by Tripp Ellis
Spoons sheepishly lowered his hand. "Look, I can show you the ropes around here. Give you some tips. Tell you some pitfalls to avoid. Who to be nice too, and who to stay away from. If you want. Or, you can just figure it all out on your own.”
Max's eyes narrowed at him. She was always leery of overly helpful people. "And what's that going to cost me?”
“Nothing," Spoons said, innocently. "Out of the goodness of my heart. From one inmate to another."
Nobody in prison did anything out of the goodness of their heart.
“I don’t plan on being in here for long.”
Spoons chuckled. "Let me tell you something, sweetheart. None of us planned on being in here very long. Not even the lifers."
6
The brown sludge on Max's tray looked like runny dog shit. It smelled as offensive as it looked. She stared at it in disgust. “What the hell is this?"
“APN," Spoons said. "All-purpose nutrition. Or as we affectionately like to call it, dog shit.”
Max glanced at him, repulsed.
“It's got everything you need to maintain nutritional sustenance.” He said it in a manner that almost sounded like he was defending it. "You get used to it. It's the only thing you're going to get. Breakfast, noon, and night.” He shoveled a spoonful in his mouth.
Max's stomach twisted in knots. She felt queasy. There was no way she was going to eat this slop. She pushed the tray aside and glanced around the cafeteria. It was bustling with inmates. Silverware clattered against trays, and the rumble of chatter filled the air. Many eyes stole glances at Max. Not only was she a newcomer, but she was easy on the eyes. Even if she looked like a toad, she’d be the subject of desire by the rabid inmates. Fresh meat was always at a premium. The fact that she was a stunner made the lecherous stares even worse.
“Seriously, you need to eat. You need to keep your strength up in a place like this,” Spoons said. For an instant, it almost sounded like genuine concern.
“Why do you care?"
“We are cellmates. We need to have each other's back in here.”
“Just like you had Drabo Star’s back?”
Spoons’s eyes widened with surprise. "How did you hear about that?"
“A little birdie told me.”
“Circumstances beyond my control.”
“I heard you sharpened a spoon and slit his throat with it as he slept.”
“I can neither confirm, nor deny, that.” Spoons shrugged. “He crossed the wrong people. I got tapped to take care of it. If I didn't, it would've been my ass. Hypothetically speaking, of course."
“Of course.”
“All I'm saying is someone like you, in a place like this… They are going to come for you. Could be today, could be tomorrow, could be in the middle of the night… who knows? But it's going to happen. You're going to need me to back you up.”
Max arched an eyebrow at him. Spoons may have been a ruthless killer with kitchen utensils, but he didn't look like he could punch his way out of a paper bag.
“Just like I’m gonna need your help when somebody comes for me.”
“And who’s going to come for you?”
Spoons shrugged. "It's never who you expect. But I've got my share of enemies, just like anyone else."
Max took the opportunity to survey the cafeteria. There were only two prison guards and a handful of kitchen workers.
Spoons could see in her eyes what she was thinking.
“Anybody ever escape from here?"
Spoons shook his head. "Not unless you can walk through walls."
As strange as it sounded, Max knew people who could. Beings who had full control of their atomic structure and could pass through solid objects. Eudovians. Elusive little bastards. Next to impossible to destroy. Max had gotten into a few scrapes with their kind. She wasn't keen on going up against them in battle again. Unfortunately, their special gift wasn't something that you could learn. They were born with it. Max had a lot of talents, but that wasn't one of them. If she was going to get out of here, she was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.
A glowing red force-shield sealed the prisoners in their cell at lockdown. Max wasn't particularly excited about spending the evening alone in a cell with an inmate that had a history of killing people in their sleep with utensils.
Spoons took the top bunk, and Max settled for the bottom. The mattress was a thin, lumpy cushion that had maybe half an inch of padding on a good day. Max had slept on rocks that were more comfortable. The pillow looked like a dead rat and smelled about the same. It didn't have a pillowcase and was stained from years of sweat and abuse. There was no telling what had been done to the pillow on lonely nights over the years. Max didn't want to think about it.
