1
The trees had yet to bud, though the air felt as if they should any day now. The evening sun was descending. An aged minivan roared with rusted exhaust pipes, followed it west, slowed, and disappeared down a desolate side street. A church stood, paint peeling from its white steeple and wood façade. The brick faded at its base. ‘Last home-cooked meal before Fields,’ in black block letters were stuck upon a tipped over sign laying among the weeds and dirt near the street. Behind the sign was an abandoned diner that anchored a strip of stores—each with dusty windows and adorned with signs announcing lease opportunities, a phone number. Some of the windows were shattered, open to the elements, and a few were boarded up. Each shuttered save for a liquor store at the west end with its flashing neon welcome.
A dented white pickup truck was parked in front of the forgotten diner with wheels set upon the weeds that peeked through the cracked pavement and loose gravel. The doors were swung open to expose the speakers that provided a soundtrack for two teenage boys as they sat on the downturned gate of the bed and faced the quiet of Main Street.
“C’mon,” Carmen started as he made circles with his BMX bike around the truck, the little bits of gravel crunched under the tires, “you got a thirty pack.” He was black with thick hair that sat rounded about his head two inches high. Chubby, rosy cheeks and lips full in that oddity of growth between elementary and middle school whereas the rest of his body was thin. He wore a black hoodie with the zipper pulled up, faded blue jeans, and aged Adidas.
“Screw you,” Dorian responded briskly without looking from the pickup truck. His hair was identical to his younger brother’s, deep midnight, firm yet forgiving. They sipped on cans of Natural Ice from the case that sat between them on the bed while the Oldies radio station played Guns ‘n Roses at a reasonable volume.
“We’ll share it, Johnnie, it’s just one,” Alice bargained with her own older brother, with whom she shared the same freckled features. Her auburn hair bounced, pulled tight in a ponytail between her shoulder blades. The pale pink t-shirt loose to hide her changes. Jeans snipped just above her knees with kitchen shears. Scuffed sandals, failing Velcro against the pedals as she maneuvered her blue bike counter to Carmen.
Johnnie chugged his beer then tossed the empty can behind him, and it bounced a few times before settling on the metal bed frame. He took another from the box, flipped the tab, and took a sip. Carmen scowled at the perceived slight, but with the sound of engines, he turned his attention to Main Street. His friends set their feet on the pavement and steadied the bicycles. Johnnie held his beer, while Dorian slid his can behind his back.
Three patrol cars zoomed down Main Street from the west and moved fast into the parking lot across the street from the dilapidated strip. Another two moved in from the east. Heavy on the breaks and the cars created a perimeter, with three cars centered in the lot and two cars near both entrances.
Two officers exited from each car with purpose, each Caucasian with a short beard and in navy-blue with a badge over Kevlar. Armed with handguns, tasers, and handcuffs, they took up positions near the edge of a curb along the station platform that faced the train tracks. Their shotguns held firmly with both hands, they stood and waited. Near the aged brick station with dusty windows lined with paper signs yellowed at the corners, the padlocked restrooms, and the aura of abandonment. They stood and readied for action, as it was all they knew. Across Main Street, the teenagers watched from the truck bed, the younger from idle bicycles, and the ground murmured. Rocked the pickup truck and nudged the police cars. Carmen and Alice applied the brakes and set their feet on the pavement. Any other reaction to the tremor was imperceptible.
The Texas Eagle’s horns blared east of the station, and the large wheels of each car impressed upon the steel track. An Amtrak in silver metal interspersed with blue and red. Aptly named for originating in Chicago, south through Illinois, Alabama, then west through Mississippi to its namesake and then continuing to Los Angeles. The Eagle had, many years ago, tracked south through Arkansas and west the length of Texas. Now the track lay idle through The Fields. Abandoned, it comingled with weeds, parts that jutted at odd angles, with its rotted wood and scarred oxidizing metal.
Slower still, and The Eagle jolted forward, its soul needed to make a statement. The brakes hissed, squealed, and subsided as the train came to rest at the platform. Several tense seconds elapsed, then a dozen more. Finally, the officers heard the hydraulics release and watched the gray doors slide open and clunk into position.
An officer appeared in the door from the dark recess. Dark skin drawn taught with pursed, serious lips and focused eyes under an officer’s cap. His large, muscular frame overlaid with a uniform pressed and olive-green. He stepped down from the train car and took up position to the side of the door, his shotgun held firmly and ready.
“Down the stairs,” the officer commanded, “to your left and the first one stops at the last officer. Single File!”
The men emerged single file from the darkened interior and into the sunlight. They were young, and while each varied in size and race, they all wore white shirts with “D.O.C.” and “CAMP A” printed with matching white pants. Their hands were set about their groins and secured with white zip handcuffs. Their left wrists were adorned with a bright red bracelet, a half-inch in width, pulled taut which blinked intermittently with a small green LED light. The bracelets had their names in digital next to a set of numbers and then scrolled with more information. They were curious about the new surroundings and all noticed the teenagers and kids on bicycles across Main Street.
The men formed a line facing the navy-blue clad officers, and last out of the car was an officer in olive-green that matched his colleague. He was equally large, yet less threatening with pale skin and a gut that covered his belt and hid the top of his pants. He stood for a moment at the base of the stairs with his shotgun, then turned and disappeared into the train. His colleague followed shortly.
With a clunk the train doors closed. With a jolt, the Texas Eagle lurched out of the station, and the men dressed in white stood and faced the officers in navy-blue. They were docile as the senior officer motioned for his men to take several steps back from the curb as if he was uncomfortable with the proximity.
