Jailbird (standard:Fan Fiction, 3357 words)
Author: Reid Laurence	Added: Nov 29 2005	Views/Reads: 3915/2474	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Jailbird is the story of two hopeless prisoners who endure the punishment of incarceration and as the story unfolds, the reader slowly learns what these inmates have gone through, and what they've become! Read on, and find out...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

the prison trucks backing up into position to a side door. “There 
transfer'in us some-wheres.” “Like where? Another prison?” “How should 
I know? We'll hav'ta wait an find out.” “Well,” replied Penguin, doing 
his best to recover some of his composure. “It couldn't be any worse 
then this place here.” “I don't know about that,” said Wild Bill, with 
even more pessimism in his voice than usual. “I got a bad feel'in about 
this. A very bad feel'in.” Two by two, the prisoners were ushered into 
the back of the truck, but it wasn't long before the small, old prison 
vehicle filled to capacity, leaving Bill and his cell mate standing 
outside in the cold rain as it drove off into the fog. Wondering to 
themselves - as two remaining guards stood vigil over them - the pair 
stood side by side and waited as the chilled, falling rainwater 
cascaded down over their faces. Then, overhearing two of the guards 
talking to each other, the pair soon realized what the very near future 
held in store for them. “Whaddaya wanna do with ‘em now Hank? You gonna 
leave these two stand'in in the rain like this?” “Ya want I should give 
‘em umbrellas?” replied the other guard, mockingly. “Besides, where 
they're go'in, they might as well catch pneumonia now an get it over 
with.” Laughing at his own cruel jest, the guard slapped his friend on 
the back for emphasis and reached into an inside pocket of his coat for 
the pack of cigarettes he normally kept handy. “Damn,” he muttered. 
“I'm outta smokes. Can you watch these mugs for two minutes while I run 
in an buy a pack outta the machine? I'll be right back.” “Sure Hank,” 
answered the new and far less confident guard. “I'll do it, but don't 
take too long, okay. Gives me the creeps stand'in out here watch'in the 
poor bastards get rained on, know what I mean?” “One thing ya gotta 
learn out here Tommy, before one more day goes by,” replied the other, 
more experienced man as he turned to walk inside. “Ya gotta learn ta 
detach yerself from any kinda feel'ins for these poor slobs. You and I 
both know where they're go'in, an there ain't nuth'in either of us can 
do about it, even if we wanted to. Ya read me?” “Yeah sure Hank, I read 
you.” “Good, I'll be right back. Keep an eye on ‘em.” Even before the 
prison guard could make it to the door, Bill could feel the fear and 
dread welling up inside him, and turning to face his friend, he could 
tell Penguin felt the same way. “Our number's up buddy boy,” said Bill, 
as the guard left in charge momentarily turned to look out in a 
different direction. “Looks like judgment day arrived a little sooner 
then expected.” “Whaddaya mean judgment day?” “I mean they're gonna 
snuff us out, as in k-i-l-l,” replied Bill, spelling out the letters of 
the word to emphasize its meaning. “You heard ‘em as well as I did, 
didn'tcha?” “I heard ‘em, but I just can't believe it.” “What's not ta 
believe?” answered Bill. “Ya knew we was on death row all along 
didn'tcha?” “I wanna talk ta the Governer,” said Penguin. “You argue 
with ‘em if ya want,” muttered Wild Bill under his breath. “But me, I 
got a plan.” “What plan?” replied Penguin, who's body was beginning to 
shake at the thought of his own execution. “I say, the next time the 
guard turns around, we rush ‘im, try an toss ‘im down. That outta buy 
us enough time ta run away inta the fog. Whaddaya say? It's now or 
never, while the other guard ain't here. Are ya with me?” “Yeah,” said 
Penguin, nervously. “I'm with ya.” “Okay then,” said Wild Bill. “You 
hit ‘im high, I'll hit ‘im low, on the count a three. Ready?” “Ready as 
I'll ever be.” “Alright, here we go,” said Wild Bill. “On my count. 
