The Sun, the merciless white eye in the endless, blue sky, beat down on the Mojave Desert. It's rays tear through what is left of the Earth's ozone and seem to hyper-focus on one place in particular. The desolate sands just outside of the New California Republic Correctional Facility, NCRCF for short. There, among the dunes, a group of prisoner's stands, chained to one another, swinging pickaxes and thrusting shovels into the infinite grains of sand. The sentence for their crimes against the New California Republic? Hard Labor. Specifically, laying railroad tracks for the betterment of the NCR militaries supply chain and the reallocation of soldiers from California to Nevada even faster, to stem the tide of Caesar's Legion. An endless swarm of slaves, slavers, pillagers and savages; all of which have come together, willingly or not, under the banner of Caesar, the great bull of the west. Each swing of a pickaxe, each thrust of a shovel into the parched earth, sent up a puff of dust that caked the prisoners sweat-slicked skin. Behind them, the steel ribbons of the new railroad track shimmered in the heats haze, disappearing into the horizon that promised only more desert, more sun, and of course, more NCR guards waiting back at the prison. Ahead, in the vast expanse of the Mojave, a group of prisoners set dynamite at base of boulders and rock walls in the direction path of the new train tracks. Every few minutes another explosion rips through the silent wind of the desert. And that's where they were heading. Infinitely forward, through sand and stone. One track at a time, in 'service' to the republic.
"Alright, break time! Officer Nunez, bring the brahmin up! These men have earned themselves some water!" Warden Nathan clapped his hands and waved over the older officer Nunez.
The pack brahmin goes up the line of men, sixty in total. Each rewarded with a small canteen filled with water. Towards the front, three men just out of earshot, whisper among themselves.
"Hey, Davey, looks like your best friend's on hydration duty today," Porter said dryly, slapping a hand against his friend's back. Porter is a lanky, russet-skinned man with a short charcoal beard that clung to his face like bloatflies to a brahmins backside. His hair was a messy mop, uncharacteristically so for him. He despised looking filthy, unfortunately at NCRCF that wasnt much of a choice. Despite his rough appearance, however, he carries himself with a kind of confident intellect.
"Fuck off," Davey growled, his black and blue face twisting with irritation. He stands up straight and wipes the heavy sweat from his brow and atop his balding head.
"You act like you're the first poor bastard who got stomped by the NCR," Ezra chimed in with a chuckle. The bright red sun burn on his face now dominated his pale skin, his lips cracked and bloody.
"That's enough outta you," Davey snaps, glaring at him, his dark brown eyes stared daggers into Ezra.
"Relax, Dave. You're in no shape to throw punches," Porter said with a smirk, leaning casually on his shovel. "Besides, not like you could have fought back."
"Yeah? That won't be the case for long," Davey mutters, his jaw tight.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Ezra asked, eyes narrowing with unease.
Suddenly a shock ripples through the air as the group of prisoner's ahead set off another blast. Porter jumps, not yet used to the constant dynamite blasts that come with living in NCRCF. Ezra and Davey however, continue their conversation as if nothing occurred.
"Word is Sam Cooke's cookin' up a prison break. Finally gonna get the hell outta this shit hole."
"You're outta your damn mind. A prison break?" Porter let out a single, short laugh before dropping his voice. "That's been tried. Dozens of times. Every one of 'ems ended with bodies, and a fuck ton of 'em. In fact they use those attempts as a way to 'Ensure the people of the Republic that we will keep these vicious criminals from ruining our society.' At least thats how Kimball puts it."
"Well, fuck Kimball! You don't know Sam's plan. Just listen, yard time comes, we find him. Talk to him. He's smart, real smart, you'll see. Since he showed up, all the new fish been followin' him. He's clearly got a plan, gotta be a good one too, to get all the other convicts in line. If we wanna get out, we need him."
Porter exhaled through his nose and rubbed the bridge of it. He could tell Dave was sincere. The poor bastard actually believed in Sam. "Fine. I'll hear him out. We share a cell anyway, not like I've got a wealth of alternatives."
"You two are fuckin' nuts." Ezra muttered, staring down at his shovel. "You're gonna get us shot. Or worse. But… look, I'll come. Just don't expect me to swear to anything."
Davey gave a small nod. "That's good enough."
They all quieted as Officer Nunez approached, canteens in hand. One by one, the prisoners ahead of them chugged their water. Nunez stopped in front of Davey, the pack Brahmin snorting loudly beside him.
"How we doin' today, Dave? Got our head on straight?" He smirks slyly and blinks quickly as another explosion erupts ahead.
