he took the guy’s head off for it. Even if Blake was being slightly overbearing and rubbing him the wrong way by making out he can’t take care of himself. He has to admit, it’s somewhat correct, he is a terrible fighter and would have trouble keeping himself safe.

Is it that obvious?

Izz pulls his fingers away from their assault on his eyeballs. Little white and black flecks sparking over his vision in protest to their rough treatment. Even with his sight on the fritz, he can still see the serial killer across the room. See the way the killer is studying him.

He’s caught in a tangled web, unable to turn away from the predator’s gaze, even if he wanted to—

A barely visible half smirk lifts the edge of the killer’s lips, it’s gone in a flash, so fast Izz’s convinced he imagined it.

~~~

Izz finds himself in a small room—compared to A-Wing and the cafeteria, this room is tiny. One door entry. A small television set, boxy and old, is mounted on the wall in the far corner. To its left is an ancient microwave sitting on a shelf that is likewise mounted into the wall.

Several tables are scattered around the room—the first ones he has seen not attached to the ground. The chairs are likewise free standing and horribly uncomfortable.

The cushioned armchairs encircling the television are appealing to him, however those are occupied by multiple inmates. Including one inmate reclining back in the chair—eyes not focused on the screen—as another inmate straddles his lap, very obviously with his hands down the reclining inmate’s pants and face tucked into the other’s neck.

Izz rearranges his position in his chair as his pants became increasingly tight. He can’t help it, it’s been a while for him, and those two are rubbing it out practically in the middle of the room.The guards are none the wiser, leaning back in the corner, in their own little world, laughing and talking, ignoring the inmates. Apparently they don’t give a shit about inmates having sex out in the middle of the damn room.

The guards in this cage are dreadful. Why do they bother hiring them? The inmates would fare better if they were left to fend for themselves.

“You’re up, Izz,” Reni slaps a palm down on the table to get Izz’s attention.

He pulls his distracted mind back into the game, studying the cards fanned out in his hands. They aren’t playing for any valuables or cash which he appreciates, as he has nothing to bet with. No way is he putting his second mattress into the pile, and apart from that he only has his clothes which he doesn’t want to risk losing.

“This room’s pretty small, how do they choose who gets to come here or not.” Izz mulls out loud, picking out a card to throw onto the pile.

“There are seven like this,” Reni begins to explain, “Although, one’s limited to I-Wing, so six rooms for the rest of us. They’re supposed to be allocated to each Wing, but this one, in B-Wing, is the only one not taken by a gang. The rest are owned and you invite trouble onto yourself if you venture into any of them. This room is for the rest of us non-gang worthy inmates. Yay for us, hey.”

So gangs in prison really do take over and form territories. A good titbit of information to file away for later use. He doesn’t want to encroach on a powerful drug gang’s patch. He has a sense it would end painfully for him.

“I-Wing? I haven’t seen anyone with ‘I’ in their prison ID.” Izz has read a lot of ID numbers, purely because they’re right there in large lettering on the front of everyone’s shirts. Kind of hard to miss. Similar to the guards who have a three number ID on their uniforms.

“That’s ‘cause it’s for the Psych-Wing rejects,” Zidie cuts in, and Reni raps the back of his head. He laughs as he shoves Reni, sticking his tongue out.

“I-Wing is allocated to inmates who get released from the Psych-Wing,” Reni corrects, sending Zidie a look. “To integrate them into the general population, it’s only small, holds ‘bout thirty inmates, if their cells are doubles like the rest of us. Those inmates wear purple. There are none at the moment. The Wings for Gen-Pop are A, B, C, E, G, and H. Stay away from H-Wing, that place is run by a nasty individual you don’t want to meet. Sinj got lobbed into H-Wing although he has an . . . understanding with the boss man, so he’s safe as chips. The rest of us steer clear.” Reni throws down his next card, sifting through what he has left.

An understanding? Wonder what that implies. Is Sinj a drug runner for them or something?

Izz wants to ask, and at the same time he finds it safer to keep his mouth shut and ponder it internally. He doesn’t really need to know, it’s his curiosity that wants the answers. Won’t affect him not to know, selectively oblivious to everything drug related is the way to go. If he doesn’t want to create enemies, which he definitely does not want.

