by Sophia Gray
Hank, Foley, and several other men lined up behind Butler as the others formed ranks behind their respective guards. They were led through the inner door, which slammed shut seconds after the last convict passed through it. The sound echoed with a grim finality, and Hank felt a shudder pass through him.
If it didn't seem real enough before, he thought, it damn sure does now.
Chapter 7
Hank
Butler led Hank to his cell, a ten-by-ten box that was concrete walls on three sides and a sliding barred door on the fourth. There was a combination toilet and sink in the back corner, and a narrow set of bunk beds.
“Enjoy your new home, maggot,” Butler sneered.
Once Butler moved on with the rest of his charges, Hank stepped inside, setting his bedding down on the lower bunk. The upper bunk was occupied by a lithe, athletic-looking white man in his late thirties. He had close-cropped brown hair, and he wore glasses and a pair of boxers as he flipped through a dog-eared paperback. An armband with a swastika was tattooed around his left bicep, and a pair of jagged S.S. lightning bolts was inked on both sides of his neck, where a shirt collar would be.
Just what I need, Hank thought sourly. A fucking Nazi cellmate.
As Hank put the sheets on his mattress, he nodded at the book. “Mein Kampf?” he guessed.
The Nazi shot him a withering look and held up the paperback, showing its tattered cover. It was a copy of “Anne of Green Gables.”
“Seriously?” Hank smirked.
“It's a prison library, not a fucking Barnes & Noble. We don't exactly have a lot of choices in terms of literature, and after reading 'The Rise & Fall of the Roman Empire' for the sixth time, I figured I could do with something lighter. You're Hank Hall, right? The guy they call The Hammer?”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that's me. How'd you know?”
The Nazi nodded toward the common area of the cell block. “They've been expecting you.”
Hank peered out and saw four bikers sitting at a table, playing cards. Their tattoos identified them as Carnage Warriors. He walked over to them, and one of them looked up as he approached. He was a short, wiry, scraggly man in his late forties, with a red bandana tied around his greasy, graying hair. When he smiled, Hank saw that both of his front teeth were missing.
“You must be Hank!” The biker's missing teeth gave him a slight lisp. “Nice to finally meet you, kid. Bib's told me so much about you. I'm Speed Bump.”
Hank shook Speed Bump's hand. “I've heard a lot about you, too. Bib always said it was a shame I never got to meet you. He said you were the best Sergeant-at-Arms the club ever had.”
Speed Bump shrugged. “Yeah, 'fore I fucked up an' got me a life sentence.”
“So now you're in charge of the Warriors on the inside?”
Speed Bump fidgeted, grinning uncomfortably. “Well, uh, heh, yes an' no, actually.”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Doesn't seem like that complicated a question.”
“That's just 'cause you're new here, kid. See, we got a decent handful of Warriors in here, but the other gangs are a helluva lot bigger. There ain't really enough've us to watch each other's backs, 'specially when they got us split up in different blocks.” He gestured to the other three bikers. “I mean, here in G block, there's me, Scab, Pete, Boffo, an' now you, an' that's it. So we kinda had to get affiliated with a larger gang, just to stay alive in here.”
“That makes sense, sure,” Hank replied. It wasn't what he'd expected and he didn't love the idea of taking orders from non-Warriors, but he understood how it might be necessary under the circumstances. “So which MC do we run with in here? Angels? Outlaws?”
Speed Bump tittered nervously. “Uh, not exactly, heh. Come on, I'll introduce you to the guy in charge. He's been mighty eager t' meetcha.”
A feeling of unease started to bloom in the pit of Hank's stomach like a malignant flower as he followed Speed Bump. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blonde female corrections officer—and for a split-second, he could have sworn it was Beth. But then a group of prisoners blocked his view as they headed for the showers, and by the time they'd passed, the officer was gone.
I told you to cut that shit out, his brain snapped at him. Beth's not here. Beth's not coming. You won't be seeing Beth for at least two years, and maybe not even then. So stop thinking about her and get your head in the game.
