by Matt Rogers
He saw no sign of Tevin. The old bastard would be cowering in his room, relying on younger and stronger men to do his dirty work.
There might have been a hefty reward promised for the man who brought King’s head to Tevin. He sensed it in the expressions of the thugs. An air of opportunity hung over them all. They stared at King like he were a prized possession, some grinning from ear to ear.
Then everything changed.
It began with a blaring klaxon, sounding far in the distance behind King. Instantly the attention shifted away from him. The prisoners who had lived in El Infierno long enough to know what that meant looked away, staring wide-eyed through the steel mesh. Suddenly fearful.
King had no idea what was about to occur.
But it couldn’t be good.
‘Raqueta!’ one of the men screamed, breaking the tense quiet.
Pandemonium erupted in the pavilion. Men scrambled for their measly possessions, gathering up small packs of food and water, shoving their weapons away in an attempt to hide them. King waited by the entrance. He made sure to control his breathing. Panic raged all around him, but he would not let it consume him.
Not until he had reason to worry.
That came next. He heard hurried footsteps outside the pavilion. He turned and saw dozens of men in military-style uniforms hurrying towards the building. They spread out, a cluster entering through each separate gate amidst a cacophony of shouting and screaming.
‘Get the fuck away from there!’ a voice hissed, speaking English well enough.
King spun back and saw a pair of inmates standing nearby. Both unarmed. No threat. They had to be brothers. Both were reasonably tall, above six foot but still shorter than King. They took care of themselves, evident in their round shoulders and barrel chests. Their facial features bore the most resemblance, sporting striking blue eyes and curly hair. In fact, it was difficult to tell them apart.
‘What’s happening?’ he said, struggling to make sense of the commotion.
‘Raqueta,’ the man on the left said. ‘It’s the Guardia Nacional! Run!’
Guardia Nacional.
The Venezuelan National Guard. Whatever a raqueta was, King didn’t expect it to be pleasant.
The twins did not elaborate. Just as confused as when he’d first heard the shrieking wail of the siren, King noticed two guards heading straight for him. These men didn’t seem like ordinary prison staff. They wore khaki uniforms and brandished batons and shotguns. King’s heart leapt in his chest as one of them raised a heavy-duty shotgun and fired a round into his legs.
If the gun had been loaded with actual slugs, both of his lower limbs would have been severed in a grotesque spray of gore. He’d seen it happen before. Not a pretty sight. He would have spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
But that didn’t happen, because the gun was packed with anti-riot pellets. They tore into the skin of his calves, causing massive neurological pain, making him wince and buckle at the knees. Yet no significant damage was done.
In fact, it just made King furious.
Unable to help himself, reacting the only way he knew how, he burst up off the muddy floor and ripped the shotgun out of the man’s hands. It came loose effortlessly. The guy hadn’t been expecting any form of retaliation. King imagined that rarely occurred against the Guardia Nacional. He didn’t care. He spun the weapon around and swung it like a baseball bat at the man who had shot him. The butt cracked against his temple, halting his momentum, sending him sprawling off his feet.
A cry of outrage sounded from all officials in the vicinity.
‘Shit,’ King whispered under his breath.
They swarmed on him like a pack of rabid dogs. He briefly considered taking down as many as he could, but decided against it. It would do nothing but cause more trouble, which was the last thing he wanted. He’d been foolish to fight back against the first guard.
He took a deep breath and braced for what was coming.
Baton blows rained down from all sides, accompanied by vicious swathes of agony. A crazed mob surrounded him, all National Guard, all furious. A well-placed shot slammed home against his ribcage. The pain buckled his knees and he dropped. He hit the mud and curled into the foetal position in a desperate attempt to protect his face and groin from any direct strikes.
The barrage took a full minute to cease, and when it did King spat out a mouthful of blood and gasped in shock. The rate at which the situation escalated had taken him by surprise. He felt the throbbing and searing and aching all over. It was impossible to pinpoint to a single area. He’d been badly beaten. It would take a moment to assess the damage.
His limbs responded normally. As they dragged him into a sitting position and cuffed his hands behind his back, he found himself somewhat certain that nothing was broken. The injuries appeared to be superficial. They hurt like all hell, but he’d suffered similar harm too many times to count. An ordinary civilian would feel like they were dying, but he knew how to isolate the screaming nerve endings and control the agony, shutting down the emotional response. As long as no significant internal damage had been done, he could manage. Bruises and cuts and jarred limbs would heal.
He stayed on the ground as one of the guards rested a knee on his shoulder in an attempt to keep him in place. If King wanted to, he could explode up and break the guy’s nose with a single kick. But he stopped himself from doing so. Now was not the time for anarchy.
He rode out the pain of the beating, watching the chaos unfold within the pavilion. Inmates ran from the guards like their life depended on it. Batons sliced through the air and the racket of anti-riot rounds tore through the enclosed space. Tough-looking thugs dropped without resistance, cowering from the random beatings. There seemed to be no purpose to the altercations. Just high-ranking soldiers happy to let out all their anger and frustrations on the scum of the Vargas state prison population.
‘American fuck!’ the guard closest to King said.
