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.
[RL: I don’t know why, but I think that would have a profound psychological effect. The beauty of doing this series in book format rather than in film is the reader gets to have real insight into the characters’ emotions. Their fears, their intimacies. Again, Mercedes is the prime example.
So much of the human mind is made up of self-image. To the lesser extent you understand how you are seen by other people, than the lesser you understand how people perceive you. To be treated as less than a person – which you have to be as an inmate, as normal people have right – and then to have the only physical self-image a dull reflection in a steel mirror, I think would have a devastating impact on ones self worth.]
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.
[RL: And we’re back in lock down. Lasted all of fifty-one pages. But, as I’ve said it is completely logical and necessary. Season Three will explore the prisoners outside their cells, for Season One it was important that they be cut off. The tension build is higher because – to the last possible moment – not one person knows what the fuck is going to happen next. Once you throw off the veil it becomes less intense.
Well, we hope not, but for Season One we thought it would. Season Three should be even more intense and emotional, because there the chronology will be moving forward much faster.]
[TK: It’s important to see that they’re all in it together, whatever happens to the men the women pay for too. Right now the prison is segmented into men and women, then there’s the racial breakouts, by the end it will be a completely different structure.]
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.”
[RL: I like that line because it illuminates how the guards see the prisoners: as shit. Fresh, manning a lock, is nothing but a dam ensuring the controlled flow of the 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.
[RL: Now, added in with future scenes – and I’m assuming everyone reading this has read the rest of the season – this helps build the idea that Erin has killed inmates at the request of the guards. Which he has. This will be further expanded as his roll in the series becomes even more relevant in Season Three. But, for now, let’s just say that the fact that he’s had the guard’s backs in the past, and the fact that he’s chosen the guard’s side over that of the prisoners, plays significantly in Season One as well.]
"So," his new cell mate said from behind him. "Boys tell me I'm already dead. But I want to let you know: I don't want shit from you and I won't give you any shit, either. Can we be cool?"
"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.
[RL: The most emotional scene in the pilot for me. While not necessarily my favorite, it’s by far the most emotional. The idea is building that connection with Erin specifically. He’s the righteous, fallen warrior. The man you have to follow because you know he’s not only tough, he’s good. Between Erin and Mercedes we have the core of emotional attachment. That was a total accident. We didn’t plan it and you shouldn’t read anything into it to try to predict the rest of the series.]
[TK: Erin, although one of the meanest, toughest bastards in joint, is still human. Phil has the humor, Mercedes has the baby, Erin is a good man who made a mistake and is paying for it, but he won’t lose himself, no matter how much blood he spills.]
[RL: Right.]
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 loc
k down.”
“That could be part of the plan.”
“What did you see when you looked at where the shots came from?”
“Nothing. Their truck, possibly some blood, but from up there it’s hard to say for sure in the grass.”
“No bodies?”
“No bodies.”
Warden Bowers grunted and looked from one man to the next. “Well, this is one great big cluster fuck,” he said.
“We could call the locals, see if they’ve heard anything...”
“This is my prison, Watkins, and I plan on keeping it that way. I’ve been on the phone all morning with the Feds. The last thing I need is the Sheriff butting in.” Bowers thought a moment. “Watkins,” he said, “I want everyone ready for anything. I want all shifts on high alert, every cell checked every ten minutes. Break out the assault rifles and scatter guns. Arm the fucking secretaries if you have to. I am not losing a single prisoner. Understood?”
“Check.”
“Pick your best man and have him organize a team of four. I want them loaded for bear. If there’s some fucking Arian Army out there trying to liberate their ‘freedom fighters’ I want them ready for it.”
Sam only nodded this time.
“Sanders, get them the best coms we got. I want every word recorded so if there is someone out there, we have all the evidence we need. And get me any surveillance video you have.” Bowers looked at them a moment, then sighed. “And gentlemen,” he said, “do it now.”
Twenty-Five
“Things that make you wanna say: Damn,” Chris said as he walked through the armory.
Warden Bowers liked to joke that his guards were better prepared than the marines on Okinawa – and he could probably make a case for it. Brennick boasted around fifteen hundred prisoners and had about two hundred actual guards on at any given time. Add in a total administrative staff of about two hundred – cooks, janitors, paper pushers, processors, nurses, doctors, and a redundant amount of each to cover each other’s asses in case of a screw up – and it made about two thousand all told. Maybe only three hundred that could be trusted with a weapon.
Yet, somehow, Bowers had amassed over five thousand small arms over the years.
Chris’s dad had explained how it worked:
[TK: Ironic now that you read it again.]
[RL: It’s called foreshadowing.]
Every year Bowers got a budget. It was itemized and prioritized. And every year it was ten percent higher than the last. Arming the guards of a Maximum Security Prison is, of course, the number three item on the list. One is psychological treatment. Two is food. Three is weapons maintenance, small arms and supply. Number four is recreational supplies. Twenty-eighth is prisoner education. If the budget on any line item wasn’t spent, it didn’t get paid the next year.
But Warden Brooks ran the prison the way a drunk runs a household: if anyone sneezed in a way that offended him, he locked everyone in their rooms and wouldn’t let them out until he felt damn good and ready. And it had shown the first year.
No one had fired a shot.
Prisoners had died – less than before – and been released – more than before – and come in – more than before – and eaten food and enjoyed recreation and one or two might have gotten educated.
But no one fired a shot.
