Part 15 (1/2)
”Used to be we had the whole dope thing wired. Guards wouldn't mule it in for n.i.g.g.e.rs, and their b.i.t.c.hes can only carry so much at a time. But those days are gone. There's a lot of major dealers doing time now-they got their own street sources. And don't forget, there's n.i.g.g.e.r guards now, too. So they pretty much can get whatever we can get.”
”From what I hear, they've been getting some bodies.”
”True enough. They took out that Towers guy right in his cell. No big mystery to that. Guards in here are just like cops on the bricks: there's a price for everything. They most likely didn't do any more than just leave that skinner's cell unlocked.”
”Why that one? You taking his kind in now?”
”h.e.l.l, no! Way we figure it, the n.i.g.g.e.rs just wanted to profile. Send us a message that no white man's safe-they can get to us anywhere. That's why we hit two of them the next day-that was our answer.
”In here, it's just like out there, only it's coming on faster. Race war, that's what I'm talking about. And only one race is gonna be standing at the end.”
Banner's words echoed as Cross watched plain-view violence being studiously ignored by custodial staff: everything from fistfights to Pearl Harbor knifings. Nothing had changed from the last time he was incarcerated-firebombing a cell, poisoning food, and battery-packing a sleeping victim are permanent fixtures of prison life. Doing lengthy time was always a multi-color fabric, and homicide its only binding thread.
All conversation stopped as a flying wedge of guards stomped past, double-timing, shaking the ground with the pounding of their heavy boots. They were dressed in one-piece uniforms, body armor, and helmets with full-face visors, mirror-gla.s.sed to make individual identification impossible. Each officer carried a see-through s.h.i.+eld, shaped so he could maneuver behind it, and a full belt of weapons, including illegal-voltage Tasers.
But no firearms. Not inside the blocks. The Federal Bureau of Prisons' way of saying ”Never again.”
”Goon squad,” Banner side-spoke to Cross, while looking in the direction the squad was running. ”Must be some weird stuff going on over there again.”
”What's 'over there' mean?”
”That whole block,” Banner answered, nodding his head in that direction. ”Upstairs, it's PC. Middle is for the psychos. Down is the Death House. Two rows of twenty cells each ... with the Green Room in the middle.”
”Green Room?”
”Used to be the gas chamber, long time ago. Now it's just an empty room. No executions here. For that, they have to move you to a Level Seven.”
At the words ”Death House,” a concrete-colored blotch semi-materialized high up on the wall behind the two men. As the goon squad moved in, ”Death House” was repeated at below-human-threshold. Then ...
”Hit!”
The guards began to club a prisoner repeatedly on his unprotected head, continuing even after the man slumped to the ground, blood running out of both ears.
A mural flashed on the overlooking wall. The ace and jack of clubs appeared, then immediately vanished, leaving some convicts blinking. And the TV monitors blank.
SEATING IN the prison mess room was as radically divided as on the yard, but all races had to pa.s.s through the same serving line.
Tension crackled the air. No more perfect opportunity to plant a shank in an enemy's back existed. The convict gangs deliberately ate in s.h.i.+fts-some designated to watch the backs of their comrades while they ate, after which they would change places.
Guards patrolled up and down the aisles, as tightly wound as the prisoners. Something was going down. Something a lot bigger than any individual attack. But n.o.body seemed to know what that would be, or where it was going to come from.
AFTER SUPPER, a group of Aryans positioned themselves to the far right of the shower room. A young white inmate walked toward them, a towel in his hand.
”Fish,” one of the thugs hissed.
The young white man stepped to the other side, and found himself on black turf, where he was immediately accosted. ”You in the wrong part of town, Chuck!”
The white inmate turned away, mumbling apologies, but too late-he found himself surrounded by blacks. The same whites who had been ready to rape the young man now moved in to defend him, chesting their way forward.
The distinct sound of a sh.e.l.l being jacked into a chamber chilled the entire shower room. All eyes turned to a trio of guards: one kneeling, two standing, all ready to fire their ”non-lethal” weapons. This was a kill-trained team, eyes unreadable behind their face s.h.i.+elds, but there was no mistaking their orders.
”Better come with us,” one of the whites said to the young man, putting his arm around the kid's shoulders.
”Thanks, man. I didn't know....”
”It's okay,” the older man told him, comfortingly.
As he walked the kid toward the right side of the shower room, two of his crew stayed behind, watching his back. And waiting their turn.
”Fresh meat,” one said to the other.
”Yeah. Looks juicy, too,” the other responded.
As the words left his mouth, a tiny line of darkness appeared to circle one of the showerheads, throbbing as if it had a pulse. At the word ”meat,” the circle became arrow-shaped, pointing down: ”Hit!”
AT THE scream, the squad charged into the shower. They found one of the would-be rapists dead on the floor, his blood flowing into the drain. But even the most invasive search failed to turn up a weapon of any kind.
It wasn't until the bag-and-tag team took the required photos that the presence of a tattoo on the dead man was noted.
”Must be a new one,” the camera operator said, looking at the jack of spades overlapping the ace of hearts.
By the time the body was wheeled into the infirmary, the tattoo had disappeared.
And the photos the team took never came out.
THAT SAME evening, Cross was again having a smoke on the tier, leaning over to watch the activity below. He turned at Banner's approach, and they began a conversation.
Suddenly, the Riot Bell sounded. The goon squad thundered past, sweeping convicts out of its way like a bulldozer.
”G.o.dd.a.m.n it!” Banner rasped out. ”They must've made another move. This keeps up, we might as well have it go all-out.”
IN THE prison hospital unit, a white inmate was lying on a bed, the back of which was elevated to put it in something close to a sitting position. No injuries were visible, but his face was bleached out, as if his eyes had seen something too much for his mind.
He was surrounded. Not only by guards, but also by men in suits who must be Administration from the way the guards deferred to them.
One of the suits shook his head, and made a gesture. The others walked out with him, leaving the contingent of guards in place.
Within minutes, the suits walked through the corridor, grim-faced. They didn't stop until they reached the Director's office.
”HE'S STICKING to his story?” a gray-haired man asked the others.
”That's right, Chief,” one of the suits replied.
”What's your take on it?”
”I'm not sure, sir. The kid's not lying. Not intentionally, anyway. Far as he's concerned, some kind of creature just ... materialized or something. Then it hacked four Brotherhood members into hunks of meat.”
”You think ...?”
”I don't know what to think. Those cons-the dead ones-they're known booty bandits. No question what they had on their minds when they muscled that kid into that corner-we even found a little tube of Vaseline on the floor. So, if it wasn't for the physical evidence, I'd say the kid was flying on chemicals and he just hallucinated the whole mess. h.e.l.l, that's what we've got him here for, right? Dope fiend?”