Life at Hard Labor chapters 40-45

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor chapters 40-45
Date: 13 September 2011

Chapter 41-

It was a long drive back south. I had been trying to doze as the truck drove, but it seemed like every time I came close to sleep, the driver hit a pothole or I was hit by a large bug. As the scenery blew by, I noticed a few ancient and lone chestnut trees by the side of the road in front of the farms and orchards of free men. We drove through a few nearly abandoned one horse towns consisting of just a post office, a gas station, and a general store. It was slowly becoming dark, but this offered no coolness. I felt the heat of summer grow and stagnate as we rolled back towards the quarries.

My wrists hurt from the cuffs digging in, and I desperately wanted to stretch my arms out, but it was no use. Me and Miner sat next to each other, our legs stretched out in the dirty jeans that were firm in places with pine sap. I looked at our jeans and our numbers, M-009-D, and M-008-D and knew that they would soon be ripped off, and our identities stripped with them.

Craig finally awoke as twilight set the world on fire with a blue, red, and green light. He lay on his side, and the first thing he saw was a pair of scuffed up work boots. “No.” he said. “God damn no.” He looked up to see me.

“DAMN IT! MATT! You fucking moron! Why the hell did you do it?!” Craig screamed.

“Pipe down!” I said. “The driver might hear you.”

“Son of a bitch!” He said quietly. “You can’t go through this shit again Matt! I was trying to keep you off!!”

“Damn Craig. You’ve got 80 some years on me, I though you might know better. I had 2 major strikes. They would have gotten me one way or the other. Same with Miner here.” I replied. Miner was asleep, and was not awoken by Craig’s screams.

“Damn.” he said, shutting his eyes, and fighting back tears while struggling against the ropes.

“Don’t worry about it man.” I said, still harboring an erection and a gut feeling of anticipation. “What’s done is done. Aint nothin we can do now. If it makes you feel better, we’re not in for the long haul like you.”

“That’s good.” he replied. “Still though, I didn’t want to see you have to go out here again. After hearing about them cages, and them coveralls, I couldn’t stand the thought of you out here again.”

“Man, I’ve done it once, I can do it again. We’ll all get through. I’m more worried about you. You’re in deep shit. They’re gonna come down hard on you man.”

Craig finally gave a though for himself. I could see it in his face, and I could see the fear and anticipation in his eyes.

“It’s alright man. They can’t keep you forever. You didn’t kill him.” I said.

This was little comfort, but he smiled slightly. “I’m glad you’re gonna be with me to start then man…” He was still looking very dejected and scared; his eyes clamped shut as if he was in pain.

Just then, the driver slammed on his breaks hard, and Craig slid quickly to the back of the truck, and I fell out of his sight.

“You alright?” I called out quietly.

“Yeah.” he said. “Better get some rest.”

:”Alright.” I finished. I couldn’t shut my eyes. The light was going, and the stars were coming out. “There’s the sledge.” I thought remembering my first trip to the chain gang, and Buck’s astronomical knowledge. It wouldn’t be long before I had to set my hands on the real thing again.

I had finally dozed off, but it seemed like I had only slept about 30 minutes when the truck came to a stop, and I felt the muggy, oven like heat bearing down on my bare shoulders. A thick armed guard opened the tail gate and grabbed Craig, Throwing him on the ground. He woke up and groaned as the boss cut his bonds.

“Get on up!” He said, and Craig struggled to his feet, stretching out his arms, and rubbing his wrists. The boss then turned his attention to me and Miner.

:”GET ON OUT!!” He shouted, and we crawled on our knees to the back of the truck, and bounded down with our wrists still bound. He unlocked our cuffs, and we swung our arms rubbing our wrists.

“LINE EM UP!!” He said, pointing towards the east with his strap. We turned to where he was pointing, and the sight of them was like a blow to the stomach.

They wore black t-shirts with the sleeves cut off, but they were faded grey by months in the hot sun. Written horizontally across the upper part of the back were the words CHAIN GANG as if to confirm to any moronic passerby that these men were not wearing leg irons for fun. The words were also written on the front in smaller letters across the left pec.

They wore heavy, denim carpenter jeans which had the words CHAIN GANG inked on with bold white letters. The letters were small and horizontal where the prisoner‘s number would have been if he had been afforded the luxury of a number. It was also written in large letters going vertically down the right leg from the bottom of the pocket to just below the knee. And of course, the same words were inked horizontally across the top the back right pocket. Most of the letters were cracked fading, and covered in dirt but could still be read like the fading ink of some ancient codex.

The jeans themselves were covered in the same filth, and though they were a little darker denim than the pair I was wearing at the time, you could see the filth and grime streaked all over them. They were the color of their work, and the blue denim only showed itself enough to let you know that these men were convicts. As if the chains at their ankles didn’t give that away.

Their arms and hands were covered in black grime, and this same filth streaked their arms and faces. Flies buzzed around them, and then I saw three empty sets of heavy leg irons already hooked up by the lead chain to the long chain.

The three of us stepped toward the seven stinking wretches, and each step was more reluctant. We stopped and were met with the smell of the unwashed men, but that was not what concerned us. We only looked at the thick, heavy, new looking shackles, and the ox boys who stood by in overalls.

“EYES FRONT!” Me and Miner stared in disbelief at what we saw. It was the same boss we had known those years ago on our first term. He was as young and clean cut as he was back then, and had the same, hard, no nonsense manner.

“God damn.” I thought. “He’s gonna make it hell. He took the serum.”

Confirming my fears, the boss started his induction speech. We were belligerents, so none of his friendly, that’s too bad, manner of speech awaited us. “Alright boys. I think you know where you are. Couple of you I know all too well. You came in your second year on, and you came in with that big blonde fucker. You boys really fucked up. They told me you were a couple of belligerents. They recommended 500. I think that’s a little light myself, but we’ll see how you shape up by then. Maybe you’ll get your damn head on straight.”

He walked over to Craig “Well, well, well. This here’s the big hero. Got rid of the mean old boss? Boy, you don’t know mean. I’ll make sure you learn. You’re down for the long haul. So is this big fucker here.”

The boss pointed his strap at a large, chunky, muscular man with dusty brown hair, tinged black with filth. His face and chest were streaked with sweat and dirt, and his eyes were sad and tired. His arms hung at his side with one holding a heavy sledge, and his shackled ankles shifted his weight. It was Seth; that big man who had assaulted the cream puff guard all those years ago while I was in the quarry. I only recognized him from his sad eyes, under his grimy forehead. The only think his uniform said was CHAIN GANG, and that’s all he was. He had served on the chain for the entirety of my first sentence, and he remained on all throughout my time on the road crew, in the cane field, and in the timber camp. Craig recognized him immediately.

“You two boys are gonna get to know each other damn good. You’re both down for the long haul. How long is that? 1000 is the required minimum, but it’s really up to me. I like chunky here. I’m gonna keep him around a while. Maybe I’ll get to like you too.” The boss said quietly to Craig. I swallowed, and my gut felt empty. The best friend I’d ever had would have to spend at least 1000 years in heavy shackles. Why the hell didn’t I go down for the long haul too? I’d be released long before Craig, and I’d be working with my legs free knowing Craig was still here. I felt about 10 inches tall.

“ALRIGHT, STRIP!!” I couldn’t believe my ears. Hearing that word belted out confirmed to me that I had landed in hell, and two of my best friends had landed with me. Before I even thought about unbuttoning my pants, I looked at my number. M-009-D. That number meant bunk number 9 back in the timber camp. It had a nice wood stove right at the foot where I’d put my wet boots at night. I was reminded me of smoking a joint with Buck, Craig, and Miner in the mess hall, and how now that was all going away.

I took off my heavy, but well worn brown boots and I unbuttoned my jeans, sliding the soft worn denim off my legs. The light colored denim that had been my friend through all the dirty, muddy work in the timber camp was going away. My numbers went with them. You would think I would have hated those numbers, but seeing them fall, and knowing what they’d be replaced with… I would have carved them into my thigh with a rusty axe if it would have kept me out of the chains, even knowing that I wouldn’t be in the chains forever.

I then took off my shirt, and was completely naked in front of the men on the chain gang. I had long since gotten over any shyness from being nude in front of other convicts, but I could see that the men stared at us longingly. This wasn‘t necessarily because of any sexual longing on their part, but because they missed the sensation of nudity they were thinking of the cool water of a shower falling on their tired hot skin, rising the thick dirt that streaked their tired arms into a drain. They hadn’t felt this sensation in years. The filth of days of hard labor darkened their skin, and made a degrading mud with the salty sweat that had come out even before they had started working. Their clothes too had not been washed in all the time they had toiled in their leg irons. Their denim pants were stiff with dirt and dried sweat, and would only soften when the new sweat of a day’s work soaked them. They looked longingly at our brief seconds of nudity, and their hearts sank as they knew that it would not last long for us.

An overall clad convict threw down a folded pair of jeans, and a folded shirt into the dirt. They landed hard, and kicked up some dirt. He threw additional bundles in front of Craig, and Miner. Our old jeans were collected by another convict, and M-009-D, C-009-D, and M-008-D went away.