“M-Wing, we call Med-Wing, which as you can probably guess, holds the medical rooms, doctors and all that needley stuff—hate needles, they give me the heebie-jeebies,” Reni shudders, exaggerating the movements, to demonstrate his dislike. “F-Wing is the Psych-Wing, J-Wing is The Hole, D-Wing you already know—counsellors and self-help whichever. K-Wing has everything visitation related, Warden’s office and guards’ Break-Room and lockers—”

“Hence why the guards’ presence is thick in K-Wing,” Zidie tapes on. Widening his eyes at Izz, his grin obliterating his pretend fearful expression.

Izz grins at Zidie, rubbing a hand over his lips to hide his reaction to his outgoing, self-proclaimed ‘best friend’. He’s not protesting against it, he’s stuck here for years, having a best friend in this cage will help keep the time from dragging out for an eternity.

“Commissary is next to C-Wing, as you’ve seen. L-Wing holds the workshops. The phones are outside. . .” Reni plays his next hand, humming in thought as he makes his move. “That about covers it. The cafeteria’s easy as we practically live next door to it, and the kitchen is attached to it—obviously.”

“The library is in E-Wing and the laundry room is near G-Wing. Church is on the other side of H-Wing;” Blake adds, as everyone waits for Zidie to decide which card he will play.

Reni slaps his cards face down, slumping back in his chair, already sick of waiting for Zid to pick a card. “Hence why none of us go to the church,” Reni adds on, “and I have no idea what the place looks like, or if it actually exists, and isn’t some made-up story.”

Zidie finally throws down a card, knocking over the pile which spills over the table. “Who would bother creating a fake church story?”

Blake sighs when Zidie leaves the mess of cards where they fell. Scattered, forgotten soldiers, left out to fend for themselves. Blake sets his hand face down on the table, to gather the soldiers and reunite them in an orderly pile.

“I don’t know—” Reni snaps at Zidie. Glowering at the man who keeps interrupting his story with all his unhelpful comments.

“I’m never going to remember all that,” Izz mutters, diffusing the verbal lashing the other two are about to break into. He checks over his cards, and with a resigned sigh, throws them down and forfeits his hand.

“You will,” Isco’s deep voice rumbles over Izz’s skin.

The soft chuckle leaving Isco’s throat has Izz’s hairs standing on end. He doesn’t know why Isco creeps him out. Can’t put his finger on it, his instincts tell him to be wary—he has no idea what they know and aren’t telling him. He chooses to take their word for it and watch his back around the scarred inmate.

Zidie follows Izz’s example—only with a more dramatic flair—flinging his cards away in disgust. Leaving Blake and Isco as the remaining two to finish this round.

“Why can’t we play for contraband? I could do with some more snacks?” Zidie blurts out—or more accurately—bellows as loud as a freight train.

Izz shoots his eyes to the two guards, worried they heard—if they did, they give no indication they’re going to do anything about it. Leaning back, chatting amongst themselves, with not a care in the world about the room full of criminals they are supposed to be baby-sitting.

“Because—” Blake studies Isco as he plays his next move, looking for telling signs in the other’s stone-cold expression. “—you always bet big and lose bigger.”

“I do not.” Zidie bellows louder, drawing attention from a few inmates.

Reni leans back in his chair to peek at Blake’s cards, the pale inmate turning his cards away from Izz’s nosy cellmate. “That’s why you have a unicorn tattoo on your ass, or did you forget about that?” Blake drawls, glaring at Reni who’s attempting to view his cards again.

“I just so happen to love Mister Zombie-Uni,” Zidie slaps a hand on Izz’s back, grinning right in Izz’s face.

“You seriously named it that?” Blake blinks at Zidie in shock. Like he can see Zid doing a lot of weird things but this tops them all by far.

Isco scoffs, throwing out another card at which Blake scowls. Blake isn’t too good with his poker face unlike Isco who has a solid composure you could cut diamonds with.

“Yup.” Zidie pops the ‘p’ loudly, interlocking his fingers behind his head to rock back in his chair smugly, revelling in his own self-satisfaction. “Z-Uni for short. Or fluffy if I’m feeling cute.”

Multiple groans from everyone around the table. The painful noise travelling throughout the room.

Izz giggles—choking the sound off before anyone else can hear it—would have been extremely embarrassing if anyone heard.

“Who bet you to get the ink?” Izz ponders, curious about his friend’s lost game.

“I deeply regret it,” Isco speaks in a flat voice, giving no actual emotions, regret or otherwise.

Zidie lets out a burst of laughter, sticking his tongue out at the scarred inmate.

Izz laughs tentatively—but cuts off short, not comfortable enough around Isco to know if he’s allowed to laugh at the other.

