Farmington Correctional

by Sean M Thompson

  Chuck thinks of his old life: a marriage that fell apart, and a little boy who barely gets to see him. Perhaps this too is a part of the test. Chuck can’t say for sure the Lord hasn’t been testing him since the day he assaulted the carjacker.

  What of the little girl, then? Is she a test as well? And if so, how should he proceed? Is she friend or foe?

  At some point a guard wordlessly opens the door, light blazing into the room. The light blinds him. When his eyes can finally see, there’s a tray of food.

  Chuck eats without any real joy, then tries to sleep.

  …

  “I am here to help you,” the little girl says in the darkness.

  Chuck rises from dream, mumbles something like: “And how can I know that for sure?”

  “I will help you see your little boy,” Amy says.

  “When?”

  “After you’ve done what you must.”

  “And can you not tell me how long?”

  “I can not,” Amy says, and he swears he hears her giggle.

  “I will do what I must,” Chuck says.

  No one and nothing responds. He goes back to sleep.

  …

  Faint light again from under the door. Chuck does sit ups, push-ups, jumping jacks. He notices another tray of food, unsure when it was delivered. He has no way to say for sure the last time he ate: hours ago, a day ago? All he knows is he’s hungry, so he eats, and then disappears back into his head. What else is there to do in a mostly dark room?

  He wonders if he’s always been like this, if he hasn’t just buried his true nature under stacks of boxes labeled “job” labeled “relationships” labeled “responsibilities.” Wonders if the real him hasn’t finally appeared, “true self” clearly visible now that the boxes of files have been shifted far out of the way, the only other box of files left labeled “survival.”

  They’re terrifying and exhilarating, these feelings. Wonderful and terrible. The silence of the room isn’t silence at all. The thoughts inside him scream out like ravenous beasts chained, howling for freedom. The darkness isn’t darkness at all: things swim and crawl in the spaces between the matter of the room. And the Lord is in everything, even in him, and as the hours pass and the last remnants of the old Chuck die, the new stretches its wings, and spreads them heavenward.

  …

  A banging at the door. A blinding white light. The doctor’s smile warps into the howl of a banshee; face contorting ever higher, jaw unhinging, the bones cracking apart. His eyes are yellow with slits of black in the darkness, his front teeth growing into fangs, venom dripping from the tips.

  “Let’s bring you back into the world, shall we?” the doctor says through his serpentine face. Before Chuck can respond, a needle’s injected in his neck.

  He feels himself fade.

  Chapter Five

  May 3

  How your glory manifests itself as cells bursting to life inside the blood in these veins, surging like lightning to a heart that screams for vengeance against the interlopers, the fallen manifested on Earth, so far from the light of Heaven. This vessel has been tested, has been pushed past its limit of physical endurance, the pain a blessing, the ache a penance for the sins of this life before your intervention, your blessed resurrection just as your only son on Earth was reborn to ascend to his throne beside you. The beasts in the cages let loose upon the world, the fires threaten to rise and engulf the land, the innocent, the holy. I am the Sword that shall slice through the flesh of the accused, the muscle and sinew of the damned destined to writhe in the lake of fire. The blood-dimmed tide thrashes, the violent seas will drown us, if it is your will, please allow me time to finish my work on Earth. In your name shall the wicked be snuffed out as candle flames within your fingers, the wind your cry of glory, the screams of the wretched the song of the war against the serpent which swims, cast out, cast from your holy grace. I see them, see their true faces beneath their disguises, cheap parlor tricks to deceive the ignorant, but they do not fool me! Abominations! I see them all around, my fingers twitch, my knuckles crack, fists long to hammer the filth, the cancerous black creatures that slither and leave a trail of putrefaction behind. I shall completely destroy them as you command, leave no breath after the Sword cuts through the wicked, leave no sight after the damned are cut down by my hand, by my hand that acts for you, Lord!