She didn't plan on getting much sleep anyway. She needed to get some rest, but it wasn't going to be true sleep. It would be a semiconscious nap, and she would be completely aware of her surroundings. The slightest sound throughout the night would cause her eyelids to snap open, instantly alert.
Spoons was a restless sleeper. He tossed and turned, shifting positions every few minutes. He began to snore for a few minutes, and damn near swallowed his tongue, then rolled over onto his other side and quieted down. The silence would only last a few moments before he began to snort and wheeze again. Max had endured alien torture chambers that were less obnoxious then Spoons’s snoring. 25 years of dealing with irritating cellmates was not in her game plan. She didn't want to spend another 25 minutes in this hellhole.
There were no clocks in the cell. Max had no way of telling time. But she figured it was somewhere around midnight when it happened. She could hear quiet footsteps outside the cell. Then the forced shield deactivated. The containment beam was supposed to remain active until morning roll call and breakfast.
Max sprang out of her rack and positioned herself in a defensive stance. She knew something was up. Prison guards would have stormed into the cell with stun batons, riot gear, and weapons if this was a midnight check. But there were no prison guards in the area. All of the other cells remained on lockdown.
Junk appeared in the entryway to her cell.
Max didn't have any doubt about what was going on. The guards must have let Junk out of solitary confinement. It was the only explanation. And she knew damn good and well that Junk didn't deactivate the force-shield to her cell on his own. The guards were helping him. Whatever was about to go down, they had sanctioned.
Junk had a devilish grin. His massive biceps flexed. His thick hands formed fists that were like bricks. He was 6’5”, 300 pounds, and built like an ox.
Spoons popped one eye open, saw what was about to go down, then snapped his eyelids shut again, pretending to be asleep. So much for having his cellmate’s back. The weaselly little coward was good for nothing. Not that he would have been much assistance anyway. Junk would have snapped him in two, like a toothpick.
Max stared her aggressor down. “Things would turn out better for you if you just turned around and walked away.”
Junk chuckled. "Sorry. Can't do that."
"Really? Is someone forcing you to be here?"
Junk’s grin faded. “No one forces me to do anything. Haven't you figured it out yet?"
“Figured what out. This prison may belong to the warden, but this pod belongs to me. ”
“If you're the toughest thing in here, then I’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Junk stared at her in disbelief. “I’ll give you one thing, you're cocky. But your mouth is writing checks your ass can't cash."
Conversation wasn't Junk's strong point, and he had exhausted his vocabulary. He lunged for her and swung a hard right. His fist careened through the air like a bullet train. One solid punch from Junk was enough to put most people in a coma.
Max moved with lightning speed. She was a blur. A phantom. She blocked the blow with her forearm and grabbed the beast’s wrist. Then jammed her palm against his elbow, wrenching his arm around until it popped and crackled.
Junk sc
reamed in agony.
A swift knee to the groin doubled the meathead over. A sharp elbow to the back of the neck flattened Junk on the deck.
He didn't know what hit him.
Max stepped back and assumed a defensive posture.
Junk pushed himself from the deck and staggered to his feet. He squared off to face her, looking dazed. He was in a state of utter disbelief. He snarled at her, like a bull ready to charge.
“Really? You want more of this?”
Junk jabbed twice, then swung another hard right.
Max bobbed and weaved, then countered. Her fist cracked Junk across the jaw, wrenching his neck sideways. Blood splattered from his lips, speckling the bulkhead. Crimson goo oozed from his mouth as he spit a tooth out. It pinged against the deck, bouncing into a cranny.
Junk had never been hit that hard in his entire life. This girl's fist was like a sledgehammer. Men twice Max’s size didn't hit half as hard.
Junk tried to shake it off, but Max could see in his eyes he was second-guessing himself. His confidence and swagger were long gone.
