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Description
Gwen felt her stomach plummet as they pulled the girl out of the box by her wrist and dragged her away. The girl wasn’t moving. The assaulting stench from the box almost made her throw up, except she hadn’t eaten enough recently to have something left to purge.

The box was very small, less than one by one meters, made of plywood with a corrugated steel roof. Inside, Gwen saw a puddle of water and what looked like fresh mud on the floor toward the back. But she knew from the flies buzzing around it that this was not mud.

The guards returned. Gwen took off the tiny open busted dress that served as her uniform and tossed it to the ground as she was ordered. Her rubber boots had been removed earlier. She knelt down and backed into the box. A guard padlocked her collar to a short chain bolted to the floor and pushed her further back into the box. He slammed shut the plywood door and padlocked it as well. Gwen’s term inside hotbox number seventeen began.

Inside the box, the heat and smell was stifling and intense. It had to be more than 30˚ Celsius in there. Outside, it was a pleasant autumn day so it could have been far worse inside.

Gwen couldn’t stand up, and she couldn’t lie down. The chain attached to her collar disallowed her from turning around much. All she could do was what she saw all the other prisoners confined to similar boxes do. She pressed her face up against the door exposing her mouth and nose to the outside air through a small hole. Even inside the box, she could hear the cries, moans, and pleading of dozens of other prisoners, all similarly confined.

Gwen had been transferred to this prison three weeks before, along with every prisoner of Asian race, away from Snake River Prison Camp where she had served twenty-eight months of her seventy-five month sentence. She feared some sort of genocide was in effect, but learned much later it was all due to a policy change from the disciplinary authority allowing private prisons to concentrate on specific physical types, allowing the owners to indulge their personal tastes. Her new prison, Complex 18A for “Oriental Females” and another nearby, 18B for “Caucasian Females” --specifically blonde females-- were owned and operated by the General’s nephew. They both grew quickly to hold more than a thousand prisoners each. So, Gwen began a new existence at Complex 18A with a new identity “B216” marked on her chest—below her old prison number—as well as on her back and her right thigh. Her old number—-57-31-19-- remained tattooed on her upper chest along with “2019”, the year she entered the penal system, on her left thigh. Her metal collar and shackles weren’t changed when she transferred because they used the same models at 18A.

During her first hours in the box, Gwen felt the temperature rise. She sweated like a punctured hose. Her limbs cramped from having to crouch for so long. Flies crawled on her. The horrible smell got worse after she had to relieve herself.

Late in the afternoon, a pair of prisoners came along pulling a little red wagon holding buckets of water. Gwen somehow knew to wrap her lips around the plastic tube protruding though the door into her box. Outside, one of the prisoners stuck a funnel in the tubes other end and ladled some warm water into it. Gwen thirstily swallowed it down and hoped to get more, but the women had moved on. Outside she heard a voice cry out from a nearby box.

“Please! I didn’t get any water!”
“You don’t get any today,” was the cold voiced reply.
“Orders,” the other said.
The pleading went on for several minutes, even though the water bearers had moved on down the line of boxes.

A few hours after sunset, Gwen’s box cooled down rapidly inside. Gwen shivered and crossed her arms tightly, maybe wishing that some of the day’s heat would return. At some point she actually fell asleep.

Just after sunrise the next morning Gwen was awakened by someone hitting the metal roof of her box with a club. A guard roused all the boxed inmates so that morning roll call could begin. Even prisoners in punishment confinement had to be counted. Gwen was lucky to be seventeenth in the line of confinees so she heard from the others what they expected her to call out at her turn.
“Complex eighteen A prisoner B two-one-six, transferred prisoner fifty-seven dash thirty-one dash nineteen from SRPC admitted 2019, present and secure inside box seventeen!”
Exactly what they wanted to hear from her. She only had to shout this out six more times. The guard left, the sun rose, and Gwen began her first full day in the hot box.

