Lights Out

by Nate Southard

  But now the limit was on fire, and sooner or later it would just be ashes scattering in the breeze.

  Unless, just maybe, he could salvage this complete fucking wreck into something that looked like a win. But how on Earth was he going to pull off a trick like that? It was like losing both arms and then becoming a major league pitcher.

  He ran the cold water and splashed his face. Fatigue weighed on him, but a hot core of manic energy burned in his chest. The feeling was desperation, and he knew it. Maybe if he tried to quell it, to push it down to a manageable level, he could use it.

  He closed his eyes and let his mind wander.

  How to turn this clusterfuck into a triumph? What could he do? There had been losses from every faction, and quite a few from the staff, as well.

  Casualties in every war.

  He opened his eyes. Warfare; that was it. The gangs had gone to war, had gone absolutely apeshit trying to kill each other. The war was so out of control prison employees had been caught in the crossfire.

  And how do you stop a war?

  You get rid of the leaders.

  He could push to have the faction leaders sent away. It didn’t matter where. They could be transferred to different corners of the state for all he cared. What was important was that they’d be gone. There would be a power vacuum in their absence, but he could keep the lockdown going for as long as two weeks, let everybody stew. When the inmates were finally allowed to roam, they’d be more concerned with establishing new leadership than killing each other, and he could sweep in and stomp on everybody. Everything would go back to being quiet, normal, and he’d have total control.

  Some of the others might not like it. The unit managers might be concerned about short-term violence. Morrow would feel the same way. Darren would blow a gasket, something about lying and prisoners’ rights as human beings. And Ray and Albright both would accuse him of trying to bury the real problem. They were telling him monsters had come to Burnham, though, and no matter how grisly the recent murders had been, he refused to believe that kind of bullshit. He had to live in the real world, one where people were killed on a daily basis by means that were anything but supernatural, and he had neither the time nor the will to even entertain such ridiculous notions. Ron liked Ray and Darren, had considered them close friends for a long time, but this was outside of their friendships. This was work, and whether they liked it or not, he was in charge. He’d told them the truth after the meeting. They could toe the line or they could leave. He didn’t have time to coach them along. Maybe they would understand that, and maybe they wouldn’t, but in the meantime he had a prison to run and a career to nurture, and he couldn’t let personal feelings get in the way of that.

  Eyeing his reflection, he though he still appeared a little fatigued, but he looked better than he had a moment earlier. There was even the slight curl of a smile on his lips. He checked his jacket, his hair, making sure he was ready to step in front of the cameras and support the Governor. She may be a bitch, but she was one he needed. One way or another, he’d show her he was a team player.

  Timms turned away from the mirror and left the bathroom. He felt a new spring in his step. Desperation had been sculpted into determination. Things were about to change.

  Eleven

  Sweeny sits in the pick-up’s bed, hunched over the wheel well. The chilly September air slashes at his face, but he can still smell the gasoline from the can at his feet. He takes a second to soak in the night’s surroundings as they whip by, the red and orange leaves, the early signs of winter. It’s beautiful country, and he wants to keep it that way. That’s his purpose, his mission. Nobody fucks with his land, his way of life. God help the soulless pieces of shit who try.

  He turns back to Nick and Jason. Their grins are mile-wide, shining in the darkness like their shaved heads. He’s sure Ricky is smiling the same way behind the steering wheel. They’re happy, and they should be. They’re doing good work tonight.

  Hell, the only one who isn’t smiling is the nigger.

  Sweeny gives the nigger a look, one that makes the boy shrink away, press against the opposite side of the truck’s bed. The coon tried giving them shit at first, showing them that jungle bunny tough that flew in the hood. It didn’t work, though, and a few good hits with the baseball bat--a few good kicks of strong boot leather--shut those big lips up good and fast.

  Sweeny thinks of the nigger, bleeding and begging them to stop, and he smiles. It’s been a while since he’s gotten to do this, and he’s missed it more than a little. He’s been keeping the land clean since he was seventeen, back when he killed his first and earned the spiderwebs on his elbows.

