One Eye

John Francis Taylor, called One Eyed Jack by friends and foes alike arrived at the Pit from the isolation unit at Stonehaven Maximum Security Penitentiary, known within the system as a ruthless gladiator school, a crucible of pain and suffering to battle harden all unfortunate enough to be sent there.

Stepping cautiously out of the back of the armored transport van and onto the folding step, Jack paused a moment in the threshold, looking up with his left eye, his one good one. The faded scar on the right side of his face started at his forehead running vertically through his now milked out dead right eye and over his cheek, making it seem like he wore a perpetual half smirk on that side of his mouth.

“Down,” instructed the uniformed guard, motioning Jack forward with a summoning hand. The other uniformed escort stood back a dozen paces, shotgun in his hands. Two other officers, dressed in the uniforms of the privatized Lindholm Global running Pitcairn stood on the elevated gun walk at the back of the receiving bay, both carrying AR-15’s.

He more dropped than stepped down from the little aluminum step to the concrete, his gait restricted by the shackles binding his ankles and the chain leading up from his leg irons to the body belt restraining his wrists.

Garbed in a bright orange jumpsuit, feet in laceless white canvas slip on running shoes, he shuffled his feet forward, the unarmed officer slipping a hand under Jack’s arm guiding him toward a security door leading into a small vestibule.

Reaching up to the button on the panel, the guard depressed it, holding it in, “Delivering one,” he said before removing his thumb and waving a hand at the officer behind the glass in the security control post overlooking the checkpoint.

“Roger,” came the reply, followed by a buzzing sound coming from the lock on the door. Reaching out with his free hand, the escort pulled open the door and walked with Jack into the vestibule, facing another door on the opposite wall.

The overhead fluorescent light hummed, shedding weak pale light over the light neutral green paint on the walls. Despite the effort to modernize the facility, it held the lingering trace of a smell, something old, tainted by misery and time.

The second door lock wasn’t released until the first door closed behind the pair. Led into Admissions/Receiving, Jack was placed in an eight by fourteen foot holding cell, featureless save for a single bench along the far wall and combination stainless steel sink/toilet combo. He was left in the large cell, jewelry still intact.

Crossing the cement floor, Jack sat on the bench mounted to the floor, leaning his back against the cool cinder block wall and closing his eye.

He heard the sound of boots off the concrete. “Big bad Jack Taylor, welcome to your new home boy,” said the voice of the previously shotgun wielding second corrections guard, breaking Jack’s solitude.

“I know you?” Jack asked, voice deep and gravelly, bringing his head off the wall to look at the guard. He looked relatively young, big bastard, six five in his boots and thick, goon squad material. The guards that prepped him for transport were different than the ones assigned to drive the van.

“Officer Stevens,” answered the man, an air of arrogance in his carriage, smug grin on his face. “You don’t know me, but everyone at Central knows about you,” he said, nodding his head knowingly and raising his eyebrows.

Closing his eye, Jack leaned his head back against the wall, deigning to ignore the young guard.

“You know, I must say I’m kind of disappointed, I was kind of expecting more, what with the stories and all,” commented the officer. “I thought you might even have the nerve to try and escape. Guess you’re just gutless.”

“Officer Stevens, your paperwork is all in order, the prisoner is now in our custody,” came the bass voice of the privatized prison guards.

Stevens turned and acknowledged, ducking his head before departing.

Jack opened his eye again and fixed the steely bluish grey orb on the newcomer as the man walked up to the bars. He was an older man, four gold stripes on each of the black epaulets adorning the shoulders of his white uniform, rounded belly.

“Welcome to Pitcairn Mr. Taylor, my name is Guard Captain Rollins,” he announced directly, nodding his head slightly. Despite wearing the private uniform, Rollins carried himself like a man who had been in the system for a long time. “Despite the dungeon like appearance, Pitcairn is fully modernized with state of the art security,” he started.

Inclining his head slightly as a sign of acknowledgement, Jack waited for the speech. There was always a speech. The words varied, but the gist was always the same. ‘This is my jail and as long as you behave yourself, we’ll get along just fine, blah, blah, blah’. At least this one was being cordial. Sometimes the speech came with a beating for emphasis.

“I ask that you conduct yourself with a degree of respect and you will be treated accordingly,” Rollins finished.

Jack half smiled, showing off his gold crowned right canine, “You ex-corrections?” he asked.

Rollins nodded, “Thirty two years.” Same age as Jack.

Jack nodded, “How’s the food here?” he asked.

Grinning, Rollins lifted a hand and tilted it from side to side, “Cheap but plentiful, better than most other jails by my estimation,” he answered honestly.

“And I thought this was going to be shit day,” Jack quipped jokingly.

“Lindholm Global runs a different kind of institution than you’re used to,” added the security officer.

Chuckling softly, “One based on profit,” Jack remarked.

“I been around for a lot of years, seen a bunch of different posts, trust me, this place is different, for both of us,” explained the former corrections officer, drawn out of retirement by Lindholm Global.

Jack nodded slowly, “Who says you can’t teach an old dog?” he asked.

Rollins chuckled back. “We’ll be moving you through admission soon, then you can get yourself squared away,” he informed, patting the cage bars softly and nodding.

After Rollins left, Jack leaned back against the wall, chuckling and shaking his head. The Pit. The last rest stop before Hell. If Rollins was to be believed, at least the food was bearable.