He had an air of blatant arrogance about him. Even as the transport van bucked us with every pothole in the backroad, his eyes never left mine. As he stared at me, his face would transition from emotionless to amused, sometimes offering a smile or furrowing his brow like he was some kind of AI trying to troubleshoot a human reaction. I looked away often, not wanting to feed him the attention he seemed starved for.
My eyes wandered to the floor, at the shackles around his ankles. A jingling chain swaying between his legs that seemed almost overkill for the scrawny individual it was fastened to. I found myself trailing up from the shackles, over the red jumpsuit, to the straight jacket that had been used in place of handcuffs. A thick leather strap was fastened tightly across his chest, holding him firmly in place as the van bounced down the road. The man before looked so small and helpless, like a little kid that had been cast to play a prisoner in a movie.
Stuart Cavanaugh was a high profile prisoner transport on his way to death. Seeing him in person was almost disappointing, his lack of muscle or tattoos making him look like a pitiful vanilla suburban house-husband. He was supposed to me some kind of mass murderer, a 2020 Charles Manson wannabe that had a few dozen deaths under his belt. Some kind of “master-manipulator”, leaving a harrowing trail behind him wherever he seemed to shuffle. People would die gruesomely, but never by his hand. One way or another, he would always get someone to do his bidding.
No one could figure out how he did it.
It had become enough of a problem that the State, out of desperation, was ferrying him to the closest prison that still practiced the death penalty.
Death by lethal injection, or “whatever deems successful”, effective as soon as possible.
Transport Stuart William Cavanaugh immediately, only the highest of clearances.
Extremely low profile. No news, no announcement.
This had been my first taboo transport of sorts, one that wasn’t funded by the rich family of a known kidnapping or a political power move from behind the curtain. They wanted this guy gone, bad. Our route consisted mostly of erratic backroads, with a cut through the town Dyer Falls. All in an attempt to dodge the press, and whatever theoretical peons Cavanaugh had working under him.
As he stared at me, it boggled me what was so dangerous about a shrimp like him. Thin, geeky glasses. Arms like toothpicks and beady little eyes. I could probably beat this man to death in four seconds. I was twice his size, and I could bench three-times his body weight. He knew it, too.
And still he stared at me, like some kind of fuckin’ animal.
Another pothole shook our cabin, one that stifled a muffled groan from my colleague next to me. He readjusted on the bench and returned to browsing his phone, the popping of his gum almost inaudible under the suppression of the earplugs. The only thing of interest in the bare transport van was a first aid kit and a fire extinguisher
The earplugs were the only known foolproof defense against Cavanaugh’s bullshit. It was a rule we had to follow during the transport, one I kept hearing on repeat from the tired voice of the Commissioner.
Do not, under any circumstances, remove your earplugs.
I thought of the plugs lodged uncomfortably in my ears, and couldn’t help but look at Cavanaugh’s face. He raised one eyebrow, much like Tim Curry in Rocky Horror Picture Show. The taunt was met with silence, as I had done many times before, with many people much bigger than him. His jest made me think of the gun holstered at my side, and the weight of it hanging. An incredibly expensive but equally deadly sidearm, loaded to the brim with .50 Action Express hollow-points, but that special kind that would bloom into a star-shape through the trajectory. It was grossly overpowered and by all means unnecessary, but when you contact “private” security firms to cab-ride your problem child, they “privately” outfit.
Next to me, my colleague known only as “Webber” was busy burying his nose in his phone. A major infraction by the companies standard, but this was the norm for him, Even though he looked like a teenager out of his element, this was my third ride with Webber, the second of which I had witnessed him killing the transport in self defense. Brutally.
Cavanaugh watched Webber, and when he saw him looking at him, he simply winked at him and went back to perusing his phone. Tinder, from the looks of it. Cavanaugh looked to scowl at Webber, but whatever noise he made I couldn’t hear. After failing to get a rise out of him, he turned back to me, and settled in like he was watching a movie.
It was annoying, sure. But this was nothing.