Before us sat a slightly darker shade of denim, but not a deep indigo. I didn’t need a new pair of jeans; they could have just ripped the number off my old ones. I knew there was something about these that was intended to punish us.

“ALRIGHT, PUT EM ON!!” I picked them up, and I knew. I remembered the first day of my sentence, those long years ago. The jeans I was given then were smooth, and well worn, but still sturdy. They were light, and frayed, and bore another man’s hard work, wear and tear. It was as if the man who wore those jeans had softened them up a little for me, so that I’d feel more welcome.

The jeans I held as I awaited the chain gang though were no kindly gesture. They unfolded, and I felt each fold unravel with a heavy thud. Though my arms were strong from years of wielding sledge, axe, knife, pick and shovel, I felt the weight of those jeans, and my clearly visible cock sprang up in fear rather than joy. 25 hours of hard labor in the blazing sun in these heavy, dark, thick jeans. And that wasn’t the worst part.

I had barely noticed them, on the other convicts facing us, but running down the outside of either leg where the seam would be, was a broad, off white stripe. These stripes covered thick metal snaps that had already been fastened. They held the pants together, and allowed them to be taken off and put back on without removing boots or leg irons. The holes that would have been made by the strap were covered up and sealed off by the stripe which had been Velcroed over the snaps, making them as confining as any other pair of jeans would be.

I pulled them on, and felt my hard cock rub the rough denim. God was it rough. I had been going commando for more than 100 years, and still it felt odd not having underwear. Especially with these pants. It was obvious that they had been designed to be durable, long lasting, and heavy, but not much else. The snaps were attached to two triple stitched seams of denim which snapped together, and felt thick and heavy.

The pants weighed down even my strong legs, and pulled me closer to the rocks and dirt at my feet. I zipped them up, and even though I know I could easily take them off, I felt locked in. The stripes at either side held me firmly on the chain gang. If only they were enough to do so. The words CHAIN GANG loomed up at me from the left leg, and looked larger than they should have. As I stared down and read those words, my gut felt that empty feeling it had whenever I knew I was in deep shit. Despite the thick denim, I could feel the words on my leg. They had no real physical weight that I could feel, but I could still feel them. It was as if my left leg had sunk deeper into the dirt, and was suddenly heaver and harder to move.

The shirt was like any t shirt, but a little thicker, and with the sleeves pulled off. They wanted our arms free to swing the sledge, and be seared by the sun. It was black, with CHAIN GANG written on the back across the shoulders in dull white. As I pulled it on, my rough dirty skin felt the clean shirt, and it ground the dirt into my flesh. I could physically feel the words on my back, and the smaller ones on my pec, as they had been inked on with something like acrylic paint. Plastic and permanent. My shoulders sank under that tiny weight, made bigger by the knowledge of what finally awaited me.

I threw my old familiar work boots on. Brown leather creased and wrinkled from all the walking and working I had to do every day. Scuffed to hell, and fitting my feet like a dream. I bent over, and tied them. Both boot and lace were covered in dirt from the timber camp, and smelled like the piney earth they had been in for the past few months. I had worn them in the cane field too in the last few years of that hell hole. They would have to carry my longer still, as they were introduced to the worst part of the chain gang. The leg irons.

“ALRIGHT, HOOK EM UP!!” The boss shouted.

“Foot here.” The ox said, and I gave my ankle to the man in the overalls. His eyes never met mine, but I sensed a certain degree of sadness in the way he firmly held my leg. CLANG CLANG CLANG!! I heard the sound coming from Miner and Craig as well. I held my eyes shut. I didn’t even want to look, but I could feel the shackles locked on my boots. My knees went weak, and my gut hurt. My dick went rock hard, and stayed that way as I saw Craig’s legs locked in as well.

There was not a set of coveralls in sight, but there were still the heavy, short leg irons on my ankles. The lack of the heavy coveralls were little comfort, as I felt the stripes at my sides, like brand new bones, or muscles that kept me bound to this gang of men almost as much as the chains did. They ran right down my legs, and met the shackles, and I felt the leg irons tense at my feet as the ox boy had hauled away the anvil, struggling with his own weight, as I was getting used to mine.

We were already hooked up to the long chain. I was behind Craig, and Miner was in front of him, and behind Seth.

“SHOULDER UP!!” I felt a large hand grabbing my back. The man on my back was taller than me, with a light crew cut which had been bleached by the sun and tinged with dirt and sweat. His eyes were sad and cast down, but I couldn‘t see him just then. I only felt a rough, firm hand welcoming me to the chain gang. His heavy hand right over the letter C on my left shoulder. I put my own hand on Craig’s back, and I grabbed it hard, my hand trembling.

“Here on the chain gang, you always start out with someone on your back. That’s your one and only comfort.” said the boss. “You dumb fucks all got each other out here. That’s all you have. Other than that, you get harder work, longer hours, smaller rations, no sex, and hard discipline. You remember that. ALL RIGHT!! ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE!! LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!”

We picked up sledge hammers that had been left for us, and began to march towards our day’s work. It didn’t take long for Craig to get the hang of shuffling. He stumbled a bit, and was met with a whack from a metal tipped prison strap right on his arm. “KEEP YOUR ASS IN LINE CONVICT!!” shouted the boss. That was all Craig needed to learn the rhythm. We stomped forward. Our chains rattled, and the stripes running down our legs moved in unison. We kept the soles of our boots parallel to the ground, and shuffled forward in lock step, stomping down, and shuffling to a line of rocks that had already been laid out for us. It was a few minutes from sunrise, but there was a sticky humidity in the morning air. We stopped, and stood, legs apart, with the leg irons tensing with our shifting weight. The pile of rocks lay before us, large and bright.

“ALL RIGHT!! WORK!!” Shouted the boss.

“GO ON LIFT!!” shouted a sadly familiar voice.

“HUH!!” I shouted along with Miner and six others as we lifted our hammers, and brought them down hard on the fresh rocks. Craig stood still. As my hammer came down, I read the words chain gang, and saw the chains themselves. Something in my mind clicked as I grunted out. I was no longer Matt. The man next to me would not be Craig much longer. The man next to Craig on the other side was no longer Miner. We were part of the chain, and nothing more. We would be that way for a long time to come. Each swing of the sledge was a reminder for those few convicts who could read the words on their pants. They were on the chain gang, and that’s where they’d be for a long time.

As my hammer came down, I realized that I recognized the voice of the lead man. It was young and country fried, but despite its loudness, it was worn down and submissive. It belonged to Wes. When we met him on the cane field, he was cocky, lazy, and stupid. He was a breath of fresh air in our hard, weary world at that time, but now here on the chain gang, he had been beaten down into a pile of tough minded convict. I shot a glance over to him, and despite the men between us, I could see that though he was still thin, his chest was ripped, and his arms were strong and ropey. His eyes stared down at his work in a defiant, yet defeated glare.

“THAT BOYS WAS A BASIC DRILL!” shouted the boss in his same, soul crushing cadence. “WHEN THE LEAD MAN HERE SAYS ‘GO ON LIFT‘, YOU BRING YOUR HAMMER DOWN AND GRUNT AS YOU HIT THE ROCK, THEN BRING IT BACK UP AND PREPARE TO SWING AGAIN! DO IT LOUD AND PROUD!”

Loud we could do, but none of us actually felt proud. I knew we’d probably run into Wes here, but I was really distraught at seeing Seth still in the same set of leg irons he wore the last time I saw his thick, dull minded form. How long could they really punish him for what he did? How long would they punish Craig? What about Miner and myself? How much more hell could they put us through? We’d have eternity to find out. I knew that then, as my second term on the chain gang began.

Chapter 42-

I lifted the hammer, I brought it down. I lifted the hammer, I bought it down. I lifted the hammer, I bought it down. What else was there to do? I looked at the metal head of the sledgehammer as it sent chips of rock and dust flying up into the relentless heat. I read the words CHAIN GANG each time I did. All bold capitol letters, which were slowly becoming covered in dirt. For a few hours, I had cursed the assholes who had kept us here, but now I was silently begging them to call a break.

My muscles tensed, and I lifted the hammer again. I wanted so bad to shoot a glance over at Craig, but there was a boss staring straight at me as I worked. There was nothing to do but swing that sledge, look down at the words written on my pants, and see my chains tense as I swung. No thought required, and no way out of it. This was my whole life. Hard labor and plenty of it.

I smelled the welcoming reek of the 7 other men who had been confined to the chain for several years. They had not showered in all that time. The closest they came to a shower was a brief warm rain that fell like piss from the firm dick of some angry sky god.

We’d been working now for four hours, and the sun was ripe and bright. I had long ago stopped thinking about Craig, or Miner, or Wes, or anyone specifically. They all became fellow links in the chain. Craig learned the grunts, and the songs, and the chants quickly, and many of the punishments that went with breaking the rules. I knew how much he hated to be whipped, but there was just no avoiding it here and I had no way of comforting him, aside from being next to him.

I lifted the hammer, I brought it down. We were “working loose” as they said. We did not have to grunt or swing in unison, but we could not stop, or we would taste the metal end of the strap.