He spat a thick gob of saliva onto King’s tattered jeans, staring down at him with disgust. King peered back up at the man with the same venom in his eyes. He felt his left cheek starting to swell. It had been caught by a baton at some point during the beatdown. A vicious headache flared to life behind his eyeballs, pounding into his skull.
The twins he’d seen before the violence broke out slammed their butts into the mud near King. They also had their hands cuffed. Another guard pushed a grimy hand into the closest twin’s face, making sure he stayed down.
‘What the hell was all that?’ King said.
‘The Guardia Nacional search the pavilion every now and then,’ the same one that had spoke earlier said. ‘We call them raquetas. Some of the guards like to be violent beforehand. Let out a little steam.’
‘I can see that. They confiscate all weapons in the pavilion?’
‘The ones they can find. Then the prison guards just sell them right back to us. Along with drugs, knives … whatever we can afford.’
‘Seems unnecessary.’
‘I think it’s all just an excuse to beat the shit out of us.’
‘I can believe that.’
‘I’m Raul,’ the man said. ‘This is my brother, Luis. He does not speak English.’
Luis nodded a greeting, a gesture that transcended all language barriers. King nodded back. His head flared even from the slight movement.
‘I’m Jason,’ he said. ‘I’m new here.’
‘We know. You’re all anyone’s talking about right now.’
King scanned the room as the Guardia Nacional arranged the prisoners into a long line in the mud. The men sat side-by-side, heads bowed, all reluctant to make eye contact with the officials. Some glanced across at King with rage in their eyes. It seemed they’d missed their chance for a payday. There was still no sign of Tevin.
‘I can’t imagine that’s a good thing,’ King said, sighing as he felt fresh waves of pain course through his system.
CHAPTER 15
The G
uardia Nacional turned the pavilion inside out. They seized all visible belongings and upended their contents into the mud. Every gun, knife and satchel of powder was quickly seized. The owners of such possessions were given quick beatings, struck with either the end of a baton or the butt of a shotgun. King had no possessions, and as a result had no reason to be beaten.
They gave him one anyway.
The guard who he’d knocked down with his own weapon strode up and down the row of filthy prisoners. When he found King, he kicked him sharply in the ribs. King rolled with the impact but it still winded him. He doubled over involuntarily. The guard smiled.
King wondered if they would kill him. He didn’t imagine it would take much more provocation. Striking a guard was surely more than enough reason to warrant a quick execution, especially since the entire process of his arrest had been off-the-record. He figured men in this pavilion were murdered for a lot less.
But they did nothing. Which surprised him. It either meant he’d chanced upon a lucky day where they felt generous. Or they were under explicit orders to keep him alive.
Rico.
‘Hey,’ a voice said, snapping him out of his thoughts. He glanced across and saw Raul watching him.
‘Yeah?’
‘What are you in here for?’
King stared at the ground. His lower legs were caked in dried blood, drawn from dozens of tiny pellet impacts. ‘Murder.’
‘Damn, gringo. Who’d you kill?’
‘No-one.’
‘Huh?’
‘Just because I’m in here for murder, doesn’t mean I did it.’
‘They found you guilty.’
‘I wasn’t given a trial.’
Raul spoke softly to Luis in Spanish, and they exchanged a look. Like they had seen such cases before. ‘Then you pissed someone off, homie.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘Who’d you piss off?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘You must have done something.’
‘I’ve done a lot of things.’
‘That’s a real big help, my friend. Really narrows it down.’
King smiled. ‘I’m in here. Let’s just leave it at that. Nothing I can do about that now.’
‘There sure ain’t,’ Raul said. ‘If they threw you in here then you’re never getting out.’
‘Here specifically?’
Raul nodded. ‘This is maxima, my friend. Highest security in all of Venezuela. And the most corrupt. By far. I’m surprised you didn’t catch a planilla.’
‘A what?’
‘Their bayonets. They usually stab anyone who pisses them off.’
King gulped back anxiety. He knew he would be defenceless to stop them from doing just that. ‘And why are you in here?’
Raul looked at him. So did Luis. ‘I don’t know if I trust you enough to answer that just yet.’
He let the cryptic nature of the statement hang in the air as the raqueta came to an end. The Guardia Nacional finished ridding the pavilion of its most dangerous weapons. They brought each inmate to their feet and began the process of patting them down. King was searched by the same guard he’d struck with the shotgun. A purple welt had sprouted to life over the man’s right eye.
‘That doesn’t look good,’ King said.
‘Planilla,’ Raul whispered. ‘Watch yourself.’
After he finished the pat-down, the guard gave King an ice-cold look with his good eye and punched him in the stomach. King saw the shot coming and jerked back as it landed, turning it into nothing more than a glancing blow. Dissatisfied with such an outcome, the guard swung for his head. He ducked under it, dodging the wild haymaker. It whistled past, close by. No connection though. This made the man furious. He’d been schooled by a battered inmate in handcuffs. He lashed out feebly with a kick, which ricocheted off King’s thigh, doing little damage. Then he turned and stormed out of the pavilion.
If only he was allowed to kill me, King thought.
