The Untouchable

Disclaimer:

This book contains references to names, places, and events that may bear similarities to real-life individuals, locations, or occurrences. Any resemblance is purely coincidental and unintentional. The content is a work of fiction and has been created solely for entertainment purposes. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations of buildings and cities may be intentionally altered or changed for narrative purposes.

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The initial sensation is one of cold. It’s a damp cold that seeps into the very core of your being, instantly chilling you. The humidity here surpasses that of Moscow - likely due to the proximity of two large water reservoirs. It’s a stark contrast to the oppressive heat within the cramped confines of the prisoner transport train, where he endured a sleepless night drenched in sweat. Despite wearing a winter jacket and padded pants, they offer little warmth, and his damp thermals uncomfortably cling to his body. Daniel clenches his jaw tightly to prevent his teeth from chattering as they are escorted through the expansive grounds, determined not to display any hint of fear. Fear must not be shown.

The next sensation that enveloped Daniel was tension. The barren, ice-coated ground, the uniformly shaped barracks, and the towering concrete walls enclosing the area all contributed to an eerie sense of desolation, heightening the nervousness to an extreme level. Daniel felt as though his very being was vibrating with a combination of tension and coldness - touch him now, and he feared he might burst into uncontrollable hysteria. He gritted his teeth even harder, almost to the point of discomfort, exhaling sharp puffs of white breath into the frigid air.

The third, underlying, prevailing sensation was fear, a dreadful, all-encompassing dread that permeated the air like a chilling cold. The clanging of heavy boots and the sharp commands made Daniel flinch. He watched cautiously as the newcomers were sorted and directed into their assigned barracks, where they would face the harsh realities of prison life. As Stephen King put it, they were now “fresh meat,” individuals who would find their place in the prison hierarchy. It wasn’t just about avoiding failure; it was about delicately balancing between outward humility, willingness to assimilate, and inner strength. It was a dance of displaying assertiveness while also showing deference—a delicate interplay of behavior. And even if you managed to earn acceptance, there was no room for complacency. You had to remain vigilant, observant, and refrain from touching any things but your own.

The rusty iron door at the rear of the barracks groaned open, releasing a pungent mixture of unwashed bodies, lingering tobacco scent, stale socks, and unexpected warmth. Daniel deliberately lingered, pretending to adjust his boot, allowing others to pass ahead of him. He swayed as someone nudged him forward, finding refuge behind the broad, trembling back of another inmate as they entered the dimly lit interior, under the scrutiny of heavy, appraising gazes.

Contrary to its outward appearance, the barracks, now bustling with activity, was surprisingly tidy but exuded the musky scent of livestock. The warmth gradually seeped through layers of clothing, reaching Daniel’s chilled skin and providing some relief to his frazzled nerves. Amid the throng of newcomers, it was difficult to discern those in charge, their identities obscured by the tightly packed crowd. Only fleeting glimpses were caught as they moved about the room. A burly, gray-haired convict sat at a table near the window, adorned with brightly colored plastic cloth, flanked by two men—one towering with a bald, lumpy head, and the other smaller in stature. Ah, I get it now. Judging by their demeanor, the seated man appeared to be one of the shot callers as they in prison jargon, with the other two presumably his closest associates.

The questioning of the fresh meat proceeded swiftly: name, Criminal Code article, sentence. Only a select few underwent extended questioning, exchanging meaningful glances—a clear indication that a “wire” about them was received from outside. Gennady’s earlier warning about the inmates being informed about newcomers echoed in Daniel’s mind.

Daniel steadied his breathing, attentive to the ongoing discussions, discreetly scanning the seated convicts’ chests. They observed the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and scrutiny, devoid of overt hostility. Feverishly, Daniel mentally rehearsed his intro, determined to adapt to this new environment. He prided himself on his ability to quickly absorb new information; he was confident he could navigate these unfamiliar waters. He will manage.

Suddenly, a forceful shove propelled him forward, prompting the seated convicts to regard him with an unsettling level of interest.

“Speak up,” the gray-haired convict remarked, scratching his wrinkled neck and settling into his seat.

“Hello. Daniel King, convicted under part one of Article 228 of the CC for a term of three years,” Daniel responded softly, observing the scraggly fingers with dark, somber borders under the nails as they scratched at the neck.

“King,” the man murmured in surprise. “A foreigner?”

“American,” Daniel answered cautiously, briefly meeting the man’s gaze before averting his eyes. He noticed a fidgety, stubby convict of indeterminate age whispering something in the gray-haired man’s ear. It was clear that word of his presence had already circulated through the prison grapevine - now he just had to figure out the nature of that word.

