Anyway, the four guys get out just as Bellick snivels about how if the guards do the count, they'll be four short. General Whoosis immediately radios the guards doing the count to discover...they're four short. And he has a nostrils-flaring reaction shot that is totally telenovela-worthy. All he needs is some sweet, sobbing young thing in the background and a henchman with a pencil-thin moustache. But wait! (Imagine the music swelling dramatically here.) When Whistler rolled out from under the Jeep, his field guide to North American birds fell out of his pocket. Mahone rolls on by it too. Fortunately, none of the guards have noticed it either. I'm just imagining that season four will be all Susan B. threatening to kill people and shouting, "You broke out of that prison, you can just break right back in and get that book, mister!"
We then get a truly beautiful sunrise shot. My, how quickly the morning has broken. The four escapees are running through the lush jungle, not at all impeded by underbrush nor besmirched by sweat. The guards right on their tails are looking similarly fresh -- this despite having to run with rifles cocked at their shoulders. I feel like the NRA should look into promoting this sort of activity as a new fitness craze. In a nation that loves its guns and its faddish exercise activities (Tae-Bo, anyone?), riflerobics should be huge. ["Depressingly, my reaction is something like...oh, I'm sure there already is this, somewhere." -- Miss Alli]
We take a minute from the chase to cut to all the bus passengers providing the local police with a stunningly accurate verbal portrait of the man who busjacked their ride the night before. Oh, Linc. You had a clean slate with law enforcement for what, a week? This keeps up, by season five, Michael's going to have to resort to temporary tattoos, the better to keep updating the scrapes you get into.
Meanwhile, the newly wanted man is busy driving Sofia's little VW into the jungle where, one presumes, he'll meet with Michael et al. The escaped prisoners are still hurtling through the underbrush. Ah, now they're shvitzing a little. I'll take my semi-realistic touches where I can get them. Everyone's making good time until Whistler catches his ankle on a root and goes down. Instantly, he's rolling around and groaning, "My ankle! I've torn it apart!" Michael and Splenda haul him to his feet, and Mahone provides encouragement thusly: "Mr. Whistler, I'll drag you by your hair if I have to. We gotta go!" Whistler insists, "I'll slow you down! Just leave me! Go!" He seems to have forgotten that Michael has a vested interest in his safety. Michael has not forgotten. He points out, "We both know that's not an option. It's only a quarter mile to the beach. If we stick to the underbrush, we should be safe." Then Michael delegates Whistler's aid to Mahone and everyone's off again.