by Logan Ryles
Without another word, Rigo disappeared into his cell. A hard nightstick rapped against Reed’s shoulder, and one of the guards snapped from behind.
“Move it, 4371. Lights out in ten!”
Reed stomped back up the steps, casting a quick look back as he went. At the end of the cellblock, beneath the roofline high above, a narrow window provided light and a limited view of the yard outside. Just past the main rec field, a tall fence topped with razor wire separated the yard from the one next to it. Across that small field, nestled next to another fence, was an identical block building, topped with an A-frame roof. It was dark and brooding, with a short row of bold letters painted on the exterior wall: CELLBLOCK E.
As he settled into his bed, Reed allowed himself to embrace a moment of confidence. This could be his chance—a one in a million shot at freedom. The government would give him life behind bars, at best. He remembered the short man in the pinstripe suit—his suave appearance and quiet confidence.
“Don’t question yourself, Reed. Paul Choc deserves to die. He’s done unspeakably evil things. You have the opportunity to execute justice for his victims, and we have the power to reward you for it.”
Reed closed his eyes and relaxed. He was going to do it. He was going to prosecute the man they called Blazer.
Seven
“You seen my stamps, man?”
Reed lay on the bottom bunk. The underside of Stiller’s mattress was brown, stained, and sagged in the middle. The thin outlines of support wires that crossed on the other side of the fabric were barely strong enough to keep the abused mattress from collapsing onto the bottom bunk.
“Something dropped off your bed last night. I don’t know what it was.”
Stiller hopped down from his bunk and poked his head under Reed’s. A moment later he reappeared with a small pile of stamps and folded bills clamped between his fingers. Reed had already removed the cigarettes but couldn’t do anything about the missing cash or baseball card.
“Dude.” Stiller broke into a quick laugh. “I didn’t realize I had this many!”
Redirecting his attention to the bottom of the mattress, Reed studied the crisscross lines of wires. He chewed his bottom lip, twisting his fingers beneath his head.
Ten hours. I have less than ten hours.
“Hey, Still. Do the guys from E Block ever come over here?”
Stiller was busy shoving his inflated treasure back into the envelope. “I dunno, man. E Block is for the troublemakers. Surprised they haven’t sent you over there yet.”
Of course. And I could stir up more trouble and make them send me over there, but I don’t have time for a visit to solitary in between.
Reed pulled one of the smokes from his pocket and stuck it between his lips, biting into the paper and sucking the flavor of the nicotine out of the dry tobacco.
“Their yard is next to ours,” Reed said. “Nothing but a chain-link fence separating us. You have to see them during rec sometimes.”
Stiller shook his head. “I told you, man. They’re troublemakers. Guards never let them out at the same time as us.”
Reed suppressed a curse and closed his eyes. There has to be a way. “Do they ever transfer guys over to E Block? I mean, temporarily?”
Stiller flopped back onto his bunk and unrolled the same cooking magazine, starting at page one. “Dude, I don’t know. Why do you care so much about E Block? Trust me, you don’t wanna be over there.”
Reed sank his teeth deeper into the cigarette, cutting through the paper and exposing the tobacco. The sting of the drug seeped onto his tongue, and he imagined the vapor filling his lungs, flooding his body, and bringing welcome relief. What he wouldn’t have given for a lighter. Of course, no lighters were allowed—no fire of any kind—making the cigarettes an odd and pointless commodity in the strange and volatile marketplace of prison trade.
Just a little flame. Just enough to light up an ember and generate a good cloud of smoke.
Reed’s eyes snapped open. He stood up and flipped the cigarette into the toilet, then walked to the closed cell door, peering out and up toward the ceiling. He could see the air vents lined up high above, pouring warm air into the dank prison block. Far below, on the first floor, nestled in the corner next to the main gate, another grill was bolted to the blocks. But this one wasn’t a vent; it was an air return where all the smelly, used air was sucked out and filtered through the climate control unit before being pumped back into each cellblock.