We once had a guy who bit off his own tongue, and would collect the blood in his mouth until he had enough to jet-stream our visors like that dinosaur from Jurassic Park. The worst part was, we had no idea when he actually did bite his tongue off. He did it silently, without emotion.
For a while, we all wobbled in silence. The ride was only supposed to be two hours, and this one felt like three already. Not a good sign, but it was how it always went. Eventually we would jump out of this shuttle, and the money would spend the same.
Cavanaugh continued to stare at me, cycling through facial expressions as we maintained eye contact. It looked very unlike him, like the actions that didn’t match his face. He looked like the type to grill on a Saturday get-together, flipping burgers in khaki shorts with his socks rolled up to his knees. To see him do stupid shit like cross his eyes intentionally or make silent fart noises with his tongue was just… strange. Despite my lack of engagement, he still continued long after I stopped paying attention.
Another pothole shook the vehicle, and Webber almost dropped his phone. He proceeded to pound on the wall of the van with a gloved fist and yell something I assumed was “Settle down, you goofy bitch” before immediately going back to scrolling and swiping. Swiping right a lot, it would seem.
I shifted in my seat, trying to relieve the numbness on one side of my ass and push it to the other. My gun dug uncomfortably into my hip, and I readjusted my cell phone so the barrel wouldn’t shatter the screen.
Cavanaugh watched me do this, pausing his annoying kissy face like he had suddenly discovered something of interest. His lips unpuckered, and formed into a disturbing sort of ear-to-ear smile. I paid it no mind, but the sudden change in tactic was curious. Some prisoners kept to themselves. Others begged to be let go. Prisoners like Stuart were hellbent on tormenting you until you slipped, whether it was to cause an opening or just for the satisfaction of goading was beyond me.
Stuart started mouthing words.
It was easy to ignore him at first, just simply avoid looking at his face. If I could just keep my gaze on his shackles and straight jacket, I could track his activity until we arrived at our destination. I was fine for a few minutes, and would’ve stayed fine if my ego didn’t get the best of me. After all, every bull wants to be challenged. I looked at his face, and tried my best to make out what he was saying through his slow lip-synching. I expected something like “rent-a-cop” or “pussy” but what I deciphered was nothing along those lines. No jab, or provoking insult. Just two words said plainly over and over.
“Yellow Ball.”
I became instantly anxious. My guts felt like they were melting together, and I got the sudden urge to throw open the back door and run as far away from the van as I could. I can’t really put the feeling into words. It felt like death itself. Like I was being forced to watch someone get hit by a car, but the car was still a block away, gaining in the distance.
He had my attention now, and he knew it. I looked at Webber, who was still glued to his phone. Cavanaugh sat and waited, smug and wrapped in his straight jacket with his eyebrows raised like he had moved a chess piece and was awaiting my turn.
I started to sweat, and my breathing felt uncontrolled and labored. His prying eyes made me self conscious, and painfully aware of the things near me.
The tight fit of my body armor.
The heavy weight of the gun in its holster.
The lodged shape of the phone in my pocket.
I tried to look away from Cavanaugh, but every time I broke eye contact I could hear those two words like he was speaking inside my head. Yellow Ball. Yellow Ball. Yellow Ball. His arrogance only frustrated me, and I couldn’t understand how it was getting to me so suddenly. I had been on so many transport jobs with all shapes and sizes, and this dweeb was getting under my skin?
My face and ears were getting hot. It was hard to breath in the armor, like someone was sitting on my chest. Despite my discomfort, I reminded myself of the important rule stressed by the Commissioner.
Do not, under any circumstances, remove your earplugs.
Cavanaugh took a deep breath, and mouthed the two words again. Yellow Ball.
I pinched the ends of each ear plug and pulled them out, letting in the sound of the bumpy road and the van’s engine. Cavanaugh smiled.
“You say something to me, punk?” I said, quieter than I expected.
Webber didn’t hear. It was just me and the prisoner now.