“ALL RIGHT!!! SHUCK EM!!” shouted a boss. I didn’t quite know what to do. On my last term, we were never allowed to take off any article of clothing during work hours. We could pull the boiler suits and our jeans down to take a shit and that was the extent of the shucking we could do. I saw the man on my back whip his black shirt off, and bear his grimy tanned chest to the elements. His hard dirt covered hands tucked the shirt into his front pocket. Not wanting to hold things up, Miner had stripped his, and Craig had beaten everyone to the punch. His thin but firm and rippled chest heaved in the heat, and his dirty fingers crammed the shirt into his pocket.

I had not yet grasped what “SHUCK EM!!” could have meant. As the work resumed, my still shirted frame began to swing the sledge. I felt the sonic boom of the strap landing on my bare arm.

“YOU GOT FUCKING ROCKS IN YOUR EARS CONVICT?! SHUCK EM!!!” Another lash prevented me from immediately complying, and a kick in the ass sent me falling face first onto the rocks that the others kept pounding. Craig stopped, and was met with another prison strap landing on his newly bare back.

“GET THE HELL UP CONVICT!!” the boss shouted as he snapped his strap in the air. I struggled to my feet, the heavy leg irons grabbing my booted feet. I saw that the rest of the gang was shirtless, and I stripped off my shirt. Before I could pick up my sledge, I got another whack from the strap, square between my shoulders. I first tucked the shirt into my right pocket in an attempt to cover up those damn words, but I was met with another lash. “OTHER SIDE CONVICT!” I then tucked the shirt into my left pocket as all the other convicts had done, and continued to work.

I lifted the hammer, I brought it down. I could feel the whips still burning on my shoulder and back, and I could also feel the boss’s sadistic grin through his yellow teeth. Every so often, I’d feel a breeze, but it did not come from the atmosphere. My sweaty back was cooled by the swinging prison strap landing on Craig, or the man behind me, or on my own tanned, sweating back. Our shirts had not been removed in an act of mercy, but rather to get them out of the way of the whips, and expose our bare skin to the raw sunlight.

The boss had moved his way to the front of the gang, and was breathing down Wes’s neck, practically salivating in anticipation of some fuckup coming from the young, but hardened convict. This leant me some time to look at Craig. I glanced first at his sledge careening down onto the rocks below, and then at the ropey, firm arms that did the swinging. His face was covered in a thick veneer of sweat, which mingled with the flying rock dust. He didn’t look up at me for a short time, but finally our eyes met. His glance was stern, and defeated, and I didn’t doubt that my own face appeared similarly pathetic to the man who helped me acclimate to the hard life I was given. He gave me a firm nod, and looked back down at the rock. I looked, and saw the same pants on him, the same stripes, and the same words. My cock sprang up, as I too looked down at my work, and at my own pants.

The boss was still hovering over Wes, fingering his strap, and flicking it in the air, causing the men up front to half flinch. I then looked at the man behind me. Even though I was swinging quickly, his pace put mine to shame. Every one swing of mine was met by two of his. I knew this wasn’t an effort on his part to make me look bad. Before the boss had walked to the front, he had given the man at my back a hard strap on the lower back, and said “pick up that pace convict.”

Sweat beaded on his light hair, and though he was panting heavily, he showed no signs of slackening his pace. I looked him in the eye, and swung more quickly myself. He gave me a kind, yet sad look. There was something in his eyes that gave me a sense of dread, but I couldn’t figure out why. We matched our pace, and worked on silently into the midday heat.

I lifted the hammer, I brought it down. The thick wood handle slid through my rough calloused hand, and shook as the metal struck the rocks. It’s an activity that involves the entire body. Bending down as you swing down. Chains tensing at your legs as they try desperately to spread apart. Your thighs tense, your chest heaves, there’s sweat pouring out of your forehead, and if you try to stop, you get a quick painful sting ushering you back to work.

Your arms are covered in grime, and although you can’t see your face, you know it is also filthy. You’re the lowest a man can get. Doing nothing all day but swinging a sledgehammer, and making road gravel. The convicts who throw that gravel out over the fresh tar don’t even think twice about where it may have come from. They know all too well, and thinking about the chain gang is something no one on the road crew wants to do.

You sweat, sweat, and sweat. Your jeans are drenched, and the flying dust turns to fine muddy grime on skin and clothing. There are faint traces of blue, but your jeans are mostly the color of the work you’re doing; the rocks you’re breaking. You swing that sledge over and over like a robot. Each swing bringing your eyes to the rocks, the leg irons, the boots, and the words “chain gang” on your legs. They won’t let you forget where you are. You work all day in searing heat, and you know as you’re swinging that sledge that you’ll be working hard every day, forever. There is no way out. The best thing you can do for yourself during the long day is keep your mind on your job, and work as hard as you can. Maybe that way, you can drown out your feelings of hopelessness with sweat.

After several swings, and a few new piles of rocks, I finally heard a loud whistle blow. I knew what this meant.

“CHOW TIME!!!” Shouted the boss.

I immediately sunk to my haunches, leg irons grabbing my ankles as I did so. I knew better than to sit, but Craig did not. He eased himself down and his butt touched the dirt below. He kicked out his chained feet, and the dirty treads of his boots met the boss’s eye.

THUD!! Rather than a strap, the boss’s boot landed on Craig’s jaw, and he fell back.

“GET THE FUCK UP BOY!! AINT NO SITTIN DURING WORK HOURS!!”

Craig glanced at me and Miner on either side, and silently cussed as he sat on his haunches. There was a big boot print on his sweaty forehead. We were handed less than two cups of navy beans without molasses, a single thin slice of bread, and a cup of water. I woofed it down chewing quickly, and luckily Craig did the same. I finished, and soon the other nine did as well. We handed our plates to the right, and stood up.

“ALRIGHT, WORK!!” shouted the boss.

“GO ON LIFT!!” Shouted Wes, as we all lifted our sledges,

“HUH!!” we all grunted as they landed on the rocks.

I lifted the hammer, I brought it down. The nine other men did the same, and then we did it again, and again. The short rest had not eased our muscles, or dried our sweat, and it barely quieted our roaring stomachs. We had worked 10 hours, and 15 more awaited us. 15 hours bringing a sledgehammer from high in the air, down low to a pile of rocks.

After several miserable hours, and several hard swings from the hammers, our piles of rock had turned into gravel. It was scooped up into large metal shovels by the ox boys, and thrown into carts. All ready to be hauled off to the road crew. They would spend hours twisting and throwing shovelfuls of the stuff out over a steaming freshly tarred road in this same hot sun.

“TURN EM!!” shouted the boss, and the 10 convicts turned around, dragging their chained, booted, tired feet and their heavy sledges. Before us was stretched a brand new pile of hard rocks fresh from the quarry. The convicts in the quarry had also been swinging sledges all day in the blazing sun. The only difference between them and us was the size of the rock, and the fact that they could talk to each other. And of course, their legs were free.

“GO ON DRILL!!!” shouted the boss.

“WORKIN HARD!” Shouted Wes.

“WORKIN LONG!” I shouted, but I winced as I heard that Craig had grunted a “HUH!” by mistake.

WHACK!! The strap landed square across his back as he started to take another swing. The strap carried over and landed on my arm as well. The boss swinging the strap quickly turned away. Writhing in pain, Craig dropped his sledge, and it bounced a bit, landing on my steel toe. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop my swing in time, and Craig’s sledge landed under mine. The handle broke. Before the guard noticed, I threw my sledge into Craig’s hands, and he took it reluctantly. I knew what to do.

Aside from the songs, and the grunts, you were not allowed to speak on the chain gang. Every word uttered earned you 10 lashes. Despite this rule, the fact remained that sometimes a convict needed something. I knew enough to simply raise my hand. The boss walked over, and said “What’s the problem convict? Why ain’t you workin?! Speak!!”

“Broke a sledge boss.” I said in a raspy voice. I was thirsty as all hell.

“Bend over convict.” said the boss. I bent over and grabbed my ankles. I had assumed the position. He took out his shock baton, but thankfully turned off the shocker. It was just a solid club now. He whacked me hard on the ass through my jeans 15 times as the rest of the convicts continued to swing. Craig had my sledge in his hands, and he winced every time he heard the baton landing on my ass. An ox boy ran up bearing a new sledge, while another claimed the hammer head from the broken one.

The boss then pulled my pants down. “Here’s a new sledge for you boy.” He pulled down his pants, and spread my hole a bit with his fingers. He then inserted his rock hard dick in, and began to thrust. He continued to ram me, as I held my leg irons. I saw the chains, my boots, my hands, the dirt, the boss’s clean shoes with his legs ramming forward and my own erect cock. He finally came, and pulled out after he had released his load into my sore hole. I could feel it seeping out.

The boss then pulled up my pants, and handed me the sledge.

“Alright, back to workin convict!” said the boss as he zipped his pants back up. If we were anywhere else in the prison, that boss would have lost his job, and wound up wearing a number, but the prisoners on the chain gangs don’t enjoy the same protections as those in general populations. He could work us as long as he wanted. To the point of exhaustion if he saw fit. He could beat us, use us, and abuse us. We had no recourse, and no escape. He could keep any convict he wanted longer than his original sentence. His only restraint was that he couldn’t keep us there forever. That hell was reserved for those who like Chet had killed a boss. There was a maximum amount of time he could keep each convict on the temporary chain gang, but none of us knew how long that was.