“I’ve never had a Yank here,” someone said thoughtfully and mockingly. Daniel paled at the rude laughter. The discussion was taking an unpleasant turn.

“You talkin’ real smooth in Russian. Punctured? (passive gay man)” The gray-haired man asked interestedly. Daniel shook his head in the negative and exhaled sharply,

“No!”

“Ah,” the gray-haired man lost interest, dismissing him with a wave of his hand and a peculiar nod, shooting warning glances at the others. Daniel paused, anticipating further questioning, but none came. Hesitantly, he stepped aside, allowing the next person to proceed. The same fidgety convict who had been whispering to the gray-haired man pointed to an empty bunk, and Daniel, understanding the unspoken directive, hurried toward it. His palms were sweaty, and his fingers trembled, but the sensation of passing a challenging test flooded him with dopamine. Propping himself against the indicated bunk, Daniel fought the urge to cover himself and sighed with relief. It had gone better than expected, much better. Now, he needed to figure out who was who and... wait.

***

Acquiring local cigarette currency- check. Identifying a person with insights into the local power dynamics - check. Persuading him to share information- in progress.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, why?” Zhora spat casually, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Daniel. The yellowish spittle landed in the pristine snow, forming a narrow funnel.

“I would like to understand how things work here,” Daniel replied, striving to exude confidence and composure. He displayed a pack of cigarettes, shifting items between pockets. A glimmer of interest ignited in the narrow brown eyes opposite him - a potential connection. “Who is in charge, how to navigate. I only have a vague idea.”

Vocabulary hiccup. It clicked for Zhora, who eagerly eyed the pack, his mouth poised to speak, instantly breaking into a grin.

“In charge? That’s brass speak. You sign up to be a snitch for the screws?”

“I’m a foreigner,” Daniel responded calmly, softly. Gotta keep things cool, no pressure, just minimizing the blowback. “I speak fluent Russian, but I confuse some words. I didn’t sign anything, I’m not going to tell anyone anything, I’m collecting information for myself. I’ll be thankful,” he flashed the pack once more, holding his breath for Zhora’s response.

“A foreigner,” Zhora muttered, torn between shooing him off and scoring an easy pack of cigarettes. He eyed the vibrant red pack against the backdrop of Daniel’s jacket and surrendered, sniffing disdainfully. “Why not have a little chat with a buddy? Hear me out. Quit loitering, the smoke break’s done. Grab your tool and get to it.”

Daniel obediently picked up the metal bar, stood close to Zhora and got to work, trying to make little noise and memorize everything.

“You always gotta start at the top,” Zhora advised, lazily pretending to work while breaking the ice. “There’s three big shots runnin’ this place. Screw call ’em in charge or watchmen, we call ’em shot caller or pakhan. Three of ‘em: Stakhan, real thief-in-law, he’s on his third bid, got a 15 stretch. Then there’s Bright, also on his third go, but his first two were juvie, only got adult time this round - seven years, already did two. And Sennoy, he’s a real piece of work - got popped for a year and a half, first month in, he’s callin’ the shots. Tough bastard with some serious connections, managed to push Stakhan and Bright around. Stakhan took it in stride, but Bright’s still sore. They butt heads sometimes, but mostly it’s chill here, not like Zhukovka, where it’s real fucking lawlessness. Here everything’s by the code. Why the blinking? You got it?”

“What exactly do you mean by lawlessness?” Daniel, paying close attention to every detail, paused at the mention of that word, sensing a distinct significance in his tone.

“See, when they ain’t respecting the code, it’s a free-for-all,” Zhora eagerly explained, his reddened nose twitching. “They’ll shiv you for nothin’, just ’cause they don’t like your face. Take out a regular dude, beat ‘em to a pulp for no reason - but it’s quieter here. Ain’t much lawlessness. What’s up next? Stakhan’s got the most pull, bein’ a thief-in-law, unlike Bright and Sennoy, who are more into business. But Stakhan ain’t as strong as he used to be, once was a big shot, but now... You know, the businessmen are takin’ over. Remember them handles...”

Daniel was memorizing- he never complained about his memory, it was exceptional. From figures to names to relationships, everything found its place in his mind’s organized framework, amidst the dull thud of footsteps on the snow-covered ground. Meanwhile, Zhora hummed away, lips cracked from incessant licking, stealing glances at his pocket where the coveted pack lay concealed, compensating for his nicotine cravings with conversation.

