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Hell is a Sober Crawl	By : Glitter_Ink Category: M through R > Newsies Views: 499 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies. Otherwise, names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of my imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter List
- 8
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HOUSE OF REFUGE, 1897 - WEEK 4
It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon on the second time Sophie visited Jack in the Refuge. Uncharacteristic for December, and yet the birds were singing, the temperature rose above freezing, and people were milling about in Central Park.
The ferry ride had been somewhat pleasant. Stepping off at Randal's Island was a different story.
Sweating, Jack stood at the heavy machine he was operating, having just started to get the hang of his job. Each day, the boys were made to work in the steel mill just off the Refuge on the Island. He gazed on as molten steel was poured from ladle to casts. Fire, noises, and danger were hallmarks of the factory. Injuries were common. Jack came to fear broken chains, tipped over ladles, exploding iron, falling parts.
God, he was dying of thirst. He felt the beads of sweat snaking their way down his back, down his legs, into his boots.
Doc scrambled over to Jack's machine, helping him haul a long beam of iron onto a large wagon full of them.
"If Roosevelt's on his way over, what the hell are we doing here?" Jack groaned, stepping back from the machine for a quick and discrete break.
Doc, all business, shrugged. "He ain't coming until tomorrow."
Spying the two boys idling by, the new factory overseer - a rather incompetent sort, Mr. Caldwell - stormed over and reprimanded them for neglecting their tasks. Cards was with him, evidently in the midst of being chastised by Caldwell before the interruption.
"Where in God's name is my lunch?" muttered Caldwell, glaring at Cards as if he knew.
Still, Cards politely deflected, "Warden Snyder doesn't want food in the mill, sir," he explained. "Maybe you should try the canteen, huh? It's just down the hall."

From his tone, Jack could tell Cards thought Mr. Caldwell was an idiot. Jack didn’t care for a lecture from a man who got to sit back and have a full meal instead of slowly starving to death in a rat-infested dormitory.
With Caldwell off the factory floor, Doc was moving around again, this time to Muggs' station. Muggs was dizzy, more than a little dehydrated, but wanted to talk to Doc about another problem. The healer, however, was already walking away. ”How’s the hand?” called Doc as an afterthought.
”Fuck the hand, my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest!” screamed Muggs, mumbling that he’d murder for cocaine.

Great – if he could only murder for water as well, then Doc would be able to keep all of them hydrated. Doc waved off Muggs and promised to return.
Next, Doc sprinted and scrambled onto the top of a metal grating where steam came out of a large pipe. Z was working atop the grate, burdened with the task of cleaning the pipe without burning his fingers. The pipe led all the way down to a large pot, a teeming geyser of flames.
“You doing okay?” Doc asked.
”Yeah, but it’s only been an hour and a half,” said Z. He offered Doc a hand, helping his friend the rest of the way up the shaky beam.
“Z, you need to be careful. I can't fix burns of that degree.”
Z raised an eyebrow. ”You suggesting I do something else? I agree. Maybe I'll take up playing pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers,” he mused sarcastically, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his arm. ”I don't know what I was thinking, working in a damn steel mill. Thanks for the insight...”
Doc rolled his eyes, getting the joke but not in the mood for it.
“Headline: Doc Doesn't Recommend Burning Your Hands!” Z humorously shouted to the boys working below, but before anyone could laugh, a blast knocked them back against the railing of the grate.
Nearby on the beam, Crazy and Shakespeare dove for cover, the latter of the two in a panic because he nearly lost his balance. Shakespeare tossed Doc a panicked look as the healer scrambled through the maze of dangerous machines, dodging steam and diving under archways and low beams. He arrived at the opening of the hot coal room that sparked a flickering red and yellow light from the open entrance.
Jack swallowed hard. He quietly prayed it wasn't as bad as he thought.
The unfortunate boys assigned to the task that week were Fleet, Marquette, and Atlas. Fleet and Marquette stumbled out the door, faces and limbs blackened with ashes and soot, sweat drenching their clothes. They dropped their shovels and picks, no sign of Atlas. After establishing that neither was injured, Doc heard Atlas screaming for him and took off again into the sweltering room.