I grabbed my sledge. Wes belted out “WORKIN HARD!”

The rest of us shouted “WORKIN LONG!” as our sledgehammer flew down onto the sharp rocks. That was exactly what we would do. Work hard, and work a long time.

My ass still hurt from the boss‘s huge dick, and the beating, and it soon mingled with the dull ache of my back. You could see the bottom part of my spine sliding under my skin as I bent down and came back up while swinging the sledgehammer. Craig and I exchanged another hard glance. We had each other out here, but in the face of what we were going through, it was barely enough to keep us sane.

As the day ground on, we switched back to standard drills, and songs, and other songs, and back to working loose. Row after row of gravel left the yard being carted off by thick men in denim overalls; glad to have their legs free after hearing our harsh, guttural chants, and the clinking of our chains.

We were forced to belt out sad, repetitive songs about our sad repetitive lives. If we didn’t sing, we were met with a lash. After seeing me get fucked and beaten by the boss, the rest of the convicts were obedient, and loud in their chants, grunts and songs. We heaved heavily between words and grunts as we continued to swing the sledge.

“GO ON LIFT!” Shouted Wes, as I noticed that the sun was long gone, and we worked in the twilight.

“HUH!” we said, and our hammers fell a final time on the rocks.

“HOLD UP!!” shouted the boss. “PUT EM ON, AND PICK EM UP!”

We put on our shirts, and then we hefted our hammers, and carried them close to the head. We then bent down and picked up the long chain in the same hand holding hammer and chain together. The shirts sopped up much of the sweat on our backs, but then they became damp.

“SHOULDER UP!” the boss shouted, and as I grabbed Craig’s shoulder hard with my left hand, I got a distinctive three squeezes from the man behind me. It felt like a warning. It was the same rhythm you would use to knock on the tops of the boxes to lighten the hearts of the convicts within, but something in the way he did it made me know that it was a warning about something. I prepared myself for the worst, or so I thought.

“ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT,” We stomped forward away from the rocks. Feet tired, arms sore, and backs knotted. We shuffled toward the bunkhouse. As miserable as I was, it would feel sublimely comfortable to be able to lie down after those long hours accustoming myself to my new uniform, and my new leg irons.

When we finally entered the bunkhouse after putting our sledges on a rack, I saw first the bunks, but then something that made me nearly sink to my knees. In the center of the bunkhouse, between the two rows of bunks, were cages. The same size as the sweat box made of heavy metal bars. 20 of them side by side, all in two rows of ten, with no space in-between. The sides and tops of the cages hung open and another gang of 10 convicts marched in, identically dressed.

The boss walked up to me, and my friends, and said “Looks comfy don’t it boys? Welcome to the chain gang.” He snickered as he walked out the door, and the bunkhouse guards ushered us forward. I got another squeeze from the man behind me. Two in a row as if to say “I’m sorry.” I gave the same two grabs to Craig, and he to Miner, and so on down the line. My knees and feet were shaking and I felt sorer than I ever had.

“Fall in!” said the guard, and somehow we each knew what to do. We sat on the bottoms of the cages, cramming our tired and chained legs in. The word “Chain” reached right up to meet my vision, as I hunched down. We lifted the long chain over the bars in each wall and slid them down between the bars. Then, the sides of the cages swung closed and were locked. We bowed our heads low as the tops of the cages were also closed and locked. Then we sat back upright, and our heads met the top. We were crammed in.

“HANDS ON YOUR KNEES ALL NIGHT. DON’T MOVE THEM, OR WE’LL CHAIN THEM UP.” Shouted the boss to the three new links in the chain. My right hand rested on my knee and covered part of the word “Chain,” but I could feel the letters in my hand.

I was so damn sore. My arms were throbbing as if they were still swinging the hammer. My back and neck felt stiff and beaten as I hunched forward in the cage. All I wanted to do was lie down. Lay down damn it! I was caged like a filthy swine, and that’s what I was. My cock was rock hard, and I almost wanted to tell it to calm the hell down. It rubbed the rough denim, and I wanted so bad to rub it so it’d quit bothering me, but I was afraid to move my hands. Sweat pooled on my head, and I stared at Craig’s back crunched in the cage in front of me. As I did so, the lights went out.

There was not enough room in the cage to ball up and lie down. All ten of us moaned like ghosts, chains rattling on bars. This was hell. Absolute hell. I felt Craig’s back rattle the bars in front of me, and said to myself “No, it‘s not hell.” Craig was there. I pushed my boots forward as if to let him know I was too, and then I heard the man behind me stick his boots up to the bars at my back. I silently cried. We had each other that was true enough, but it was the most miserable I had ever been.

My mind wandered a bit as I was hunched there, and I though of beer out of all things. I wanted a beer. I was parched, and I just wanted to kick back with a cold beer, and pry my boots off. The last beer I had, had been with the miners I helped rescued while I was on the road crew. I had been wearing chains all that day, too and was given a reprieve that night in gratitude. No thanks awaited me here.

I was alone in my cage, even though Craig was right in front of me. I cried silently out of sheer fatigue. I cried until I faded into a dark dreamless sleep.

Chapter 43-

An hour or so into the night, I woke again to the sound of chains rattling, and moaning behind me. My neck was killing me from being hunched down like this after a full day of breaking rocks. A loud male voice groaned hard and I knew that it belonged to the man on my back. His boots poked through the bars at my back as far as they could go, and they were right next to each other, wiggling a single bar slightly. The bar didn’t really budge of course, but I could feel it being pushed at it was touching my back. There was another loud and relieved moan. I knew that moan. It made my cock spring up again, and I felt an extreme desire to hold Craig. He was in front of me snoring, and giving a pained moan every few seconds.

The man behind me had just unloaded right in his pants, and I wondered if he had removed his hands from his knees to do so. I then remembered that his boots were placed right together. I put 2 and 2 together, and then clamped my legs shut, hands still on the knees.

The strong muscles of my legs grabbed hold of my cock, and pressed it between denim the flesh of my leg. I squeezed my legs together hard as I saw the word “CHAIN” written on Craig’s shirt in the dim light of a single oil lamp that a guard sat by while he played solitaire. I looked at the words, and then the collar of his shirt, and then his short hair on his strong, tight neck. My cock felt rock hard between my clenched legs, and it got harder.

I clenched my legs harder, and moved my cock between the rough denim, and my firm skin. I grew, and the chains on my ankles clinked slightly from the movement of my legs and hips. My hands were still firmly on my knees. I clenched as hard as I humanly could, and finally I blew. Hot cum flowed out of my cock, and down my thigh. Because my knees were bent, it slid down to my butt cheek as it gradually cooled down. I was sitting in a puddle of my own cum, but I didn’t care. I was at rock bottom, and I thought that it couldn’t get worse. God was I wrong.

A painfully short 3 and a half hours later, I heard the clanging of the morning bell, I woke up. There were oil lamps lit, and it cast a sickly orange glow on the cold steel that encased us. The tops of the cages were unlocked, and swung up. The sides were swung down.

“GET ON UP!!” shouted a guard, and all 10 of us finally stood. We were grateful to be allowed to stand and get the kinks out of our back, but we each knew what awaited us. Another long, hot day of slamming rocks with a sledgehammer.

“SHOULDER UP!!” We followed this order, and I got the same warning tug from the man behind me, and his hand trembled. I loved the feeling of his hand on my stiff shoulder, but I didn’t like that pattern.

I gave Craig a bit of a shoulder rub. This was the only affection I could show my best friend, and I could tell from the feeling of his neck, that he was comforted, if only a little.

“ALL RIGHT! ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT” We stomped out of the bunkhouse, and into the lukewarm, pale dusk. We shuffled out to the rocks, and saw that plates of mush were sitting there getting cold, and covered with flies.

I sat on my haunches, and saw to my surprise that while most of the plates were full of grits, mine, and the one that belonged to the man on my back sat empty. I stared at it in disbelief. It was punishment for having cummed the night before. We sat as the other convicts ate quickly, and a trustee came by and collected our plates. This was why the man on my back had given me a warning tug. I wish he had done it the night before. I could go without cumming, but I didn’t know how I’d make it through the long workday without food.

The trustee who grabbed my empty plate gave me an apologetic look. As I stared back, I tried to speak through my glance. “I know. I know. You’ll end up right next to me if you try to help, and I still wouldn’t get my food today and neither would you.” We stood up, and grabbed our sledgehammer preparing for the long day.

“ALRIGHT WORK!!” shouted the boss.

“GO ON LIFT!” shouted Wes.

“HUH!!!” I grunted loudly. I had resolved to simply keep my eyes and my mind on my work. It would numb my sore mind, and distract me from my empty stomach.

“GO ON LIFT!!” Wes shouted again.