Reed wrapped his fingers around the bars, his eyes fixed on the air return. For the first time since being shoved off the prison bus, the tension faded from his stomach, and his muscles relaxed.
Perfect.
Darkness descended over the prison, broken only by the systematic rhythm of boots as the guards conducted their circuits. Reed lay awake on the bottom bunk, listening to Stiller snore. As the minutes drained into hours, the snores became deeper and more relaxed, blending with the creak of the wind against the metal roof far above.
Every twenty minutes, a CO passed the entrance to their cell, casting a lazy glance over the occupants before moving on. Reed lay perfectly still, counting each second in his mind and matching the beat of the boots with the tick of a nonexistent clock. The method wasn’t perfect, and neither were the circuits. Sometimes the CO would pass five minutes early, and sometimes ten minutes late. Sometimes his boots rang sharp and clear against the floor, and sometimes he slipped up in front of the cell with a lazy creep that was all but silent.
Reed didn’t think the tactical advantages of this irregular method were intentional. More than likely, the CO was simply tired and bored and conducting his job at random to keep himself awake. Either way, it made Reed’s task that much harder.
Slipping his fingers under the thin sheets, Reed felt along the edge of his cheap commercial mattress. It was made entirely of foam, but not the fancy kind. More like the kind you find in the seat of a tractor: thick, yellow, and spongy, encased in a thick waterproof sleeve that looked like the tarpaulins FEMA spreads over busted roofs after a hurricane. Along the bottom edge of the mattress, a seam ran in the tarp, manufactured of thick stitches and plastic rolled on top of itself in a thick strip. As Reed ran his hand along the seam, he twisted the plastic beneath his fingers, gratified to find it stiff and inflexible—a little too inflexible for plastic alone.
The swish of pant legs echoed down the balcony. Reed froze and closed his eyes, waiting for the guard to pass. He counted to a hundred just to be certain, then rolled sideways and leaned over the side of the bed. The plastic tasted like sweat, grime, and pure body odor between his teeth. He bit down on the seam, grinding it in his mouth with increasing pressure, and pulling on the plastic with both hands. His stomach convulsed, and he wanted to vomit, but he kept chewing—another bite, and then a twist. The plastic tore and slid back, exposing a thin wire core with the thickness of a coat hanger, but more flexible.
Reed spat plastic and saliva and twisted his fingers around the wire. It was perfect—malleable but strong—and made out of cheap steel. He slipped his fingers into the hole of the plastic and tore it back, exposing a wide section of dirty yellow foam and several inches of the wire. Careful pressure with his fingers caused the wire to bend around the bed frame. Reed rolled the wire and bent it in the opposite direction, back and forth, until it finally snapped under the heat and friction. He tore the seam another few feet down the length of the mattress, masking the ripping of the plastic with Stiller’s violent snores, then repeated the process of bending the wire until he broke off a three-foot section. It was flimsy in his hands, but the weight and strength were sufficient. He coiled the wire around his fingers, being careful not to bend it too harshly, then slipped it into his pocket.
The foam felt as dirty as it looked, sticking to his fingers as he pulled it apart. Little chunks broke free of the mattress and filled his hands, leaving smudges of grease and grime on his palms. Reed pressed handfuls of the petroleum product into his jumpsuit,
packing it in around his waist. It was hot and sticky next to his body and filled his nostrils with the stench of more body odor. He wrinkled his nose and zipped the coveralls shut, then rested his head against the pillow.
A full six hours remained between him and the morning wakeup call, and eight hours left until the deadline.
It has to be enough.
The cell door shrieked back on its hinges, grinding under the whine of the electric motor. Reed’s eyes snapped open, and he propped himself up on his elbows. The lights that snapped on blazed without the familiar scream of COs shouting, “Lights! Lights!” Something was wrong.
The footsteps that filled the air like the rumble of a freight train were much louder than usual. Dozens of metallic shrieks ripped through the silence as more cell doors were electrically opened, followed by the squeal of the intercom from the ceiling high above.