He found the boy on the ground, holding his wounded arm desperately. ”It’s broken, I can feel it!” panicked Atlas. Doc dropped down and examined the injury, a long, jagged tear in the forearm. Atlas was convinced he would bleed to death, so Doc tried to console him.
"Calm down, it's not broken!" Doc yelled, tracing the injury lightly, feeling for any broken bone.
Suddenly, as more blasts barrage the large furnace, Doc pulled his friend out of the inferno. Atlas begged Doc to let him get his shovel from the pile of hot coals.
“Snyder will kill me if I lose the shovel!” he yelled.
Doc tensed. ”You think your arm is bleeding out, and you’re yelling about a damn shovel?” he bristled, stunned at the sheer disregard for his own safety and at the same time resigned to the job.
Tersely, he informed Atlas that either way, Snyder would kill them all. He bandaged Atlas's arm with a strip of fabric torn off from his undershirt, and then paused as the molten blasts finally stops.
Through the silence, Doc wiped his forehead, inhaling the factory chemicals and exhaling in exhaustion, slumping against a machine.
Jack watched him, mystified by his boldness. But Jack supposed someone had to do it.
Suddenly, Mr. Caldwell returned, walking across the factory to Jack. "Sullivan, your sister's here to see you."
Jack looked up, staring at Mr. Caldwell in confusion. "She is? But I don't understand. It's not Sunday."
Mr. Caldwell glanced around at the others, all invested in their work. He leaned close, whispering in Jack's ear. The color drained from Jack's face and he nodded.
Following behind Caldwell, Jack started toward the main door of the visiting room. Caldwell stopped him, gesturing to another entryway. "Don't worry," he said. "The Warden gave you permission to be without the wall today."
Jack followed him through the opposite door, on the other side of the fenced visiting room. As Jack entered, he caught sight of Sophie standing there, waiting for him. Her face was twisted in a sort of apprehensive grimace. Jack's heart skipped a beat, already getting anxious.
He slowly walked to his little sister. Sophie tried to embrace him again, but Jack dragged his feet. When she wrapped her arms around him, tightly, Jack just stood there - rigid, as if not knowing what to do.
"Can we talk in private?" Sophie asked, eyeing Mr. Caldwell. "I have to tell you something."
"Yeah, I already heard. He told me," Jack replied, gesturing to Caldwell.
Scrunching up her eyebrows like she didn't quite understand, Sophie looked around Jack at Caldwell. Then she glanced back up at her brother. "Medda told me about it, I guess she read it in the paper. Guess he finally did it, he swore he would," Sophie rambled. "Who knows when they'll catch him, if they'll catch him. But for now, he's escaped."
She was referring to their father who recently was part of a prison break from Sing Sing. And that meant he was loose, and no doubt coming back to take custody of Sophie - and presumably Jack when he got out.
"That's what I came to tell you," she continued. "I didn't want you to hear it from anyone else, but..."
"Thanks for coming to tell me," Jack said, forcing half-smile, though it faltered. "Means a lot. You didn't have to make the trip, Soph. I don't like you going back and forth like this. It's not safe."
Sophie looked like he'd slapped her in the face. She stared at Jack, taking in his appearance with a frown. "What are you talking about? I just wanted to see you. I missed you. And you're not worried about dad being out?"
Jack cast his eyes downward, slightly moving his shoulders up and down.
Sophie tried to meet his gaze. "Jack, what is wrong with you? Look at me. Please. What is it?"
"I'm fine," Jack interrupted her. "Just...lay low at Medda's. She'll protect you, even if he comes looking."
Sophie's confusion turned to anger in an instant, her heart beating faster. If anything, she was worried about Jack now. "I don't want Medda to protect me. I want you to protect me. You're my brother. What is the matter with you? Why are you covered in bruises?" She asked, gasping at the wounds on his face and arms. "You're so thin. Are you eating?"
Jack avoided eye contact.
"You look sick," Sophie went on. "Who did this to you? Why do you look like you just crawled out of your grave?"
"Soph, I'm not sick." Jack said. "Really, everything's fine."