Speed Bump led him to a cell at the corner of the block. There was a large white sheet hanging over the entrance to the cell like a curtain.
“I'm surprised he'd be allowed to put that up,” Hank commented.
“The rules in here ain't the same for 'im, or for the folks who stay loyal to 'im. Come on. You'll see what I mean.” He knocked timidly on the bars outside the curtain. “Bull? He's here.”
A stocky man in his early fifties emerged from behind the curtain. He had icy blue eyes and iron-gray hair cut into a flattop, and he wore a white undershirt with his prison pants. Even with his protruding belly, there was nothing about him that looked soft or weak—he seemed disturbingly solid, like a walking bag of dry cement. He had “White Power” inked across his knuckles and “14 Words” on his chest. When he saw Hank, his lips parted in a friendly grin, displaying the wide gaps between his small teeth.
You've got to be fucking kidding me, Hank thought, his heart sinking. Taking orders from another gang is one thing, but since when do Warriors bow down for Nazis? They're nothing but a bunch of ignorant, racist scumbags. On the outside, they're nobodies. What the hell is going on here?
And why didn't Bib know about any of this?
“Hank 'The Hammer' Hall,” Bull said, grabbing Hank's hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “It is truly an honor to meet you, son. My name's Bull Packard, and I run the White Knights here in Bluebonnet. I'm also your new best friend.”
Hank nodded, looking at the ink on Bull's chest. 14 Words? What was that supposed to mean?
Maybe it's the number of words he can actually read, Hank thought wryly.
Bull saw Hank looking at the tattoo, and his smile widened. “Nice, right? Here, take a look at this.”
He turned around and lifted up his undershirt, revealing a large White Power fist inked on his back. Underneath it were the words We Must Secure The Existence Of Our People And A Future For White Children.
After a few seconds, Bull lowered his shirt and turned around again. Hank figured he must have done a poor job of hiding his distaste, because Bull saw his expression and laughed.
“Okay, so it's not your thing, right? Hey, that's cool. No one's going to make you carve a swastika on your forehead or anything. You bikers have the right skin color, so as long as you guys watch our backs, we'll watch yours.”
“That's good to know,” Hank said, trying to keep his voice even.
Bull laughed again, patting Hank on the back. “I know, I know. You've probably bought into all the lies peddled by those Jews in Hollywood, trying to make us all look like a bunch of rednecks and hate-mongers. And I get that, you know? They control everything we read and hear and watch until we're nothing but a bunch of brainwashed zombies, so of course it's hard to separate the facts from the bullshit.
“But the more you hang with us, Hank, the more you're going to see that we're no different from anyone else,” Bull continued. “Our thing isn't about hate. It's about love. Love for our heritage, love for our country, love for our white brothers and sisters and parents and children. Love for ourselves. We see our freedom and our way of life threatened, and we do what anyone would do. We resist. We protect what's ours, with force if necessary. You bikers might not have the same tattoos we do, but you've got all the same values, and we respect the hell out of that.”
“If you say so.” Hank glanced at Speed Bump, who was shifting his weight nervously and trying to keep his smile in place.
Bull sighed good-naturedly. “There I go, rambling again. Sorry about that, Hank. You didn't come here to debate a bunch of sociological and politi
cal theory, did you? No, you just want to get your two years out of the way, right? No problem. Come on, I'll show you around.” He turned to Speed Bump. “Go grab a couple of the guys to guard my cell while I'm gone, okay?”
“You got it,” Speed Bump said.
As they walked around the cell block, Bull pointed to a few dozen prisoners gathered around the TV in the common area. Most of them were black or Latino, and Hank saw at least ten different gang tattoos that he recognized from the outside, but all of them had the letters NOS inked on them somewhere. Several of them shot dirty looks at Hank and Bull.