The quiet remained as the train’s engine receded. A car drove down Main Street. Then two went the other way. The charter bus’s size made it known in the distance. It became known, recognizable on Main Street and then pulled into the train station parking lot. Sleek white under a coat of dirt that ran the length near the wheel wells. With seating for 55, the vehicle was long, and heightened by storage bays between the axles. “New Madrid Energy,” written in a commanding font and completed with a blue flame atop a half-circle of orange in logo, prominently displayed along each side.
The driver directed the bus to an empty stretch of parking lot nearest the street. The door opened with a pneumatic hiss, which clarified the muffled sounds into song.
“Welcome to Missouri, gentlemen!” Nate screamed after turning off the stereo. He was thin, almost sickly, yet he was spry and alert. His cheeks were sunken, as age and experience had shrunken him. His head was covered by stringy, oily reddish-gray hair that appeared wet, slicked-back and reached his shoulders. A sparse goatee covered his chin. Eyes a deep brown. Arms, unhidden by a black tank top, were thin but conditioned with blue veins protruding. He stood from the captain’s chair, and it rose slightly. From the dashboard, he grasped a black tablet and his green wristband blinked green as he limped his way down to the pavement. He wore blue jeans that led to a white sneaker on his left foot. On his right, a different sneaker, off-white that connected to a prosthetic just visible at his ankle. The senior officer approached him and conversed softly, then spoke into his walkie-talkie upon his shoulder.
“Let’s get this over with,” the officer yelled to everyone, at a decibel that included the teenagers and kids on bicycles across the street. He walked to an open space in front of the bus. “Stand here! get in line!” And the men obliged.
“Gentlemen,” Nate started as loud as he could while pacing the line of men, the twang in his voice known. “Gentlemen, it is a privilege to be standing here righ’ now, as we all know what the alternative is.”
“Gentlemen,” he continued but now read from the tablet text, “you are about to transition from the custody of the Federal Department of Corrections, from here on known as D.O.C., to the custody of New Madrid Energy, Incorporated, from here on known as NME. However, you will remain under the jurisdiction of D.O.C., and are bound by their rules. D.O.C. regulations supersede those of NME. You agree to abide by all rules set by either party and any deviation will terminate your relationship here. If terminated, your previous sentence will be reinstated, and you will be transferred to a prison facility. If you do not accept these terms, you have the option to return with an officer before boarding to be placed at a prison facility. Your acceptance of these terms will be documented upon boarding. Do you understand?”
The men nodded.
“Alrigh’ boys, boarding is as follows,” Nate continued while looking at the tablet. “Enter the bus as you are directed and take the seat furthest back starting on yer left.”
The senior officer took up position at the bus door, while the other officers forcefully prodded the men into a queue with the butts of their shotguns. The men had arranged themselves by race, perhaps subconsciously, which afforded them some semblance of safety. A Hispanic man stepped toward the senior officer, and once he clipped the hand ties from the man’s wrists he walked to the door, boarded. The second boarded, then the third, until they had all boarded. The driver turned to climb the bus stairs, lithe despite the limp. “Let’s get this caravan rollin’!”
The muffled music resumed from the bus as the officers returned to their vehicles. Two squad cars were positioned in front of the behemoth vehicle and the remaining behind and the blue and red lights bounced off the white sides and tinted windows
Quick into gear, and the bus churned into drive. The senior officer sped out of the parking lot and with a quick siren chirp the patrol car bounded over a curb and set off down Main Street. The kids on bikes took off after, and the caravan whistled past dimmed commercial buildings. Gas stations with rusted pumps and handwritten signage. Convenience stores. A strip of fast-food establishments with active drive-thrus. The sparse traffic pulled to the side of the road as the procession passed. Horns blew, middle fingers rose out of windows with matching vulgarity and anger from the drivers and passengers alike.
There were two options at the highway entrance: to the left was north, which was unimpeded. The bus took the second option to the right under a sign allowing only authorized vehicles. A notice of severe tire damage. A notice of monitoring and then another authorized vehicle sign. The senior patrol car pulled off to the side and the other cars joined him. The bus continued and stopped in front of the imposing metal gate that spanned the width of the road. Bright red lights flashed on either side of the gate, and beyond that, a chain link fence crowned with razor wire. The driver leaned out of the bus window and entered a set of numbers on the keypad that jutted out from a concrete pylon.
The gate clunked into action and rolled open from left to right as Carmen and Alice tossed their bikes on the grass embankment. The charter’s headlights switched on in the purplish gray of pre-dusk aura and illuminated rusted tire spikes that receded into the pavement beyond the barrier. The kids caught their breath as they pressed their faces into the cold metal of the chain link fence. The bus shifted into gear and pushed over the border and as the metal gate closed, the patrol cars dispersed north and east. Carmen ran his hands over the fence as he walked west, with Alice several feet behind him. Their eyes were set on the southern horizon, the bus as it grew smaller between vehicles pushed against the highway concrete sides and into the quiet unknown. The kids followed the fence down an embankment as it dipped, and the untended grass and weeds rose to their hips. They stepped over faded whiskey bottles, crunched Coors cans, and pushed bullet shells into the earth. Twenty-twos and forty-fives. Carmen ran his hands over the fence, until he didn’t. Hidden behind the green and white flora the fence was missing. He knelt, disappeared into the brush, and stared at a three-foot square section of empty air cut from the metal. Alice squatted, carefully extended her arm through the gap, and it disappeared into the tall grass on the other side.
“There’s a way in,” Carmen exclaimed.