“All prisoners, fall out! Assemble on ground level! Fall out!”
Reed peered out over the railing to the lower level, where no less than forty COs gathered around the bottom units and shoved prisoners out of their beds and onto the floor. Another twenty guards were pounding their way directly toward him.
“What is this?” Reed shouted.
Stiller stumbled out of bed, yawning. “Shakedown, dude. They do it once or twice a month. Checking for contraband.”
Shakedown. Shit.
“All prisoners! Fall out!”
Stiller hit the floor. “Let’s go, man. Get to the ground floor.”
The mattress was barely covered by the blanket, leaving the hole where Reed had dug the foam and wire out partially exposed and easy to find.
“Dude, let’s go! You don’t want to be here when they are.”
Reed stumbled out onto the balcony, his legs feeling suddenly wobbly. He joined the long line of sleepy prisoners listening to the guards shouting and turning the cells upside down. As he stepped off the stairs and onto the main floor, Milk caught him by the arm. “I’m coming for you, bitch.”
Reed jerked away and pressed into the crowd of prisoners gathering around the far end of the cellblock. Most looked half-awake, only half wore shoes, and the fat ones had their coveralls tied around their waists, exposing broad and sweaty chests.
“Let’s go, cons! Against the wall!”
Reed forced his way to the back of the crowd, feeling his shoulders rammed against the blocks as the entire population of the cellblock pushed him backward. He inched his way sideways along the wall, feeling with his right hand until his fingers closed around a hard metal edge—the frame of the air return.
The leg of his coveralls clung to the surface of the vent as the heating unit sucked sordid air back into the conduits. Like the rest of the prison, the surface of the grate was grimy to the touch, but there was a full one-inch gap between the slats. Reed pushed himself downward, kneeling against the wall before he dug inside his coveralls. The noise inside the cellblock became deafening—a combination of shouting guards and grumbling prisoners. The suffocating smell of body odor was overwhelming at this height, but nobody noticed him. Nobody looked down as Reed shoved wads of mattress foam between the slats and into the mouth of the air return.
Where are the Latinos? I need the Latinos.
He pressed the last wad of foam through the grill and stood up again. Nobody had noticed, but when he looked down at the grill, the pile of foam was clearly visible. Smaller chunks of the mattress had already disappeared inside the conduit, sucked away by the pressure of the returning air, but a sizable mound remained behind, lying just on the other side of the slats.
Reed grabbed the nearest prisoner by the sleeve and gave it a soft jerk. “Hey, where are the Latinos?”
The big man glared at him then jerked the sleeve free and stumbled off. Fighting his way through the packed crowd, Reed shoved elbows and thick arms aside as he searched for the shorter crowd of men from the day before. The shout of guards and grumble of the prisoners grew louder in his ears, pounding in a constant chorus. Each breath of the filthy prison clogged his lungs.
Reed saw the ringleader first: short with curly black hair and wiry brown arms—the stuff of south LA—every bit the hardened gangster. He pushed through two more half-naked convicts and tugged on Rigo’s sleeve. “Amigo.”
The short man spun on him. “Who you calling amigo, gringo?”
Reed brushed the bluster aside and leaned down to make himself heard over the ruckus. “I need your lighter. You can have everything from yesterday. Everything I won.”
Rigo wrapped his fingers into fists and took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, white boy, but you better clear out of here before I put a hurt on your ass.”
Reed gritted his teeth. “Look, dude. Nobody carries that many smokes without a flame. I know you’ve got one, and I know you’ve got it on you. You wouldn’t leave it in your cell during a shakedown.”
Rigo shook his head. “Move along, white boy. If you know what’s good for you—”
“Number 4371!” The voice boomed out from the second floor, cascading over the crowd with all the terror of a direct thunderclap. Reed’s mouth went dry. A guard stood outside his cell, bellowing into a bullhorn. The man’s face blazed red, and he searched the crowd below him.
“Number 4371! Fall out!”
“Oh no, white boy.” Rigo’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Looks like you got busted.”
