Page 86 of Shadowman
Quite the sterling personality on this one.
Doing as he says, I rest my front on the wall, and he immediately stomps up behind me, grabbing my arms and forcefully cuffing them behind my back while I grunt in displeasure. Then he bends and attaches shackles to my ankles. And not that I should be fixating on this, but he smells delicious.
Chalk it up to me smelling nothing but mildew and despair for the last however long.
Spinning me around, he yanks me roughly until I stumble. “Try to keep up, inmate.”
Walking in shackles is difficult. I’m trying not to trip, since it seems like the sort of thing that will get me scolded, but I also can’t stop myself from ogling the man.Yes, he’s rather good-looking, in a dark and devious sort of way. Almost the same height as me, which says a lot, being that I’m six-five. Tanned complexion, studs in his eyebrow and nose, and tattooson nearly every visible plane of flesh that isn’t covered by his uniform—an ensemble he wearsshockinglywell, by the way.
Not exactly mytype, but still…I can appreciate a Muscle Daddy who could probably snap me in half with his bare hands.
Sneaking a peek at his name tag, I mumble, “Chevelle…”
His eyes dart to mine, a deep blue that holds my gaze. “That’sOfficer Chevelle, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Oh, I don’t,” I reply, teasing, but not really. “Otherwise, I’m sure I would have strangled the bloke who brought me here and left him in the airport bathroom.”
Officer Chevelle gives me a look, cocking his pierced eyebrow. But he says nothing, simply continues on, dragging me through long corridors that all look exactly the same. I’m momentarily bewildered by how he clearly knows his way around, despite no signs or distinguishing marks. As if he could be blindfolded and still maneuver himself through these halls effortlessly and just as fast.
Must mean he’s been here a while…
He certainly carries himself like someone with a high level of authority, though that could be said of all the guards I’ve encountered so far. They all behave the way you’d expect of prison guards, especially the type who work in a place like this. Morality doesn’t appear to be a requirement of Alabaster Penitentiary.
Still,Officer Chevellehas a different vibe. Naturally, I’m intrigued.
Our trek through the long hallways goes on for minutes, until we finally stop in front of a door. The noise is much louder here; booming voices of inmates and guards alike echoing from somewhere nearby. I’m no stranger to such sounds, though it’s been a while. But this already feels monumentally different fromany prison or institution I’ve been in. For starters, it feels like this place was built centuries ago.
WhatisAlabaster Penitentiary? Where did it come from, and why is it here?
Officer Chevelle raps his knuckles on the door twice. And we wait until a voice from inside calls, “Come in.”
I’m ushered into a new room, and from one look around, I can see that it has an obviously unique setup. Half of the floor is tiled, with a few drains, as if there were showers at one time. But I don’t believeshoweringis what happens in here now…
There’s a very distinct smell of bleach invading my senses, and while it’s apparent that some cleaning has happened, the grout in between the tiles is permanently stained black; I’m guessing a healthy combination of mold and caked blood.
In the middle of the room are two chairs, facing each other. One of them is empty. And in the other sits a man.
He glances up and simply nods at Officer Chevelle, who’s already tugging me closer and shoving me down into the empty seat, across from the stranger. And then he leaves.
My head whips to the door as it’s slamming shut. Call it my own naivety, but I was sort of hoping the giant tattooed beast would stay with me. For protection.
I gulp as my gaze slowly creeps back to the man sitting barely three feet from me. We’re so close, our knees are practically touching.
“Hello, Trevel…” He greets me by name on a bit of a sigh.
There’s a familiarity in his tone, as if he’s known of me for a while and isfinallyseeing me face to face. Which is confusing because I don’t know this man.
I think I’d remember meeting him…
His appearance can only be described asunmistakable. Slim and clearly quite tall, even when seated. Pale skin and dark eyes, with hair as white as snow—though judging by the lines on hisface, there’s no way he’s older than fifty. He’s dressed in a three-piece suit, obviously expensive and tailored to an immaculate fit, yet his collar is loosened casually, sleeves rolled up his forearms.
My first guess is that he’s the Warden, but then this place is an utter shithole, and he looks… Well, far too pristine to evenbehere.
“I’d like to formally introduce myself.” He continues, tone polite, professional. Again, not what you’d expect sitting in a room that resembles a slaughterhouse from aTexas Chainsawmovie. “My name is Manuel Blanco, but you can call me The Ivory. I am the Warden of this lovely establishment we call Alabaster Penitentiary.” He gestures around the room in a subtly mocking fashion, as if he knows it’s foul and he’s being cheeky. “On behalf of us all, let me welcomeyou, inmate #102, as our newest arrival.”
I can do nothing more than blink. And stare. And blink… and stare.
Honestly, I’m not certain I’m even breathing.
