Short Story - Alcatraz

The following is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents portrayed and the names herein are fictitious and any similarity to the name, character and history of any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

ALCATRAZ The storm blew itself out quickly through the night and from the east the sunlight crept quietly through the dim windows of the prison cells. Outside, the wet grass after the night’s rainfall shimmered in the morning sunlight with the radiance of a thousand stars. The blue ocean seems quiet and tranquil, quite unlike the boisterous sea that it was during the night. Robert quietly smokes the cigarette, keeping care to dump the ash in the cloth bag around his waist. When he’s finished he quickly lights another one, extinguishing the cigarette on the dead guards face, somewhat sneering in contempt at the dead man’s utter helplessness, and quietly places the butt back into the cloth bag. Soon the Ferry’s would start from Pier 33, and would bring the first unsuspecting visitors of the morning. Robert had planned this since the day Jim’s appeal to the Governor had failed. Yesterday night Jimmy had died at the Mack Folsom prison – nope. Jimmy was killed. His kid brother. The innocent one. Robert’s thinks of the goddamn slut. Maybe he should have killed her himself. Jimmy could never have killed her. He had loved her. As the cigarette silently burns itself out ( it has become an unconscious act for him now); and after tomorrow it might never be open to public anymore. Maybe another memorial would be built here, for all his victims. Maybe at his trial he would tell them – why? If you kill innocent people, there’s no problem cos you’re the masters huh? Now, watch what I have done here. The state of California must pay for what they did with Jim. Maybe – if ever he was caught. Killing the rangers of the National Park Service was the easy part, they were sitting ducks. But something had happened when he was

inside the prison. He had heard voices. Someone had been screaming : “ Oh ! Fuck you!” , and then there were some more “Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!” Robert had run till the end of the lane, dropping the C4 like it was a toy; but when he reached the end, his .22 ready and loaded there was no one there. But the voices continued – there were sounds of marching boots, echoing through the empty renovated halls – and outside the thunder raged. Robert got the chills. He ran away leaving the C4 lying there. He ran outside to the main entrance and stood just outside the glass doors, looking at the thunderous skies, not courageous enough to look back. He swore to him that if he hears anything more, he’ll spend the rest of the night in the boat, even if it meant being soaking wet until the morning. When the morning came, the storm had abated. Robert knows that his plan’s success depends upon placing the dynamite in the cells. The plan was simple. Get the people to the tower, they’d rather believe that it was just a hostage situation, and would co-operate with them. Then was the easy part. He would blow the building up with dynamite. And lessen the odds of anyone surviving this attack. And he’d be masked. Not that he was sure the California State Justice System would accept it – maybe they’d give him the death penalty if they ever caught him. Nope, he was just a farm man tending to his lands who just might not even be suspected of carrying out such a dastardly terrorist idea. But the idea was revenge. It’s personal. If I go back into the prison I die, he thinks. He’s sure that whatever flung him to the cell and blared through the microphone, was surely not natural. Sure, he weighed nearly 200 pounds. It just wasn’t easy however strong the breeze, hell, a hurricane to have lifted a man of his weight and flung him the way he was. Like a rag doll being warned. Around him, the air turns misty. He lights another smoke. Robert can hear it correctly – there was a crunching of the boots on the gravel. Then came the sound of the morning bugle – loud and clear. “Holy Christ!” he exclaims, when his eye catches the marching soldiers. Wearing perfect dark blue uniforms, their hands swinging high, they marched a military band march. From the opposite side, the previously invisible lieutenant emerged. Clad in shimmering white, he carried a sword around his waist, and a

weapon, which might have been a .22 slung low across his waist. “Guards, halt.” He shouts taking his position at the front. Robert freezes, stunned. From somewhere on a megaphone, comes a metallic hollow voice, reverberating throughout the entire island. “ PRISONERS! God sent you to us for your crimes. While we are here, you’ll never leave this island alive. Never escape, never hide. So Help You God!”. Suddenly, from behind him, Robert smells aftershave. The glass door opens, and an old man, dressed in grey overalls walks past him , indifferent. He goes to the head of the parade. The white sergeant shouts some incoherent command, and the guards turn to face Robert and the old man. Robert knows what the single star on the man’s shoulder means. A general. Robert runs. When he dares to look back, he sees nothing. Just the seagulls flying over the Main Building, and the clear blue skies. Robert knows that there is something wrong here. That parade it was not alive, nor was it his imagination, just couldn’t be. He smokes relentlessly, still, careful not to drop the cigarette buts in the grass. He sips silently from the canteen, closes his eyes; his hands move to the place where his cross was. He’d left it in the cupboard beside Mother Mary’s statuette. He wishes he just had it right now. He returns back to the boat, pondering; he knows he’s not going back. He’s come here prepared to die. Die naturally or die supernaturally Robert does not care. For the first time the storm had abated, but the occasional lightening strikes filled the night with an electric brilliance. Robert occasionally glimpsed at the white sail of the yatch. There were more grey clouds; Robert knows that the morning will be dull and gray – laid back. But it was cold. Robert suddenly feels it. He slides his hands back into his coat while his hands silently brushes past the cold metal of his automatic. To the warmth. Perhaps it was the swift wind that blew across this empty space. Robert wonders how many lived here, and the collective sorrow of the crimes they’d committed. It was the chill, the every fact that