“HUH!!” We all grunted at the hammers hit the rocks. My eyes slanted straight down at the rocks. I was mildly angry with the man on my back, but I had no right to be. I should have known better than to try and claim any degree of joy or release out here. I stared at the uniform which bound me to this place, and felt a strong yearning for my old jeans, and the numbers they bore, to say nothing of the nice comfy bunk that went with them

“Comfy bunk? You didn‘t think that the first time you laid in it! You‘ve come a long way buddy.” I thought to myself.

As we work on through the day, the sun climbed and became unbearably hot. The man at the back of the gang dropped his sledge, as his eyes were stung with his sweat. This was nothing compared to the sting he was about to feel. WHACK!! I heard, and it was followed by a quick scream. I landed my hammer down again, and it was followed by drop after drop of my own sweat. My bare chest was slick with it, heaving up and down under my labored breath.

In this uncanny heat, even the unnaturally sadistic boss had lost much of his edge. He sat far away under the shade of the bunkhouse, but he never took his eye off us. This gave us an ultra rare chance to speak to one another, but we had to use low voices and short sentences. The man on my back was the first to speak.

“Hey.” He said.

“Hey. Name’s Matt.” I replied. That’s right. We had names. I had to remember that. I had to.

“I’m Cal.” he said back. “Sorry bout the food bud. Lookin at your fine ass all night, I just had to get off. Didn‘t think I‘d drag you down with me.”

“It’s alright. That aint your fault.” I said. I was less angry with him. I might have felt flattered if I weren’t in a pair of dirty jeans that said “Chain gang” for those who didn’t quite get the idea from looking at the chains themselves.

“Don’t worry buddy, it’s only about one more month of the cages. Then in another 60 years or so, they’ll have us out on the rails.” He continued.

“Rails?” I inquired.

“Railroads.” he said. “We build em, we fix em.”

“Right. Thanks.” I said. Then I spoke quickly to Craig as I took another swing. “How you doin?”

“Alright.” He said. It was a lie of course, but he knew that I knew that. “Good to know about the cages.”

“Yeah.” I whispered. Just then, the trustee banged the water pale twice with his boot.

“SHH.” whispered Cal. “He’s comin.”

That was the last bit of conversation we would have the rest of the day, the rest of the month in fact. The boss was luckily unaware of our rule breaking, and we went back to standard drills.

“GO ON LIFT!” shouted Wes.

“HUH!” we shouted, a little less woefully. This was the only type of talking we would do for a good month, and the words burned themselves into our memory.

Unfortunately my relief was overpowered by my hunger. Midday meal saw another empty plate in my hands, but I was glad to be able to stop working for a few minutes. Our water breaks were never enough, and even this meal break was woefully short of the rest I needed. Since I had no food to eat, I rubbed my sore arms and neck instead. If this was the only penalty for jacking off, then I could take it every once in a while.

The sun never let up that day. There were no clouds, and no breeze. Even the boss seemed less eager to watch our suffering, but he was no less strict, and I felt my share of straps. I was shocked that he worked as long as we did. Usually there was a morning boss, and an evening boss, but he seemed to like his work so much he stayed on all day.

As the sun finally sank, Wes shouted “GO ON LIFT!” a final time, and the rest of us gave a final “HUH!” as the hammers landed.

:”SHOUDER UP!!” A new boss shouted. The old boss had left 5 hours earlier. No warning tugs this time. I already knew what awaited us.

“ROLL OUT SHUFFLE, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT” Our boots stomped the hard dirt, and the chains rattled like grim tambourines in a funeral procession. The cages sat inside the bunkhouse, open and waiting to clamp us down into our nightly hell. Each stomp of my boots was like a gavel pounding and pronouncing my sentence again. “Eternity at hard labor.” It was only one month of the cages, but the chains would remain. The chains would eventually be taken off, but I would still have to work, and work hard.

Our dirty hands rested hard on the dirty shoulders of the man in front of us. Craig’s firm shoulder, rested under my hard hand, and I saw the word CHAIN GANG stamped across his strong shoulders. His short hair and his neck met the collar of the sleeveless t shirt, and my cock got rock hard. I’d have to look at the fine body of my best friend until I fell asleep, and if I came because of it, I would be deprived of food the next day.

“500 or more years of this.” I thought to myself. “God damn……..Nothing I can do. Not a damn thing.” As long as I had been in prison already, the number still confounded me. I slid my sledgehammer back on the rack, and stepped forward in the heavy leg irons. I was being tugged forward by Craig. It was almost like he wanted to get his stay in the cages over with as fast as possible. I supposed I did too, and I dragged Cal and the rest of the gang forward towards the cages and our meager rest. Chapter 44-

The next morning was identical to the last, except that I had food to eat this time. A meager lump of room temperature grits on a warm morning. My back still hurt from being crammed in that tiny cage all night, and my cock was rock hard from having been ignored.

It felt very good to finally have food in my stomach again, but as I stood up to begin the day’s work and got the kinks out of my back, I was reminded where I was. The chains restricted my stride, and my world. The heavy shackles tugged at my ankles like firm hands springing up from the ground and holding me in place. The letters that spelled “chain gang” gleamed bright against the denim, and the black shirt.

“ALRIGHT WORK!” shouted the boss with bright and renewed vigor. I could hear a good night’s sleep in his voice, and my neck became tense at the sound of it.

“GO ON LIFT!” shouted Wes in that same loud, southern, defeated voice.

“HUH!” We grunted in a sad reply.

Another long day began. Not much else to say about it. It was only 3 days in, and my jeans were covered in dust and dirt. The pale white letters were tinged with grey and brown, as was the denim on which they were printed. As the day mounted, the sun beat down on the black shirt. Another day. Another, another….

I lifted the hammer, I brought it down. As time ground on, the thick white stripes that clung to the outside of my legs had been tinged with dirt and sweat. My hands were damn near black from the days, months, and years of work I had done. They cut our hair and trimmed our beards every two months, but this was the extent of the grooming we were allowed. My feet ached in the boots and leg irons which never came off. It would have been unbearable but for the serum protecting me from illness and injury.

True to what Cal; that merciful big hand on my back, had said, the cages were collapsed down and hung up on the wall after a month. At the end of that long day of hammering, I was fully expecting to be crammed again into that box of misery I had known since I began this sentence. As I slumped into the bunkhouse, my boots made loud stomps on the floorboards, and the chains rattled in the fetid air of the bunkhouse. I was shocked to see the bare floor, and the grim bars of the collapsible cages hanging on the wall like some kind of perverted restaurant kitsch

The work chain was unlocked, and taken out, and 20 convicts on two gangs slumped to the bunks with wide, nearly tearful eyes. Most of us lay straight down on the inviting beds and stretched their arms out, and it seemed as if it was a solemn commemoration of this stunted and false deliverance. In reality, it was the fatigue and soreness of days upon days of cramped sleeping, and years upon years of bending down, intent on one’s work.

Rather than immediately lay down, I flipped the lid off one of the slop buckets and sat down. As I sat there relieving myself, I stared at the heavy chains on my boots, and my uniform laughing up at me from around my chained ankles. As I finished, and flipped the lid back on the bucket, I pulled those insulting pants up, and fell flat down on the bunk. My chains gave one rattle, and then they were silent. I fell asleep immediately. They did not chain our hands up as they had on my first term on the chain gang, and I swear I heard the sound of 6 orgasms throughout the night. When this was met with 10 full bowls of mush the next morning, I felt cheated, and mistreated… well, more than usual.

One morning, before we began our work, we were lined up a way back from the lines of rocks. An ox boy held a saw in his hand, and I could see a truck in the distance. We were taken off the long chain, and the ox boy walked up to Wes.

I watched Wes’s eyes grow wide as he realized what was happening. The overall clad man knelt down before Wes like a squire, and began to saw at the bolts on his leg irons. They fell aside, and Wes was told to strip. After the young redneck had shed his grimy jeans with the thick stripes a tattered and smooth pair of Carpenter jeans was presented to him which bore on heavy canvass the numbers W-042-A.

As Wes slid his old jeans on; nearly trembling at his newfound freedom, the boss directed me towards Wes. I was not permitted to speak, and though Wes probably was, he couldn’t say a thing. He looked me dead in the eye, and I saw no anger, no sadness, and no worry. A convict looked back at me, not that whiney little punk I had met on the cane fields.

I almost detected something like a nod from him as he turned away. I saw his numbers on his back pocket, and immediately I felt the big stripes at the sides of my legs holding me back. A new convict got off the truck, as Wes got on. I didn’t recognize him. His head was clean shaven, though a hint of black hair was visible.

Before he walked up, the boss talked to me quietly, and closely. I could smell the intoxicating aroma of coffee mingled with the foul, guttural, sulfurous reek of eggs. God how I missed both.

“Alright convict, you’re the new lead. I’m damn sure you know the drills by now. When I say “Alright work” you start standard drills, sayin “Go on lift.” When I say “Go on drill” you start a chant. I’ll tell you if I want a specific one. If I don’t, then you pick it. When I say “Hold up” you lead one final drill and you quit. You think you can handle that dumbass? Speak!”