  The boy’s lips quiver, and Sweeny grabs the truck’s side. “Whoa, there Koonta! You get those babies flapping, and I’m liable to fly right over the side from all the wind!”

  Nick and Jason break into a round of strong laughter at the joke. “Don’t do it!” Jason says between stomach-hitching guffaws. “Don’t hurt poor Sweeny, you dumb nigger!”

  “Fuck you,” the boy says. There’s no conviction in his voice, though. He’s not trying to scare rich cunts out of their cars or white girls out of their panties this time. He’s in a world of shit, and he knows it. The words are just a reflex.

  Nick shunts toward the boy, making him flinch. Sweeny chuckles. He wishes they could keep the coon a while, maybe break him some more before it was all over and done. If they’d taken the time to plan out everything, he would’ve done it. Next time, maybe. Hell, next time for sure.

  The truck turns off of the pavement and onto a gravel road. It startles the nigger, who darts up to look around.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Shut up,” Sweeny orders, and the boy does as he’s told. Most of them act that way, only talking with their dicks until they take a hit or two. Then, they’re too scared to give a fuck. He’s seen a lot of white people act this way, too, and it makes him sick. They’re the folks who don’t understand what pride means. Weak pricks are a waste. He’s done this to a few of them--drug dealers, rapists, abortion doctors. The bad seeds of the white race. There won’t be room for them when the race war finally busts loose. They’ll only have a need for the warriors then, the Knights of the Brotherhood. They’ll change things back to the way they ought to be.

  “Is it time yet?” Nick asks.

  Ricky slows the truck a bit. Not much, but the road is pretty flat, not that rough. Slowly, Sweeny stands. He moves until the small of his back rests against the truck’s cab. Dave slows some more, and Sweeny has no trouble keeping his balance.

  “Stand him up,” he tells Jason and Nick. The boy curls into a ball, groaning some sort of half-assed protest, but he seems to know it won’t mean shit. He slaps at their hands when they reach for him, and it makes him look like a little girl. Jason rears back and then rocks a fist into the nigger’s nose. The slaps die almost immediately. After that, they get the coon on his feet in short order.

  Sweeny cracks his neck, tilting it first to one side and then the other. He fights to keep the smile from his face, succeeds. He meets the boy’s eyes and holds them.

  “Tell me your name, jiggaboo.”

  “Fuck off, cracka.”

  The words don’t have much behind them but fear, but Sweeny still steps forward, slamming a fist into the guy’s gut. Jason and Nick struggle to keep him up as he leans forward and pukes all over the truck’s bed.

  “Fuck!” Sweeny shouts. “You got your fuckin’ nigger-stink all over the goddamn place! Now, that there’s downright unneighborly. Guys, help him clean that up.”

  They push the boy down to the bed’s floor and roll him around in his own sick for a few seconds. When they stand him up again, his shirt and chin are smeared with the stuff. He really looks like shit, Sweeny thinks, and he wipes at his mouth to hide the grin until it disappears.

  “Let’s try this again,” he tells the nigger. “Tell me your name, or the next one hurts a whole lot more.”

 
“Paul,” the boy answers. The word sound wet and mumbled. There must still be some vomit in his mouth.

  “Paul? You gotta be shitting me, right? It’s not Bo Bo or Mohat or some monkey name like that? What the fuck?”

  “I’m not from Africa. I was born over in Clay County.”

  “Don’t make you an American, boy. Don’t you think for a second that it does. It’s bullshit thinking like that gets coons like you in situations like this.”

  “Really, I thought it was Nazis like you, got me in this predicament.”

  Cute, the kid still has some piss in him. Must’ve dug deep down for it. Makes the rest of this that much more enjoyable.

  “Funny you should say that. That little poser’s the next on our list. Do you have any idea why we’re doing this to you?”

  “Yeah. Because you’re white, and you don’t like brothers like me.”

  Sweeny shares a look with the others. They shake their heads. They can’t believe the coon’s bullshit, either.

