Free The Day of Legion by Craig Taylor

on the muddy bank. He didn’t feel Alex’s father beating on his chest, shouting desperately. He didn’t see Alex run away while the adults were desperately trying to save him, and he didn’t see the man in black angrily watching his mother and Alex’s father.
    He didn’t hear the conversation the doctors had with his mother, telling her how lucky he was to be alive and that ‘someone’ must have been looking out for him. All he remembered was the man and Alex, smiling and laughing and waving out to him as he sunk back into the cold depths of the lake. That and Christo, holding his hand in the ambulance.

Chapter Seven
    John lay on his prison bed staring at the ceiling. The mattress smelled of sweat and had lost any softness it may have had years ago. The cell was small, cramped and grey. There was a bed, a seatless stainless-steel toilet and a small desk bolted to the wall. It was depressing.
    His mind was blank. He had been denied bail and placed in the remand wing of the local jail. He could do nothing but wait. Wait for his lawyer, who took his sweet time doing anything. Wait for his boss to get back to him. His boss offered to help when he found out what had happened. He said he would organize assistance, but John got the feeling he only said that to get off the phone as quickly as possible.
    The noise was unbearable. He fidgeted on his bed, restless and angry. He had done nothing, yet here he was, in a hell-hole filled with all types of accused criminals.
    Shouts continuously echoed through the cells and the dull green halls. Someone with mental health issues screamed every couple of minutes, followed by threats from other inmates.
    There had been an incident earlier in the day when all the prisoners were in the large day area. Two members of opposing gangs decided they would fight in the middle of a large gathering.
    The other inmates scattered the moment the fight started, but just far enough to form a perimeter around the two brawlers. John stood on the metal walkway above the sprawling mass of men. He watched as the two fighters danced around each other, throwing wild punches. One attempted a half-hearted roundhouse kick. It came up his opponent’s side and barely caught his ear. Meanwhile, the crowd erupted every time one of the fighters struck at the other, whether it hit or missed. One of the fighters was overweight. He was an old-school street fighter. He took big haymaker swings, each one missing by more than the punch preceding it, as his more nimble opponent ducked and weaved. One blow was such a big miss he fell over, crashing to the floor and taking a table down.
    One of the mob tried to jump him, but was pulled off by another. The interloper fell back into the crowd and was pounded by two other prisoners.
    The fat man sprung to his feet faster than anyone believed possible. This caught his opponent off guard, and the fat man managed to punch his nose with a fast jab. The other man’s head snapped backwards, to the delight of the crowd. They cheered and yelled.
    The fat man’s opponent knew he had to get the crowd back. He laughed at the punch, blood flowing into his mouth, staining his teeth. He shouted something at the men, but John couldn’t hear over the din of the others.
    The fat man’s opponent was tall with a very large frame. He had muscles, but was covered in a layer of fat, which became obvious when he removed his shirt. He was covered in tattoos. This was to intimidate the other fighter with the sheer amount of gang body art covering his chest and back.
    He wasn’t as good a fighter as the shorter man. He relied on his size and presence and reputation, but he played the crowd better than the fat man, which counted for a lot.
    John turned and went back into his cell. When he lay down, listening to the cheers and shouts of the crowd below, he heard the arrival of the prison’s emergency response team.
    The two fighters were shackled and taken to another area in the prison. John was