Max watched his eyes as he tried to formulate a new plan of attack. But Junk had never been a technical fighter. He was a brawler. Most opponents went down on the first hit. Junk had never been in a fight that had lasted this long.
He charged again and swung a crushing blow.
Max blocked, sidestepped, then slammed his kidney with another devastating hit.
Junk arched around her fist as it bore into his flesh. He groaned in pain. A millisecond later, Max put her heel into the side of his knee. The sound of the medial collateral and anterior cruciate ligaments snapping filled the compartment. It sounded like someone had broken a thick stalk of celery. His knee bent sideways in a direction that knees don't normally go.
The big meathead crumpled to the deck. He would never walk without a limp again. But Max wasn't done with him. She had him in a wrist lock, and he was going to lose the ability to use his hand if he wasn't careful. She had no sympathy for him. Junk had brought this on himself.
“Who put you up to this?”
“Up to what?” Junk whimpered. Tears of pain were streaming down the big man's cheeks.
“You didn't come in here just to get your rocks off. You had help from the guards. Someone paid you to kill me. Didn’t they?”
7
The shrill screech echoed throughout the prison pod as Max snapped Junk’s wrist. It was a sound that would make even the most hardened inmate cringe. The once imposing menace was reduced to a whimpering blob. He had the devastated eyes of a small child that had lost his mother in a crowded space. He looked helpless and afraid. A man like Junk had made it through his whole life on his ability to dominate other men. It was his security blanket. And that blanket had been ripped away by a girl a fraction of his size. Junk would never be able to throw a hard right again without feeling the sting of his injury. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. An embarrassing reminder of his defeat. And his dominance over the pod was gone. In the span of a few minutes, his entire world had collapsed. But despite everything, he held his tongue. Junk knew the prison code well—keep your mouth shut, hold to your word, and never rat on anyone.
“Who the hell are you, lady?” Junk stammered.
“Someone who can cash all the checks her mouth writes.”
Max's victory was short-lived. A strategic response team in full riot gear rushed into the cell. They weren’t going to take any chances. One of the correctional officers blasted her with an STN-60.
It should have dropped Max to the deck instantly. But she was still standing. The guard's eyes widened in disbelief.
The neural disruptor dazed her momentarily. She felt drunk, and her head throbbed. It was like she had been out all night drinking tequila. She shrugged it off and refocused herself on the response team. One of the goons was advancing with a baton. It had prongs on the end of it and would send more volts through Max's body than she cared to experience.
The officer lunged for her and clicked the trigger. The wand crackled and sparked with energy as it stabbed towards Max's abdomen.
She sidestepped and grabbed the baton. With expert precision, she stripped it from the guard and jabbed the prongs into his belly. She squeezed the trigger and zapped the bastard. His body twitched and contorted, then flopped to the deck.
Two other guards rushed in and attempted to tackle her. But she knocked both of them on their asses. They were finding out that there was something special about Max. She was no ordinary female.
Sergeant Kerns drew a plasma pistol, and aimed it at Max’s head. "I suggest you settle down and comply, or I'm going to vaporize that pretty little face of yours. And I think that would be a shame, now wouldn't it?"
Max was stunned that he didn't shoot. As far as the correctional officers were concerned, she was a cop killer. Kerns probably could have gotten away with killing her. The DA certainly wasn't going to bring him up on charges. Firing the weapon would have been ruled an accidental discharge, or something of that nature.
Max brought her hands into the air. She slowly turned and placed her hands against the bulkheads. The guards rushed in, wrenched her hands behind her back, and cuffed her.
One of the goons yanked her by the arm, and pulled her out of the cell. He muttered to Kerns, "You should have just killed her.”
"Yeah, well, maybe next time."
Max got the impression that maybe Kerns was a decent cop. It was clear that most of the guards wouldn't think twice about killing an inmate, as long as it couldn't come back on them. But Kerns seemed to be a by the numbers kind of guy.
