Gone Up In Smoke

Chapter One

It was the horrendous fire that made John Whitney vow he would never lay his eyes on that prison again. However, as he looked at those old, yet sturdy iron gates, he realized he couldn't even keep that promise to himself.

Ten years had passed by since, and he could still smell the towers of bellowing smoke; he still felt the heat of the flames press down on his body, weighting him down as he sought to find the exit. The screams of trapped prisoners, civilians, and guards alike still intruded into his mind. But worst of all, he could clearly remember Dan's look of terror and anguish on his face as he was literally cooked in front of everyone in that room.

And he, John, was going back inside that hellish nightmare; not as a civilian as he'd been before, no- he was going in as a convicted killer with three deaths to his name, including that of a small child.

Times were hard then. Ever since the market crashed in '29, John had found little work to support his wife or his two little boys, and what money he did bring back home to the table was only enough for a few days at the most. Following the prison incident, well, even more of that money went towards cheap booze and cigarettes; the man's new favorite obsession- and it was an obsession the required more and more within a relatively short amount of time. So he got with two other men who shared that same passion at night, and they went down to the general store to 'borrow' a few goods.

Unfortunately the owner, his wife, and their daughter were floating about around there, and when the first sign of defiance was expressed from the family, the first shot was fired- aimed at the little girl.

As the gates opened for the cars, Whitney tensed in his seat. It was only then that he fully caught full sight of the Cleveland Prison. Everything was the same as it was before the incident- with the exception of replaced glass for the windows. The city didn't want any evidence, at least on the outside, showing that there had been any problem there.

"Come on, let's go Whitney," ushered one of the men as they opened up the car door for the new inmate. John quickly stood up, little tiny rocks crackling underneath his feet. He started to follow the men while in his mind a single thought occupied it; A last minute escape attempt before he was locked up, but he knew the chances were stacked grimly against him. After years of drinking, there was no way he was in any shape to struggle against the men that now stood by.

The prison loomed over him, a haunting reminder he was back in it's brick structured clutches. The doors were opened, and a blast of hot air slapped John painfully in the face. His heart pounding, he reluctantly walked in with the two guards while trying his damndest to take his mind off of past events. The guards quickly hurried him to a room that contained nothing but a desk and a wooden chair which was occupied by Joseph Tanner, the 'head' prison guard that used to be a close friend with his father back before even the Great War. Regardless of previous relations, he looked at John the same way he did with every new arrival, only difference there may have been was a hint of disappointment in his glare.

 "John Whitney," the now scruffy and old man said as he got up from his desk, "did Andrew's old habits finally get to your head?"

"What's it to ya?" He snapped. The man walked up to him, his beady eyes boring into the other's.

"Watch yourself in here, Whitney...this ain't nowhere near as kind as other jails ya might know. Keep talking like that and ya might just end up kicking the bucket long before your expiration date." The guard warned. One of the younger guards held tightly onto John's shoulder.

"Sir...where should we put him?"

"Block D, Cell 62," Tanner replied without a second thought. The guard nodded his head before leading the inmate out of the room. As they walked away from the room, John was certain he could hear, "Your father would be ashamed," from Tanner's office. But there was no time for him to ponder that, not as he felt eyes from behind the jail cells stare at him.

Down the halls John was led, natural light from the prison windows quickly faded with each step they took. The smell of burnt wood quickly overtook his damaged nose, but he remained silent. At last, they got to a block of cells that lead directly to a boarded up door. These cells seemed to glow burnt orange, and were rather rusted than even some of the older cells in Block A. John wasn't an idiot, and his mama certainly didn't teach him to pretend to act like one either; All of these cells had been near the flames of the fire, and beyond those doors lied the rest of the damage. If he looked closely he could still see a faint outline of-

"Just for you Whitney," the guard sneered and quickly pushed the new inmate inside once the cell door was open. "Thought you might fancy being in the cell of your old pal."

"What?"

"Yeah, this is where Andrews spent the rest of his days," the guard explained, the sneer never leaving his face for a second while he closed the cell and turned the key, "In fact, I was the one that mostly locked him back up at night. His first nights were just like his last, going on about how he was innocent and all. Suppose I'm gonna have to put up with that for seven months again, aren't I?"

"Andrews and I were nothing alike," John snarled at the guard, "And we never will be. He was nothing more than a coward who always hid behind his mother's skirt."

"Funny accusation coming from someone like you, Whitney; I thought you'd stick up for your friend, guess I was wrong. Better make yourself cozy- you're gonna be here for a while."

The prison guard walked away and left Whitney there, alone with nothing but a few dim lights, and silent prisoners who were in no shape for talking. The new inmate took a seat on the old bed, feeling guilt rise from his stomach the just wouldn't seem to leave him be. He hugged himself, knowing that come November, he would face the same terrible fate Dan did-only worse; He wouldn't going anywhere near Heaven.

And then he truly would be at the mercy of those hellish flames.