“Yes boss.” I said. With those words, I had assumed the dubious honor of leading a chain gang in their daily grind. The boss walked over to the space left open for the new convict. Wes’s leg irons lay there still warm from his feet, and ready to meet the ankles of the new man. Craig was placed on my back and Miner on his. Cal, The man who had been on my back, was moved to the back of the gang and the new member was put in front of him. I hoped for the new guy’s sake that Cal would explain things a little better.

I couldn’t see the new man, so I stared down at the ground as the induction speech was given. The boss used his sardonic “That’s too bad” tone of voice as he spoke to the shorthaired drudge. He was just another rank and file Con, class B in fact. Had he kept his nose clean, he could have been transferred to a better, cleaner prison, but this term on the chain would likely deny him that opportunity. I heard the clanging of his leg irons being attached and felt my own irons clinking along like a backup chorus.

“SHOULDER UP!!” I heard, and felt Craig’s hand clap on my shoulder. I didn’t have anyone to grab, so I held my hand in a fist

“Here on the chain gang, you always start out with someone on your back. That’s your one and only comfort.” I heard the boss say to the new man. “Other than that, you get harder work, longer hours, smaller rations, no sex, and hard discipline. You remember that.” He paused for a moment.

ALL RIGHT!! ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE!! LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!” I shuffled forward, but I nearly tripped forward. The new man hadn’t gotten it yet, and I heard the strap land on his back. We started again, my left boot landing at the words “LEFT, LEFT, LEFT.” which rung silently in my mind. The new guy was getting it.

As we walked in front of the line of rocks, the boss walked up to me, and belted right in my ear “ALLRIGHT!! WORK!!”

As I lifted my sledge, I shouted the words “GO ON LIFT!” as loudly and as concisely as I could. Eight other convicts also lifted their sledges, and let out a “HUH!” as their hammer landed.

“THAT WAS A BASIC DRILL.” shouted the boss to the new guy. “WHEN THE LEAD MAN HERE SAYS ‘GO ON LIFT‘, YOU BRING YOUR HAMMER DOWN AND GRUNT AS YOU HIT THE ROCK, THEN BRING IT BACK UP AND PREPARE TO SWING AGAIN! DO IT LOUD AND PROUD! ALRIGHT WORK!!”

“GO ON LIF|T!” I shouted with all the brass I could manage. If I was going to lead these nine men, I was going to get the rhythm right. I didn’t have to grunt as my sledge landed, but I thought “HUH!” as the other nine convicts grunted it out. This was how I timed things, and after 10 or so drills, my mind began to sink into the hard, sad rhythm of the chain gang.

“GO ON LIFT!”

“HUH!”

“GO ON LIFT!”

“HUH!”

“GO ON LIFT!”

“HUH!”

I began to become very fatigued from the constant shouting and the even more constant swinging. The pace I was setting slowed slightly, and I was soon met with a hard lash on the back as I landed my sledge.

“KEEP UP THAT PACE BOY!!” The boss blurted at me, and that was enough to set me straight.

“GO ON LIFT!” I shouted with new speed. This seemed to satisfy the boss who walked back towards the new guy.

“HUH!!” The rest of the convicts shouted, but the new guy’s sledge landed a good half second after the rest of ours. I heard a loud crack, and a pained shout.

“GET IN LINE (edited)!” shouted the boss, as I called out the next drill. I could tell the new guy was listening intently for me, so I shouted louder.

“GO ON LIFT!”

“HUH!” All ten hammers landed at once, and chips of rock flew. Like pistons in some hellish engine, we moved in unison. I shouted like an ape, and the others grunted like hogs.

My black shirt had been grayed by years in the sun, and the fact that we were a few days away from our haircut and shave made me look all the more haggard and beaten down. The parts of my skin that weren’t blackened with dirt and grime had a deep tan.

We drilled for a good 5 hours. Longer than we would have any other day. The boss must have thought I needed practice, and he would have been right. Finally he called out “WORK IT LOOSE!!”

“GO ON DRILL!” I somehow remembered to diverge from the usual drill, and the rest gave a final “HUH!”

We then began to swing our hammers silently, yet quickly. Any sign of slack was met with a strap, and the new guy accumulated about 6 in a half hour.

It felt weird not having a man on either side of me. I could be a little less careful with my swings, and I worked more quickly as a result. Craig kept pace with me, and we exchanged a quick glance. The harder we worked; the chance of leniency from the boss became less slim, though by no means wide.

“You keep up that pace convict.” Said the boss as he sauntered down the line, tapping the wound up strap on his thigh. No kindly words like “Good hustle.” or “Lookin good ladies”, just “Keep up that pace.” as if I had barely satisfied him.

After an hour or so more, I heard the kindly tone of a fellow convict. It was Wes’s old bunkmate Ryan, wearing 5 pocket jeans, and a bright white t shirt that had “TRUSTEE” Stamped on the left pec, and the back, just as mine said “CHAIN GANG“. Seeing him wear that bright clean shirt sucked me right out of my own dirty world of chains and grunts.

I was beyond happy to see that he had earned trustee status, but I couldn’t smile. I would have loved to have been the one to read him his paperwork and say “Ryan, you’re up for review TODAY. Good luck buddy.”

“Hold up one.” Ryan said in a low tone, looking me dead in my squinting eyes. He held forth a ladle full of crisp cool water, the first ladleful from the bucket. I wanted to drop my sledge and hug him, but instead I set it down and grabbed the ladle. I drank it all clean, and wiped my mouth off with my bare dirty arm. Our eyes locked a brief minute, and I managed to crack a tiny smile.

“Back to workin. Hold up two.” He said as he held the ladle out to Craig.

Ryan’s first detail as a trustee was out here at our chain gang camp. A chain gang assignment was customary for new trustees, as a kind of exercise in humility, and a reminder both of what they had left behind and what they would go through again if they got out of line. I could still see the sunburn of the cane field on his arms, and his well built frame that would have been much better suited for the quarry. Luckily for him, he had left both the cane field and the quarry behind.

Seeing a good friend meet with such fortune made the bitter tang of my own situation easier to endure for a brief time, but as Ryan was called away to sweep out the bunkhouse the trustees and ox boys shared, I saw the sun mount.

A different trustee brought us our midday meal, and at the end of the day, a different one checked our leg irons and boots. Grabbing my booted ankles and tugging on the chain linking them, I was ushered inside the bunkhouse, and another long day was over. As I slept, I wondered what might have been going through Wes, and Ryan’s minds at their parting. I knew that I had done my part to help both, but with the chains around my legs I still felt helpless.

Chapter 45-

As days, months and years of pounding rocks ground on, I became a very good lead man. Every day, I managed to find a drill pace that both satisfied the boss, and was not too harsh on us convicts. Holding that pace in the face of my own fatigue was a constant struggle, but I had to manage for the gang’s sake.

One morning as we had finished our meal, I noticed that there were no rocks piled up for us. We remained sitting on our haunches. Me, Craig, Miner, and a few others were fairly confused, but at the back of the gang, Cal knew what awaited us. As the boss stood over us with his strap in his hand and his baton at his side I noticed that he kept glancing at his wrist watch. I heard the dull roar of a few engines in the distance.

As I stared forward at the light slowly growing in the sky, I heard the roar of the engines grow closer. Finally I saw trucks roll past. First, a large truck bearing a multitude of heavy wooden railroad ties lumbered past, followed by a truck bearing the rails themselves along with spikes, work tools, and the various other things needed. As they rolled past, I saw that they were joined by a truck filled with some of the crushed rock we had pounded out all these years. Every other pile of rock we broke down was left a little bit bigger than road gravel, and was used as railroad ballast.

The last truck ground to a halt right in front of us, and I saw that it was the same as the rail cars they used for the road crews.

An ox boy, and a guard hopped out of the cab of the truck, and the ox boy opened the back. Our old boss stepped up to us and spoke.

“Alright boys. You’re gonna be takin a little trip. Got a new rail line needs buildin. This here is boss Alan. He’ll be takin care of you boys out on the rails. As much as I love seeing your bright, happy faces every day, I’m gonna be takin a little vacation. ” He finished.

“Alright boys, get on in there.” Said boss Alan in a low, but softer tone than our gravely voiced old boss.

We stood, shouldered up, and shuffled into the rail car. I was relieved almost to the point of joy at our parting from our old boss whose name I did not even know. In the center of the car, hanging from the ceiling were twenty straps. Each man in the two gangs grabbed one, and the back gate was shut. The truck soon rolled forward, and we rolled away from the quarry.

We were unguarded, but locked in. The engine roared loudly, and we knew that this afforded us a rare opportunity to talk. I spoke to the lead man on the other gang who stood next to me. He looked like he had been in prison far longer than any of us, but he had only been on the chain gang for 5 years longer than I had. His hair was black, and had grown out a bit, but was still stiff. He had a full goatee, and his face was as dirty as all of ours. I could see his pit hair despite his dirty skin, and he reeked to high heaven as we all did. He did not look any older than 35, but of course he was far older, as were all of us.

“Hey dude. You ever done the rails before?” I asked him.

He was silent for a while, and his eyes were clenched shut. “Wha?” He said suddenly and quickly shot a glance at me. “Yeah.” He said.

“Name’s Matt.” I said. I had to keep the same cadence with this man, and long before today, we knew each other’s voices.

