“Strange.”
“And with this new bug going around, gives me the creepers.”
“Fascinating. Can I go now?”
Tim shrugged again.
“Went out the gate… maybe twenty minutes ago. Couple of techies. Dumb ass kids, you ask me. I don’t know what all the fuss is about, losing your cell signal. But these days, if you can’t snap your bean in the bathroom with your crackberry in your hand twice a day, I guess it drives you young’ns nuts.”
“I thought it gave you the creepers…”
“No, the bug does. I couldn’t give a shit about your iThis-and-That. But the bug, this road’s been dead empty all day. I come in and there’s not a car on the road. None’ve gone by, ‘til you. And then the phones…” He exaggerated a shiver. “Just feels wrong to my old bones.”
Sam sighed. Put his cruiser in park and started to get out.
“If you’re not going to throw the fucking lever…” he grumbled.
Tim stopped him with a meaty palm. Reached into the guard shack and hit a key on his keyboard and the gate started sliding left.
“Seem awfully annoyed today,” he told Sam. “Am I keeping you from something?”
Sam got back in the car. He dropped it into drive and gunned the engine, flipping Tim off as he sped away.
Tim waved.
Seventeen
Chris pulled weight room shift after the catastrophe in the media room. The loss of television and internet had cast a heavy gloom over every inmate: the whites were all certain it was either the Hispanics or blacks that had sabotaged both, the blacks knew outright it was the white inmates, and the Hispanics just assumed everyone hated them because they were Hispanic.
Chris had no idea if any if it was true, but couldn’t discount a sound – if racially charged – theory one way or the other. He prowled along the outskirts of the weight room, hugging the wall, holding the prisoners all with a level view. The weight room had exploded with the absence of other forms of entertainment, and there was a thirty minute wait for equipment.
He caught a conversation off to his right and decided to make his presence known.
“What did you say?” he asked a new prisoner. The guy had come in a few weeks back – just before the riot – and he couldn’t place him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did. You said: ‘That can’t be true.’ What can’t be true?”
The guy squirmed a bit. Chris remembered him now: Tall Bill Mahone.
“These guys told me something that sounded insane. Been trying to convince me my new cellmate is a complete psycho. All day.”
Chris laughed. They loved fucking with the new guys.
“Who’s your new cellie?” he asked.
“Erin Gibbs,” the convict to Bill’s right supplied. Chris knew him, too. Mike Sanchez. Killed two in a botched robbery. Botched was the wrong word: a successful robbery that ended two lives. Sanchez killed two old folks in their own home. Walked away with six hundred dollars and some jewelry. Got tracked down and given two life sentences. Had never once said he regretted any of it.
Chris raised his eyebrows at Tall Bill.
“Gibbs?” Chris asked, and laughed at him. “It’s true.”
“All of it?”
“Well, probably not all of it.” Chris sighed and leaned against the wall, scanning the room for trouble as he spoke. “Most of it. I mean, is all of anything true? Shit, man, nobody even knows if all the Bible’s true.”
He let them digest that for a moment, squinting at two Arian Brotherhood soldiers having harsh words with a Crip, then continued, “But most of it. How many they say he killed?”
“Seven,” Bill told him.
“More like six we can prove. Plus three that they sent up and one that’s in an asylum because Gibbs gave him a makeshift lobotomy. So ten, give or take.”
“How the fuck is he still in GenPop?”
Chris shrugged. “Warden likes the guy,” he said. “And you guys hate him. He used to be a cop. All us think he got a bad beef. It’s really not his fault: every new fuck thinks he needs to take a run at him. He just hasn’t found anybody meaner than him yet.
“But he will.” Chris looked at Bill. “That you?” he asked.
Eighteen
Sam parked the cruiser, got out, locked it, and walked towards the interior gate. The main gate was just the outer perimeter; the interior gate was what let you into the prison proper. Main gate only allowed you to park, and even interior gate didn’t get you much access. You had to pass through about twenty gates and locks to see a single prisoner.
The outer fence was chain link with razor wire. The inner wall was twenty feet high and made of solid, ballistics-grade concrete, razor wire linked atop it like tinsel. It ran the entire perimeter of the prison, like a massive diamond, and shielded Brennick from the outside while closing off the prisoners from the same. The interior gate was made of steel, twenty feet tall and painted white to ward off summer heat – also topped with razor wire and backed with chain link to make it impossible to squeeze through its close-spaced bars.
He walked up to it and waved.
Tripp waved back, and activated the motor which pulled the gate aside. Three more armed guards sat within, drinking coffee and chatting.
Sam crossed through the still opening gate – it was forty feet wide to allow two-way traffic – and entered “the Hallway.” Chain link on either side, with sidewalks on both, female yard to the left and male to the right, four guard towers like gargoyles at each point, the Hallway made even the employees feel a bit disconcerted.
That was the point.
Sam pressed on.