  DESTINY IS WITHIN ME, FOR THE KINGDOM OF GOD LIES WITHIN ME, THE LORD GOD YOU ARE MY SALVATION, YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING, YOU WILL SEE MY WORK ACTED OUT FOR YOU! YOU SEE ALL AND KNOW ALL AND I AM YOUR SWORD ON EARTH SET TO SLICE THROUGH THE HERETICS, THOSE WHO LET PERVERSION AND EVIL DESTROY THEIR VERY SOULS!

  ALL OF THIS I DO FOR YOU, I AM YOUR SWORD, I WILL SLICE THE WRETCHED FLESH OF THE HERETICS, I WILL CHOKE THE LIFE FROM THE DAMNED, I WILL SAW THROUGH THE BONES OF THE WICKED, MY LIFE IS ALL FOR YOU, MY BLOOD IS YOURS TO SHED AS YOU WISH, THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN, I SHALL BE YOUR SWORD!!!

  …

  The little red Toyota Corolla practically lifts from the ground with every heavy gust. The visibility is nil, and she’s got the defroster going, but still has to leave the window open a crack to battle the humidity. She remembers visiting a friend in Arizona once, right outside of Sedona, and marveling at the notion of dry heat, of it being ungodly hot without any moisture in the air. Times like this she wishes she lived in the desert. Normally she looks forward to the drive in; that is most of the drive in until she hits the series of small roads leading to the prison. Navigating the small streets, flanked on either side by pines and oaks, scrub brush and tall grass, there’s that feeling of being out in the open, of being scrutinized. Sarah’s always felt eyes upon her on these roads, one of which abuts the Raft Pines conservation land, and perhaps it’s the lack of homes, businesses, or any other visual reminder of civilization until she hits the gates of the prison, but her paranoia runs rampant.

  Needless to say today, during a terrible rainstorm, Sarah is only a short stroll away from terrified.

  “Oh thank God.”

  She’s never been so relieved to see the gates of the prison. She idles the car, long enough for the guard watching the camera to confirm her license plate, and flick the switch that sets the mechanism in motion which rolls open the gate. She nearly hits the edge of the rolling fence with her fender, swears under her breath, then pulls into a visitor spot.

  …

  They’ve given her the run-around on the phone the past week; she’s asked to speak to the warden many times, and always the same thing, he’s supposedly too busy to talk. They called her a week back, told her Chuck had been remanded to solitary for attacking a prisoner. They denied her the right to see him, said it would “undermine the punishment.”

  She knows without a doubt something terrible is happening/has already happened. Her patient is suffering abuse at the hands of the guards, of the doctor, maybe even the warden. He might be their prisoner, but that didn’t mean they could violate his basic civil rights. He was still a person just like anyone else, and deserved to be treated with the same compassion and respect.

  Today she finally gets to see Chuck. She’s scheduled the anger management group for after their session, straying from her normal schedule. It’s important she see Chuck as soon as possible.

  …

  Before arriving she’d thought it would be a relief to see Chuck after his absence. Relief is the last word she’d use at present. The man who sits before her, that man terrifies her. And it’s more than his nose, the flesh bruised, clearly broken a week before, a white wrap protecting the break. No, it’s more than this, but she can’t even pinpoint how he’s any different than before.

  It’s his whole aura, it’s… different.

  Ridiculous terms for a social worker to think in, but she thinks in them, nonetheless.

  “Sarah,” Chuck says, his voice deeper than during their last session.

  She doesn’t think to ask him why he’s speaking with a different tone. It’s all she can do to quell
her fight or flight and not bolt from the room, or grab her chair to defend herself. The person before her is a force of nature. Unbidden, she has the absurd mental image of trying to counsel a tornado.

  “What is it?” Sarah asks him.

  Her spine is stiff in the plastic seat. She feels like a mouse who’s just been spotted by a particularly large house cat.

  “You believe in God, right Sarah?”

  What the hell?

