Well-Suited Sentry A Short Story by Lane Diamond Published by Evolved Publishing Copyright 2012 Lane Diamond Cover Art Copyright 2012 by Samuel Keiser Smashwords Edition ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thanks to my comrades at Evolved Publishing; you inspire me and give me great hope for the future. eBook License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously. You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved. Table of Contents Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 About the Author More from Lane Diamond Part 1 The prison rose out of the cornfields, a concrete and steel monstrosity about as likely in this serene setting as an elephant in an igloo. The sentry couldn't help but smile at the thought. With no one else to amuse him, to distract him, to help push his days contentedly forward, he often amused himself in such ways. I've done my work too well, he thought. Opportunities to spill blood are so rare these days. Such solitary work fostered great anxiety in most people, yet he felt perfectly suited to the task, content to work alone. He preferred to think of himself not as a prison sentry, but rather as appointed guardian of the gentle fields. Perched high above his silent dominion, he stretched out his mind to undertake great voyages, he the brave captain commanding his ship upon the gentle sea, which drifted forever forward on golden waves. The grim reality of the prison—brick, mortar, wire, blood, sweat, anger and violence—thus vanished in a tranquil and inspirational world, a place seen only through his mind's peculiar eye. If I can't have blood, I'll damn sure have peace. The wind whispered through the fields like a child's dream, only occasionally rustling the tassels that crowned the great stalks of corn, which stood taller than most men. A light breeze danced upon his brow and combated the powerful sun, feathering him with comfort on this sultry day. Indeed, he could scarcely recall a finer day in all his twenty years of lonely duty. Until they'd built the prison, farming had been the only life he'd ever known, and it still comforted him. Each year, he watched as farmers sowed the endless rows of corn—a renewal of hope, a promise of life. He rejoiced in the eventual harvest, now near at hand, which he thought of as mining kernels of gold. Always near harvest time, the crows drifted above, desperate for the tempting feast, yet wary of it. Come, my fine feathered marauders, he thought. If I can't have the blood of prisoners, I might as well have yours. He'd been killing crows as long as he could remember, since his youth. They were little more than rats with wings, and often paid the dearest price of all for their trespasses. Yet survival instinct trumped hunger almost every time, and now, they circled high above as if deciding whether the risk might be worth the reward. Their trepidation pleased him. He fancied himself a fierce competitor in the crow wars, yet to survive, they had merely to stay away from his corn. He thought of it in just those terms: his corn. Part 2 Another day dawned, and the prison again breached the surface of the vast sea of green and gold like a mythical whale of stone. The sentry stood his post as always, though fourteen years had passed since a prisoner last braved an escape attempt. Prior to that, six years had passed without incident. Patience and diligence were the cornerstones of his profession. Thus, the years passed with little excitement, as one day after another dawned and dwindled in a soup of uneventful bliss. Except for his mind's peculiar eye, which gazed into that distant and desired world to which he often journeyed, he surely would not have survived so long in such a lonely position. For all that, however, his duties suited him like fine tailoring. Aside from his insatiable thirst for blood, unquenched for so long, his was the perfect job. Others concerned themselves with prisoner activities, yard conduct and other mundane goings-on at the prison. His mission had always been exquisitely simple: no prisoners shall escape. Period! The two attempts that had occurred during his tenure had failed most spectacularly. Of the seven prisoners involved in those two foolish efforts, only one had survived to serve a lengthened sentence and to tell the regretful tale. The others had met with swifter and more severe punishment. Oh, how I enjoyed that! Oh, how I would love another opportunity to mete out justice! Those maggots and malcontents were a personal risk, an extreme burden on the greater society. A few less merely eased the burden and helped minimize the risk to law-abiding citizens. Not particularly subtle, perhaps, but for the sentry, it was just that simple. Many disagreed, of course, the weak shapers and molders of the so-called "new age," mere kittens in a world where lions were more effective and better suited to the difficult tasks. "We must concern ourselves with prisoner rights," they often said. Why is that? I can't even imagine. "We must reform the prisoners," the kittens liked to insist. "We must provide for their rehabilitation and prepare them to make constructive contributions to society." Oh yes, they preached the new Three