by Matt Rogers
Then he saw the weapons.
At first his brain didn’t process what his eyes were registering. It seemed every man in the pavilion was armed. Some brandished homemade shanks. Some had their grimy fingers tightened around handgun triggers. It began to dawn on him that he had entered a world unlike anything he’d experienced before.
A man stepped out of the cluster of prisoners and approached him.
He was elderly. At least sixty, maybe older. His hair had fallen out long ago. His skin was cracked and weathered, probably from years in this hellhole — yet he carried an air of authority that seemed to permeate through the hordes of prisoners.
‘My name is Tevin,’ he said. He spoke English, too.
‘Okay,’ King said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Jason King.’
‘What are you in here for?’
‘I don’t know.’
Tevin nodded. ‘Suit yourself. They all end up talking eventually. How long are you here for?’
‘I don’t know that either.’
‘You don’t know a lot of things.’
‘I’m still trying to process.’
Tevin shrugged. ‘I’ve seen it before. Reality will hit eventually.’
‘They all look like they want to kill me,’ King said, gesturing to the pack of prisoners behind Tevin, all filthy and angry and wild.
‘Newcomers don’t get treated too kindly. Some get killed. That’s just the way it is.’
‘Is it a dominance thing?’
Tevin shrugged again. ‘They prey on the weak. New arrivals tend to be weak.’
‘Then how are you still alive?’
‘I run the place.’
‘Ah.’
‘How tall are you?’
King cocked his head. ‘Odd question.’
‘Answer.’
‘Six foot three.’
‘Weight?’
‘Two-hundred-and-twenty pounds. Roughly.’
‘Can you fight?’
‘Want a demonstration?’
Tevin paused for consideration. King knew that he wanted something from him, and also knew that he wouldn’t be satisfied without witnessing what he could do. He would ensure that he got the message across fast and early — that he was nothing like the usual new inmates. He was not a timid Westerner, out of depth in a brutal foreign prison.
They would quickly learn.
Tevin made up his mind and nodded. He turned and peered into the crowd, searching for someone. When he found who he was looking for he clicked his fingers and beckoned them over. A man stepped forward, roughly the same height as King. A little slimmer, probably from the lack of nutrients in prison food. He still seemed powerful. Like he took good care of his body.
Which wouldn’t matter.
‘This is Santiago,’ Tevin said. ‘He’s one of my bodyguards. You need to show me why you deserve the position more than he—’
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because by then King had already begun to stride forward. Tevin stopped talking and watched the altercation unfold.
King took three big steps, covering the distance in seconds. Santiago stared at him with pure rage in his eyes. They seemed to boggle in their sockets, in disbelief that a newcomer would be so brash. King saw the man’s wrists twitch and his fingers tighten into balls and knew the guy would come at him like a freight train.
He wanted that.
Brute force had its advantages, but only if one knew how to use them. King had the experience. It gave him confidence. It allowed him to control his emotions as the giant swung a massive fist directly at his head.
The punch came at him the same way he’d seen a million identical attacks head his way before. The benefits of such an unbelievable and dangerous military career meant that he had been thrust into fist-fights and gruelling training tasks so relentlessly that his brain had entered a state of ‘overlearning’. The reflexes that were relevant in a time like this — reaction speed, timing and the ability to harness the flood of cortisol — had progressed to the point where his responses were automatic. He knew exactly what to do, and how to do it.
When confronted with a furious adversary, he treated it like nothing more than a casual training exercise.
He slipped to the side, jerking his head off-centre, re-positioning himself in the mud. The punch flew by, exposing the guy’s chin like a shining beacon. King twisted at the waist and cracked a fist across Santiago’s jaw. He didn’t wind up. He didn’t grow reckless. He knew it would take nothing more than a stiff jab in exactly the right spot to put the guy out on his feet.