Cavanaugh said nothing for a moment, and I could see his pupils shifting as they rapidly stared into each of my eyes individually. He was calm, collected. When he finally spoke, it was hushed and gentle.
“Do you think the bones of a child taste different than the bones of an adult?”
There was something icy about his words, it made me sick to my stomach.
“What did you just say?” I asked, a little louder.
“Their bones. I’ve never tried cannibalism, but I’ve always wondered if it would taste differently.”
“You best keep your mouth shut for the rest of the ride, or we’re gonna have a fuckin’ problem. They said nothing about the condition we had to deliver you in.” I said, seething. Having given my warning, I started to return them to my ears.
“Scary,” Cavanaugh tsked, and tilted his head forward, “but tell me. Was it a spontaneous gift, or did she pick it out herself?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, sure. What do you think their last thoughts are, as they’re dying? Do they ask for Mommy? Or do they ask for God?”
The words raked down my back like ice. I thought of the gun, and how much better I would feel if it was in my hand.
“Shut your fucking mouth, or I’ll knock all of your teeth out. I’m sure they’d like that where you’re going. Very beneficial.” As I leaned forward, the prisoner clicked his tongue.
“Cute. Just put it all on the table. Big strong man like yourself. How many have you preached the same threat? Is that what ‘does it’ for you?” He hissed, “Funny story. I once asked a man to pull out his own teeth. One by one. He cried and sobbed and there was so much blood, but he still did it. Best part is, he still had enough strength to strangle the DoorDash driver when she dropped off the food I was going to eat in front of him.”
“Sure, sure.” I said, looking at Webber. He was still distracted, slightly turned and hunched over his phone. I went to nudge him when the prisoner spoke again, and even though I didn’t want to, I listened.
“Is it weird that I feel more pity for fish? A dog will follow you loyally to its own demise, but fish, fish know. You can see it in their eyes, swimming around as you pour them into the blender. Like they knew their owners would betray them in the long run.”
I looked away. The earplugs were rolling away on the vibrating floor. One of them stopped against Webber’s boot. He didn’t notice, and the prisoner was still talking.
“It would be so easy. Probably kicking it around right now. Right in the front yard, right under Mommy’s nose. You think you could get there in time? I don’t know, really. Scoop her right up. Like she was never there. You think she’d know the difference between cereal and thumb-tacks? Do you think she’d care?”
My blood was boiling. My hand squeezed, suddenly feeling heavy.
“I’d kill you.” Was all I could say.
“Would you? Or would you join for breakfast?”
“You’re fuckin’ sick. You know that?”
“Yeah, I’m sick alright. Sick of being in these restraints. I think I’ve hung around here long enough. It was interesting to see the government dogs scramble in their attempt to control me. The whole time, thinking they had me. It’s hilarious, isn’t it? They’re so sure of themselves. Just a bunch of people looking to collect a check. Like you. Not professional in the least. You couldn’t even keep the plugs in.”
I stared at him, grinding my teeth together so hard it hurt. He smirked at me briefly, before turning to Webber.
He had finally looked up from his phone.
“Did you remove your hearing protection?” He asked, immediately alarmed.
His look of confusion was reduced to a malformed rupture of gore as his visor shattered in a spray of red. The gunshot was deafening, ringing off the inside of the van. The gun in my hand was smoking, the large ejected casing bouncing off the floor.
“Oh god, what the fuck—” Was all I could muster, before the van slammed on its brakes. I was thrown into the still bleeding corpse of Webber, struggling to stay up right as his body rag-dolled into mine. The eviscerated melon that remained for a head leaked profusely under the helmet, splashing at my armor in hot bursts. My boots slipped under the spatter, and as I tried to regain my composure, Cavanaugh remained perfectly in place in his harness. Webber’s smartphone screen shattered as it landed face down.
“Oh my, what have you done? Those guns just go off don’t they?” He taunted.
“You son of a bitch!” I spat, whipping the gun around. I shot him twice, center mass, the gun barking loudly with each squeeze of the trigger. Each more deafening than the last. I looked to see both of my shots had missed; one shattering his shackles, the other blasting the hinge that held the strap over his chest. The gun was aiming on its own.
