Lights Out

by Nate Southard

  Satisfied, he patted his face dry and returned to his bunk. Ribisi always slept on the bottom, never once got the urge to try the top. You couldn’t watch your back from up there. He stretched out and closed his eyes, relaxing against the thin-as-hell mattress. Just another thing that didn’t matter to him.

  ***

  The lockdown unnerved Marquez a little, but then again, a lot of things had been making him a bit anxious lately. Those murders in solitary, for one. Who would airhole a guard, then murder two more men at random, without any sign of affiliation? He hadn’t ordered it, and Ribisi didn’t have anything to gain from such an action. The Aryans and homeboys were the most likely candidates, but there was a difference between showing balls and acting ratfuck crazy. It didn’t add up, and now this lockdown when Father Albright had said no such thing would happen. Something else must have gone down, something bad. The whole thing made his stomach churn. He wished he wasn’t out of antacids.

  Leaning against the bars of his cell, he tried to sort it all out. Some of the other Mexicans liked to act first, let their tempers guide them, but Omar didn’t walk that street. He weighed the options, considered the possibilities. It was why he’d managed to stay on top of his tribe for so long, why men like Ribisi respected him instead of trying to muscle him out of the drug trade. More than anything, he had to figure out why the warden had called a lockdown, and he had to find a way to make the situation benefit him.

  Rocha paced back and forth, stalking the floor like a hungry coyote. He paused every few seconds to throw his hands up in exasperation. Omar tried to ignore him, but when the man started muttering to himself, his patience thinned.

  “Sit the fuck down, okay?”

  “I can’t, Omar,” Rocha said. His eyes were wide and nervous, bouncing around in their sockets. “I don’t like being closed in like this, man!”

  “You been closed in for eight years, amigo. Why is it suddenly a problem?”

  Rocha shrugged, rolling his neck with the motion, and started pacing again. He drummed his hands on his thighs.

  “Why lockdown, though? Why now? It’s bullshit, man! You don’t just lock a man up in a teeny tiny cage before lights out so that he’s got nothing to do but walk all back and forth and back and shit.”

  Marquez started to smile. “What’re you on, man?”

  “Nothing!” A shake of the head. “Okay, so I snorted a little something, but it’s just so I can stay awake, man.

  I don’t want to end up like those putas in solitary. I don’t want to go out like some bitch.”

  “You locked up here, Rocha. Can’t nobody get to you.”

  “Tell that to those dead motherfuckers from solitary.”

  Omar turned to look out at the cellblock. The noise had calmed some, and was now just a low murmur of voices and the footsteps of guards. He thought about the dead men, the ones who had been brutally murdered in their own cells, and it made his stomach shift once again. Something was wrong about all this, so wrong he almost didn’t want to think about it. He had to, though. He was the thinker who still had cajones. That’s what made him a leader.

  So he thought about it. He wondered who could possibly pull off a bunch of murders like last night’s. Who could get into solitary, kill three men, and get out without being noticed or putting up a struggle, but his mind kept coming up empty.

  “Might be a long night,” He said.

  “What?”

  “Forget it.” He shifted his weight, leaning forward against the bars. Watching the guards start their rounds, he wondered if he could stay up all night, too.

  ***

  “Sleep tight, Hall. Don’t let those bedbugs bite.”

  The new guard, a tall guy named Shaw, pulled the bars to Hall’s tiny cell shut and then slammed the solid steel outer door. Hall eyed the door for a few seconds, and he felt safe. In the next instant, however, he remembered Webber’s and Jenkins’ screams, and he thought he might tear loose with a cry of his own. When he thought about the face he had seen the night before, the dark eyes and jagged teeth, the blood all over its lips and chin, the feat hit his gut, and his stomach revolted. He hit his knees in front of the toilet and spewed up his last two meals in one hot, runny mess.

  He collapsed onto the floor, wiped his mouth. The air inside the dank cell tasted sharp and acidic, but he gulped it down anyway. Reaching out, he flushed the toilet, but the sharp stench of his own sick still hung thick in the air.