“The roosters or downgraded got their own kind of shot caller too, they call her mamka,” continued Zhora. “Mamka keeps an eye on all the roosters, rents them out, gives a beating if they get outta line. They can’t touch us cons, but their own crew? Fair game. We got Svetka holdin’ it down for our mamka here...”

“And... how do you avoid getting downgraded?” The question was the toughest, the most nerve-wracking, the least pleasant. his voice even quivered as he asked.

“Stick to the code, steer clear of the downgraded, don’t even graze their stuff, not even a damn spoon. They got their own gear, everything with a hole in it, just like them. If one of ’em lays hands on you, you’re screwed, next thing you know, you’re one of them. But don’t sweat it, they won’t touch you, like Stakhan said. It’s all sorted out in the first few days - if they don’t downgrade you, you’re good to go. Although sometimes the wire comes late, they don’t do it right away. You’re good-looking, and that ain’t good.”

Zhora shot him a disapproving look, and Daniel’s face flushed instantly. Daniel turned away abruptly, hitting the ice harder than intended. “The pretty ones are more likely to get downgraded. It’s obvious a good-looking rooster’s better to have around than an ugly one. So, stay alert: keep one eye open when you sleep, watch where you touch, and don’t bend over too far when you’re washing up, unless you want your face in someone’s junk.”

“I’m careful,” his voice trembled once more, and Daniel reiterated firmly. “Keeping watch. I cover my face when I sleep, stick to my own belongings.”

“That’s good,” Zhora murmured with uncertainty. “But remember, anything can go down. We got our own brand of lawlessness here, not often, but it goes down. And if you accidentally cross the shot caller or his crew with a word, you’ll catch some heat. We had this one guy who got so happy he ended up crying that he only got his ass kicked, half his bones were broken, but they didn’t downgrade him. You catch my drift? That’s the deal. And all he did was this -”

Daniel listened intently, his nose twitching as he did so, the cold air causing his nasal passages to swell rapidly. He was following all the right steps thus far. Thanks to the lawyer, who had provided him with crucial information akin to a survival guide. The system was both intricate and rudimentary, allowing for learning and adaptable maneuvering to navigate it until his release. Three days had passed, yet it felt like an eternity, each moment saturated with tension. A swift appeal, awaiting a favorable decision, and then putting it all behind him - that was the plan.

Daniel jolted awake, yanking the pillowcase off his face and balling his fists. It felt as though someone had shouted directly into his ear, his heart racing with adrenaline as blood rushed through his veins. Surveying the darkness around him, he strained his eyes to focus, eventually settling back down, fixating his gaze on a distant corner. Not far off, a few bunks over, several men were engaged in a noisy scuffle. Were it not for the sound of blows and heated exclamations, it might have seemed like friendly wrestling. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation blurred the lines between reality and dream, gradually pulling consciousness away as he teetered on the brink of sleep. All he wished for was to believe it was merely a nightmare, and that he would soon awaken.

“Don’t!” came the cry once more, abruptly silenced by a groan.

“You bitch! I’ll teach you ‘don’t’! You never said you were a rooster, now you’re gonna pay!” growled a menacing voice, punctuating the threats with punches. Daniel’s blood ran cold - Zhora had warned him about the consequences of a convict pretending to be a regular man, concealing his past as a rooster outside or in prison. Everyone will join in to beat and rape him, even kill him if he’d “contacted” or touched regular convicts while keeping it under wraps. “Suck it, you fucking rooster! Come on!”

Other sounds filled the air: squelching, gagging, groaning, the harsh rhythm of violence. Daniel lunged forward, clutching the bunk’s edges tightly as his chest was restraining a scream, loud and desperate, straining against his tightly sealed throat. Embedded norms and rules urged him to call for help, to intervene, to halt the brutal assault. But the deep-seated fear, ever-present since his arrival at the detention center and amplified now, urged him to remain silent. Silence, to avoid becoming the next target, stripped of his clothes and dignity from both sides as punishment for interference. It was agonizing to witness the savage rape from the sidelines, his fingers digging into the bunk in pain, suppressing the urge to scream, to seek aid. For the first time, he watched another man being morally and physically torn apart by a group, and though he would have acted decisively if he were free, here... here he remained silent, feigning sleep, though no one could sleep through the muffled cries of agony. The solution, albeit cruel, seemed clear - better him than Daniel. With widened eyes, he peered towards the source of the noise, instinctively assessing the threat to himself, counting the bent figures, then edging closer to the wall, covering his ears. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. The principle of the three monkeys should work.