After two hundred yards he reached the third gate – the “Garden Gate” as it was called – the final obstacle on his way to the administration building. The gate was identical to the interior gate but without chain link backing, it was steel and painted white, with the ever-present razor wire. Beyond it the Warden’s garden was cold and dead, waiting for the end of winter to go into bloom. Above the garden on either side stood towers, springing up from the prison itself for a story, and on either side of the gate stood two more, each with a commanding view of the yards and the garden.
Two guards stood on either side of the gate in opposing buildings, looking at him. He nodded and someone hit the button and the gate started moving.
He passed into the garden – about a thousand square feet of perennials cut in two by the road, in the shape of a triangle cut off at the tip by the walkway – and made his way to the entrance. Typed in his individual code and went inside.
Sarah Graves stopped him with: “You’re late.”
“If we made it a little easier to get in this fucking place, I wouldn’t be,” he swore at her.
“If we made it any easier getting in or out, it wouldn’t be Brennick,” she reminded him.
Nineteen
Dave Sanders was listening, because he always was. He was relaying information from the team outside the walls to the Warden and back again. Once Sam Watkins arrived he could cut the Warden out, but he was late and everyone – especially the Warden – seemed pissed about it.
“We’re not seeing a damn thing wrong with this line,” one of the maintenance officers reported. “Nothings been dug up or anything. Should be just fine six feet down.”
“What about the power lines to the cell tower?”
“Thirty feet up, and no sign of fraying. Think we probably got a problem at headquarters. I don’t see a thing that would cut us off.”
“Roger,” Dave said into the microphone. “But it’s odd we’d lose everything at once.”
“Yup,” the electrician agreed. “I’d say we had vandals or maybe someone trying to cut us off for a full scale break-out, but I can’t see anything like that. The ground hasn’t been disturbed and the lines up top are all in order. Must be a solar storm or something.”
“Maybe,” Sanders said, thinking. It had happened before. Enough radiation in the
atmosphere fried things that were supposed to be unfry-able. Like satellites that relayed their camera equipment, or communications between guards. But everything at once? It would take an act of God.
“I don’t buy it.”
“Shit, boss, I’m just telling you what I see. I don’t see a single thing that would be interfering with our coms. Nothing. We’ve walked damn near the line, and unless we find a fucking Abdul with a firecracker five feet from the cell tower, there’s no reason to assume…”
The feed crackled and died out.
“Maintenance, report, please.”
Silence.
“Maintenance, please repeat your transmission, message was lost.”
“What the fuck…?”
“Repeat Maintenance…”
“Stop! Stop where you are! You are approaching a state institution! It is not safe for you to be within a thousand feet of our walls. If you continue…”
“What the fuck’s going on out there?”
“I said stop! We have the right to shoot anyone within a thousand feet of this prison! Stop!”
“Maintenance? What the hell is going on?” Sanders asked as gunfire broke across the airwaves. “Report. Is that gunfire? God Damn it, report.”
Static took over the speakers.
“Maintenance! What’s going on out there? Report!”
Static.
Sanders tried switching frequencies. He tried boosting the signal. He tried smacking the sides of the communications equipment to be safe. Nothing came through.
He picked up the phone, punched in the extension, and said: “Warden Bowers.”
Twenty
Erin Gibbs sat alone at the table, eating soggy macaroni and cheese. Synthetic cheese and mush was a better way to describe it, he thought.
Around him, grouped into their proper places, every inmate at least glanced at him. He didn’t mind: he had put ten percent of them in there.
The guards walked the perimeter with their clubs and mace and tasers – no pistols or shotguns were allowed in the halls. They patrolled from above with crowd control weapons, but on the floor they didn’t carry for risk of losing their advantage in case of organized resistance.
It didn’t really matter – anybody causing trouble would be dealt with, with a baton, pepper spray, a few jolts, or deadly force – and everyone knew it. He glanced up at the guards walking the catwalk over fifty feet above, and smiled. They weren’t worried about him.
In a corner, three guards were tossing back and forth a conversation he couldn’t distinguish. They were very animated about the whole thing, throwing hand gestures – most indicating something beyond the walls – and pushing up on each other. None of the three were paying much attention to their wards.
That’s how easily it happened in Brennick.
The whole place had been heating up. Erin had no idea why, even if he had suspicions it was his release from solitary. Something was buzzing – electric – in the air and it smelled like blood.
He set his spoon down and watched.
An inmate with the darkest skin Erin had ever seen was in a shoving match with a red-headed white boy. He didn’t know what the problem was, but Erin watched anyway. Shit was about to start. He glanced over at the guards – still discussing something seemingly more important – before catching sight of the metal tray lashing out and catching the Arian Brotherhood soldier in the temple.
Blood sprayed out in a launch and caught the attacker in the face. Erin marveled as the gang member kept his mouth closed and seemed to not notice.
The place exploded.
The guards finally noticed something was wrong and tried to calm it down – too late.