  “Officer!” he yelled. The quick sound of footsteps followed, and then the viewing window in his door slid open.

  Shaw’s face looked down at him.

  “What is it, Hall?”

  “I need to get out of here, man. You gotta put my ass in PC or some shit.”

  “Throw you in protective custody? Why?”

  “Why the fuck you think? You think it’s fuckin’ safe in this bitch? Buncha muthafuckas was killed last night!”

  Shaw’s face registered a look of annoyance, but little else.

  “That’s right, Hall, and when we find out who did it, their ass is gonna pay.”

  “Well, unless you sumbitches find that ass in the next hour, I want in PC, dammit!”

  “Don’t you think if whoever did this wanted to grease you too, they might have done it last night?”

  The words just tumbled out of his mouth. “Maybe they weren’t hungry no more.” His jaw clicked shut, and he wondered if he had really said the sentence out loud. The sudden anger on Shaw’s face told him he had.

  “Please, Shaw! Don’t make me stay in here another night!”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m serious!”

  “Me too.” The guard shook his head. He looked like he was trying to scrub their entire conversation out of his brain. “Look, we’re doubling the guard posting for solitary tonight, but that’s it. You want in protective custody; you better have some info for the warden.”

  The window slid shut, and Hall heard Shaw’s angry footsteps retreat down the corridor. He staggered away from the door and sat back on his bed, buried his face in his hands. How was he going to survive another night?

  Closing his eyes, Hall began to pray.

  Eight

  When morning came, cold and pale and filtered through the greasy panes of Burnham’s windows, Darren stopped at his office long enough to shrug off his coat and toss it over a chair. Then, he stormed through the administrative wing. A real beauty of a headache surged between his temples, and it throbbed with every step. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed against the lids until he saw stars, but the pain continued.

  So did the anger.

  He greeted his coworkers with the briefest of nods, and the expression on his face seemed to give more than a few of them the creeps.

  Darren had received the call from Morrow on his way home. Four more dead. Lockdown. By the time he’d reached the rectory, his emotions had run through sadness, fear, anger, and finally betrayal. They swirled through his mind and sank in his heart, growing hot, then cold, and then hot again. He had spoken at length with the other priests, but their attempts at insight he had not helped him feel any better. Throughout the night, he had tried to understand what Ronald was faced with. Two disappearances and seven deaths was plenty of reason for a lockdown, and he knew that. He’d be a fool to ignore it.

  Still, Ronald had promised him and Morrow both. He thought they’d all agreed that confining the prisoners would only breed more confusion and hostility. Now, they’d be faced with the pressure cooker situation he’d asked his friend to help him avoid, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be around when the steam needed release.

  It was all so very bad, but the worst part was knowing one of his best friends had gone back on his word.

  He pushed open the door to Ron’s office. Heather flashed him a smile that he was in no mood to see.

  “Hello, Father.”

  “Is he in?” His voice surprised him, flat and cold. A stone in his throat.

  She blinked, and
the smile faltered. “Yes. Did you want to--”

  He charged through the door.

  “What the fuck, Ron?”

  Timms turned around to face him. He was standing at the coffee maker, pot in hand. His eyes went wide for a second, and then his expression returned to normal. He poured himself a cup and then sat it on the edge of his desk. “Good morning to you, too. Help yourself if you want a cup.”

  Darren ignored the offer. Instead, he closed the door behind him and stepped further into the office. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but he could feel his hands shaking at his sides. “I thought you were with me on this one. Why the fuck did you do it?”

  His friend shook his head, wiped a hand over his face. “Because we had four more murders yesterday, Darren, and the bodies from the night before are now missing. Is that a good enough reason for you? I can pull a few more out of my sleeve if you think those weren’t up to par.”

  So Ron was going to play it like that. Darren shook his head, turned away. He couldn’t believe his friend was doing this, making them confront each other this way.