“That's the Nation of Sinners,” Bull said. “They come from a bunch of gangs. On the streets, their beefs keep them at each other's throats. But in here, they band together to survive. Needless to say, relations between the Knights and the Sinners generally aren't too cordial, ha.”
“I guess they wouldn't be.”
“They control all the drugs that come through here, which is a big reason why the Knights and Warriors are strictly forbidden from messing around with that shit. The last thing we need is our guys owing them cash, or tweaking for their next fix—puts kind of a strain on their loyalty, you know?”
“Who are they?” Hank asked, pointing to another group. There were fewer of them than there were Sinners, they were comprised of many different ethnicities, and they mostly seemed devoid of tattoos. A few of them played chess, while others read books and magazines or talked quietly among themselves.
Bull let out a derisive snort. “They call themselves the Shepherds. They're non-violent and they don't do drugs, so they're basically nothing to worry about. Just a bunch of bookworms and holy rollers who try and act like their shit don't stink—always pushing people to go to drug and alcohol counseling, get degrees, attend religious services, stuff like that. A couple of them even have law degrees and help folks with their appeals.”
“If they're the pushovers you claim they are, then how do they survive in here?”
“Well, there's a lot of them, and they tend to stick to the shadows and keep their eyes open. So they've usually got valuable info to share about their fellow prisoners, which makes them useful enough to stay alive. Just make sure if you have to do anything that's against the rules, one of those creeps isn't watching you.”
“Fair enough,” Hank said as they completed their lap around the block and returned to Bull's cell. Two skinheads were guarding it—one had 88 tattooed on the side of his neck, while the other had his face inked to look like an exposed skull with War Skins on his forehead.
Bull pulled the curtain aside, gesturing for Hank to step in.
Hank entered Bull's cell, looking around curiously. There was a large flat-screen television, with a Blu-Ray player and several stacks of movies—including plenty of porn. Several cell phones and an iPod were arranged on the bunk next to two makeshift shivs, and there was a mini-fridge with bottles of vodka, whiskey, and tequila resting on top.
“Nice setup you've got here,” Hank remarked.
“Not bad, right? We own over half the COs in this dump, so we pretty much get to do whatever we want.”
“How'd you manage that?”
Bull shrugged. “On the outside, hacks are no different from anyone else. They've got credit card debts, gambling problems, extramarital affairs, sick parents and little kids to worry about. We've got people out there working for us, including a couple of private detectives, so it's not hard to figure out how to lean on them the right way. For instance, Captain Butler has alimony payments to make and likes to buy a bigger TV every year. We make sure he gets plenty of envelopes stuffed with cash out there, and in here, he makes sure everything goes the way we want it to go. Hey, you want something? A cold beer, or maybe something harder? Some fried chicken?” Bull opened the fridge, removing a KFC bucket and offering it to Hank.
“No thanks.”
“You sure? Believe me, it's better than lining up for the slop in the cafeteria. And if you don't like chicken, we can get you anything you want. McDonald's? Subway? Or no, how about some Wendy's?”
Before Hank could answer, Bull leaned out of the cell, talking to War Skins. “Hey, what's the name of that new guard? The chick with the dago name?”
“D'Amato,” War Skins answered.
“Right, right. Tell her to come over here.”
“Listen, I don't need any food...” Hank protested.
Bull raised a hand. “It's no trouble at all, I promise. She'll run out and bring it right back for you.”
The curtain was pulled aside, and Hank's heart jumped into his throat when he saw the CO standing in the doorway.
It was Beth.
And from her flat eyes and carefully-neutral expression as she looked at him, Hank immediately knew that the worst thing he could do was acknowledge her in any way.
But for the second time, Hank wondered just what the hell was going on here.
“D'Amato, this is my new friend Hank,” Bull said good-naturedly. “I want you to go get him a double bacon cheeseburger from Wendy's, a large fries, a cup of chili, and...” He turned to Hank. “Do you want one of those shakes they've got?”
“No, really, I'm fine,” Hank insisted.