So when the new budget arrived, he didn’t need any new ammunition or weapons. But why waste the money? He decided to stockpile them. What could it hurt? Every guard expected a truck to show up any day with no tags and the guns to be loaded up and driven away – part of Bowers’ personal retirement package – but the truck never came.
The guns did.
And they went to the armory.
[RL: First of all, we have no idea if that’s an accurate representation of how the prison budgets are prioritized. We do know that state and federal budgets are use-or-lose and that with baseline budgeting every year’s budget is based on the spending of the previous year. Plus, it’s a zombie story, and zombie stories aren’t any fun if the living side isn’t heavily armed. So we came up with the best possible scenario. Likely?
Maybe not. But just as likely as the dead getting back up. In fact, just as likely.]
“Fucking sexy,” Sam said, nodded to him. “But you only need to arm a four man team. I’ll handle passing them out to the guards on look-out. Warden wants to know what the fuck is happening, and I’m trusting you to find out. Obviously I have to be here, on point, but I need my best out there, finding out what the hell is going on. You got it?”
Chris picked an AK-47 up and studied it. This was his first time in the armory. He had expected AR-15s, not AK-47s.
“Why AKs?” he asked.
Sam shrugged. “Warden says: ‘All rifles are like wives.’” He explained. “‘AKs are good wives: they let you handle them rough. ARs are like stuck up bitches: they want you to do everything soft as a kitten and with the lights out.’”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“In other words.” Sam paced up to the rifle, snatched it out of its perch, pushed a magazine in and jacked a shell into place. “These put out no matter what you do to them,” he said. “Drop them in water, sink them in mud, tell them to fuck off, but when you tell them to go ‘boom’, they do. That’s Warden’s kinda lady.”
[RL: Remember that, now.]
Twenty-Six
"What the hell is going on?" Mercedes asked as she watched guards running past her cell with assault rifles. She and Jessie huddled together at the bars and peered out. The guards were assembling in a position to shoot into the cells. Mercedes shuddered.
"Hey," Jessie called out. "Hey, Remirez. What's going on?"
The guard stopped for a second and answered, the words coming out almost as one: "Warden thinks there's gonna be a break. Shots fired outside the walls. Stay away from the bars and keep quiet."
And then she was gone.
"A fucking break?" Jessie marveled. Then to Mercedes: "Has anyone ever broke out before?"
Mercedes shrugged. "Not lately," she said. "Come on, let's do what she said and stay back. I don't want to die today. Not here, not now."
Twenty-Seven
"Now they gone and gave a bunch of teenagers machine guns," Tim Harper said as Chris passed through the main gate.
[RL: Tim Harper is the consummate asshole. That’s why I loved his ass.]
Chris stopped the truck, turned in his seat and spat: “Fuck you” at him, then continued on.
He cut left off the road and the truck and men inside started bobbing up and down as the terrain changed from paved to grassy.
“What are we looking for?” Smith asked from beside him, his AK-47’s butt on the floor next to his feet, barrel pointing at the ceiling. “A sign?”
“Kind of,” Chris said, nodded. “Watkins thinks someone’s trying to take a vaca and has some pals out here being bastards. Warden sent a maintenance team out, didn’t come back. Sanders heard shots fired.”
“Sanders?”
“Over the coms.”
“Got it.”
“So, we’re gonna retrace their steps and see if we can’t find our boys or some bad guys.” Chris kept the truck about a hundred feet from the fence, paralleling the chain-link border. “Sanders said they were within a thousand feet of the fence when it happened, but that they’d gone over all the lines, so they must’ve started at the cell tower and worked their way back. Once we make it around to the back, we should see their truck.”
Chris cut the wheel by forty-five degrees and waved to the guard tower as they passed the first point on the diamond. The guard waved back, his rifle held steady in his right hand.
“What happens then?” Smith asked.
“God knows,” Chris told him.
Twenty-Eight
Erin Gibbs lay back in his bunk and weaved his fingers behind his head.
“Holy fuck,” Tall Bill breathed from below him, “they’re ready for war. What do you think’s happening?”
<
br /> “None of my business.”
“What? Yes it is. You live here too.”
“That must have come out wrong. Since you didn’t get the hint, I meant: shut the fuck up. I’m relaxing.”
“How can you relax when they’re pointing assault rifles at you?”
“I’m not worried about them. Assault rifles or otherwise.”
“Well, I am worried about them. How often to guards kill prisoners here?”
“Not as often as prisoners do.”
“I got no problem with the prisoners. I’ve been here a few weeks, and I’ve been in enough of these places to know after the first few days, so long as you don’t do anything stupid, you’re straight. And I’m not going to do anything stupid. But the guards, they look at us like animals. They’ll shoot first and ask questions later. No matter what happens, they go home happy and have a fucking barbeque. While we’re stuck here. Or dead.”
“Jesus Christ,” Erin huffed, and sat up. “You really don’t get the meaning of shut up, do you?” He swiveled and hung his legs off the bed. “Listen,” he said, “if it’ll help take your mind off it, let’s talk.”
Tall Bill turned, sat, and put his back to the bars. [RL: Where he’ll spend most of Season One.] “Okay,” he said. “Politics?”
“No, I’m not talking politics with you. Who the fuck even follows politics?”
“I’ve always followed politics. And when I could, I voted. In fact, when I could, I voted as many times as I could.” He laughed. “My old man always used to say ‘Stop bitching if you’re not going to do anything about it.’ Eventually he changed it to ‘Just stop bitching,’ but that’s my old man for you.”
Erin smiled. “Go on,” he said.
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