Panicked adrenaline surged through Reed’s body. He whirled back around and grabbed Rigo by the neck, pulling him in close before driving his fist full force into the Latino’s jaw. Bone met bone with a sharp crack, and blood sprayed across Reed’s white jumpsuit. Somebody shouted, and chaos erupted.
Reed grabbed the collar of Rigo’s jumpsuit and ripped it open, pulling it down over his shoulder before running his hand down Rigo’s back and feeling between his butt cheeks. His fingers closed around the hard edge of the lighter. Though barely conscious, Rigo spluttered and tried to fight. Reed swept his feet out from under him, then turned and launched himself back into the crowd. The COs shouted. The bullhorn blared. Every noise bounced and echoed off the bare walls as though the entire prison were caught in a giant blender and Reed was slipping toward the blades.
He slid to his knees at the grate, ground his finger against the wheel of the Zippo lighter, and waited for the flame to dance. The metal fins of the air grate sliced into his skin, drawing blood as he pressed the lighter through the vent and onto the pile of greasy petroleum foam.
Bright light and heat washed over Reed’s face, singing his eyebrows and sending him stumbling backward. He fought to regain his balance, but his right foot slipped, and he crashed onto his tailbone as fresh clouds of smoke billowed into the air return.
“Number 4371! Show us your hands!”
Eight
The snarling, acne-covered guard closed his hand around Reed’s arm, but Reed pulled himself free, launching himself back into the crowd and hiding amid the packed prisoners as the COs closed in on all sides. The bullhorn barked, and fresh guards burst into the cellblock. Reed ducked and tried to push himself farther into the crowd, but the attempt was futile; nothing could clear the way, and there was no room to move.
Reed tipped his head back, gazing at the ceiling where rows of AC vents lined the exposed ductwork. A trace of smoke escaped the suck of the air return, wafting toward the ceiling. A moment later, the shrieking ring of the fire alarm overtook the blare of the bullhorn. Red lights flashed from the ceiling, and panic overwhelmed the entire prison.
“Fall into line. Fall in, convicts!”
Reed pressed himself behind a short man with one ear, ducking low to avoid detection. The COs crowded around the prisoners, shoving them toward the hallway that led into the yard and pushing them along with snapping shouts and the connecting of nightsticks against concrete.
“Evacuate Block D! All convicts, move into the yard!”
The commands were barely audible over the scream of the alarm. Ducking and stumblin
g through the door and into the yard, Reed shielded himself against the mass of swinging body parts around him. The yard was still clothed in the inky black of the early morning hours. Even the spotlights of the towers were directed elsewhere, back onto the roof of Block D as the guards searched for the source of the smoke.
Reed turned away from the crowd and walked toward the fence near E Block’s yard. He waited, drumming his knuckles against his thigh as he stared at the sister block standing tall and dark under the black sky. The moments that ticked by felt like hours. He placed his hand against the chain-link and dug his toes into the mud. The air smelled crisp and clean, but there was still the undertone of dirty bodies from the cage designed to house them all until the end of time.
Red light flashed from the upper windows of the cellblock, and another fire alarm shrieked, this one ringing from inside E Block’s walls. An unknown thrill, a rush he had never felt before, washed through his veins. It wasn’t excitement or even nervousness; it was vindication—the sort of self-justice you feel when against all odds, you got something right.
Prisoners poured out of E Block. They stumbled into one another, groggy and confused, leaning forward and rubbing their eyes as a smaller group of COs evacuated them. They dispersed into the yard, looking for places to sit while they awaited their return to bed. Reed scanned each face in the crowd, searching for any sign of a Latino, checking every arm for the eagle tattoo. Because of the white jumpsuits, most arms were obscured from view, and those that were exposed were too wreathed in shadow to be discernible.
Then he saw him: short with bulging muscles and a bald head, his sleeves torn off, revealing thick arms covered in tattoos; but on the left one, just beneath his elbow, was the feathery face of a screaming bald eagle wreathed in fire.