R's—rights, reform and rehabilitation—a veritable holy covenant amongst the new prison elite. In fact, if those who occupied the prison had better learned the true and original Three R's—reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic—they might have held down honest jobs, rather than looking to the kittens to save them from their own despicable ways. The sentry knew from personal experience that only a strong hand would save the prisoners, punishment sufficient to dissuade them from further illegal activities that might land them back at the prison door. Crime is the disease, you damned wimps, and tough love is the prescription. Oh, how I love... their blood. He'd served precisely that sort of justice during the two previous escape attempts. Those who'd disagreed, the feeble-minded furballs whose indignant roar was but a kitten's purr, had demanded sanctions, of course. How great was their disappointment when, after a half-hearted attempt by the sole survivor to blame the sentry for the demise of his co-conspirators, the prisoner had confessed to the murders of those men. If he'd not confessed, he'd have served a long stretch in solitary confinement, and prisoners had always feared solitude above almost any other punishment. The poor furballs had lamented their lost opportunity. This too suited the sentry. His thoughts returned to the gentle day with his usual slow, casual smile. He watched a pair of hawks high above as they tilted and glided in smooth circles, soft-shoeing effortlessly upon the west wind like some feathered versions of Fred and Ginger. He envied them their angelic abilities, for to soar through the air with only nature's attributes, without need of the cumbersome machines of man, was a possibility that exceeded even his mind's personal voyages. As he watched them, he tried to imagine the world through their eyes. He tried vainly to stretch his mind's peculiar eye, as if to rest it within their very heads. He longed to share in their exhilaration, their tranquility, but he simply couldn't make the connection. He saw nothing. How sad. They're so graceful. In his distraction, he'd almost missed the one event for which he must always stand vigilant. His momentary tranquility lay bare and broken at his feet, as he recovered from his startling revelation and regained his focus. He'd caught merely a glimpse of movement, of that which must not happen. Ever. For such a long time it had been unthinkable, yet fourteen years was apparently long enough for unpleasant memories to fade. Did they not know the consequences of such devious acts? Had the truth faded into the dark recesses of their sick minds? Were they so bold, reckless or evil, that they simply didn't care? Might they have been new inmates who refused to believe the stories of old, or were they unaware of those tales? It doesn't matter. Ignorance does not absolve the criminal. The three prisoners vanished beneath the soft waves of corn even as he jumped from his perch to pursue them. How could it be that no sirens blared, no guards shouted, and no prison activity developed to indicate a general knowledge of the escape? Who might have been asleep at the switch this time? He knew all too well that prison guard duty was often monotonous to the point of absolute distraction, which served escaping prisoners quite well. They would thrill with elation and optimism by this point, though he would put an end to that in good time. He remained prepared for this signal event—always. His chest swelled with pride. Hot damn! This is going to be fun. Like the hair-trigger of a fine weapon, he launched a determined energy against the three criminals who sought to make mockery of his position, his responsibility. He sensed every move the three stooges made. They exhibited a certain reckless abandon. While careful to remain hidden below the crest of corn, the noise and movement they created made it easy for him to follow. Fools! Confident and sure-footed, and with knowledge of the green and golden sea that exceeded all others', he was master of this domain. None would defeat him here. He quickly narrowed the distance that separated him from his targets, his self-indulgent mockers who, from the sound of it, were not even aware of his impending and terrifying presence. Memories of previous hunts teased at his mind, flushed him with duty and determination, honed his ample skills and flooded him with anticipation. This activity so invigorated him that he almost regretted it didn't happen more often. Overcome with joy, he bellowed a short, piercing howl, the likes of which the stooges would have never heard before—the stuff of legend around the prison. Those stories, and their attendant warnings, must not have moved the three fools, yet they must have considered the source of that howl now, debating the possibility that the legend might actually have been true. He laughed. They will learn soon enough. *** One escapee froze and looked at his comrades. "Holy shit! Did you hear that?" One of his partners, with eyes shot wide and round, stuttered, "Let's... get... the hell... out of here." The three thugs ran with wild, unfettered abandon. Though frightened at the prospect of capture