On the ride back, Irin sat on the bench inside the transport, leaning his head back.
Everyone remained quiet.
The guards deliberately didn't make eye contact with him. He was the only person who had survived a mine that buried dozens of men and a huge monster. His presence became inconvenient in ways they couldn't articulate.
Exhaustion finally hit Irin once the transport vehicle was past the prison gate. His body ached with pain. Yet despite his tired self, something else bothered him. His chest felt tight with anxiety.
Irin thought about Barak when they passed the first section of the prison. When he finally got to the corridor that led to the infirmary, the scent of herbs in the air set his nerves on edge.
As soon as they opened the infirmary door, the doctor was already waiting for them as if he expected their arrival.
"Ah," the doctor mumbled. "You're back."
"Please sit," the doctor pointed at a chair opposite him. "Sit."
Irin ignored him and remained standing.
"Where is Barak?" he asked. That was the first question that crossed his mind when he saw the doctor.
The doctor did not answer immediately. He inhaled slowly before he answered.
"He didn't make it."
"No!" Irin shouted and paced around.
"Don't do that. Just tell me where he is."
The doctor sighed. "The poison-"
Irin was already shaking his head. "You said he was stable. You said-"
"The poison caused extensive organ failure," the doctor continued. "His body held on longer than it should have. Longer than most would."
The words sank into Irin, much like stones do in water. He couldn't bring himself to hear what followed.
He wrenched his arms free from the guards with a suddenness that caught them off balance and ran.
"Hey, kid!" a guard tried to stop him.
He dodged the guard and ran to the section where they had kept Barak.
Barak was lying peacefully on the bed.
That was the first thing Irin noticed. The man who meant everything to him ever since he was a child now lay lifeless with his hands resting limply at his sides.
Dropping to his knees beside the bed, Irin grabbed Barak's cold hand.
"Barak," Irin said sharply. "Please wake up."
"Barak," he said again, shaking his hand. "You told me to come back, that you'll be waiting for me. You promised-"
Irin found it hard to speak.
"You promised to get me a pair of shoes if we got out of prison."
Irin squeezed Barak's hand harder, as if the simple gesture would summon life back into him.
"I found them," he said desperately. "The ones who poisoned you. I found them."
"They're dead."
Hot tears broke like a dam down his face. "Not a single one of them is alive. You don't have to worry anymore."
Barak did not answer.
Irin slammed his fist against the bed.
"You weren't supposed to die here," he shouted. "You weren't supposed to die like this!"
Irin stood up and pressed his forehead against Barak's cold knuckles as a sob tore out of his throat. The simultaneous flood of cherished memories, good relations, lovely experiences, and affection overwhelmed him, leaving him devastated.
"I'm sorry," the doctor tried to console him. "We have to take the body."
Irin's eyes were red and wild as he looked up.
"No."
Two guards stepped forward.
"No," Irin said, louder this time.
"Please don't take him away. He's all I had."
One guard reached for his shoulder to pull him back, and Irin shoved his hands away.
"I said no!"
They restrained him firmly but without force, pinning his arms as the doctor completed his final duties, where he checked Barak's vitals for the last time before covering him with a blanket.
Two more guards arrived with a stretcher, and after placing the body carefully on it, they left.
Irin reached a stark, absolute conclusion at that moment. Barak's death gave him the final motivation for his next move.
'It's time I put my years of carefully calculated plans to work.'
++++++
The next few days felt deceptively normal.
Irin continued his life. He stayed quiet and avoided conversations with people. He performed his daily duties in the dining hall, which included clearing tables and picking up trash.
One particular day, Irin took the trash to the restroom and flushed it down the toilet instead of throwing it in the bins.
The trash was food waste, paper, or anything that would dissolve slowly and clog the pipes.
On the second day, he did the same.
On the third day, he did it again.
On the fourth try, Irin acted like he was using the toilet and discovered he had difficulty flushing down water.
Irin openly scowled and grumbled, ensuring his complaints were audible.
"Something's wrong with the pipes," he said to another inmate.
"You noticed?" the inmate replied. "Thought it was just ours."
The rumor spread like mold.
