On day two, a tiff over dignity in Cell One blows out of control. It starts as a shoving match and escalates. Some prisoners—8612, 5704, and a couple of others—barricade themselves in the cell by swinging their beds sideways against the door. The guards call in reinforcements from the night shift. Young males shove each other and grapple over the bedframes. Someone starts to scream: “It’s a simulation, dammit. It’s a fucking simulation!”
Or maybe not. The guards crush the uprising with fire extinguishers, chain up the leaders, and throw them in the hole. Solitary. No dinner for the rebels. Eating, as the guards remind their captives, is a privilege. Douggie eats. He knows what hunger is. Number 571 isn’t going hungry for the sake of a little amateur theater. The others can all go nuts, if that’s how they want to pass the time. But nobody’s keeping him from his hot meal.
The guards set up a privilege cell. If any prisoner wants to say what he knows about the insurrection, he can relocate his bunk to plusher quarters. Cooperators can wash and brush their teeth and even enjoy a special meal. Privilege is not something Prisoner 571 needs. He’ll watch out for himself, but he’s no snitch. In fact, none of the prisoners takes up the privilege cell offer. At first.
The guards begin routine strip searches. Smoking becomes a special privilege. Going to the bathroom becomes a privilege. It’s shit buckets or hold it, for the next two days. There are grueling, hours-long, pointless chores. There are late-night counts. There’s cleaning out other people’s slop buckets. Anyone caught smirking must sing “Amazing Grace” with his arms flung out. Prisoner 571 is forced to do hundreds of push-ups for every little trumped-up offense.
The guard who all the prisoners call John Wayne says, “What if I told you to fuck the floor? Five seventy-one, you’re Frankenstein. You, 3401, you’re the Bride of Frankenstein. Okay, kiss, motherfuckers.”
Nobody—not the guards, not the prisoners—ever breaks character. It’s insane. These people are dangerous; even 571 can see that. All of them, out of control. And they’re laying him low along with them. He doubts that he can make it two weeks, after all. Sitting in his efficiency reading the want ads with the lights turned low starts to seem pretty luxurious.
Some small incident during a count and Prisoner 8612 loses it. “Call my parents. Let me out of here!” But that’s not possible. His term must last two weeks, like everybody’s. He starts to rave. “This really is a prison. We’re really prisoners.”
They all see what 8612 is doing: feigning craziness. The bastard wants to escape the game and leave everyone else to shovel shit for however many days are left. Then the act becomes real.
“Jesus Christ, I’m burning up! I’m fucked up inside. I want out! Now!”
Doug has seen a guy go crazy once before, back in high school in Twin Falls. This one is number two. Just watching scrambles his own brain.
They take 8612 away. The warden won’t say where. The experiment must stay intact. The experiment must extend itself. There’s nothing 571 wants more than to get out himself. But he can’t do that to the others. His fellow inmates would hate him forever, as he now hates 8612. It’s sick—symptom of a little pride he didn’t think he had—but he wants to keep 571’s reputation intact. He doesn’t want any university psychologist, peering through the two-way mirror and videotaping, saying, Ah, that one—we got that one to crack, too.
A priest comes to visit, a Catholic prison chaplain. A real one, from the outside. All the prisoners must go see him in the consultation cell. “What’s your name?”
“Five seventy-one.”
“Why are you here?”
“They say I committed armed robbery.”
“What are you doing to secure your release?”
The question sinks down 571’s spine and settles into his bowels. He’s supposed to be doing something? And if he doesn’t—if he fails to figure it out? Could they keep him in this hellhole beyond the agreed-on term?
The next day is shaky for all the prisoners. The guards play on their distress. They make the prisoners write letters home, but they dictate the words. Dear Mom. I fucked up. I was evil. One of them tears into 819 for being hapless, and the guy breaks down. The authorities have had it out for him since the barricade, and now they throw him in the hole. His sobs carry throughout the prison. The