Red Eyes Cry Blood

Chapter II: Jackson up to Bat
Disclaimer: Still not mine. I'm not receiving reviews/comments/flames for it, let alone money. (although I'd happily accept any of those four)
Notes: More Jackson abuse. Half-baked escape plans.. and the first of what promises to be many gory death scenes. Mwahahaha.


Chapter II


Jackson trudged along behind the warden, uncomfortable in his issue blue jeans. He would have thought them fashionably faded, if not for knowing they'd been pre-used. Cleaned... but obviously they'd seen other owners, before him. He tried to keep his head down, face hidden behind a curtain of hair, but he still felt exposed and nervous in the presence of so many other inmates, enjoying their hour of free recreation, working out or watching television...

"-behind bars today. Jackson "Red Eye" Rippner, as the papers have dubbed the man is to be locked away for two consecutive life terms, without chance of parole, or early probation..." He stumbled just slightly, upon hearing the news story, and willed the old guard in front of him to walk faster.. Get them out of the large room. The other inmates were talking crudely about him.. staring at his mug shot up on the screen, he saw as he chanced a look up. It was unfortunate that at that very moment, the reporter mentioned 'which' prison his incarceration would take place in, and an ugly man saw him, freezing in the middle of a laugh as he recognized Jackson.

He cut off the other prisoner's jeering and yelling (no doubt from just the mention of their prison on the news) to shout "Here's old "Red Eye" now." Thirty sets of criminal eyes, and twelve pairs belonging to guards were on him, and the room fell quiet. And then there was an uproar, and it took 7 of those guards to keep the catcalling men back, while he was led out of the room. So much for being inconspicuous.

Ten minutes later, he'd been left alone in his new home.. a cell roughly 10'x10'. Two beds... A decent number of paraphernalia covered the walls, on both sides of the cell. It was obvious the bed on the right side of the cell was the one being used by his cellmate. So he removed all of the posters, and lewd photos from the left hand wall, and tossed them on the rightside bed. It was probably best to establish, early on, that he wouldn't be pushed around.

It was with this in mind that he stretched out on his new bed, ignoring the springs digging into his back, and tried to get some sleep.

A few hours later, he was awakened, harshly, as he collided with the floor. "What the fu-" he started to say but was cut off as his throat seemed to close up on him. His neck always hurt the worst right after he woke up. Gingerly, he touched the bandage, as he squinted up at the person looming over him. The man was huge, neckless, and mean looking. Against his will, he found himself gulping, before he hoisted himself, limberly, to his feet. "What was that for?" articulated hoarsely, through a cleared throat.

"You been messing with my stuff." a heavy hand gestured to the other man's bunk, and the papers laying on it. "I thought I'd give you the chance to keep it, rather than me flushing it down the toilet.. It was on 'my' side of the cell. Jackson braced himself for the punch he figured was coming, but all the man did was smile. He looked even more beastly, while baring his teeth.

"I don't think you understand the way things work around here... Seniority is everything.." Jackson was mildly impressed that the man knew a word as long as 'seniority', but thought better of voicing that, at the moment, as he was pushed back. He fell back, heavily, onto his bed, bouncing a few times, before staring up at the other man. Unsure of what to say.. to be scathing, or attempt to worm his way out of a situation with humor.

"Let me introduce myself. James McArthur. You can call me Jim, though." Jackson had a few choice names he'd like to call 'Jim'... but few were coming to mind, as the larger man paced, slowly, in front of him, looking at him expectantly. He sat, watching the other, until he stopped, leaning in, much to close for Jackson's peace of mind... "Now, this is where you introduce yourself.."

"Jackson Rippner." he said quickly, praying that the other man would just lumber over to his side of the cell and leave him alone.

"Oh.. so you're 'Red Eye'? Lucky me to get you as a cell mate. The other guys have been talking about you all morning." Jackson didn't want to imagine just in what sense they'd been talking. "So you're in here because you couldn't kill a little girl..." Jackson didn't rise to the bait. He was too concerned about the knee now pressed against his own. "And what are 'you' here for?" He snarled, irritated, and beyond pissed that everyone thought him incompetent. A moment later, he would really wish he hadn't asked though..