Bull smiled slyly, then returned his attention to Beth. “Sure he does, he's just too macho to admit it. Go ahead and get him a nice big shake. Chocolate, to dip the fries in. And here, get something for yourself, too.” He handed a wad of cash to Beth, who nodded once and left without a word.
“So listen, now that you're here, there's something I need you to do for me,” Bull said. “Don't worry, it's nothing bad—I know you don't want to get involved in a bunch of nasty shit while you're in here. But I heard you used to do some boxing, right?”
“Sure. I did a bunch of bare-knuckle bouts in parking lots for beer money. Bib saw me one night and said I should hook up with the club as a prospect, and the rest is history.”
“Were you any good?”
Hank raised his eyebrows. “Twenty or thirty fights, about four or five losses. You tell me.”
Bull cackled, rubbing his hands together. “Good, good. See, we've got a boxing match coming up against the Sinners in a few days. They're putting up Manolo Torres, whose brother Roberto runs the gang. We need someone who can clean his clock. What do you say?”
Hank thought it over. The idea of boxing on behalf of a bunch of skinheads made his stomach turn—but on the other hand, he had to admit that as favors went, it was pretty tame. Most prison gangs would demand a much more dramatic show of loyalty than putting on some gloves, stepping into the ring, and going a few rounds.
And the bottom line was, whether he liked it or hated it, he'd still need protection while he was in Bluebonnet. Trying to go it alone would be suicide.
“Shouldn't be a problem,” Hank said.
“Excellent! I'm so happy to hear you say that. I'll tell Butler to make sure you've got extra time in the gym if you need it. Meanwhile, Speed Bump can take you back to your cell. I made sure you got Ram as your cellmate. He's my right-hand man, and he'll be able to watch your back.”
“Thank you.”
Bull shook Hank's hand again. “It was absolutely a pleasure to meet you, Hank. And I meant what I said earlier—ideological differences aside, I'm certain we'll be the best of friends.”
Chapter 8
Hank
“See?” Speed Bump said as he walked with Hank back to his cell. “Bull ain't such a bad guy, is he?”
“For a fucking Nazi, I guess,” Hank replied grimly. “How come I'm just finding out about all of this now? Why doesn't Bib know the Warriors in here are bending over for the goddamn Aryans?”
“Aw, well, I was gonna tell 'im,” Speed Bump mumbled. “But Bull said it'd maybe be better if he didn't know. Bull said it'd be best for all've us if things in here kept runnin' smooth an' simple. He said if Bib heard about our arrangement an' decided to interfere, it could fuck up his whole operation an' then he might not be able to protect us no more.”
>
“Jesus Christ, Bump, do you hear yourself? You were one of the founding members of the Carnage Warriors. You swore an oath to the club, to your brothers, and especially to Bib. And now it's 'Bull says this' and 'Bull says that,' like you're some kind of hand puppet. I mean, what the hell, man? On the outside, we used to stomp these racist goons for fun on weekends just because they're so fucking pathetic, and in here they're telling us what's what?”
Speed Bump seized Hank's upper arm. Despite how scrawny he was, his grip felt like a vise.
“Now you listen to me, Mister I-Ain't-Never-Done-No-Time-Before,” he hissed. “Me an' Bib formed the fuckin' Warriors back in the day 'cause we were both realists, and we saw that the ways things were goin' in this country, a man couldn't protect what was his without plenty've bikes, guns, an' brothers to back 'im up. Well, I dunno what kind've bullshit fairy tale kingdom Bib gets to live in these days while he's still breathin' the free fuckin' air, but I'm in here, which means I still gotta be a fuckin' realist. You gotta stop thinkin' of these Nazis as lazy slobs an' trailer trash meth heads like they are out there, 'cause in here, they're an army that outnumbers us about twenty to one an' they're the only ones willin' to put their arm around us. You get with that program, you get to live an' maybe even serve your time a little easier. You don't? You get treated like that fucker over there.”