Santiago’s head whipped sideways, carried by the force of the jab. His neck muscles twisted. In the half-second after the connection King noted his eyes had already begun to roll back in his head. At that point he knew it was all over.
King turned to face Tevin even before the bodyguard’s legs gave out and he collapsed to the mud, on the receiving end of a flash knockout. He would come to in seconds, disoriented.
Out of the fight for good.
Of course, the thugs around him had no knowledge of the thousands of hours King had spent training for combat. They didn’t see the blood and sweat and mistakes of his past. They weren’t aware of how many times he’d failed, how many instructors had beat him into the ground. They just saw a man step into El Infierno and drop the most imposing bodyguard in their pavilion with a single, precise blow.
To them, he was a freak of nature.
‘Anything else?’ King said.
Tevin peered down at his bodyguard, lying limp on his side on the dirty floor. He shook his head. ‘I think I’ve seen enough.’
He barked a command and two prisoners gripped Santiago under each armpit and hauled him away. They disappeared into the crowd.
‘You’re now my bodyguard,’ Tevin said matter-of-factly.
‘Do I have a choice?’
Tevin stared at him. ‘Do you want me to keep you alive?’
‘That’d be good.’
‘Then no, you don’t have a choice. Feel free to wander off on your own. You’ll find yourself stabbed in the back by a hallucinating addict before tomorrow morning.’
King nodded his understanding.
‘Come with me,’ Tevin said.
They set off through the pavilion. As the inmates noticed King had earned Tevin’s trust they began to disperse, returning to what they’d been doing prior to his arrival. The air of violence and murder dissipated — at least for now. They probably knew that to mess with one of Tevin’s friends was a death sentence.
‘You own the pavilion?’ King said as they walked.
Tevin laughed. ‘I wish. I’m not here of my own accord, Jason. I’m a prisoner, just like you. Been here twenty years. Worked my way up. Now everyone answers to me. I can get them drugs, weapons, certain luxuries. No-one will touch me.’
‘How many of them work for you?’
‘Enough. If anyone laid a finger on me, my men would feed it to them. Then kill them. Slowly.’
‘So I’m safe with you?’
Tevin looked at King, then searched in the crowd for Santiago’s still unconscious body. ‘Oh, I was exaggerating before. I’m sure you’re safe either way. They’re not used to someone who fights back.’
‘You get many Westerners in here?’
‘A few. Most die within the first few days.’
‘Jesus.’
‘We’re a different breed,’ Tevin said. ‘The foreigners are hapless drug-runners. Think they can make a quick buck smuggling shit into Venezuela. Never pays off for them. They turn into cowards as soon as they get in here. Never turn into a coward. These paisanos thrive on weakness.’
‘You think I would?’
‘Oh, I know you won’t. Doesn’t seem like it’s in your blood. What did you do before you came here?’
‘I was a soldier.’
‘Ah…’ Tevin nodded. ‘Of course. You’ve got that air about you.’
‘What air?’
‘I don’t think any of us could break you if we tried.’
‘I hope nobody does try.’
They came to a halt by the far side of the pavilion. Tevin paused and took a glance back at Santiago. Two tough-looking men were coaxing him back to consciousness. He groaned as he came to. He would have no memory of the fight.
‘Mind explaining how you did that?’ Tevin said.
King shrugged. ‘Practice.’
‘My men practice. They hit heavy bags, they spar with each other. You made him look like a child.’
King shrugged again. ‘How often do they fight, though?’
Tevin cocked his head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a difference between hitting a bag and hitting an enemy.’
‘Explain.’
‘Look, I’m not some kind of superhuman. If they snuck up on me from behind and cracked me, I’m sure it would hurt all the same. But what about the rapid decisions you have to make when someone’s looking to take your head off? Are they used to that? Will they react properly?’
‘Probably not,’ Tevin said. ‘We don’t get much competition. I’ve had control for years.’