  “Chuck, I think we should-”

  “Answer me,” he commands. Sarah flinches at the menace in his voice.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Oh, this is bad. This is real bad.

  “The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from the sky, and the heavenly bodies will be shaken.”

  “That’s from The Bible, yes?”

  “It’s from Matthew.”

  “Why are you quoting from it?”

  Sarah waits for any sudden movement, any darting in his chair. She has the sense he could snap at any moment. Or rather, snap further: he’s clearly in the grips of psychotic mania.

  “The end times are upon us, Sarah. Soon the Lord God will return, and when he does, he will take you.”

  “I see. How do you know?” she says, playing along, humoring Chuck as it’s the best way to keep herself safe.

  “You have a halo over your head,” he says, matter of fact, the same tone as if he were telling her she had a stain on her shirt.

  “I see.”

  “You’re very lucky you do, too. If you were like the others, I’d have to act as the Sword, and cut you down.” He grins.

  “Hey Dave?” she shouts, eyes locked on Chuck, doing her best to keep the alarm out of her voice.

  “Yeah, Sarah,” the guard says, sounding sleepy at his position by the door.

  “David, I think I’m going to cut Chuck’s session short today.”

  “You have not answered my question, Sarah.”

  Instinctively, she backs her chair away.

  “I’m not sure what I believe, okay Chuck.”

  “Well he believes in you,” the big man says, his eyes shadowed in their sockets. His smile is cold.

  Sarah has empathy, but one thing her colleagues and training have taught her is to trust her instincts above all else. Protecting herself is more important than a patient, no matter what.

  The guard motions with his head in the direction of the door, and Chuck cooperates, is even pleasant, telling the guard “yes, let’s head back, I’m getting hungry.”

  Before he leaves though, Chuck places a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.” He squeezes gently, at least he seems like he’s not exerting much effort, but even a light squeeze from this man feels like her shoulder is locked in a vise-grip of flesh and bone.

  As he touches her images flash through her mind. Chuck with his hands on an inmate’s head, a vicious jerk of his arms and the prisoner’s neck snaps, an awful crack. Great white wings unfurling behind him: angel’s wings stained with blood.

  “Come on big guy, let’s go,” David says, placing a hand tentatively on Chuck’s shoulder.

  The large man walks away, looks back at Sarah and mouths the words “see you later.” Sarah plans to follow up with the new doctor, with the warden, with whoever she needs to.

  But not today. Absolutely not today.

  I’m having my anger management group, then I’m getting the fuck out of here.

  …

  Chuck feels the electricity in his veins. Today is the day. He knows it. Now is the time.

  The Sword shall finally swing.

  He gets up from his seat beside Jeff, fork in hand. Jeff murmurs some vague protestation he doesn’t bother to listen to.

  He walks with purpose to the Aryan Brotherhood table. The two X’s in blood across Jacob’s eyes let him know this man’s fate is deserved.

  Jacob stands on his approach. The skin of his cheeks begins to bubble as it catches fire, revealing the true skin beneath. Leathery red skin, that of a demon, spawn of The Serpent.

  “What the fuck do you want, nutjob?”

  “Your eye offends me.”

  Jacob has the eye of a snake, yellow with a diamond shaped pupil.

  “What?”

  Chuck swings the fork with all the power he’s accrued over the hours and days, training his body for this exact moment. The tines penetrate the meat of Jacob’s right eye, and he can hear a squelch as the cornea pops. Jelly begins to ooze that looks like clear hair gel.

  The noise Jacob makes as he falls to the ground is a hideous sound, but then, so is the vengeance of The Lord.

  I am his Vengeance, his instrument, his weapon.

  The wings unfurl from his shoulders. The strength of God pushes him forward. All about the cafeteria is pandemonium. Chuck sees the fallen ones, those who would trespass against God. Sees their bodies catch fire to reveal the beasts within, the horns sprouting from their foreheads, cloven hooves poking out from their shoes.

  He finds Mike, grabs his head in both hands, and snaps his neck.