“Stan.” He said. “You’re a good lead man. I can’t remember the last time this shit’s been so smooth…”

“Thanks. “ I said.

“Course that won’t matter much now. It’s gonna be cool doin something different, but man them rails are fucking hell. I remember from my last turn.” He continued.

“Can’t be worse than those fucking rocks.” said Craig from behind me.

“You’re right son. Can’t be worse. That don’t mean it’s better though.’ said Stan. “How long you boys got?”

“I got 500 at least.” I said.

“Fuck man, I don’t know.” said Craig. “Long haul.”

“Me too buddy.” Said Stan to Craig. “Guess we’re gonna be getting to know each other. I’ve been on this chain 7 times.”

“Fuck!” I said. “You raising some hell buddy! This is only number 2 for me.”

“And one for me!” said Craig. “What the hell did you keep doing to get sent out here?”

“Well, this time, I got sent out for not suckin my boss’s dick.” he answered. “They got it out for me bad cause of who I am. Used to be a boss myself if you wanna know. Don’t worry, I aint in no position to whoop ya.”

“I know man.” I said. “We know another old boss. Actually used to be OUR boss. If we can get along with him, we can sure as hell get along with you.” I wondered how Mark was doing out in the timber camp, or whether he, Buck, Nate, or any of them were still there in the woods.

“7 stretches on this chain gang. God damn, it even sounds weird to me.” Stan mused. “Now that’s over the course of bout 2000 years, but still. I think some boss man put a note on my file. Something like ‘ex-boss. Treat with care.’” He finished and smirked.

“So I’m takin it that we won’t have to do no more leading out on the rails.” I said.

“Nope. They’ll even have us split up when we’re layin down the ties.” Stan replied. “They let us talk too. Just about the work though, and only during work hours. Don’t worry bud, I’ll learn ya”

After a long drive, and a long conversation the trucks in the convoy ground to a halt. There was a well established railway leading in one direction, with a new switch point already constructed. This was the beginning of the new track we would have to lay. A road crew had been brought out to clear the land for us, and all that remained was to lay out the track.

They let us out of the car, and we lined up. They unlocked the work chains and the 20 of us were loose.

“Alright” Said boss Alan. “You boys get at them ties. GET MOVIN!!”

We hobbled to the piles of ties that had been laid down by the truck. Me and Craig grabbed one, and so did Stan and the man behind him. We struggled forward holding the heavy wooden tie in our bare hands, straining to keep it up, and struggling forward in our leg irons. It was slow going. The shackles dug hard into my ankles with each labored step carrying the heavy tie. Before we had reached the point where our tie was wanted I was sweating bullets.

I knew in my heart that the bosses realized it would be more productive to have our legs free, but these rails led out through free lands, and besides that, we were there to be punished for our dumb assed behavior. This was work that free men should have been doing, but for whatever foolish reason, it was a job reserved not only for convicts, but those convicts being punished on the temporary or permanent chain gangs.

Two ox boys stood by telling us where to put the tie.

“Set her down.” they said to me and Craig, and we dropped it.

The two stood in front of another tie that had been laid down, and they stuck their boots out.

“Push her forward. Keep it comin…… stop.” They said, and Craig and I had pushed the tie to meet the toes of their big boots. The ox boys then stepped forward while Stan and his partner set their tie down to repeat the process. This was the primitive means by which the ties were measured. An ox boy would slam his big boot down on the ground, and two cons would bend down, and gingerly slide the tie forward to just meet the toe.

I kept thinking about that measurement for some reason. Seeing those primitive measurements made with the boots made me feel less like a piston in an engine, and more like a man. It seemed like it was a method developed by convicts that had no other means of measurement. It didn’t matter if the ties were an inch or two further apart from one to the other, only that they were parallel to each other, and perpendicular to the rails that would eventually be laid down.

We walked back to the truck and hefted up another tie.

“Ready, 1..2.…3.” Said Craig, and we grunted, lifting the wooden beam. I wondered if Buck or someone else in the timber camp had felled the tree to make this tie. As much as I wanted to share my curiosity with Craig, the stern but passionless look of boss Alan dissuaded me.

Our conversation was limited to phrases like “Ready?” and “You got er?” and “Set er down.” but there was a great sense of contentedness in speaking to my best friend who toiled away with me in the mounting sun.

I was shocked at how quickly our gang laid down the ties, though the truck always seemed oppressively full as we pulled another tie out.

At midday, I lined up behind my other dirty comrades for the meager portion of beans that was allotted to us. I was glad to see that Ryan was the trustee that had been tasked with feeding us that day, and as he plopped a slightly overfull ladleful of beans in my plate, we exchanged a friendly nod.

I must have looked like the worst vision of hell to the poor kid. He had eaten well and showered every other night, while I was covered in dirt, and stunk with years of unchecked sweat. His clothes were slightly dirty but essentially clean. My jeans were no longer blue, and the white stripe at their sides only showed the faintest trace of lighter fabric under the grime. Though I tried in vain to convey to Ryan that I was happy to see him escape the kind of life I was leading, I could see in his face that he was feeling guilty.

I was shocked to see that rather than sitting on his haunches, Stan sat right on a railroad tie, joined by 4 or so other members of our gangs. Alan made no move. Stan motioned to me, and I gingerly sat next to him on the tie, as if the thing were made of hot coals.

“Uh, did I win the fucking lottery?” I said very low under my breath, and Stan smiled and silently chuckled.

“One of the perks of bein on the rails.” Stan said quietly. “The bosses out here have NAMES.” I knew what he was talking about.

When our chain gang was breaking rocks, the comically sadistic boss that sometimes leered over us never made his name known. This was the same boss that eventually caught Mark after Mark had killed the other boss on his gang. The moment I learned that he had taken the serum willingly, I knew this man was a real sadist. That’s why I offered no fight when he slid his cock in my ass. I didn’t want to think what he would have done if I had tried to resist.

Luckily though, we had a break from him, and from drills, and even from the shuffle marching we had to do. There was no break from the chains though, and no showering.

The rest of the day was spent finishing off the truck full of ties. My ankles were throbbing with pain more than any other part of me. We had to move as quick as we could with the ties weighing our arms down, and that meant putting our legs forward too fast for comfort in the irons.

The new man on the gang was getting so fatigued, and downtrodden that as he and his partner lifted one of the last ties, he tripped over his irons, and fell bringing the tie down on top of him.

“SHIT!” I shouted out, and though that profanity earned me a lashing later that evening, Boss Alan waited to chew me out and shouted at me and Craig to lift the tie off the new guy, and carry him back to the car.

Me and Craig made quick work of the tie, and then I grabbed the man’s chained legs while Craig grabbed his Shoulders.

“You alright buddy?” I asked the guy, though I got only moaning as a response.

“Shit, this dude’s light.” Said Craig.

“I bet we’re all a little lighter out here.” I said “Though that’s not such a bad thing in my case.” I had lost any trace of body fat I had ever known, and I was still joking about my weight. Just one day of being able to speak semi-freely during work hours had driven the hellish songs of the chain gang from my immediate memory.

We got him to the car where our bunks waited, and Ryan was sweeping them out.

“Hooooly shit. What the hell happened here?” Ryan said.

“Kid tripped, and a tie fell on him.” said Craig. “He ain’t talkin neither.”

“Lemme have a look” Ryan said. The trustees were given a kind of rudimentary medical training, but usually had to defer to the Meds if there was a serious injury like this.

“Whadda you think?” I said.

“I think you better get your ass back to work before the boss man hands it to you on a bean plate.” said Ryan. “Don’t worry about him. I’m callin the meds right now.”

“Right. Good to see you man.” I said.

“You too bud. Thanks.” said Ryan.

We hobbled back to the tie truck, and pulled one of three remaining ties out as the sun became low in the sky. We had a late start to the day, though we had worked a convict’s full 20 hours. I fully expected to work the 5 more required of the chain gang, but as Miner and his partner set down the last tie, a whistle blew.

“GET ON BACK!! QUITTIN TIME!” Shouted boss Alan.

The 20 convicts on the two chain gangs dragged their sore ankles across the dry earth past the ties we has spent all that day laying down. Each tie was a both a testament to our endurance, and a prophecy of coming toil. After all, what is a railroad without rails?

The twenty pairs of dirty jeans and the heavy shackles moved forward, dirty white stripes marking the cadence. The boss did not require us to march back, but we suddenly realized that we were moving in unison. I took one look at Stan, and we both changed our pace.

As we finally reached the car, I saw that the new guy was being attended to by a displeased looking Medic, whose truck sent up heat lines from its still hot engine. He was talking to boss Alan.

“He needs to go to the infirmary. Two days at least.” said the Medic.

“Ahhhh shit.” said Alan. “Whatever. Do what you gotta do. That aint gonna look good to the rest of them shit stains though. They’ll all be droppin shit before you know it.”

“Not if they talk to him first.” said the Medic looking at the motionless convict lying on a stretcher.

“They ain’t allowed to do no talkin, cept about this work here. I’ll make sure they get the message though.” said Alan.