An Arian Brother came to his man’s aid – with a shank of some type – and damn near gutted the dark skinned attacker. The guards swarmed in, spraying everyone with mace, batons ready, knocking back every race in an attempt to quell the violence. A big, monster of a black man took the white supremacist by the throat and shook him until his eyes rolled and his head snapped. The guards pulled the monster off, and he let the body fall to the ground.
Erin watched all of this, took up his spoon and pushed a helping of mush down. They were all there for a reason. And he couldn’t give a fuck less who – if any – made it out alive.
Twenty-One
Mercedes dabbed her swollen eye with make-up and examined herself in the mirror. He hadn’t done much damage. He would never permanently disfigure her – not out of love for her, but selfishness on his part – but the licks still bruised up pretty good.
She never understood why he did it. When she asked, he would just say it was “his way.” But she thought it was simply because he could. Maybe with his wife he had to play nice, couldn’t really get his rocks off. But with an inmate he could do whatever he wanted. Everyone knew she wouldn’t narc on him. And even if she did, how long would she survive?
She set the cosmetics container on the edge of the metal sink and sighed into the mirror. It was also metal – nothing that could be made into a shank was allowed. Not that it stopped anyone from making them. It reflected dull and lifeless images, and Mercedes wondered if she had really become more blurred as the time had gone by.
Behind her, Jessie was painting an Amazonian warrior decapitating a prison guard. She looked over at Mercedes and showcased her work.
Any other artist of her talent would be steadily punching out works that – while not brilliant in that they weren’t schizophrenic – would sell for a few hundred to a thousand a piece and keep her fed. In Jessie’s case, they got taped up on their cell walls. Only admired by Mercedes and herself.
There was a commotion outside, and Mercedes saw prisoners being shepherded to their cells. The guards were moving fast and not being nice about it. A static broke through the loud speaker and Warden Bowers’ voice reverberated against the walls. Just as the voice began, the cell doors started closing.
“Citizens of Brennick, we have had an unfortunate occurrence in the men’s C-Block. Apparently, you all have forgotten the ‘Thou Shall Not Kill’ portion of your scripture. We are on lock-down until I deem you worthy of privileges. Ladies, you can thank the men. Men, you can go to hell.”
Mercedes took one more look in the mirror, turned around and snarled as the steel door clamped shut. “Bastard,” she said.
Twenty-Two
Sam Watkins passed through the medium security lock and headed down the hall, a hundred yards, to the first maximum security lock. The Administration Building – though Brennick was a single building, they split Male, Admin, and Female, into separate “buildings” all linked through locks – had a steadily increasing complexity to its locks. Going from password protected doors in the Administrative offices to assault rifle gunned guard stations when you reached the locks to the inmate populated areas.
He looked at Fresh – not his real name – and sighed.
“Of all the people giving me shit today,” he said, “can you not?”
Fresh gave him a brilliant smile, and pushed the button to open the lock. “As sunny as ever,” Fresh chided him. “Fucking shit rolls downhill, and pussies go under assholes.”
“Fuck you, too,” Sam spat. “At least I’m not damming the fucking sewage.”
Twenty-Three
Erin Gibbs took the last item out of his box and set it on the sill next to his bed. He was glad they had saved it. It was one of the few things he had been able to smuggle in. The guards were good to him, but he didn't have much to trade. His wife had filed papers two days after the jury read "Guilty" and the gavel came down. She'd taken their son and disappeared, never sending him so much as a post card. He understood why, and in many ways it had made his time in Brennick easier.
But he still needed little things. Things that reminded him he had been free once and a good man.
It had taken him three years to save up the scratch for it and even then he had to do a favor for Watkins to get it through.
It had been worth it.
"I'll make you a deal," Erin said, not facing him, "you keep away from me and my stuff, you'll be fine. You make a move at me, and I'll snap you in two."
Tall Bill looked at Erin's prize. "That's an odd thing for a killer to have in his cell," he said.
Erin picked it up and shook it, then set it back down. The snow dancing inside the glass globe, swirling around the figure of a father and son ice skating.
"I wasn't always a killer," Erin said.
Twenty-Four
"I want actionable intelligence, not half baked conspiracy theories," Warden Bowers told Sam and Dave.
"I'm telling you," Dave said, "I heard gunshots."
"Guard Tower four heard them as well," the guard stationed there reported. His name was Carl Branch. He had made the long trip in for the meeting and was still wheezing from it.
"But you didn't see anything." Bowers snapped. "Why not?”
Branch squirmed. "Well, when's the last time we had to worry about a threat outside the walls?"
"Those towers are there for a reason. Which was it? Patterson? Cussler? Grisham?"
"Stephen Hunter," Branch admitted, his head down.
"The only fucking guy in this prison who doesn't watch TV and when the TV goes out and someone starts shooting, he’s the one on post."
"The only logical explanation is a diversion for a break," Sam repeated.
"Well, that won't be a problem because we're back on lock down."
"That could be part of the plan."
"What did you see when you looked at where the shots came from?"
Outpost Season One Page 3