  The sirens begin, the song mixing with the sweet melody of Heaven which now plays, as he throws an inmate, a demon, into the wall; pushing through the hordes, the guards shouting at him to stop, but there’s far too much work to be done, can’t they see?

  Of Course they can’t, Chuck. You are the Sword on Earth. They are but men. You commune with the Creator. You are The Chosen. You are here to do his bidding!

  The riot has surged in earnest as he makes his way out of the cafeteria, towards the cell blocks. The cacophony in his wake is somehow muted by the little girl ahead of him.

  “You’re doing great! Let’s keep going!”

  “The great vengeance.” he says, cracking his knuckles.

  …

  An hour ago Terrence subbed out with David to guard her anger management group. Sarah thinks of the small talk she can make with him once the session is over. She thinks of taking him up on that offer of a drink from earlier, of maybe taking him back to her place, or vice versa. She pictures the two of them making love, on her bed.

  It’s terrible, she knows, but she’s completely zoning out as Aaron goes on about how he struggles to keep from getting angry when he’s trying to watch the news, to hear about the OJ trial, when the other inmates take the remote from him to change the channel.

  “That must be frustrating,” she says, and even she can hear how disingenuous she sounds. Aaron shoots her a look, and she smiles sheepishly.

  Sirens ring out and it’s as if everything shifts into slow motion. Terrence looks to her, then immediately over to the inmates around her. They slowly begin to rise.

  “All of you stay the fuck put!”

  Over his radio, garbled static and hissing followed by frantic words, “riot in the cafeteria.” Terrence checks his belt, confirms his baton and mace clipped are clipped there.

  Sarah knows what will happen before it starts. Behind Terrence, in the hall, she hears screaming: the din of violence unfolding.

  I have to get out of here. Jesus Christ, I have to get the out of here.

  Terrence runs next to her. “It’s going to be all right,” he says.

  “Has this ever happened here before?”

  “Never while I’ve been working. But they train us for this.”

  “What are you supposed to do?”

  “We wait until the Staties come. In the meantime we escort people like you off to safety.”

  “Okay. Okay, that’s good.”

  “Things are going to be fine, Sarah. Trust me.”

  The sirens abruptly cut off, and the lights turn out.

  “You were saying?”

  The flashlight beam blinds her, but she’s glad of the light. She can hear the prisoners behind her mumbling to each other, and she knows it’s nothing good.

  Sarah feels for her keys in her pocket, remembers the defense classes she took, how the instructor told her to make a fist and have her key sti
cking out between middle and ring fingers.

  She whispers to Terrence, “what the hell are we going to do?”

  “Stay calm, Sarah. Let me see what’s up.”

  Terrence’s walkie-talkie chirps. He asks if anyone can tell him what’s just happened. A guard whose voice Sarah doesn’t recognize speaks.

  “The power’s out.”

  “Well no shit, genius. I meant when the fuck is it going to be back on?”

  “We put a call in, but the storm’s bad outside.”

  “Yeah, and having a prison riot without power is worse. I need answers.”

  “You’ll get yours,” the guard says.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Terrence asks, but the other guard is done talking. In the flashlight’s glow she can see the confusion on Terrence’s face. It terrifies her.

  Sarah’s position comes into sharp focus, clearer than before. Trapped inside Farmington Correctional during a riot, with no lights. The stuff of nightmares. Literally, she’s had a terrible dream about a situation just like this, and save for the enormous jack in the box with the handle she cranked until an enormous little girl popped out laughing, this is too close for comfort.

  Sarah assumes the guard’s have keys to the gates, or rather she hopes they do, she really really hopes they do. The fact remains there are dangerous men in the darkness, and dangerous men in the room.

  How odd, the power she once felt, the authority and assuredness she was safe here; that nothing bad could or would ever really happen; it’s vanished so quickly, as the illusion it always was. The perception of stability, of being safe from harm, it was always a lie.

  She’s never been safe. Now she’s even less so.