The yard was a square of cracked concrete, walled in on every side.
As inmates left they were replaced, the number itself never changed.
Sixty six inmates stood in loose rows under a pale morning sky. Nobody had told them what they were waiting for. Guards lined the walls with their arms folded, and above them, on the towers, riflemen watched without moving.
Alex kept close to Jerry. The boy was pressed against his shoulder like he was afraid the wind might take him.
’Wait for what?’ Alex wondered. ’The program hasn’t started yet. Or has it?’
A low rumble came from beyond the walls. It grew louder, and then the main gate began to grind open on its tracks. Every head turned.
A bus rolled in. It was white, with the Foundation’s crest painted on the side and thick mesh over the windows. It stopped in the center of the yard, and its doors folded open with a hiss.
A second bus followed it. Then a third.
By the time the gate closed again, there were seven of them lined up in a row, each one small enough to seat about ten people. Engines idled together in a heavy hum.
"That’s a lot of buses," Jerry whispered.
"Sixty six people," Alex said. "It makes sense."
"Where are they taking us?"
"I don’t know."
A guard stepped forward with a wheeled cart. On it sat a stack of black metal bands, each about the width of two fingers, with a small green light on the front.
"Form a line," the guard called. "One at a time. Chin up."
The line shuffled forward. Alex watched the first man in it stand still while a technician fitted a band around his neck. It closed with a click, and the green light blinked twice. The man touched it with two fingers, cautiously, like it might bite.
"These are collars," the technician said flatly. "You will wear them until the Foundation decides otherwise. They track your location among other things at all times."
"And?" someone asked from the line.
"And they are wired to a charge. If you try to remove it, tamper with it, or do anything the Foundation considers a threat in the outside world, it will go off." The technician paused. "You may die instantly."
Nobody spoke. The wind pushed a bit of dust across the yard.
Jerry’s hand found Alex’s sleeve.
’Of course,’ Alex thought. ’Of course they have a leash. What did I expect?’
When his turn came, the technician did not look at his face. The collar was cold against his skin. It closed at the back of his neck with a soft, final click, and the green light blinked twice against his throat.
Alex swallowed. It felt strange, like there was a coin stuck in his windpipe.
Beside him, Jerry gulped, the second the collar was fitted. His hands were shaking so badly that the technician had to steady them before he could finish.
’Poor kid, he did this to himself though’, the technician thought.
"Board the buses," a guard barked. "Ten to a bus. Sit down, shut up, and keep your hands where we can see them."
’They’re treating us like.... Oh right we are’.....Alex thought
They moved in a line. Alex climbed the steps of the fourth bus with Jerry right behind him. The inside was narrow, with two benches facing each other and a metal grate between the driver and the passengers. The windows were small and covered in mesh. He took a seat near the middle, and Jerry sat beside him.
Eight more men filed in. Two guards took the front with their rifles across their knees. The doors hissed shut.
The bus moved forward.
Nobody said much at first. The floor shook every time they hit a bump. Through the mesh, Alex watched the prison shrink behind them, the towers, the wire, the gray walls.
’We’re being transferred to a special training facility,’ he thought to himself. ’That’s all there is to know.’
The bus rolled through the main gate and out onto a wide road. Trees passed by. Then buildings. Then the first crowd.
Alex frowned.
There were people gathered along both sides of the street, dozens of them, then hundreds. Some held signs. Some were shouting, and he could see mouths stretched wide, fists raised. Police officers in riot gear stood in a line along the road, holding shields, pushing back against the crowd as it surged forward. A bottle sailed through the air and shattered on the pavement in front of the bus ahead.
’What is happening?’
"Why are they yelling?" he muttered.
Jerry leaned closer to look. His face went pale. "It’s because of us."
"What do you mean?"
"The pardons." Jerry kept his voice low, glancing at the guards. "It was on the news. Before they put me in the block, I heard about it. People don’t like that killers are getting a way out. They think it’s wrong."
Alex looked at the shouting faces. A woman at the front held up a photo of a little boy and screamed at the passing buses. Someone else threw something that bounced off the mesh of a window with a dull crack.
’They’re not wrong to be angry,’ he thought. He looked down at his hands, at the thick knuckles and the scars. ’If I were out there, I’d be angry too.’
The bus rumbled through. The police line held, barely. Slowly the crowd thinned as they left the city center behind, and the noise faded until it was only the sound of the engine again.
Jerry was quiet for a while. Then, awkwardly, he cleared his throat.
"Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"How did you end up on the block?"
Alex kept his eyes on the window.
’That’s a question I can’t answer.’
He did not know what the man before him had done. The memories were torn and scattered, and the one word that kept surfacing was the sentence, not the crime. He could not just say he did not know. A man who did not know why he was on death row would raise more questions than any answer could.
’Make something up. Keep it small. Keep it believable.’
"It was a fight," he said slowly. "A bar. It got out of hand, and somebody didn’t get up."
Jerry blinked. "That’s it?"
"That’s it."
"And they gave you the death penalty for a bar fight?"
"The other guy had family. They pushed hard." Alex shrugged. "That’s how it works."
Jerry nodded like he understood. "That’s really unfair."
"Yeah."
’It’s not much of a story,’ Alex thought, ’but it’s enough.’
"I thought you killed a schoolgirl."
The voice came from across the aisle.
Alex turned his head slowly.
A man sat on the bench opposite, thick around the shoulders with a shaved head and a scar along his jaw. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at Alex with flat, steady eyes. He had not spoken since they boarded, and now he did not blink.
The bus fell silent.
Even the engine seemed quieter. Jerry’s head turned, very slowly, to look at Alex. One of the guards in the front shifted in his seat. Someone at the back stopped breathing altogether.
"What?" Alex said.
"I was on your block two years ago," the man said. "Everyone talked about it. The girl. Fourteen, or was it fifteen. Walking home from school." His eyes did not leave Alex’s face. "That was you. I remember your name."
Alex’s mouth went dry.
’There’s no way.’
He felt Jerry shift away from him, just a few inches, but enough that he noticed.
"No, that’s not..." he started. "I’m not..."
The words died in his throat. He could feel every set of eyes in the bus on him. The collar felt tight, and the little light against his neck blinked steadily.
’The body did this,’ he thought, almost dizzy. ’Whoever he was, he did this. And I just told Jerry it was a bar fight.’
Jerry was staring at him now, his lips pressed together, waiting.
’How am I supposed to explain this?’