by Zoey Parker
“Your prison number is 17H404,” he said, handing Kurt a folded uniform, socks, slippers, and a set of sheets. “You'll be reporting to cell block G. Please get dressed and follow the blue lines.”
That's all I fucking am in here, Kurt thought. Just a number and a box full of clothes I won't see again for two years.
A suffocating wave of claustrophobia enveloped him, and his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins. He'd been through so much in his life, and he thought he'd be able to take incarceration in stride—just an inconvenience, something unpleasant to get through and forget about. But now that he was inside the prison, he could feel it pressing down on him, as though he'd been buried alive. His head started to throb and his mind jittered crazily, insisting on his individuality even as it was methodically stripped from him.
Kurt put on the uniform. The fabric was cheap, and it felt stiff and itchy against his skin. He walked between the blue lines, joining Carl and the others against the wall. He saw Kareem putting on his uniform, and noted that it looked about three sizes too big for him.
When all of the convicts had taken their places against the wall, Rodriguez hit a button next to the inner door. An alarm honked, and the door opened from the inside.
A huge guard stepped through the door. He had a shaved head and a black handlebar mustache, he stood at least six and a half feet tall, and he was built like a professional wrestler—Kurt could see the man's uniform straining against his enormous pecs and biceps. There was a deep scar extending from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin, giving him a permanent snarl of disapproval.
He stood in front of the prisoners, addressing them in a booming voice.
“My name is Officer Gable, and I am the captain of the guards. Welcome to River Oak. Life can be uncertain in this place, but I can promise all of you one simple thing: Your time here with me will be exactly as difficult as you make it . The rules are easy to follow. No buying, selling, using, or hiding drugs. No weapons or contraband items. No fucking or fighting. You do what the guards say, when they say it, without cussing them out or horsing around. You abide by these rules, you and I won't have any problems. You break these rules, I will make sure that all of your nightmares come true, and I will have fun doing it .”
How many times has this hack practiced this little speech in front of a mirror? Kurt thought.
“Those of you who have been assigned to cell block B will be escorted there by Officer Rodriguez,” Gable continued. “Block C, you'll go with Officer Miles. Block F, Officer Douglas. Those of you going to block G will be escorted by me personally. Line up by cell blocks and follow the appropriate officer, and do not dawdle.”
Kurt, Carl, and several other men lined up behind Gable 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 Kurt felt a shudder pass through him.
If it didn't seem real enough before, he thought, it damn sure does now.
Chapter 7
Kurt
Gable led Kurt 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,” Gable sneered.
Once Gable moved on with the rest of his charges, Kurt 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, Kurt thought sourly. A fucking Nazi cellmate.
As Kurt 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?” Kurt 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 Kurt Bellows, right? The guy they call The Knight?”
Kurt 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.”
Kurt peered out and saw four bikers sitting at a table, playing cards. Their tattoos identified them as Black Dogs. 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, Kurt saw that both of his front teeth were missing.
“You must be Kurt!” The biker's missing teeth gave him a slight lisp. “Nice to finally meet you, kid. Ron's told me so much about you. I'm Bear.”
Kurt shook Bear's hand. “I've heard a lot about you, too. Ron 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.”
Bear shrugged. “Yeah, 'fore I fucked up an' got me a life sentence.”
“So now you're in charge of the Dogs on the inside?”
Bear fidgeted, grinning uncomfortably. “Well, uh, heh, yes an' no, actually.”
Kurt 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 Dogs 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, Bruiser, Erik, Lucky, 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,” Kurt replied. It wasn't what he'd expected and he didn't love the idea of taking orders from non-Dogs, but he understood how it might be necessary under the circumstances. “So which MC do we run with in here? Angels? Outlaws?”
Bear 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 Kurt's stomach like a malignant flower as he followed Bear. 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 Sarah. 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. Sarah's not here. Sarah's not coming. You won't be seeing Sarah for at least two years, and maybe not even then. So stop thinking about her, and get your head in the game.
Bear 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,” Kurt 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. “Hawkeye? 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 Kurt, his lips parted in a friendly grin, displaying the wide gaps between his small teeth.
You've got to be fucking kidding me, Kurt thought, his heart sinking. Taking ord
ers from another gang is one thing, but since when do Dogs 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 Ron know about any of this?
“Kurt 'The Knight' Bellows,” Hawkeye said, grabbing Kurt's hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “It is truly an honor to meet you, son. My name's Hawkeye Frontley, and I run the White Brothers here in River Oak. I'm also your new best friend.”
Kurt nodded, looking at the ink on Hawkeye's chest. 14 Words? What was that supposed to mean?
Maybe it's the number of words he can actually read, Kurt thought wryly.
Hawkeye saw Kurt 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, Hawkeye lowered his shirt and turned around again. Kurt figured he must have done a poor job of hiding his distaste, because Hawkeye 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,” Kurt said, trying to keep his voice even.
Hawkeye laughed again, patting Kurt 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, Kurt, the more you're going to see that we're no different from anyone else,” Hawkeye 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.” Kurt glanced at Bear, who was shifting his weight nervously and trying to keep his smile in place.
Hawkeye sighed good-naturedly. “There I go, rambling again. Sorry about that, Kurt. You didn't come here to debate a bunch of sociological and political 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 Bear. “Go grab a couple of the guys to guard my cell while I'm gone, okay?”
“You got it,” Bear said.
As they walked around the cell block, Hawkeye pointed to a few dozen prisoners gathered around the TV in the common area. Most of them were black or Latino, and Kurt 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 Kurt and Hawkeye.
“That's the Nation of Sinners,” Hawkeye 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 Brothers 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 Brothers and Dogs 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?” Kurt 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.
Hawkeye let out a derisive snort. “They call themselves the Peacekeepers. 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,” Kurt said as they completed their lap around the block and returned to Hawkeye'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 Spikes on his forehead.
Hawkeye pulled the curtain aside, gesturing for Kurt to step in.
Kurt entered Hawkeye'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,” Kurt 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?”
Hawkeye 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 Gable 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?” Hawkeye opened the fridge, removing a KFC bucket and offering it to Kurt.
“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 Kurt could answer, Hawkeye leaned out of the cell, talking to Spikes. “Hey, what's the name of that new guard? The chick?”
“ Martin ,” Spikes answered.
“Right, right. Tell her to come over here.”
“Listen, I don't need any food...” Kurt protested.
Hawkeye 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 Kurt's heart jumped into his throat when he saw the CO standing in the doorway.
It was Sarah.
And from her flat eyes and carefully-neutral expression as she looked at him, Kurt immediately knew that the worst thing he could do was acknowledge her in any way.
But for the second time, Kurt wondered just what the hell was going on here.
“Martin, this is my new friend Kurt,” Hawkeye 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 Kurt. “Do you want one of those shakes they've got?”
“No, really, I'm fine,” Kurt insisted.
Hawkeye smiled slyly, then returned his attention to Sarah. “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 Sarah, 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,” Hawkeye 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. Ron 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?”
Kurt raised his eyebrows. “Twenty or thirty fights, about four or five losses. You tell me.”