  “I don’t think so, Koonta. I think you know the real reason, and it ain’t that ACLU bullshit you’re spouting out your watermelon intake. We’re doing this because you raped a white girl.”

  The nigger’s eyes go wide. “What? Fuck you, man! That’s total bullshit!”

  “I don’t think so. You don’t, either. Now, just fess up to it.”

  “Man, I don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t!”

  “You fucking do!”

  Jason slaps Paul across the back of the head to put a little bit of an exclamation point on it. A look of panic sweeps through the nigger’s eyes, followed by a sense of recognition. He’s got it.

  “Suzie? Are you talking about Suzie? I didn’t rape her, man! We’re dating! We’ve been seeing each other for five months!”

  Sweeny shakes his head. “Maybe that’s what you call it. It doesn’t look that way to me, though. Looks like you’re taking your shots with a trophy white girl whether she wants it or not.”

  “What? You’re fucking crazy. Look at my finger, man! Here’s her class ring! She gave it to me! She’s got mine! We’re a fucking couple, dammit!”

  “So you’ve robbed from her, too. You’re one shameless monkey. You know that?”

  “But--”

  Sweeny darts forward and grabs the nigger by the throat. “You shut the fuck up! Suzie’s a good girl, and she doesn’t need your jungle ass muddying her up!”

  “Fuck you!”

  Sweeny feels a hot glob of spit land on his cheek, and he responds by bringing a knee up into the boy’s balls. The coon falls to a crouch, letting out a slow, pained groan.

  Sweeny wipes his face clean before he grabs the gas can.

  “This is what you get for not knowing your place, you dumb piece of shit. You get to deal with men like me, and we do not fuck around when it comes to protecting what’s ours.”

  He pops the cap off the can and dumps its contents on Paul. The boy starts screaming as soon as the smell hits him, and then the fumes take his breath and he can only sputter. He finally manages to get out a single word.

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes. You don’t rape a white girl in my town and get away with it. I don’t play that way.”

  He tosses the can to the floor, where it lands with a metallic clang! before rolling away. He digs in his pockets for the Zippo. He holds it up so the nigger can see. The boy sees it, all right, and he starts crying almost immediately.

  “Please… Don’t do this.”

  “Is that what Suzie said?”

  “It wasn’t like that. We love each other.”

  “She doesn’t know better.”

  Sweeny flips the lighter open, looks past it into the boy’s eyes. “Welcome to America, you nigger fuck.”

  He flicks his fingers over the Zippo, and a flame jumps to life. The nigger screams, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck. He tosses the lighter, and the jiggaboo goes up like a goddamn Roman candle. Jason and Nick let go, batting the flames on their own arms out, and the nigger falls to the bed’s floor, writhing with pain and screaming his monkey head off. Jason, still shaking his hands, moves to the bed’s rear and drops the door.

  Sweeny’s smile almost hurts, it’s so wide. He can smell the nigger cooking, and the screams are like music to his ears. He waves goodbye, then kicks him as hard as he can manage. The burning coon tumbles backward, rolling out of the truck and onto the gravel.

  Sweeny slaps the truck’s cab and sits down. Nick and Jason sit, as well, and then Ricky gooses the gas and they rocket away into the beautiful September night.

  ***

  Sweeny sat in silence on the edge of his bunk, staring up at Morrow and the rest and wondering what the fuck the scam was. The guard was standing at the open door to his cell, telling him to follow, that something important was happening. Other leaders waited with the guard. Marquez stood to one side, giving him a hard, but disinterested look. That nigger Diggs stood on the other, sneering at him like he owned the goddamn place. If Morrow was dumb enough to bring the monkey around, there had to be something big in the works.

  He thought about the night before, watching those things carry the dead guards away, and he figured he knew exactly what that something big was.

  “Time for a pow wow?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” the guard answered. He stepped to the side and motioned for Sweeny to follow.

  “Fuck that. I bring Hodge with me, or I’m not going.”

  “No deal, Sweeny. Bigwigs only. We don’t got a lot of time, so you better haul ass up off that bed.”

  “Fuck you, officer.”

