Awakened: Book One of the Mind Agents series

Awakened: Book One of the Mind Agents series, Chapter 3

Sergeant Ibragimov's uniform feels starchy, but has traces of an old, rank odor. It's a few centimeters big at the waist, but his rope belt solves that issue. The officer told him this was the best fit they had. He counts himself lucky he got a uniform at all. The metal shelves in the guards' office were mostly empty.

Ibragimov trails Master Sergeant Abdulin out of the office into a large hall lined with barred cells lit by large windows one story up. Prisoners line the cells on the outside, sitting end-to-end under tattered blankets. Some of them look at Abdulin and him for a moment and then shield their eyes.

The smell hits Ibragimov like a blast wave. It's a fetid mix of prison gruel, body odor, sickness, and musty wool.

"This is the main corridor." Abdulin drags on a cigarette. "Low-risk offenders."

Flicking his cigarette away, he blows smoke out of the side of his mouth. "After a few days you don't notice the smell." He has a weathered round face and deep acne scars. His thin eyes scan the high windows for a moment as if taking in as much sunlight as he can before venturing further inside.

They approach a dimly lit passageway.

Ibragimov removes his hat and rubs his head, just realizing now that it's giving him a terrible itch. Whether it's customary to wear the hat while on duty, he can't be sure. He saw some guards wearing theirs, others not. He decides it will be best to keep it on.

They walk to a large hatch painted an off-yellow that's faded to a dirty beige. The latch on the other side clonks out of its housing. The door scrapes against the floor as Abdulin strains to pull it open. Ibragimov gives him a hand.

Ibragimov is smaller than Abdulin, thin but with solid muscle mass. The police training corps instilled in him the habit of daily morning calisthenics, which keep him lean. That, and his steady diet of rice and stewed vegetables. 

They walk inside. His eyes adjust to the darkness.

"This is the Inner corridor. Higher security."

On both sides of them, long rows of solid metal cell doors stretch into darkness, each with only a small barred slot about the size of a rice bag.

"Stay back," Abdulin commands, knocking his billy club against the cells. He maintains the same volume, perhaps for the benefit of the prisoners, when he turns to Ibragimov. "You have to let them low who's in command. It is the only way to keep discipline."

The prisoners cough and murmur.

"Shut up!"

Ibragimov is overwhelmed by the assault on his senses. He fights a gag reflex, and is suddenly grateful that he didn't have anything to eat this morning. He wonders if he can endure this work. He would go back to farm labor in an instant if he could, if those jobs hadn't dried up. He was lucky to get into the training corps. He reminds himself that this is one of the best jobs in the Osh region. He'll make enough money to feed not only his wife and son, but his mother and father, his wife's mother, and her grandmother, all of whom live with him in the village.

He covers his mouth, and tells himself that he's very lucky.

"You will do rounds once every hour."

Ibragimov waits for more details on what "doing rounds" entails, but none come.

"Block C and D are easy. Not much of a challenge." Abdulin speaks a jumbled mix of Russian and Kyrgyz, and it comes off as broken Russian, like he's an uneducated thug. It's possible, Ibragimov realizes, that Abdulin got this job through a relative, and has no professional training. He may not even have a lot of respect for training. He has something he likely considers more valuable: experience working in this particular prison. Ibragimov noticed by the way Abdulin interacted with the other guards that he's steeped in the fraternity of guards.