"Twelve counts of rape."

'Oh.. shit.'

*********

Jackson sat up, suddenly, in a cold sweat. His eyes swept the small cell, before landing on the snoring man some feet away. That was the third time he'd had that dream.. or memory.. whatever the hell it was. It was becoming more detailed.. more like the real thing had been, every time. He felt bile burn at the back of his throat, as he clenched his fists, willing himself to remember that it was only a dream.. Now he was awake, and Jim was asleep. It was even more difficult to not think that that arrangement wouldn't last long.

Every day that passed saw his resistance wear down more. Hatred ran like poison through him, and he knew he was scowling all the time. The muscles on his face protested the abuse, but he couldn't remove the expression. Jim had stopped, a week ago, forcing Jackson to use his mouth, after several serious attempts to bite him. Since then, his cell mate had become somewhat less 'kind'. He even threatened to "fuck [him] through that hole in [his] throat" and went so far as to rip the bandaging off, opening the wound, which started it bleeding again.

But now Jackson was truly at the end of his rope. Every moment, watching that man breath, petrified that he would wake up, had his fingers itching to wrap around the thick neck.. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that he probably wouldn't be able to finish the job. Failure again, was not an option. It was easier to bid his time.. although he had no clue what he was hoping to happen. Only 'certain' death awaited him on the outside.

Despite the earliness of the hour, Jackson swore he heard footsteps.. Much too light to belong to any of the guards he'd seen. They took pride in clacking past the cells, waking light sleepers (like himself). Aside from that it was at least an hour too early for the early morning patrol. The footsteps stopped directly before his cell, and he stared at the two dark figures.. 'Oh.. fuck..' he couldn't decide if this was a good thing, or a bad. The expected gunshot didn't come, however. Instead, as quietly as their footsteps had been they let themselves into the cell without so much as the sound of a key scraping metal. Jackson had no doubt that these men were of his former profession. His sheet (kicked to the end of his bed, during his nightmare) was picked up by one of the men, and carefully draped to cover the bars.

"You're coming with us, Mr. Rippner." he felt his blood chill at the whispered words. "But before you go.." The two men exchanged glances, and with a short nod, something long was drawn from a backpack he hadn't noticed. It blended so well with the guard uniform. Cautiously, Jackson took the item, feeling the smooth wood on his palm.. The thing was like a baseball bat.. only shorter, and thicker. It was too dark to see the confusion on his face, but it's purpose was quickly explained. "For your cell mate.. He'll need to be disposed of, before the plan can continue.. We want you to do it." It was difficult to tell if this declaration was accompanied by a malicious smirk, (whether they were doing this to torment him, or if they believed he'd want to) but all the same, Jackson recoiled slightly at the thought. Sure, he'd fantasized about a hundred different ways to kill Jim.. but to actually do it.. He turned slowly to face the still snoring man. Even asleep, there was nothing pleasant about his appearance. No redeeming features relaxed by sleep to imitate innocence. This was the man who'd raped him.. Abused him physically and mentally for months. Delighted in his pain-

Before it truly occurred to him what he was doing, the bat was lifted over his head, and he paused just a moment before bringing it down with all his strength, directly on the sleeping man's head. He felt the bat jar in his hands, from the force of the blow. There was a heavy thud (not enough to raise suspicion) and blood oozed slowly from the man's temple, but Jackson knew he wasn't dead. Not yet. With a sharp intake of breath, he lifted the bat, bringing it down again. This time there was a low crack, and a light spattering of blood.. He hardly noticed the scarlet specks covering his face and clothing.