Once the van stopped, I heard the sounds of the drivers throwing their doors open from the outside. Cavanaugh laughed and stood from his seat, shaking the restraints off awkwardly from the confines of his straight jacket.
“What!? How did you… how?” Was all I could say. I pointed the large gun at him, but couldn’t seem to squeeze the trigger. I couldn’t seem to do anything.
“Here’s the deal. When your buddies open that door, they’re going to hold their fire. Instead of restraining me, one is going to see how many long sticks he can fit in his throats until he… passes away. The other is going to be so kind to remove this jacket, right before he chooses the same makeover you gave your friend.”
“Bullshit. They’ll stop you.” I said, wanting to grab and restrain him but unable to find the will. My body simply refused to respond. Cavanaugh crouched next to me and leaned forward to whisper in my ear. The shouting outside was getting louder, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Through the ringing in my ears, all I could hear was the prisoner.
“Or they won’t. Tell me, your wife and child, do you think they would miss you if I took them? Do you think they would hear you if you spoke to them? Do you think they would reach out to you if you were running after them? Would they cry for help, or would they smile and wave? Think about that, when you grab that fire extinguisher over there.”
I looked at the red can fastened to the wall as the voices boomed outside the door. Cavanaugh leaned in closer, his breath hot in my ear.
“I’m sure you’ll find the fine line between consciousness and concussion. And when you wake up, use that cell phone of yours and call for backup. Let them know what happened. Remind them of their fear for me.”
With that, Cavanaugh stood and faced the door. I dropped my gun and shuffled to the extinguisher, looking sadly at Webber as I freed the extinguisher from its housing. The prisoner faced the doors as the shouts reached their peak outside the vehicle, like he was about to walk onto a stage. I removed my helmet and laid on the floor, blood soaking into my suit as I held the extinguisher above my head. I told myself I looked that way so I could watch him go, but I knew I did it to better aim for my temple. With a farewell, Cavanaugh looked at me with one last smirk, before facing the doors ahead of him, just in time for them to fly open. As sunlight spilled in around his silhouette, I pulled the extinguisher down as hard as I could.
It was dusk when I awoke. My vision collected through the haze of neon pink, and I tried to remember where I was. A throbbing pressed on the inside of my skull and my ears rung. I tried to get to my feet, slipping as I steadied myself. Through the light of the setting sun, I saw the blood-soaked floor, and the slumped corpse of Webber against the wall of the van.
It came back slowly; the prisoner, the earplugs, the gunshot.
I looked at the fire extinguisher lying on its side, and the echoing words that followed.
Let them know what happened.
I shambled out of the van and jumped out, feeling the crunch of gravel under my boots. We were on a dirt road, heavy forestation lining each side of the path. The van had skid to a stop on the shoulder in the middle of nowhere. The dizziness faded in and out as I squinted at the sun that poked through the trees. My legs were shaking, and as I tried to get them under control, I found myself vomiting instead. Through the pounding in my head and convulsing of my guts, I saw the first corpse in the road.
It was laying on its side, its face unrecognizable through the gore that splattered the inside of the visor. The top of the helmet was exploded outward, a collection of flies swarming the trail of gory matter that followed the gunshot. The gun was still clutched in their hand.
Opposite the gunshot victim was a second body, almost posed for display. The corpse was on its knees, head held back like they were yelling at the sky. Protruding from their mouth was a cluster of misshapen sticks. Some of them larger and more jagged than the others, each of them looked to fit impossibly in the horribly stretched mouth.
Between the two bodies was a folded red prison jumpsuit, and a discarded straight jacket.
Remind them of their fear for me.
I felt for my phone, deciding it was time to call the police. My hands were shaking and it took me several tries to properly hit the power button. When the screen finally lit up, I could only stare at the screen with sobering clarity.
The lock screen was a picture of my daughter, her joyous smile captured mid laugh. Held tight in her arms was a bright yellow ball.