  “If you keep these men bottled up...There’s a lot of tension out there already. It’s only going to build, when you add in the rumors and the hearsay--”

  “How is there going to be hearsay? How is there going to be a rumor mill when the prisoners can’t even see each other? I don’t see how that can be a factor. We can control information this way. We can keep everything straight and calm until we find out who is behind this.”

  Darren rolled his eyes. “Don’t play naïve with me. I’ve been here almost as long as you have, and we both know a lockdown doesn’t stop communication. Word still gets out, and it even gets twisted around more than usual. Things are going to get blown more out of proportion now than they would have if we’d done nothing!”

  Ronald stepped away from his desk and moved to look out the one window his office allowed him. “I’m trying to deal with a real clusterfuck of a situation here, Darren. I don’t have to remind you that this is my prison and not yours, right?”

  “I know whose prison it is, Ron. I also know who has to live in it, and I know how they get through their days. This isn’t going to make that any easier.”

  “It’s prison. It’s not designed to be easy.”

  “And it’s not designed to make men kill each other, either.”

  “No, most of them did that on their own. That’s how they got here in the first place.”

  “And letting them murder each other isn’t the answer. If these men end up going stir crazy because of a lockdown, that’s exactly what’s going to happen once you open the doors. Aren’t we supposed to be rehabilitating?”

  “Yes, we are. And once we’re done catching a murderer, we’ll get right back to doing it.”

  “And how difficult can that be? Don’t we have surveillance in solitary?”

  “Yeah, there’s a camera in there. It’s old, though. Shit, most of the equipment in this prison is about a day short of ancient. The picture was just about worthless--a grainy mess. If we see a blur running around, we can be sure that’s our guy.”

  “So we’ve got nothing.”

  “And you’d rather just let them wander the halls like what? Bait?”

  “I’m not saying that. You know I’m not. Maybe if we let them mingle, though, we can keep an eye on them. We’ll see who talks, and it’ll give us more clues than we have right now.”

  Timms frowned. “No. We’ll get our answers after the prisoners have sat in their cells for a few days.”

  “So the lockdown’s an interrogation technique?”

  “No, it’s a precaution. Look, they’re dusting the cells in solitary. They’re dusting the morgue. We’ll have somebody come in today to do autopsies on the new round of bodies. We’ve got those locked up in cold storage. That’s the best I can manage right now.”

  Darren stepped forward until he was touching the warden’s desk. He shook his head, placed his hands flat on top of the desk. “But locking everybody up? It’s like we’re trying to keep them safe by punishing them.”

  Ron plopped down in his chair. “What would you rather have me do? Want me to get all the prisoners into a big room and say ‘Somebody’s killing a bunch of you, but we have no clue who it is or how they’re doing it. Enjoy your lunch?’”

  “At least that might build some trust! Do you think anybody out there with information is going to bring it to you after this? And what about with the leaders? I promised them there wouldn’t be a lockdown, and they agreed to a truce so we can finish this! Is that going to stick around now? Are they going to lay off each other and let you complete an investigation? I sure as shit don’t think so!”

  Ronald paused long enough to sip at his coffee. He looked tired, and Darren thought he might even look a little regretful.

  “Peace would have been nice, but you ought to know these men by now. Ribisi, Sweeny. Diggs and Marquez, too. They don’t give a shit about anybody but themselves. They didn’t plan on keeping that truce any longer than it took them to leave your office. If you think otherwise, you’re kidding yourself.”

  Darren watched Timms for a long moment. The office was silent, save their breathing. He spent the time fighting the urge to scream at one of his best friends. When he finally spoke, his voice was even and measured.

  “Fuck you, Ron.”