Jackson's hesitation was shorter, this time, as blind rage took over. The bat came down again.. and again.. and again. Tears streaked his face, mixing with blood, as his arms burned from effort. Blood and gore-covered bits of skin and god knows what else covered the wall and bed, and Jackson kept swinging, ignoring the hissing whispers of "stop, now!" He wanted to beat the man's face into a pulp. Erase it from the real world, so it would stop haunting his dreams. Every hard swing had him falling closer into hysteria, as he desperately tried to hit faster.. harder, until he felt steady arms holding him still, as the dripping bat was wrenched from his shaking hands.

"Easy there, kid.." the man behind him said quietly, holding him back without trouble. Jackson wanted to turn on him for having stopped him. He could still make out part of Jim's nose.. Or maybe that was an ear.. "Someone will have heard him." The other man hissed, and everything was back to business. The unmistakable sound of a switchblade flipping open, had Jackson turning in the other's mans' grip, craning his neck to see his death. "Good night, Mr. Rippner." While his eyes were on the blade, a sharp pinch on his arm brought him back around. His vision split, and he saw the seven syringes being pulled from his seven right arms, before everything went completely black.

***************

Hell was a lot darker than he'd expected. Pitch black, in fact. It was rather disappointing. He'd expected flames, and brimstone. After several minutes, while his disoriented mind adjusted to the sensation of death, he became aware that Hell wasn't appearing, any time soon.. and the air was stale, and.. definitely not as plentiful as it generally was. A timid push with his foot felt cold plastic give just a little. The same went for his hands. His heart sped up as he realized where he was.. A body bag.. in the dark. Flailing told him he was closed in in something unmovable.

Cold fear gripped at his heart. He'd been buried alive.. punishment for his failure, and he'd never gotten his revenge. The air seemed even thinner now that he'd begun to struggle in earnest, yelling out for help or forgiveness. It came out, of course, as a rasp. It didn't take long to exhaust himself, clawing at the thick bag, and struggling with what he knew was futile, but be damned if he'd die not trying. Just when he felt like he'd be sick, or have a stroke, the ground under him moved. Suddenly his legs could lift up higher, and he felt them collide with something. Something that let out a heavy swear word. The light was sudden, and painful, and like being born again.

"Jesus.. the poor bastard should still be out cold.. how long do you reckon he was awake in there?" the man he'd kicked unzipped him the rest of the way, and Jackson fell off of whatever he'd been lying on, in his urge to get away from the death bag.

"Don't know.. Doesn't matter. We're leaving now." Without ever addressing him, the man turned and walked away, followed by the other man, who half-pushed, half-supported the still shaken Jackson. They left through the back of the morgue, and into a surprisingly shabby car. "In." he was ordered, and slid into the back seat, followed by one of them. He just caught a quick glimpse of a gun.. strategically displayed as a warning. It was heeded.

"Why-" He began, and then stopped. "How?" Glances exchanged, again, and another nod.

"You were injected with... a special drug. As soon as you were out, we cut your wrists and left you in the cell."

"You.. cut my wrists?" Jackson brought his hands up to his face, and examined his tightly bound wrists for the first time. "The drug slowed your heartbeat so significantly that you didn't bleed to death.. and the slits were very well placed. You were found about an hour later, with a switchblade, and the baseball bat.. Presumed dead, and sent to the morgue.. where your body was cremated. Congratulations, Mr. Rippner. You've been dead for two days."

He'd meant to ask why they hadn't just 'really' killed him. Was his torture and true death yet to come? What came out, however.. "McArthur's dead?" both men were silent for a short time, before the quieter of the two finally spoke. "We're more than usually certain of that." The word 'good' died on Jackson's lips.

Several more minutes passed in uncomfortable silence, before Jackson voiced the question that should've been first on his mind.

"Why did you break me out."

"The boss wants to speak with you." No one said any more after that.


TBC...


Notes: Heh. I'm sorry about the terrible chapter title. It amuses me on some dark and sinister level. The next chapter will deal with Jackson's discovery of just why someone would go through all the trouble and expense of breaking him out of prison.

Any and all reviews are appreciated. (Let me know what you think. :p Even if you hate it.)