Chapter 1
Three men slowly walk down a long desolate hallway. No sound to be heard, save for the sounds of their foot steps and breath. The pain and horror bleeds from the gray flaking paint that hangs on for dear life, eventually losing the battle, but not before gradually sucking the life from anything that resides within. Bare bulbs hang in caged fixtures high above, offering little in the way of a reprieve from the darkness that dwells within the structure.
The odors that the men must endure with every breath, are sickening at the very least. The smell of sweat, piss, shit, hatred and fear. One can even smell a hint of regret lingering around the edges.
The guard, a large man with an anger that mirrors as large as his body. Whether it is his own self or years of this place eating away at his soul, he oozes grandiose delusions of authority, a self proclaimed God among those around him.
Carter Long, free lance journalist, author, and a young man with a caring heart that holds his head high, high above his short stature and slight build, but with the heart of a lion.
Max Howard, Carter’s companion and bodyguard. A very large muscled young man that has seen his fair share of trouble, and faced the very sentence that only the men here know, ripped from that deadly grasp by Carter himself.
In the unusual stillness, the slow mournful strumming of an old acoustic guitar echoes in the long hall as the men walk, looking from side to side at the endless cells until they reach their destination. Some empty, leaving behind the essence of lost souls past, while others hold the lost souls of those still breathing. The knowledge of their awaited outcome etched deeply on their faces, the empty stares that no longer see, just wait.
Stopping at the cell in question, Carter peers through the bars, observing a long, lean man, a man that has had a hard life and displays the shadows of time on his rough whiskered face as he plays the guitar. The loud jiggling of keys causes Carter to start, as he is solely focused on the man in front of him.
The man known only as Ash, sits on a low, thinly padded bunk, leaning back against the wall, long thin legs crossed, a worn and beat up old guitar resting in his lap. He has his head resting back against the wall, eyes closed as his fingers gently caress the strings, as if they know their own.
The loud clang of the lock and the rusty squeak of the cell door hinges seem to shake the crusty flakes of paint from the walls.
“One hour,” the guard growls, and steps back.
“Thank you,” Carter says softly, stepping into the cell.
Max hovers just outside in the hall with the guard, each glaring at one another. Max knows his type all too well.
Carter turns back to the guard.
“My companion may need to step out on an errand and return, it has been approved by the warden.” Carter informs him.
“Yeah, he told me,” the guard replies with an angry snarl, causing Max to step closer to the man, prepared for any threat the man may be foolish enough to expose Carter to.
“Mr. Ash, my name is Carter Long, I am a journalist. May I speak to you sir?” Carter speaks softly, but clearly.
Carter waits for a response which does not come, giving Carter a moment to get a closer look at the cell. Other than the bunk on the left wall, on the facing wall there is a steel toilet mounted to the wall with no seat or lid, nor privacy. A small steel sink mounted next to it, barely large enough to wash one’s hands in, a damp cloth hanging over the side edge.
A small mirror about one foot square hangs with a long crack running diagonally from left to right. A thin metal shelf to the right bears a toothbrush, toothpaste, palm brush and bar of soap. On the right wall, adjacent to the bed sits a wooden box with the top down, presumably for personal items. He also sees a tin can that once held peaches, sitting on the floor next to the man’s foot. The cell itself could be no more than eight by eight, if that.
As Carter examines the cell, Ash continues to strum, with no indication or awareness that Carter is even there.
“Mr. Ash.” Carter repeats.
“Just Ash, no mister,” Ash says quietly in a low deep southern drawl, indigenous more to the mountain folk than the more educated people down in the cities. The deepness is concentrated by the confinement of the small cell.
“Ash, as I said, I am a journalist and I would like to write a story about you.”
“Why?” Ash questions without shifting.
“Because I think it’s worth telling your story.” Carter states simply.
“Why?” Ash asks again as he continues to play.
“Because I think people... May I sit?” Carter asks nervously, pointing at the end of the bunk, even though Ash's eyes are closed.
Ash nods, never looking up.
“People would be interested in knowing your story, the true story of you and your life.” Carter eases down on the end of the bunk, sitting his briefcase on the floor next to him.
Ash changes tunes and continues to play.