and a return to prison, they were far more terrified of the sentry. Legend had it that he never returned escapees to prison—not if he could help it. *** They were not fast enough to outrun him, however, and he skirted them and positioned himself almost directly ahead of them. It wouldn't be long before they ran right into his clutches. Then they would know fear and punishment unlike any they'd ever experienced; indeed, unlike any they'd ever even imagined. His smile twisted and sharpened into that old cliché, the sinister grin. This was his purpose, after all. This brought meaning and fulfillment to his otherwise uneventful life, renewed him for the coming years, and made the long, solitary voyages of his mind all the more worthwhile. Was it wrong for him to enjoy it so? He thought not. He stood in an open row adjacent to the one in which they ran and, as they approached, stepped through the stalks of corn and into their path. The three men, hardened criminals all, abruptly became as children, frightened and whimpering. One of the stooges fell to his knees and cried. "Oh, dear God, this cannot be true. It simply can't be real, dear God." What would the likes of them know about God? The sentry practically laughed. They may beg His forgiveness now, and perhaps He will judge them less harshly than I. What happened next, the feeble-minded furballs who called themselves reformers might have called horror. The sentry dispensed justice—simple, true, eternal. Part 3 The four prison guards who'd gathered for lunch discussed that which was, quite naturally, at the top of everyone's topic list. "Now let me get this straight," the junior guard said, "Johnson claims that he wasn't the one who killed those two other escapees? I guess it must have been the bogey man, right?" The senior guard stood at the window of the tower and shook his head. He wondered why on Earth someone would try to escape from prison, and practically succeed, in fact, only to kill his two partners and then turn himself back in. It made no sense. "You know," he said, "something like this happened fourteen years ago. Five men tried to escape then. Hell, they actually got out without anyone even noticing, just like this time. They were home free. All of a sudden, one of the men kills the four other escapees, then walks up to the gate and surrenders. It was the damnedest thing I'd ever seen." "No kidding? That sounds awfully familiar. It's quite the coincidence, don't you think?" "That's not the half of it. Just like this time, the perpetrator—the survivor, if you will—blamed the deaths of his co-conspirators on our old friend standing out there." He pointed to a perch a hundred yards from the wall. The junior guard walked to the window to see the "old friend" in question. "Are you kidding me? Just give me a break! What will these guys come up with next? How stupid and desperate do they have to be to blame it on the friggin' scarecrow?" *** The sentry stood upon his perch and smiled. It had been a good day, a productive day, in fact, the results of which suited him quite well. Perhaps he would reward himself with an especially long voyage for his mind's peculiar eye. ---THE END--- About the Author Lane Diamond is the pen name for David Lane. He grew up in Algonquin, Illinois, where he graduated from Harry D. Jacobs High School in 1978. After a short college stint, he served in the U.S. Air Force at Ramstein AB, Germany, 1980-1982, and at Lowry AFB, Denver, CO, 1982-1983. Then it was on to real life. For more, please visit his Lane Diamond's website. Lane Diamond is also Co-Founder and Executive Editor of Evolved Publishing, an indie publisher focusing primarily on the eBook markets, and structured as part publisher, part authors' cooperative, part self-publishing on steroids—but all author-centric. For details, please visit the Evolved Publishing website. Find more from Lane Diamond online at: Google+ ; GoodReads ; Twitter ; Facebook ; LinkedIn More from Lane Diamond FORGIVE ME, ALEX A Psychological Thriller Novel. Links available at my website. 5-Star Review: "...Lane's writing makes you really care about these people and what's going on. Lane excels in this area of sympathetic characters." 5-Star Review: "With a deeply attuned attention to the nature of humanity and psychosis, Diamond delves into the darkest corners of the human mind and pulls out nuggets of horror and absolution that will leave you wanting more. I look forward to more books from this amazing author. This is a book to rival any of the great thrillers you've ever read and is a definite must read!" 5-Star Review: "It took me two nights to finish, only because I had to work in between. I really didn't want to put this down. I really didn't." DEVANE'S REALITY – A Short Story A psychological adventure. Links available at my website. WIND TUNNEL – A Short Story A feel-good South American adventure. Links available at my website. PARADOX – A Short Story A science fiction psychological adventure available at Smashwords. EVOLUTION: VOL. 1 (A Short Story Collection) 10 talented authors offer 10 terrific stories, including ONE LAST THOUGHT by Lane Diamond. Edited by Lane Diamond and D.T. Conklin. Links available at my website.