The wind slams into the bus, rocking it on its wheels. Rain explodes into the depot, gushing as if a water tank has been ruptured. The inmates cry out in shock, gripping hold of the seats in front of them. Leaves and debris fly through the air, an old sheet of newspaper slapping against the windscreen.
I peer through the window, watching the gates open all the way. The morning light is yellow, an apocalyptic taint I’ve never seen before.
The bus starts moving.
“The fuck, man?” someone shouts. “You can’t take us out in that!”
“Stop being a pussy!” yells Evans, almost screaming to be heard above the roaring wind. “You’re not getting out of work detail, you little bitch!”
The headlights illuminate the torrential rain as we edge out of the depot. It’s blowing in heavy horizontal sheets that surge and flick with the wind. The driver leans forward in his seat, squinting through the windshield.
“Move faster!” shouts Evans.
The driver doesn’t even glance at him, just keeps his gaze focused outside.
The bus turns right onto a small road. I can just make out the spotlights every ten feet or so. At night, they illuminate the prison grounds. Now they’re reduced to weak halos that make the rain glow like molten metal.
I’ve never seen anything like this storm. The clouds look like they’re boiling, bulging out into liver-colored knots, twisting away in the wind and then roiling back on themselves. It’s hypnotic and terrifying at the same time.
After a few minutes, the bus edges onto the road that leads down to the perimeter fence. It descends the hill and then turns left when we reach the front gate of the prison, moving onto a smaller road and back up the hill again on the opposite side of a secondary fence that separates the Glasshouse from the rest of Ravenhill.
The ride grows bumpy as the road changes from smooth tar to a patchy potholed mess. No one has bothered with upkeep. Why would they? The old prison was abandoned years ago. The only reason it’s still standing is because some social activist group claimed it was a site of interest and wanted it listed as a historical building. God knows why. The place is a dump. An eyesore that looks like it belongs in the Victorian era. Crumbling redbrick face, heavy steel bars painted with chipped gray enamel on the windows. It looms against the stormy sky like the opening scene in a horror movie.
The bus eventually stops before a set of old-fashioned iron gates. The high beams pick out a massive chain held together by a rusted padlock.
“Who’s got the key?” calls out the driver.
“Gonzalez!” shouts Evans.
Gonzalez looks nervously out the window. “Why do I have to do it?”
“Number one, because you’re the rookie and I’m not. And number two, because you already have the key. Move your ass.”
Gonzalez sighs and unbuckles himself. He unlocks the door to the cage and heads to the front of the bus. Evans unlocks the second gate and the driver hits the button to open the bus doors.
Torrential rain and wind explode inside. Gonzalez stumbles back, his hand raised to cover his face. He squints into the storm, steadying himself with his other hand.
“Get out!” screams the driver.
Gonzalez staggers into the wind, his face turned to the side.
“Hey, Gonzalez!” shouts Felix. “You might wanna take an umbrella. Looks like it’s gonna rain.”
The inmates roar with laughter.
I press my head against the window and watch Gonzalez struggle to reach the gate. The road is a muddy river. The brown water breaks against him as he wades forward. Before he reaches the gate, he stumbles. He fights to keep his footing, but a fierce gust slams him from the side and he goes down. He hits the ground hard, then starts to roll, the wind shoving and bullying him until he manages to slap his hands flat against the ground, keeping low while he regains his breath.
The inmates are all laughing. Even Evans has a grin on his face. Personally, I would have preferred to see Evans out there on his ass, but there’s no way he’s going to get his hands dirty if he can order someone else to do it.
Gonzalez slowly pushes himself to his feet and staggers to the gate. It takes him a while to get the key to turn, but he finally manages to open the padlock and yanks the chain off. He drops it to the side and pulls open the gates, then starts to head back to the bus, but the right gate swings closed again as soon as he lets go. The driver honks his horn and gestures. Gonzalez looks back. His mouth moves in a curse and he wades back to hold the gate open while the bus edges forward.
The driver waits on the other side and Gonzalez scrambles back inside, the doors slamming shut behind him.
“Hey, Gonzalez!” shouts Perez. “You been on vacation? You look like you caught some sun, man.”
The rest of the bus cracks up and Gonzalez just slumps against the side of the cage and flips Perez the bird.
We move along the road and stop before another solid metal gate recessed into the perimeter wall of the Glasshouse. It looks like the entrance to some medieval castle. Evans turns to Gonzalez.
“You’re already wet,” he says.
“Fuck sake.” Gonzalez stumbles outside again, the doors quickly sliding closed behind him. He moves to a door set off to the side of the gate. It’s unlocked, and he slips inside, slamming it shut behind him.
We wait a few seconds, then the gates part down the middle and swing inward. We edge beneath the prison wall and into a short tunnel lit by flickering orange lamps hanging from the bricks. The gates behind us slam shut and two identical gates in front open to reveal a concrete courtyard lit by bright floodlights.
Gonzalez climbs back into the bus and it shoots forward, the driver eager to get this over with.