“Ain’t nothin’ worth tellin’, I ain’t done nothin’ to note.”
“Mr. Ash, Ash. I have heard about you and your music since I was a child and I’ve listened to you play many times in my younger years. I want to put the truth out there.”
“Folks talk no matter what they be sayin’,” Ash replied calmly.
“Exactly, but if they are gonna talk, they might as well know what they’re talking about, the truth,” Carter rushes.
“You got a family boy?”
“Yes sir, a wife and daughter.” Carter says sadly.
“So why are you here talking to a worn out old man instead of being with them?”
“You are not so old sir.” Carter smiles weakly.
Ash stops playing and looks at Carter for the first time. He studies him, his expression, his pain.
“They are gone now. They were killed in a car accident,” Carter looks down at the floor, frowning.
“It’s hard bein’ alone sometimes, but you’re young yet, things will work out for you, one day. There’s somebody out there that will ease your pain.” Ash replies with a sense of wisdom.
Carter nods, looking into the tired brown eyes, the eyes that show so much pain.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Twenty nine sir,” Carter smiles weakly.
Ash starts playing again.
“You still got a long life ahead of you. Cherish your memories; sometimes that’s all ya got,” Ash leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.
“Yes sir.” Carter whispers.
Carter takes a moment to study the man’s profile. From below the nose, his face is obscured by rough gray whiskers, down his neck and into the collar of his black T-shirt.
Above, are sharp cheekbones, a thick wide nose showing signs of being broken at some point from the sharp angle on the bridge. Long, thick lashes that cover deep brown eyes, gray eyebrows and a map of life drawn out in the wrinkles on his face.
“So, what is it ya wanna know? I ain’t got much to tell.”
For some reason, Ash’s deep voice has a calming effect on Carter's rattled nerves.
“Thank you sir, may I record you? So I won’t forget any of the details?”
Ash nods and keeps playing.
Carter pulls a recorder from the small briefcase and sets it up on the bed between them.
“Today’s date is June tenth, nineteen seventy nine. This is Carter Long interviewing Ash,” Carter says clearly, documenting the recording.
“Okay, so what is your full name?” Carter asks.
Ash stops playing and spits in the can. He scratches the course whiskers under his chin and looks at Carter.
“Don’t rightly know, never been called much but Ash, freak and son of a bitch,” He replies in that long drawl.
“When were you born?,” Carter asks, still a bit surprised by his previous answer. Who doesn’t know their own name?
“That would be the winter of 39′ I reckon,” Ash replies.
“Can you give me a date?” Carter arches a brow at him.
“Don’t know one. Nobody ever told me that I recall,” Ash chuckles.
“Seriously?” Carter laughs and Ash nods.
“Please tell me you know where you were born,” Carter winces.
“That would be the Raccoon Mountains of Tennessee,” Ash smiles proudly.
“I mean a town or community,” Carter asks anxiously.
“No town, I was birthed at home, right there in my ma’s front room,” Ash chuckles.
“Really? They still do things like that?” Carter asks, shocked.
“Yep, ain’t no doctors up in them hills, old lady Cass was there to help out. Just about every babe born on that mountain was brought into this world by old lady Cass.”
“Old lady Cass? Was she like a midwife or something?” Carter adjusts on the uncomfortable bunk to face Ash.
“Somethin’ like that. She used to mix herbs too, for whenever ya got sick.” he said with a raised brow.
“So, tell me about your parents.” Carter glares at Ash playfully.
“My Ma was named Jodie, never knew my Pa.” Ash frowns at the mention of his father.
“Did he die?” Carter asks seriously.
“Don’t know,” Ash shrugs.
“Do you have any siblings, brothers or sisters?” Carter quizzes.
Ash spits in the can. Carter can suddenly see a change in Ash’s demeanor, going dark and sad. He hesitates a moment before answering.
“They were all birthed dead cept’ Doreen,” Ash looks Carter in the eye.
“Was she older or younger than you?” Carter asks nervously.
“Younger,” Ash nods.
“What happened to her? Is she still living?“ For some reason, Carter deeply regrets the words he just spoke.
Ash looks at the wall across from him, sitting up on the side of the bunk, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“Nah, she was kilt when she was about five years old,” Ash responds sadly.