NOTE: Gwen also appears here fav.me/d5gpif9 and here fav.me/d5z9phn Another incident at Complex 18A (occurring later on in the timeline) can be found here fav.me/d5vskwy

Description
Gwen felt her stomach plummet as they pulled the girl out of the box by her wrist and dragged her away. The girl wasn’t moving. The assaulting stench from the box almost made her throw up, except she hadn’t eaten enough recently to have something left to purge.

The box was very small, less than one by one meters, made of plywood with a corrugated steel roof. Inside, Gwen saw a puddle of water and what looked like fresh mud on the floor toward the back. But she knew from the flies buzzing around it that this was not mud.

The guards returned. Gwen took off the tiny open busted dress that served as her uniform and tossed it to the ground as she was ordered. Her rubber boots had been removed earlier. She knelt down and backed into the box. A guard padlocked her collar to a short chain bolted to the floor and pushed her further back into the box. He slammed shut the plywood door and padlocked it as well. Gwen’s term inside hotbox number seventeen began.

Inside the box, the heat and smell was stifling and intense. It had to be more than 30˚ Celsius in there. Outside, it was a pleasant autumn day so it could have been far worse inside.

Gwen couldn’t stand up, and she couldn’t lie down. The chain attached to her collar disallowed her from turning around much. All she could do was what she saw all the other prisoners confined to similar boxes do. She pressed her face up against the door exposing her mouth and nose to the outside air through a small hole. Even inside the box, she could hear the cries, moans, and pleading of dozens of other prisoners, all similarly confined.

Gwen had been transferred to this prison three weeks before, along with every prisoner of Asian race, away from Snake River Prison Camp where she had served twenty-eight months of her seventy-five month sentence. She feared some sort of genocide was in effect, but learned much later it was all due to a policy change from the disciplinary authority allowing private prisons to concentrate on specific physical types, allowing the owners to indulge their personal tastes. Her new prison, Complex 18A for “Oriental Females” and another nearby, 18B for “Caucasian Females” --specifically blonde females-- were owned and operated by the General’s nephew. They both grew quickly to hold more than a thousand prisoners each. So, Gwen began a new existence at Complex 18A with a new identity “B216” marked on her chest—below her old prison number—as well as on her back and her right thigh. Her old number—-57-31-19-- remained tattooed on her upper chest along with “2019”, the year she entered the penal system, on her left thigh. Her metal collar and shackles weren’t changed when she transferred because they used the same models at 18A.

During her first hours in the box, Gwen felt the temperature rise. She sweated like a punctured hose. Her limbs cramped from having to crouch for so long. Flies crawled on her. The horrible smell got worse after she had to relieve herself.

Late in the afternoon, a pair of prisoners came along pulling a little red wagon holding buckets of water. Gwen somehow knew to wrap her lips around the plastic tube protruding though the door into her box. Outside, one of the prisoners stuck a funnel in the tubes other end and ladled some warm water into it. Gwen thirstily swallowed it down and hoped to get more, but the women had moved on. Outside she heard a voice cry out from a nearby box.

“Please! I didn’t get any water!”
“You don’t get any today,” was the cold voiced reply.
“Orders,” the other said.
The pleading went on for several minutes, even though the water bearers had moved on down the line of boxes.

A few hours after sunset, Gwen’s box cooled down rapidly inside. Gwen shivered and crossed her arms tightly, maybe wishing that some of the day’s heat would return. At some point she actually fell asleep.

Just after sunrise the next morning Gwen was awakened by someone hitting the metal roof of her box with a club. A guard roused all the boxed inmates so that morning roll call could begin. Even prisoners in punishment confinement had to be counted. Gwen was lucky to be seventeenth in the line of confinees so she heard from the others what they expected her to call out at her turn.
“Complex eighteen A prisoner B two-one-six, transferred prisoner fifty-seven dash thirty-one dash nineteen from SRPC admitted 2019, present and secure inside box seventeen!”
Exactly what they wanted to hear from her. She only had to shout this out six more times. The guard left, the sun rose, and Gwen began her first full day in the hot box.

NOTE: Gwen also appears here fav.me/d5gpif9 and here fav.me/d5z9phn Another incident at Complex 18A (occurring later on in the timeline) can be found here fav.me/d5vskwy