One..., two..., three!” Living up to his name, Bill's wild, straight 
forward plan of action seemed to be working, as the two renegade 
prisoners ran into the guard, knocking him off balance and sending him 
to the ground. Hitting the back of his head on the hard, wet pavement 
as he fell, the guard temporarily lost consciousness and in the moments 
that followed, completely lost track of Bill and his scared, but 
determined friend, Penguin. Running hard now, from fear and the 
adrenalin that coursed through their veins, the pair had put at least a 
mile between them and the prison they fled. The thick, grey fog they 
ran into also helped to conceal them, as they ran and made their way 
through quiet cattle pastures, and areas of dense vegetation and 
forest. But the frantic pace of their escape was catching up with 
Penguin, who was beginning to tire from all the weight he'd gained and 
the many extra servings he'd eaten off Bill's meal trays. “When can we 
stop?” asked Penguin, huffing and puffing, too heavy and out of shape 
to keep pace with his much thinner companion. “When I say so,” replied 
Bill. “Unless a course, you're anxious ta get dragged back ta the ‘Big 
House'..., or worse.” “I'm just too tired ta go on Bill, I gotta stop 
or I'll toss up lunch.” “We can't stop yet. Lets run at least till we 
get ta them trees,” answered Bill, referring to a thin strip of forest 
ahead, with a clearing beyond. Running between the trees on wobbly legs 
with his head pointed down to the ground, Penguin missed seeing a large 
oak in his path and ran right into it, crying out in pain as he sailed 
backward, landing on the ground with a thud. “Shit,” said Bill, “That 
had ta hurt.” Resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath 
from their long run, Bill peered out into the clearing. Reaching out to 
Penguin, he offered him a helping hand to get him up off the wet 
ground. “C'mere an look at this,” he continued. “Looks like another 
jail don't it? Damn, is the world just one big prison or what?” “That's 
one way a look'in at it,” said Penguin, rubbing his head as he got to 
his feet. “If you're one a those pessimistic types. But if yer ask'in 
me, it's just one a those things - a coincidence or someth'in.” “Look 
at the size of it will ya,” exclaimed Bill. “Must be a few thousand 
jailbirds down there. I never seen a prison that big in my life.” “So 
whaddaya wanna do now Bill. If we hang around here too long, we could 
end up back in the pen. Besides,” continued Penguin. “I'm gett'in 
hungry. We ain't eaten in hours. Boy, I sure miss all that good grub we 
left behind.” “Sure,” answered Bill. “Why don'tcha just go back for 
dinner like we never left. We'll just pick up where we left off, no 
problem. I'm all for it. I might even get a ringside seat when they fry 
ya..., dope! Don'tcha know if ya go back there, you'll end up like 
Bird!” “Yeah,” admitted Penguin. “I guess it was a bad idea. But whadda 
we do for food? You don't care cause you never get hungry.” “Well, I'm 
gett'in there. All that runn'in took a lot outta me. Why don't we head 
for one a those fast food joints an raid the dumpster.” “Yuck,” replied 
Penguin. “That disgusting.” “Got a better idea?” “Whatchya got there?” 
asked Penguin, forever interested in what others were eating, even 
though he was very much absorbed in the day old cheeseburger he found. 
“Fish, I think,” replied Bill. “Who cares. I don't live ta eat, 
buster... I eat ta live. Anyways, I got someth'in more important on my 
mind, like stay'in free. I'll tell ya right now Penguin,” continued 
Bill, talking as he ate. “I ain't go'in back ta the pen. If they catch 
me, it's all over.” “Whaddaya mean?” said Penguin, finishing his 
burger, turning over boxes and old newspapers as he searched for 
anything else that wasn't rotten or swarming with flies. “I mean,” 
answered Wild Bill, true to his name. “They'll have ta kill me before I 
go back there.” “I'd say that decisions' already been made for us, 
wouldn't you?” said Penguin. “I'd say yer right,” replied Bill. “C'mon, 
lets get mov'in,” he added, getting to his feet. “I don't feel 
comfortable stay'in this long in any one place. Just makes it easier 
for ‘em ta track us down.” “Just a minute,” replied Penguin, feeling 
certain that he'd caught a glimpse of some French fries lodged between 
two empty cartons of eggs. “We don't got a minute,” answered Bill 
impatiently. “You can stay if ya want, I'm mov'in out, pronto.” Jumping 
from the dumpster, Penguin's feet had only just touched the pavement 
when Bill yelled out, doing his best to get Penguin's attention. There, 
just leaving the restaurant parking lot was a rusty old pick-up truck, 
sputtering its way toward the main highway with Bill running close 
behind it. Jumping into the back, with Penguin in hot pursuit, Bill did 
his best to conceal himself from the driver who was - as Wild Bill 
realized, when he peered in through the back window - a very old man 
dressed in overalls, and fortunately for Bill, couldn't hear very well. 