He glanced down at Junk who was writhing in agony on the deck. His body looked mangled, twisted into unnatural positions. The sergeant tapped his earbud. "I need a medical team in cellblock A-34."
The guards marched Max to an isolated unit and threw her into solitary confinement. This was where they threw the troublemakers. It was even worse than the general population. It was a small block of 16 cells, housing the worst of the worst. There was never a quiet moment in this unit. Someone was always hollering or screaming or banging their head against the bulkheads. It didn't take a person long to go stark raving mad in this place. 23 hours a day in a compartment barely large enough to stretch out in. The inmates were supposed to get an hour of recreation time in a larger solitary space, but the guards rarely afforded the prisoners that luxury. The compartments were sealed off with steel hatches. There was a slot large enough to stick a food tray through, and a small polycarbonate view port. You were lucky if you got served more than once a day.
A guard shoved Max into a cell. He followed her into the compartment and drew a stun baton from his utility belt. He was seething, and Max could see the rage behind his eyes. “You don't really think you're going to get away with killing a cop, do you?"
8
The correctional officer was ready to give her the beating of her life. His nametape across his body armor read B. Hoskins. He advanced, gripping the baton tight.
Max was at a disadvantage. With her hands cuffed behind her back, she wasn't going to be able to put up much of a fight.
The other guard, Crawford, watched the show from the entry portal. This was good entertainment, and you could tell he loved watching inmates get a beat down.
Hoskins swung the baton.
Max ducked down, and the baton whooshed overhead. Max popped up and twirled a roundhouse, kicking Hoskins in the head. Her heel smacked his helmet, sending him crashing off balance into the bulkhead. Hoskins regained his composure and backhanded the baton, swinging for Max's face.
Max dodged.
The swing left Hoskins wide open, and Max planted a swift kick in his groin. Hoskins doubled over, and Max kneed him in the face. Even through his face-mask, the blow shattered his nose. His head snapped back, and blood ran rivers from his nose, dripping down behind the mask and rolling off his chin. He fell back against the bulkhead and collapsed to the deck.
His bat
on was resting across his leg, teetering like a seesaw. Max stomped the end of it, launching the baton into the air, twirling like it had been thrown from a majorette in a marching band.
Max spun around and caught the baton behind her back. Everything happened in a flash. Her ruthless gaze found Crawford's terrified eyes. He hovered in the portal, frozen with fear. It had all happened so fast, he didn't have time to react. Even with her hands cuffed behind her back, Max was proving she was more than capable of inflicting damage.
Crawford mashed a button on the bulkhead and slammed the hatch shut as fast as he could. The heavy steel hatch clamored throughout the cellblock. Max heard the locking mechanism latch shut.
Crawford sprinted down the corridor and mashed the alarm button on the bulkhead. Klaxons blared throughout the prison pod. The grating sound was ear piercing. It wouldn't be long before the emergency response team flooded the cellblock.
Max dropped to the deck and searched Hoskins for keys. She found a pair and was able to release the cuffs—first from one hand, then the other. She tossed them aside and snatched Hoskins’s STN-60 from its holster. She pulled the groggy guard to his feet and placed the weapon to his temple. By this time, Crawford was back at the hatch, peering wide-eyed through the viewport.
“Unlock the hatch, or I'm going to scramble his brain.”
Crawford didn’t know what the hell to do.
Several more guards flooded into the corridor, deactivated the blaring alarms, and surrounded the cell.
“I mean it. I've got nothing to lose,” Max shouted. “Open the hatch, now! He won’t be able to wipe his ass if I pull this trigger.”
“Just take it easy," Sergeant Kerns yelled through the hatch.
“I'm going to count to three. One… Two…”
“Okay. Okay,” Kerns said. “I'm unlocking the hatch.”
Max heard the locking mechanism click. A moment later, the hatch slid open. The instant it did, one of the guards fired a disruptor pulse at Max. The shot instantly made Hoskins’s body go limp and fall to the deck. Max had been using him as cover—now she was completely vulnerable.