  Diggs took a step toward the door. “Bitch, you betta get offa that bunk before I break a foot off in ya!” Morrow grabbed the banger and pulled him back. Diggs shrugged off the guard’s hand and stepped aside. Sweeny almost laughed, the man’s play at looking big and bad was so obvious.

  “You want to let the monkey in the cage, I’ll take a swing or two, officer. My ass isn’t leaving this cell, though. After last night, I think I’m a little safer in here.”

  “Bitch, they ain’t gonna have problems ripping yo door off, neither!”

  Morrow held up a hand. “That’s enough, Diggs. Sweeny, we’re going to do something about what everybody saw last night, but we have to sort it out fast, or else Timms is going to shut this place down until everybody in here’s a goddamn steak. Now, we’re all going to discuss what to do, but we have to do it on a level playing field, so that means leaders only, okay?”

  He shook his head. “Nice try, but there ain’t no way in hell those two are my equals. You want things set right, you let the brotherhood know, and we’ll handle it. You want me to work with niggers and spics though, you got yourself a rude fucking awakening, Suzanne.”

  Sweeny watched Morrow try to maintain his calm expression, not let the anger show through, and he couldn’t help but smile. He had the guy by the balls, and all of them knew it.

  “If you don’t mind, officer, how about you get the fuck out of here and go to your meeting.”

  The guard shrugged. “Whatever. Fuck it. Let’s go get Ribisi.” He turned and started to walk away, leaving the door to Sweeny’s cell wide open.

  “What the fuck? Close my goddamn door.”

  “What?” Morrow asked.

  “You heard me, dammit.”

  “Y’know what, Sweeny? I don’t think so. If you want to close it, you can get off your ass and do it.”

  “It won’t lock, shithead.”

  “No, it won’t. Hell, might as well not even be there.”

  He shot Morrow a glare. The guy was being a real asshole, and it didn’t make a shit smear’s worth of sense. “What the fuck are you getting at, Morrow?”

  “Nothing, really. You’re probably right, is all. The brotherhood can take care of itself. It doesn’t need locks on its doors. Of course, that one less obstacle for those things to go through if
they come back tonight. How long do you think you can hold those bars shut, do ya think? Think you and Hodge could do it all night?”

  Sweeny turned to Hodge. The guy was staring at Morrow, eyes wide as silver dollars. He could almost see the big guy getting ready to piss himself. Sweeny shoved the wave of disgust aside and focused on Morrow. The bastard was playing him, showing what he could do. He wanted to plant a shank in the arrogant prick’s heart.

  “Bet you think you got a nice fat one hangin’ now, don’t ya officer.”

  “That mean you’re coming with?”

  He saw Diggs flash him a shit-eating grin, and he felt his face flush with heat. The nigger liked seeing him like this, showing just a little sign that he wasn’t bulletproof. He hated the coon for it, wanted to run out of his cell and airhole the jungle bunny until his black ass stopped twitching. But he had other things to worry about--he knew that. Grabbing hold of his anger, he shoved it down deep. There’d be a time and a place, but this wasn’t it.

  “Let me guess. We’re going to see the priest?”

  “Got it in one. Now get in line.”

  Twelve

  A large wooden cross hung in Father Albright’s office, the only decoration on the wall opposite the door. It was the first thing you’d see as you entered. The crucifix was dark and polished and the Christ that hung from it was immaculately carved out of wood from the very same tree. The Christ’s face expressed pain, sorrow, hope, and love all at once. Darren’s brother had given it to him, a gift to celebrate his ordainment. Though he’d never met the craftsman, Darren often wished he could shake the man’s hand. He’d never seen a piece as affecting.

  Now, he kneeled before the cross, his head bowed toward the floor, and prayed, hoping the action might calm his hammering heart. It didn’t seem to be doing a whole lot of good, though. He wondered why, but he already knew the reason. Unlike so many times in the past, he wasn’t asking God for advice or guidance. He’d made up his mind long before his knees had touched the ground. This time, he was only asking God for acceptance, for forgiveness.