he’d been scared with regard to whatever was there inside the main prison block that worried him. He’s run away like a coward. And his kid-brother died for no crime of his. Just couldn’t be. It was what caught his attention. If those men as evil as those were housed here , some forever, what deep and dark crimes, horrendous crimes had they committed to be sentenced here. Collected evil.So much evil in a place. When he finally reaches the Mary Deare, she bobbing up and down with the waves. His eye catches the stormy rippled in the waves. It really was a stormy atmosphere. The waves were huge, turbulent liking demanding waters claiming the lives of everything they could destroy. Was it true? Had he just run away from an evil presence on the island. No men scared him now. But what had he felt so eerie about that he ran from the place. He opens the sandwiches, and the flask of coffee. He wishes for a drink, maybe a shot of whiskey would help calm his nerves. But there’s no drinks here. Maybe he should move the place where the carnage should occur. Maybe he should just line them in one of the side bunkers – there’s move C4 in the boat. Enough for a boatload. He does not think of getting away. Jim needed to be avenged. A lesson needed to be taught. Robert looks at the map of Alcatraz. There must be someplace, he thinks. There’s barracks, that’s one place that he surely excepts the ghosts to mess him up, There’s two lighthouses on either side of the island, but that would involve, wait, there’s the newly built Museum, right beside the cliff. Right on the edge of the cliff, yup! It was spacious enough for everyone from the Ferry to fit in, all of them, and definitely was solid concrete, so the explosion would definitely cause maximum damage, and if anyone did manage to survive, he’s got the .22’s and the automatics. Robert throws the rest of the sandwich uneaten, for he knows that he must hurry! In a couple of hours time, the passengers would start arriving.

Pronto! The barracks were empty! He made two trips in carrying the materials, and by the time he was finished wiring up the explosives randomly across the museum hall, he was perspiring like a long distance runner. He walks out to where the dead guard is, and lights the cigarette. So far no ghosts here he thinks. What else could go wrong? He could die here, or he could be killed. He finishes one smoke and quickly lights another one, extinguishing the cigarette on the dead guards face, somewhat sneering in contempt at the dead man’s utter helplessness, and quietly places the butt back into the cloth bag around his waist. In ten minutes he knows that the ferry would start from Pier 33, and would bring the first visitors. CRACK! The bullet bites across the wall dislodging itself on the wall around him. Robert falls to the ground, scanning the horizon. There! He sees the reflection as if of guard’s buckles. Robert sees nothing but a white mist. It just hung in here. Cursing he removes the gun from his hip, and drawing the second one from his shoes. On a second thought, he abandons one and picks up the shotgun. CRACK! CRACK! Two more bullets. Robert looks at himself, and suddenly he realizes the pain shooting through him. He’s been shot. His dark shirt feels wet as it clings onto his chest. The bullet hit him in the shoulder. Robert fires randomly into the mist. He knows he’s hit nothing. Bullets can’t work on ghosts. Or would they? But how can ghosts hurt him? But the blood is real! And so’s the pain. CRACK! Robert never hears the second shot which soon followed the first shot. The bullet hits him sorely in the head. Across the deserted island, the megaphone blares again : “ This is what happens to those who trespass against the guards of the island. Prisoners watch how Robert died today. A foolish man.” Had some been present there they’d have seen the old general walk out leisurely upto Robert and tap him with his stick. Closely following behind him are a dozen soldiers standing taunt in attention, and the white sergeant. He mutters slowly : “ throw him over the cliff and into the sea. And he’s got a boat somewhere, search for it and sink it. Bury your comrades.” He spits on the dead man’s body, and recedes into the mist.

© 2008 T.Prabhakar. All Rights Reserved