  The warden’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, you condescending asshole. I do good work here, and you know it. I work every day to not only satisfy the spiritual needs of these men, but also to improve life inside this shithole in any way I can. While you sit in this office and pore over your papers, sipping coffee and examining budgets and planning lunches with the Governor, I’m out there with them, getting to know them. And if I am in my office, nobody has to go through a secretary to see me. They can knock on my fucking door. So don’t you dare tell me I haven’t built a relationship with them, because you haven’t gotten out from behind your desk long enough to take a look.”

  “Darren--”

  Albright didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest.

  ***

  Morrow walked along the highest level of Cellblock C. He remained alert, his eyes constantly searching for trouble. His arms swung at his sides, and his steps were casual, but sure.

  “Hey, Officer. When the fuck are they letting us out?”

  He gave the prisoner, a white guy with graying hair and glasses, the slightest of glances. “Wish I could tell you.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Just sit tight. Jerk off or something.”

  “You’re bullshit too, Officer.”

  “Long as you keeping calling me Officer, I don’t care. Enjoy your stroke.”

  The prisoner grumbled something unintelligible as Morrow walked away, not that he gave a shit what the con had to say. You had to pay some attention to these assholes, or else you might not see them coming until it was too late. Paying too much attention, though, would drive you crazy real quick.

  There was a fine line a good correctional officer had to walk. You had to balance being fair with being smart and being firm. You had to form relationships with your prisoners, get them to trust you so they wouldn’t try to stab you in the back, but you could never have faith in them. You could never get close, though. Close was only inches away from receiving a shank between your ribs. Morrow thought he walked the line pretty well, better than most of the younger guards, the John Wayne’s who thought the prisoners were their private whipping posts, at least. Their behavior made him sick.

  He walked past three more cells. At the fourth, he came to a stop.

  “What are you doing in there, Hollis?”

  Bobby, a computer fraud con in his mid-thirties, looked up from his bunk. “Me, Officer Morrow? I’m not doing anything, just minding my business and all.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “Officer,” Bobby said, rushing up to the bars, “Can I ask you a ques
tion?”

  “What is it?” he answered. He stepped closer to the cell, remaining casual.

  “Well, I was just wondering who I have to talk to in order to get the new Flight Simulator installed on some of the computers in the library.”

  “Flight Simulator, huh? You want to be a pilot or something?”

  “I just like the game, man,” Bobby answered as he slipped the folded bills between the bars. “It relaxes me. It’s not like I’m practicing to do an Al-Qaeda when I get out or anything like that.”

  “I don’t know.” He took the cash and pocketed it, retrieving the small glass vial at the same time. He pressed it into Bobby’s palm, and it disappeared. “I can ask around a little, see what I can find out. How’s that?”

  “That would be great.”

  He looked down his nose at Hollis. “You want me to come back tomorrow, let you know if I’ve found anything out?”

  The con flashed a stupid, enthused smile. “That would be awesome.”

  “Fine. See you tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait, Officer.”

  Morrow watched Bobby shuffle back to his bunk and slouch into it. He turned away and started walking, made it three whole steps before he heard the snorting sounds. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore them. He had other deliveries to make. Lockdown wasn’t an excuse Ribisi was going to buy.

  Ten years, he’d been working in Burnham. Ten years climbing the shit-smeared ladder. Ten years in the palm of Anton’s Ribisi’s hand.

  His heels clicking on the walkway, he continued on his rounds, trying not to hate himself.

  ***

  Maggot spent the day on his bunk, curled in as tight a ball as he could manage. His eyes stood wide open, and he stared at the walkway outside his cell. He shivered, and his heart refused to slow to its normal pace. Every now and then, he would cry without making a sound, tears rolling down his face until his eyes ran dry. Whenever he cried, he saw Dr. Wilson lying twisted on the floor with the other two men, their blood spattered around the cold morgue, and he would quake harder. His body’s movements made the entire bed shake, and after a moment his cellmate--a large man whose name Maggot could never seem to remember--would tell him to cut it out before he beat Maggot’s ass three different shades of blue. He did it, too. Twice. And after each beating, Maggot just curled back up onto his bunk and stared out at the walkway again.