"Just peachy, Officer."
"Good, good. Give it time, Dave. You'll be model material." Nunez grabs a canteen from the Brahmins saddle bags and hands it to Davey. "Make me proud, Dave! Only a few more years to go." Nunez gives him a light, patronizing slap on the cheek.
Davey grits his teeth and forces a crooked smile. "Workin' on it."
Nunez moves to Ezra, catching the reflection of his sharp features in the officer's mirrored goggles as he takes the canteen.
"Now here's a model inmate. Ezra's been here a while, ain't that right?"
"Yes, sir," Ezra nods quickly.
"And spent that time wisely!" Nunez laughs and steps over to Porter.
"Ah, and here we are, Mr. Porter. How's your first month in NCRCF treating you?"
"Keeping my head down and doing the work, sir."
"As every good inmate should! Keep it up, gentlemen, who knows? Maybe we'll shave a year off your sentences." He laughs in their faces and turns to walk off with the pack brahmin in tow.
"I'm gonna kill that bastard." Davey grumbles under his breath.
The day stretched onward for what felt like several. Explosion after explosion cleared the way, followed by shovels and pickaxes to dispose of excess debris and sand. But finally, after ten grueling hours in the Mojave sun, it was time to go back. Warden Nathan appeared, walking up the line and belting out commands to the prisoners.
"Alright! Let's get your sorry asses back to your cells! As you return, you will not converse with your fellow prisoners. You will do that on your time, not on mine! Your shovels and pickaxes will be held above your head for the entirety of the walk. Once we reach the facility you will place those tools in their respective places. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Warden!" The collective replies.
"Very good! My prisoners in possession of dynamite. You will surrender those sticks to your nearest NCRCF officer at this time."
"Yes, Warden." A multitude of voices chirped up and the group stepped forward, giving the explosives over to Nunez and two other Officers.
"Good! Now, everyone fall in line! And let's move!"
The trek back to NCRCF wasn't especially long, but under the relentless Mojave sun, it felt endless. The prisoners marched with shovels hoisted over their heads, their arms trembling from exhaustion. One by one, men began to falter. Some stumbled, a few collapsed outright. Two went completely under, dropping to the dust like sacks of grain. No one cried out, and no one stopped. The guards barely batted an eye, but NCR protocol demanded they offer just enough mercy to avoid those men becoming corpses. Their was a quick splash of canteen water to the face, a barked order to stand, when that failed, the unconscious were slung over the backs of the pack Brahmin like broken tools, ready to be hauled back with the rest of the day's labor. At last, the caravan of prisoners arrived at the gates of NCRCF. NCR prison guards mounted the towers in each corner. Men were stationed at the gate itself, outside and inside each building as well. But something was different. Guards were missing, Porter could see through the fencing. There were always numerous guards posted in the yard. Today there were only four. Even when the prisoners were in their cells the yard was completely staffed with guards. Upon closer inspection, when approaching the gate, something was definitely out of place. A soldier was missing from the gate. There were always two, Whitson and Perkins. Porter nudged Davey and managed to hide his whispering from the guards.
"Hey, Whitsons gone." He said hushed.
"Gone? The motherfuckers been here longer than Ezra. He's not gone he's probably on his break or shooting the shit with Swanick."
"Dave, Whitsons been standing right in that spot for my entire sentence so far. Everytime we come back he's right fuckin there!"
"Alright, well even if he is gone. Yeah, it sucks he was a nice guy. What's your point?"
"Whitsons gone, so are more of the guards, look through the fencing. We're missing at least a handful of guards. Somethings going on. Once we're back inside we'll have to ask around, figure out what's going on."
The pair hushed as Warden Nathan approached the front of the line. He himself opened the gates with the keyring attached to his uniform. He executed a swift about face to address the prisoners.
"Rec time is canceled for today! You will return to your cells immediately! You will not delay, you will not wander. If you do? Your new cell will be the infirmary. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Warden!" The crowd of prisoners shouts.
Porter leans over to Davey and lowers his voice. "Doesnt sound like we're gonna be meeting up with Cooke."
"Fuck that, don't you worry. We'll get the info we need one way or another."
One by one the prisoners of NCRCF funnel into the facility. A procession of sun scorched bodies ravaged by the Mojave wastes. The guards see only cattle being herded into a pen for the night. But behind the cattle, in their wake, a litany of back breaking labor, enraged souls and an unquenchable thirst for freedom. What they don't see is what lies ahead for NCRCF. They don't hear the promise whispered among the weary and the rageful: Sam Cooke.