"Who's beating you up like that?" Sophie demanded, stomping her little foot in a rage. "I'll talk to them! Let me talk to Snyder this instant!" She reached up to inspect the bruises on Jack's jaw, causing him to quickly flinch and pull away.
"It ain't that bad, alight?" Jack snapped. "I have to get back to work now. Just stay clear of dad if you see him. I'll see you when I get out."
"Jack!" Sophie sputtered. "You're leaving? Just five more minutes?"
Jack turned and offered her a blank expression. "Sophie, I'm sorry. You should go," he said, walking back through the door, not bothering to say he loved her.
"Wait, Jack!" Sophie called after him. "Jack, please! Jack!"
But it was too late. Sophie stood there, stunned and abandoned. She looked at Mr. Caldwell, who was still standing sentry by the door. "I'd like to speak with Snyder, sir," she said, keeping her voice even for a thirteen-year-old.
"Warden Snyder?" Mr. Caldwell corrected her. "You want to speak to Warden Snyder?'
"Yes, him," Sophie replied. "Right now."
In a matter of minutes, Warden Snyder found himself sitting across from the small, bleary-eyed girl in his office. He played with a deck of cards, somewhat amused by Sophie's air of outrage.
"I see you're upset, Miss Sullivan," Snyder began, setting the cards down. "I don't see why-"
"Yes, I'm upset," Sophie interrupted him, leaning forward with her hands clasped together properly on the desk. She didn't miss a beat. "I want to know why my brother looks like a walking corpse. And the answer better be good."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Snyder said.
"Snyder-"
"Warden Snyder," he corrected her.
"What?"
"You will address me as Warden Snyder. You do not disrespect your betters, young lady. You say 'please,' 'thank you,' and 'good day, sir.'"
Sophie pursed her lips. "Mister, I ain't calling you Warden. You're not my jailor. I'm not your prisoner."
Snyder took a breath, struggling to maintain his composure. "Miss Sullivan, your brother would've grown up to be just like your convict father if he hadn't been delivered to us," he said. "And I think you ought to be grateful-"
"No. I haven't seen my brother in 4 weeks. All I wanted was to tell him about our father. And he comes out a completely different person than he was 4 weeks ago. He looks horrible, like he's starving to death. What is going on in here?"
"You're terribly mistaken, dear girl, and far out of line," Snyder growled. "You're making all kinds of ridiculous accusations that you don't understand the full gravity of."
"Oh, stop it! Don't you see? He's not the same!" She shrieked, causing a few passing guards to peer into the office at the commotion.
Snyder noticed them and waved them off. "Lower your voice, young lady."
"He's not the same!" Sophie repeated indignantly. "What have you done to him?"
Snyder glared at Sophie in surprise, taking a moment to compose himself. "Frankly, Miss Sullivan, your brother is now a ward of the state. He surrendered his rights the moment he stepped foot in this Refuge. He's learning his lesson, like all the others here. It's all in the name of reform, and I will not have you stand in the way of progress. I sympathize with your lot, I do. But you must take care not to follow in his example."
"Sure," Sophie rolled her eyes. "Do you have an older brother?"
Snyder sighed, giving Sophie a straight look. "I do not. And I'm sorry to say, but you do not have one either. He left you all alone, didn't he?"
Sophie slumped back in the chair, at a loss for words. That hit her hard, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She wasn't sure if she wanted to punch Snyder in the face or burst into tears. Gathering her thoughts, she pressed her lips together to stop herself from crying. "Okay," she managed curtly, standing up, staring at the floor.
She thought for a moment and then looked up at Snyder. "For what it's worth, Warden Snyder or whatever you want to pretend to be, he is still my brother. And he always will be. He is the best brother in the world, and he would never leave me. And if you hurt him again, I will make you sorry, I swear."
Snyder sat at his desk in a complete and utter stupor, showing the slightest crack in his stone façade.
She spun on her heel toward the door, pausing just at the threshold. "Good day, sir," she spat, the bitterness dripping in every syllable. And with that, she slammed the door shut.
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Hell is a Sober Crawl