~~~

They file into the cafeteria, clumping in a group at the back of the queue. Izz’s lighter than he had been for breakfast, his worries slipping away in their bantering over hours of card games. He never won a game but enjoyed himself, nonetheless.

“Inmate A-1810. Counsellor wants to see you.”

The guard who addresses him is young. Can’t be older than twenty-one, surely. Giving off a harsh don’t-fuck-with-me vibe. A real y ou’ll-end-up-eating-out-of-a-straw-in-a-hospital-if-you-try-it mentality.

Izz trails along behind the guard meekly. Back to the see the dreaded counsellor, and kill the light happy mood he had newly acquired in this depressing cage.

“ Yay,” Izz mutters sarcastically under his breath.

~~~

The room hasn’t changed. White walls encroaching on Izz. The counsellor in his office throne with eyes that judge. The lingering smell of cut grass and tea tree oil. The comfortable chair in front of the desk as soft as the first time Izz graced it with his ass—

How many asses have sat in this chair before him? How many of them did the counsellor actually help? He’s thinking less than five percent, if he’s being generous with the percentage.

“Hello. Jasper, wasn’t it,” the counsellor asks without actually asking. They both know he knew, so why put on the charade?

“Yes,” Izz answers the non-question anyway.

He still hates this counsellor. Now that he knows the man’s a consumer of life’s joy, he can see the sketchy aura surrounding the counsellor. It’s obvious now that he knows it’s there.

“So, how’s it going? Still settling in?” The counsellor steeples his fingers over the desk, the same way he sat last time Izz was here.

“Fine,” Izz avoids looking at the counsellor by eyeing the pens nestled in their little cup home on the desk. The same unhappy conviction surrounding him as it had on the first visit. “Thank you,” he tacks on, not even remotely meaning the polite phrase. He’s merely being nice, to not piss off the man in charge of the transfer paperwork.

“Okay, so. Your job assignment has come in. And I’m happy to inform you that you’re working in the kitchen. Starting tomorrow—the paperwork is being finalised and all that jazz.”

Izz will never get used to how this counsellor talks. Dressing all professional, and yet talking like a high schooler.

Why didn’t the counsellor tell the guard who collected Izz and escorted him here? Would have saved everyone this unnecessary hassle.

“Okay. Is that it?” Izz dismisses.

He wants to leave. He trusts the inmates caged in with him more than he does this counsellor. And that’s saying something, considering his run-in with dragon-ink-vomit dude. And that this prison holds at least one serial killer.

Or so Izz has been told. He’s not sure he’s completely on board with believing the mohawked inmate is a serial killer. Perhaps it’s more wishful hope than actual truth.

“Yes, yes. That’s it. You’ll start tomorrow. Guards will collect you from your cell for breakfast.”

Izz springs to his feet, hastily launching himself towards the door. Not wanting to stick around a second longer and give the counsellor an excuse to question him about other things.

What a waste of time.

He’s not sure he wants the kitchen job. He has no cooking experience. It took him dozens of tries to get simple pancakes right. He has no illusions about how long it will take him to learn how to cook actual meals.

He hopes they’re fine with a novice in their kitchen. And don’t hate him for becoming part of their cooking group. After all, it isn’t his choice. Not much in this cage is his choice. He’s beginning to understand the full extent of what had been stripped away from him—his freedom isn’t the only thing he lost. He lost any power he has over himself, any control—he’s nothing but a number, a criminal in the justice system— if you could even call it a justice system.

When Izz enters the corridor, there is no sign of the intimidating young guard—guess he’s on his own navigating back to the cafeteria. Unfortunately, he’s beginning to get the hang of where things are located.

~~~

Izz finds the cafeteria quickly this time, with only one wrong turn which he had to backtrack.

Chatting with the beefy server guy like always, a routine with which he’s now familiar. The server’s nice, nicer than other inmates Izz has interacted with. He’s convinced it’s not a coincidence the same inmate serves him at every meal. He holds no complaints on his end, the server always gives him a little extra food.

He sits his butt on his usual bench, at his usual table. It’s his place and has absolutely nothing to do with how it faces directly towards where the mysterious killer usually resides at the back table—half hidden in shadow. The killer occupies the same place every meal—except for this one where the killer’s table is unfamiliarly empty.