‘Everyone gets wrapped up in the heat of the moment,’ King said. ‘Fighting has certain stressors. It makes people panic. I don’t panic. I respond calmly and rationally. That’s really all there is to it.’
The bodyguard in the corner made it to his feet for a couple of seconds. He righted himself, shoving his friends away. He took a single step and then collapsed back to the mud, punch-drunk.
‘You make it sound so easy,’ Tevin scoffed, shaking his head.
Then he turned and led King away.
They left the main area and strode into a corridor branching off from the pavilion. The hallway was home to two long rows of open doorways, each leading into small private rooms. Aggressive music blared from portable speakers, drifting through the doorways. Prisoners in scraps of filthy clothes were strewn across the floor, too high to function. King gazed down at their pathetic forms and wondered just what he’d got himself into.
‘These are living quarters?’ King said.
‘Yes,’ Tevin said. ‘For those who have earned my respect. There’s a hierarchy in here. I’m on top. If I don’t like you, or I don’t know you, you sleep out in the pavilion. In the mud. Men who treat me with respect might be lucky enough to get a mattress.’
King felt relief that he’d got on Tevin’s good side so quickly. It seemed crucial to his own survival in this madhouse. All the ruthlessness and combat prowess in the world would be useless if he had to sleep on exposed ground, open to a blade or a bullet in the skull while he slept. At least a room offered some form of temporary safety.
‘This is mine,’ Tevin said as they approached the very end of the corridor. He pointed to a locked metal door.
‘I’m allowed in?’
‘You work for me now,’ Tevin said. ‘Of course you are.’
He withdrew a small rusting key from his oversized trousers and unlocked the door.
King followed him through.
CHAPTER 11
They entered a spacious living quarters, populated by a trio of tough-looking men in singlets and tattered shorts. The three of them lounged on old sofas and recliner chairs, huddled around a battered old television playing a Spanish drama show. It took King by surprise. This somewhat civilised place seemed a world away from the vicious doghouse of the main pavilion. There was a clear shift in attitude, too. These men appeared relaxed, calm, quiet. It directly contrasted with the sensory overload out there, filled with screaming inmates and prisoners passed out from drug overdoses — many too fried by narcotics to muster anything more than mindless salivation.
Up the back of the room there was a toilet built into the wall, complete with a small partition for privacy. King assumed the object was a rare sight in the pavilion. Above the toilet, a dirty glass window faced out onto an open field of dead grass, running all the way to the prison’s perimeter. An unimpressive view, yet a view all the same. Cooking appliances were scattered across the floor, most homemade. They were nothing more than electric rings mounted on paint tins, but they would heat food well enough.
The height of luxury.
‘King, meet my other three bodyguards,’ Tevin said.
The three men approached him warily, as he expected. The sudden arrival of a new prisoner would warrant suspicion. He had been let into Tevin’s personal quarters almost immediately. And he was foreign. King imagined signs of favouritism were treated with hostility by men who had worked hard to earn their positions. Nevertheless, they listened to their boss. They shook his hand, a couple grunting and nodding in greeting. King nodded back.
A row of beds rested against the far wall. Tevin crossed the room and lay down on one of them, sinking into the mattress. He rested his head against a filthy pillow.
King sat on one of the empty chairs.
‘Someone put me in here for a reason, Tevin,’ he said. ‘They framed me.’
Tevin said nothing. Just stared at the ceiling, smiling to himself.
‘I need to get out,’ King said.
The man continued smiling.
‘Tevin…’
He turned and made eye contact with King. ‘You’re living in a fantasy.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t get out of here. Don’t you think — with the influence I have — I would have escaped years ago if there was a way?’
‘I was under the impression anything could be bought.’
‘Anything except freedom, my friend. Especially if you’ve been locked up for a reason. Are you a rich man?’
King patted his jeans pocket, checking that the roll of bolivares was still there. ‘I’ve got enough. On the outside I’ve got much more.’