Catching up, Penguin noisily hopped into the bed of the truck, but went 
unnoticed, as Bill watched the driver lean to one side to adjust his 
hearing aid and turn up the volume on his radio. “We're in luck. He 
can't hear worth a damn,” said Bill, referring to the driver. “Is this 
perfect or what?” “I've seen better accommodations,” replied Penguin. 
“But I suppose it'll have ta do. Where do ya think he's headed?” “We're 
headed south, ain't we? On highway 65. An accord'in ta my calculations 
- an the sign we just passed a course - we should be headed straight 
for the Buffalo River in beautiful northern Arkansas. Imagine that,” 
continued Bill, leaning back on the hard metal surface of the truck 
bed. “Me an you bask'in in the sun by the river bank, all the food we 
can eat an nuth'in ta do but take in the views an relax. All we gotta 
do is stay away from the tourists an we'll be fine.” “Whaddaya mean, 
‘all the food we can eat'?” asked Penguin. “I thought that'd get yer 
attention,” said Bill. “There's a shit-load a fish, ain't there? An a 
whole bunch a other goodies I bet..., you'll see.” “Leftovers from the 
tourists?” asked Penguin. “Sounds good ta me.” “You got it buddy boy. 
An the best part is, we're free. We can do what we want, when we want, 
an nobody's gonna tell us different.” “Oh man,” said Penguin. “I can 
hardly wait. When do we get there?” “I dunno exactly, but do me a favor 
will ya.” “What?” “Don't call me man, I hate it.” “Here we go buddy 
boy,” said Bill, as the old truck made its way over the bridge which 
connected the banks of the beautiful, green, rushing river beneath. 
“This here's our stop. Unless a course you'd like ta go home with the 
old guy here an end up on some farm, grazing like an animal.” “What are 
you talking about? I am not an animal,” answered Penguin, angry with 
Bill for thinking of him in that vein. “I do not graze.” “Forget it, 
would ya. C'mon, let's move out!” Getting off the truck was about as 
difficult as getting on - which was not very easy - but when the old 
man slowed down at the opposite end of the bridge to avoid an armadillo 
in the road, the two companions seized the opportunity and jumped off. 
Unable to control their legs from the momentum of the moving truck, 
Penguin and Wild Bill both fell, and rolled the rest of the way down an 
embankment which met the side of the road where the bridge terminated. 
“Ouch!” exclaimed Penguin, rubbing his head. “I think I hit my head on 
a rock. Lets hope we don't have ta do that again. Those last few feet 
really hurt like hell.” “Yeah, I know what'cha mean,” said Bill. “Which 
reminds me of an old joke about keep'in yer shoelaces tied cause a 
trip's better then a fall, get it? Trip, fall, a little play with 
semantics there, get it?” “A course I get it, it's just not very 
pertinent, that's all.” “Why?” asked Bill. “Cause I ain't wear'in any 
shoes, for one thing.” “Just a technicality, that's all. Hey,” 
continued Bill, getting to his feet to have a look around. “Would ya 
look at this place, it's beautiful!” “Yeah,” answered Penguin. “An the 
best part is, there ain't no people around.” “I hear ya. No people, but 
a lotta potential friends at large, that's for sure,” replied Bill, 
drawing Penguin's attention to a pair of Cardinals who were bathing 
themselves and drinking water from the river. “An some what ain't so 
friendly,” observed Penguin, referring to a pair of hawks that were 
circling overhead, watching their every move. “I see what'cha mean,” 
said Bill. “But at least out here, we're free. Free from any man who 
thinks he can keep us in a pen, plump us up on steroids and execute us 
like some kinda lousy convicts. It turns my stomach just ta think about 
it. We'll just have ta watch our step, that's all. You watch my back an 
I'll watch yours, just like when we was back in the pen, right?” 
Extending a large white wing, Wild Bill reached over to his friend as a 
man might shake hands or pat another on the back. “Right,” agreed 
Penguin. “Birds of a feather, flock together. Now where's all the grub 
you were talk'in about. Ya made this place sound like a non-stop 
banquet. Whadda we do for food?” “Hmm...,” said Bill, about to do one 
of those things that should come naturally to any red-blooded American 
turkey in the wild. Bending at the hip, he picked up a fat juicy beetle 
on its way into the forest and finished speaking as it crunched in his 
beak under pressure. “Try the insects here - gulp! - they're 
delicious.”


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