By evening, word reached the guards. A repair request was logged. Everyone knew it would take weeks, even months, for the repairs to be made.
The prison yard was far from the city, and infrastructure repairs were never urgent unless things had gone terribly bad.
No one blamed anyone. No one was held responsible, and they did not suspect any sabotage. Everyone was confused.
This was precisely what Irin wanted.
A few days later, Irin requested reassignment to the prison's farm.
"Barak's death hit him hard," a guard had said to vouch for Irin. "Let the boy work on the farm to give him the space he needs."
And since Barak had a good relationship with some guards, they reassigned Irin to work at the Prison Farm without hesitation.
On his first day at the farm, Irin noticed that rows of crops and vegetables on the prison farm, located in the inner yard, struggled to survive the harsh weather. The survival of the crops depended on care and attention.
Irin provided both. But selectively.
Each morning, he watered the plants with a few drops of water. And when no one was watching, he moved to a secluded corner and began digging a pit.
Using the remaining water, he softened the soil, which made digging easier.
He spent a period digging, then used leftover wood to reinforce the pit's sides. Subsequently, he concealed it by placing sticks, leaves, and soil over the top, creating perfect camouflage.
When Irin noticed the crops were wilting because of insufficient water, he complained to the chief security officer.
"The weather is killing the crops," he told the officer one morning. "If we lose this harvest-"
The officer's face turned pale as he considered the serious impact that it would have on the food supply.
"Do you know any solutions we can employ?"
"Poop Manure," Irin suggested. "Before chemicals, that's what people used."
The officer grimaced. "That's unsanitary."
"It's efficient. It will provide enough nutrients for the crops against the harsh weather. If we don't do that, we'll lose the crops," Irin replied.
The officer thought for a while, and since he had no option, he permitted Irin to gather poop using any means.
The permission was what Irin needed for the next phase of his plan.
Irin dismantled a section of the clogged pipes, diverted the poop, and loaded it into a large cart that had a drainage notch. He then transported it to the farm, claiming he was authorized to manure the dying crops.
He poured the poop into the hidden pit and added just enough water to speed up decomposition while minimizing too much odor.
The odor made him feel so sick that he almost fainted. They had to rush him to the infirmary.
"It's stress," the doctor had concluded. "Take this medicine and have a good rest."
The medicine he took was what saved him from sickness. Sickness was a luxury he couldn't afford at moments like these.
It was time for the last plan.
Irin left the cart he had used to transport the poop in the open, where the sun could heat it. By the afternoon, the smell had spread throughout the prison, which caused irritation and discomfort for the inmates.
When it was time for the guards to rotate their shift, Irin snuck out of his cell, claiming he was going to manure the crops. He retrieved the cart, entered the farm, and used a bucket to load the poop into it.
He then wore six extra layers of clothes, including Barak's old clothes and the clothes he had been gathering from the bin.
He carefully scanned his surroundings before pulling the cart back to the prison's main entrance.
Irin entered the poop-filled cart just as the next guard was about to take his post by the door.
The smell from the poop almost made his stomach turn. Irin had already stuffed his ears with little pebbles to prevent anything from entering them.
With his eyes shut firmly, he had trouble finding the drainage notch. Once he located it, he took away the stones sealing the circular hole and promptly put his nose where the stone had been.
This helped him breathe comfortably under the pile of poop.
The stench from the cart was so bad that it discomforted everyone.
A fight erupted among inmates shortly after, as they vied for fresh air through the window because of the foul smell.
The guards struggled to keep the situation under control, but they failed. So, one of them alerted the chief security officer, asking for reinforcements.
In a hurry, the chief security officer left his office and proceeded to the building where the fight had happened.
He pinched his nose and rushed past the smelling cart, but not before it sent a blast of poop as a result of accumulated gas directly onto his face.
"GET THIS CART OUT OF THIS AREA," he roared in anger.
The sight of the chief security officer covered in poop made one guard laugh uncontrollably before the guard ran immediately and took the cart. He struggled as he pushed the cart outside the prison gate.
The guard pushed the cart a great distance away from the prison yard and discarded it there.
Irin waited until he was sure the cart was not moving again. Then he climbed out of the cart, completely covered in poop.