Alan obviously underestimated our intelligence, and our experience. We convicts knew that the infirmary was no vacation. You were only sent there if you were in grueling pain, and you were discharged as soon as you could walk, and swing a sledge. What actually went on there, I didn’t know at that point, but something I saw in the eyes of convicts that came back from there made me reluctant to find out. As for the message Alan had for us, I was to be the paper on which it was written.

“GANG 1 NUMBER 1. FALL OUT!!” Shouted Alan as the gangs lined up to be let in the cage car. I was number 1, and I stepped forward.

“Hitch em!” The boss shouted to Ryan, who reluctantly took a length of rope from a shelf under the car. I was positioned facing the car, and looking in at Craig and Stan who had lain down on their bunks. Craig looked me dead in the eye, and Ryan climbed up on the car and tied my hands to the bars.

“We don’t allow no profanity out here you son of a bitch.” Said boss Alan with a boss’s trademark hypocrisy “Give these (edited) an inch, and they take the ruler.” he said, and without warning, he landed his heavy metal tipped strap on my back.

“GAAAAAAAH!!!” he was worse than the boss with no name. I had never in my long years of toil been whipped that hard. My scream made Craig jump to his hands in bed, and jarred Seth out of his feigned sleep.

WHACK. He struck again with the same force, and I again yelped in absolute agony. I couldn’t tell if I was feeling blood or sweat drip down my back, but the amount of it lead me to believe it was the latter.

WHACK!! I rattled the bars with my motion, and my leg irons clinked as I tensed up.

By the time boss Alan had reached the prescribed 10 lashes, I hung limp, heaving and sweating. Ryan moved to untie me, but boss Alan held him back and said. “Leave him. All night.”

After Alan walked away, Ryan took off his shirt, and dabbed my back with it. He had soaked it in some kind of alcohol. Probably rum. I wrenched at the sting of it, but Ryan said “This’ll help. God damn I’m sorry man, but don’t you dare talk till tomorrow.”

I was still heaving, and I nodded a bit to Ryan, who walked to a large tent which had been set up for the trustees. As I stood there, back throbbing with pain, ankles sore and bruised, listening to the sound of men snoring and my own chains clinking, I could smell onions cooking. Ryan was sitting down to a good meal. I could almost taste it if I shut my eyes.

When I heard the morning bell, I was surprised how well I had rested despite the fact that my arms were tied up. The car leaned slightly forward, and it was almost as if I had been laying on it. That was Ryan’s doing no doubt. We had taught him well.

Despite Ryan’s best efforts to grant me some comfort, my arms were still sore, and my back sported a dull throbbing sting in the morning air. I was given a new black shirt, and the smell of clean fabric was a heavenly aroma to set before my dirty, unworthy face. I felt the letters on my shoulders, and they felt like puffy bandages on my whipped back. The wounds would heal before midday, but the sting and ache would remain for days.

Our spoons scrapped the bottoms of our bowls with a furious speed, clanking and scraping every last bit of mush from every corner of the plate. Dirty knuckles grabbed the dented spoons, and guided them to our dirt streaked, sweating faces. As I saw Ryan collect the empty plates, I could tell he looked at them with a kind of grim reminiscence of the bland grits. The plates barely had to be cleaned.

The tie truck was gone, no doubt to receive another load, but on the ground sat row upon row of rails. I had heard them being dropped from the truck sometime in the night, though they barely disturbed my sleep. Next to one of the ties sat 10 unusual tools. They looked like some kind of pincers, as if they were intended for a pot of spaghetti rather than hard labor. God how I missed spaghetti.

The boss lined each of our gangs up on each side of two of the long rails, alongside which were placed 19 sledgehammers. Our gang was short one man, but an ox boy took his place ready to help lift and carry the rail. They threaded a long work chain through each of our lead chains, and we were a gang again. The rails didn’t look that heavy, but we all knew that they were. We were in the same order as if we were going to be breaking rocks. Craig was behind me, and next to me on the other side of the first rail was Stan.

“Alright, Pick them up, and clamp em onto the rails. Two men on each, then lift!” Shouted Alan. “Grab them hammers!”

My arms were unbearably sore, but I grabbed the pincers with one hand, and a sledge in the other. Stan and I clamped the pincers down on the rail. The handles of the pincers stuck flat out at a right angle and each of the 20 men lifted the two heavy rails. 5 groups of two men; one on each side. Despite all that muscle power, the rails were uncannily heavy. Luckily, we wouldn’t have to walk that far, at least not with the first rails. We had a long way to go.

We hobbled forward; marching more from habit than because of the chains that linked us. Luckily, the boss was not keeping track of our steps. We went at a slower pace than we would have if we were hauling ties like yesterday. The leg irons did not hurt so much with each step as they had when we were struggling the day before.

We inched forward like a kind of hobbled centipede. Chains were clinking, and the stripes running down our legs ticked back and forth like metronomes marking the beat for a march to hell. I and some of the long term convicts were the only ones to immediately understand that we’d have to march each rail out further each time.

“ALLRIGHT, SWING ER IN!!” Shouted the boss, and we slammed the rails down into the grooves of the ties nearly flush with the rail behind it.

“START DRIVIN!!!” Cal passed down some railroad spikes, and we each placed them inside some flat plates with holes fastening the rail to the groove cut in the ties.

We had to be a bit more precise than normal with our hammer strikes, but the motion and the work was the same. Lift the hammer and bring it down on a spike. The long term men took only a few hits to drive the spikes all the way down into the wood, but a few men struggled, and missed often.

Craig drove a spike down, but the hammer accidentally slid down onto his toe after it had driven the spike in. Luckily for him, he didn’t utter any words, but simply shouted and fell down grabbing his chained foot.

“BACK TO WORKIN!!” shouted Alan, and Craig was right back on his feet. The steel toe had saved him, but his boot was slightly flatter. He actually managed to pound his boot lightly back into shape before he drove the next spike.

My arms were still incredibly sore, and my back throbbed with pain. The sun began to mount, and we were ordered to take our shirts off. The sun stung my scabbed wounds, but it felt good not to have the shirt rubbing on them anymore.

I lifted the hammer, I bought it down. Soon, my forehead was slick with sweat, and it began to sting my eyes as it rolled in. This would have been barely tolerable, but I had to see where my hammer was going. I waited, and waited for the boss to call “WIPE IT OFF” and I missed several swings.

WHACK!! The strap landed on my barely healed back.

“WATCH WHAT YOU’RE FUCKING DOIN CONVICT!!”

This was the last damn straw for me. If I was going to be whipped anyway, I was going to wipe the damn sweat out of my eyes. Defiantly, I took my shirt out of my front pocket, and rubbed it across my eyes, forehead and neck. I then lifted my hammer and bought it down again driving the spike down to grab the side of the rail.

No whip? Did the boss not see me? I shot a hurried glance to my side, and saw that people were swiping their arms across their eyes at will. Did I miss something? I did so again, and was met with no disciplinary action.

We were working our wills, and on the chain gang no less. The chain gang was designed for our punishment, but out here working on the rails, it was beginning to feel like a normal work day. The only things that reminded me of my status were the painfully short leg irons, and the dark jeans with the dirty white letters and stripes gleaming up at me. That was enough to quash my spirits down.

As my uniform glared up at me, and the metal rail made its dull metallic clang in the silent heat, I looked up and saw a strange vision. It was a tall smoke stack, and a few crumbling walls among a field of weeds. I don’t know how but I managed to recognize it as my old factory. For a brief moment, I wanted to run to it. I wanted to run from this hell, but I physically couldn’t. Craig worked away on one side of me, and between me and the vision were the rails themselves. If I wanted to run, I’d have to drag the whole gang with me, and under Alan’s watchful eyes that was not likely to happen.

“Heat must be gettin to me.” I thought, and looked down at the spike I was driving. I looked back up, and the ruin still stood before me in the distance.

“LET’S PICK UP THAT PACE BOYS!!!” Shouted Alan, but I didn’t pay him any heed. I stared right at that factory, miraculously hitting my spike as I continued to swing my hammer. The past few times I had such a vision of my past, I had every opportunity to try and run away from my sentence, but I had come back.

Now I had no choice but to stay put as this tantalizing vision hovered before me. I would have had my camera right in my hands and up to my eye if I had seen the factory teetering like that, but instead of a camera, I had a sledgehammer, and miles and miles of rails to lie down.

I stared at my scuffed up boots, and the dull heavy shackles that encased them, and the chain linking my legs. The words CHAIN GANG leered up at me, in affirmation of what I knew in my heart. There was no going back, now whether I wanted it or not. Feeling that sting on my back, I would have run if I could have, but those chains held me firm as did my devotion to my fellow convicts.

I lifted the hammer, I bought it down. The spike drove into the thick wood, and as I looked back up at the factory, I saw the old smoke stack come careening down in a puff of dust and scattered brick. I could feel the vibration from the fall, and hear it rattle the chains that lay on the ground linking me to Craig and the rest of the gang. No one looked up, and as I saw the dust settle I went back to my work. I lifted the hammer, I bought it down, and another spike had driven in. In the sky before me, I could only see a thin wisp of cloud, and the arid landscape before me.