The handcuffs were removed. The guards kept their shotguns raised high in case a suicidal prisoner got any ideas. The pellets were anti-riot but a spray to the face would risk serious injury — even death. King didn’t risk testing them.
He sucked the pavilion’s humid air into his lungs and his heart rate began to calm. He realised he wasn’t as hurt as he initially expected. He’d done well to cover up during the beating, and as such he was only bruised. He knew he would still be more than capable of holding his own.
The Guardia Nacional began barking commands in Spanish, and the prisoners responded. They formed a somewhat orderly line near the gate, waiting patiently. The hostility in the air had vanished.
‘What’s going on?’ King whispered to Raul.
‘We’re eating,’ the man answered.
At least a dozen guards and prison officials escorted the cluster of prisoners out of the pavilion. King was struck with a couple of rifle butts, forcing him into the midst of the procession. They were led into a spacious yard of dead grass. On the other side of the yard rested a long low concrete building with no windows.
‘That’s the kitchen,’ Raul explained.
King nodded, enjoying the weather for the brief moment he had outside. He quickly deduced that an escape attempt on the walk to breakfast would be a death sentence. He’d seen the officials swap their riot guns over to the real thing as the prisoners left their usual enclosure. One step out of line would be met with a hail of bullets.
The kitchen turned out to be much like a school canteen, only more sterilised. Metal floors, metal walls, metal benches, metal tabletops. Everything was smooth and shiny. It must have been the most sanitary area of El Infierno. King assumed it had been constructed this way to make cleaning easier. A simple wipe-down of all surfaces would make it ready for use again instantaneously.
Under the watchful eye of a small army of prison officials, King lined up to receive a plastic bowl half-full of lukewarm meat and rice, accompanied by a cheap disposable cup filled to the brim with water. Raul and Luis collected identical bowls behind him and the twins sat opposite him at the nearest table. Other prisoners sat down all around them and wolfed their food down without cutlery, most drooling onto the steel tabletops. A junkie with wide eyes and a limping gait slapped his bowl down next to King.
Too close.
The man stared at King questioningly, as if trying to provoke him. King knocked the bowl off the table and pushed the man away. He scurried wordlessly into a corner and collapsed in a heap, succumbing to the truckload of narcotics coursing through his veins.
King turned back to Raul and Luis, ignoring the junkie. The twins had been watching his every move. Almost studying him.
‘What?’ he said, questioning their looks.
Raul shook his head and took a mouthful of the gruel. ‘You’re nothing like the usual newcomers.’
‘How so?’
‘You’re not scared. At all. It takes people at least a few weeks to acclimatise to this kind of environment. They spend that time shitting their pants, usually. Taking beatings from other prisoners. Doing everything they’re told. You came in here like a force of nature.’
‘You don’t think I’m scared?’ King said. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You don’t look it. You’re the bravest fresh face I’ve ever seen. And we’ve been here a year now.’
‘That’s the point. Fearlessness and bravery are two separate things.’
‘What?’
‘Of course I feel fear,’ King said. ‘Who doesn’t? I just ignore the instinct to run away. That’s all there is to it.’
‘I don’t think it’s that simple, gringo.’
‘Of course it’s not. You don’t want to know what I’ve done to reach this point. Can I ask a question?’
Raul cocked his head. ‘Sure.’
‘How come you speak perfect English and your brother doesn’t speak a word?’
‘He can speak a handful of phrases,’ Raul said. Luis’s strik
ing blue eyes pierced into King as he watched the proceedings silently. ‘But it was a childhood friend who taught me. Every day. For years. Luis preferred the outdoors. He likes soccer.’
They finished eating in silence. It seemed Raul had plenty of curiosity about King’s past. He decided to keep the details of his career shrouded in mystery. For now. He didn’t know these men well enough to divulge sensitive information just yet. He gulped down the fluid and finished the bowl in front of him.
Breakfast concluded uneventfully and they were returned to the pavilion and shepherded into the enclosure. By the time the gates slammed shut behind them, the atmosphere had changed considerably from when King had arrived back in the pavilion earlier that morning. The raqueta — which Raul informed King was prison slang for search — had sucked most of the verve from the more dangerous prisoners. Most of the men had been demoralised by the Guardia Nacional stripping their weapons away. Almost all now found themselves unarmed.
King didn’t imagine they would risk a physical confrontation with him after what he’d done to Tevin’s bodyguard upon arrival.
‘Where is Tevin?’ King said, noting the man’s absence during the morning meal. He loitered alongside the twins by the pavilion’s entrance while other inmates began combing through the room, retrieving their belongings scattered across the ground.
‘Probably holed up in his room,’ Raul said. ‘He gets certain privileges. They don’t bother him as much as they used to.’
‘Do the guards know what I did to him and his men?’
‘Probably not, and they don’t care. It’s kill or be killed in here. As far as the guards are concerned, we could tear each other to shreds. It just makes their job a lot easier. The prisons here are overcrowded enough.’
‘Then why take away the weapons?’
‘It’s an economy, gringo. Like a reset button. Now we need to pay for new guns. Which goes into the pockets of the prison guards. Which probably goes into the pockets of the Guardia Nacional down the line.’