‘Then you can afford a decent life in here,’ he said. ‘You work for me, and you buy your way to basic amenities, and you’ll manage. But don’t consider anything else. Don’t get your hopes up. They’ll only be torn down by reality.’
‘I can get out of here.’
Tevin chuckled. ‘Just because you were a soldier doesn’t mean you’re above the guards. There’s no way out.’
‘How do I find out why I’m here?’
Tevin turned to him. ‘Do you think you’re special?’
‘What?’
‘Half the men in here used to be good citizens of society. But they pissed off a politician, or angered a gang. Now they’re in here for the rest of their life. If you keep denying it you’ll end up just like them. Useless drug addicts on the verge of death. They realised too late that they’re never getting out, and it tore them apart. Don’t let that happen to you, my friend.’
King lapsed into silence, mulling over what had occurred. A small window built into the end of the room faced out onto the prison yard, exposing the setting sun melting into the horizon.
He stayed quiet as it grew dark. A bulb in the ceiling flickered to life, casting a dim glow over the contents of the room. The knot in his gut had yet to loosen. In fact, it grew tighter with each passing moment. He knew his motivation would fade the longer he spent in El Infierno.
Which could well be the rest of his life, just as Rico had said.
One of the bodyguards left the room and returned five minutes later carrying a large bowl of curry. Probably purchased from one of the guards for a hefty fee. They ate in silence. Tevin noticed King’s change in demeanour and didn’t probe him any further.
The rest of the evening passed in similar fashion. Several times Tevin attempted to strike up conversation, yet King had withdrawn into himself. He was not in the mood to talk.
Finally, late at night, when the five of them were ready to fall asleep, he opened his mouth.
‘What are you in here for, Tevin?’ he said.
The man turned from his position on the lower bunk. ‘Murder. Three counts of it.’
‘Justified?’
‘Not at all. They were my compet
ition. Three brothers, setting up a hardware shop across the road from mine. They had family money. It wouldn’t have taken long for them to put me out of business. So I beheaded them while they slept.’
With that he rolled over and grew quiet, drifting into sleep.
King relaxed back into the chair and stared up at the damp ceiling, wondering just how he’d ended up in this mess. It seemed that wherever he turned, trouble followed. It had his whole career, but that came with the job. Now he could not shake the past. Peace and relaxation were concepts that hovered on the horizon, seemingly in reach. Whenever he tried to grab them, chaos would occur. Perhaps he was destined for this.
He used the toilet, unperturbed by some of the room’s occupants watching him as he did so. The partition gave him partial privacy — a lot better than what he was used to out in the field. It put his career into perspective somewhat. Even in the bowels of corrupt Venezuela, he felt as if he were living in relative comfort.
He returned to the chair and closed his eyes as a wave of tiredness washed over him. The stress of recent events had taken their toll. The grounds outside grew dark and the constant screaming within the pavilion began to subside. Apparently even the junkies had to sleep at some point. King drifted into short restless bouts of unconsciousness.
He came to at some point in the night. It was pitch dark outside. The sound of rustling had woken him. It came from somewhere nearby, and — while it could have been one of the bodyguards — he opened his eyes. The noise was frantic. Panicked. He took one look across and saw a stranger inside Tevin’s quarters, one hand dipped into the man’s possessions. The guy’s beady eyes darted from body to body, searching for any sign of movement in the lowlight.
He didn’t know King was awake.
The man continued to rustle through piles of clothes, searching hurriedly. His skin clung to his bones like a walking skeleton. The guy was emaciated. King waited until he withdrew a roll of bolivares from Tevin’s belongings, then vaulted off the chair and wrapped a hand around the guy’s shirt.
The man almost jumped out of his skin. He shrieked, a rabid cry, flecks of spit dotting King’s shirt. He slapped a feeble hand against King’s chest, trying to fend him off. King ripped the bolivares out of his hand and threw him out into the hallway. The door had been pushed open while they slept. Someone had accidentally left it ajar.