He isn’t going to admit he’s disappointed to discover the inmate is not sitting in their usual domain. The killer’s territory is empty and cold, as if no warmth has graced its presence this meal. Not that the usual presence houses any of the warm and fuzzies.

I don’t think I’ve seen the killer smile once . . .

What would it look like? Izz’s sure his smile would be warm and kind.

He’s not sure why he’s thinking about it or needs to know what the male’s smile resembles—

Maybe the killer has a facial muscle disease and can’t smile?

Wow, your thoughts are a weird place to be.

Izz pushes his thoughts aside and resumes studying the empty back corner. Willing the killer to appear in the shadows. To give his mind something to focus on and occupy itself with. To stop thinking about what the male’s smile may or may not look like.

Why is the killer running late?

Not eating?

Killing someone in the Cleaning Supplies closet?

Izz scoffs, disappointed in himself for showing he cares where the killer may be. It’s not his place and there is a good reason for it—because— Hello —the male ‘is’ a serial killer. Not some crush he has any right to gawk at.

Izz reprimands his own mind, digging into his food. Telling his thoughts to concentrate on other issues, not the serial killer criminal he’s sharing a cage with—

Reni and Zidie snap into action when they both notice Izz has returned. Over-excited and jumping down his throat on what job assignment he was handed.

“Kitchen,” Izz answers, unimpressed.

Watching both their faces light up in surprise. Like they were both certain he would be put in the laundry room with the rest of The Gang. How they could be certain on that, he has no idea.

Reni rubs his chin, a frown creasing his eyebrows. “Weird. Counsellor usually does the ‘ random’ pick, by looking at who you hang out with. That’s why it can sometimes take a while. They have to see who you’re in with. If you have gang tats, you usually get the job assignment almost instantaneously.”

Zidie nods along with Reni’s contemplations—a cupcake tattooed, bobble headed criminal doll, bobbing along a bumpy track. The train of thought moving from Reni to Zidie like they’re connected by one mind’s eye.

“Keeps groups together, minimises fighting during the work periods,” Blake inserts into the explanation, becoming part of the conversation.

Izz doesn’t mind. He’s beginning to form a bond with the vampire, like that of an older brother or favourite cousin.

“The only ones who work the kitchens are The StaZos. I’m sure you noticed the star ink on their faces?” Reni points to his brow, with Zidie mimicking right along with him. “Considering you hang with us, you should have been put in the laundry. It’s . . .” Reni’s voice trails off, a distant expression appearing on his face.

“ . . . It’s what?” A knot is forming in Izz’s stomach from the look on Reni’s face—a dawning understanding and an expression of dread taking over his cellmate’s features. And the puzzlement on Zidie’s face isn’t helping the knot untangle.

“What?” Izz isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer.

“ . . . almost like someone wanted you there,” Reni finishes ominously.

Izz scoffs at the answer. His stomach unknotting in an instant. Trust his cellmate to make a big deal out of nothing, throwing a conspiracy theory into the mix. “Well dah. They wouldn’t put me in a job with no available space, of course someone wanted . . . me . . . there . . .” Izz trails off when Reni’s expression grows substantially more serious.

Izz frowns at Reni. Maybe he means an inmate wants me there?

But why . . .

An image flashes into his frontal lobe—the beefy server who always hands him food. Is always so nice to him and giving him extra—

His mind races away from that train of thought as if a bomb went off and disintegrated it—the killer has appeared by the doors. Striding in like he owns the place and isn’t afraid to kill to keep the entire prison as his territory. Like the rest of the inmates are as insignificant to him as ants. A predator who fears no others.

The killer reclines in his claimed eating area. Reigning over the non-worthy animals eating around him. His tray is empty of any food, like he isn’t hungry. Although he came here, and collected a tray. So maybe it’s more the food being served today isn’t to his satisfaction or he dislikes the items available?

Why else would he come to the cafeteria if it isn’t to eat?

Why stay in the cafeteria , if you’re not going to eat anything?

Why is he frustrated about it? Who cares. It’s not like any of them have many places to be in this cage. He shouldn’t even be taking note of the killer’s whereabouts, or actions. Let alone being annoyed by the killer not eating, like that’s his concern—it is none of his business.

Izz jots it down as morbid curiosity, and leaves it at that. He does not want to dig into why he’s noticing changes in the killer’s routine. He’ll call it a prey response to the predator in the vicinity. Not a human response to his libido’s call—

Izz’s heart stops when the killer’s cold gaze lands directly on him, and doesn’t shift away.