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Panicked guards shout and scream for every prisoner to return to their cells immediately.
“Don’t walk,” one of them barks, “fucking run.”
A couple of the guards speak into their chest-mounted radios, presumably to the guards stationed in the four corner towers. An alarm sounds. It’s the alarm for everyone to “return home,” as Blood would put it.
Moving the general population from one area to another is always a dangerous proposition in any prison. But in an ultra-max, where most of the clientele, if you’ll excuse my verbiage, consists of psycho killers and child rapists, the move is an especially dangerous one. This is the time when you were most likely to get shivved in the back or in the gut. That’s why you must grow eyes in the back of your head. Otherwise, if someone has their eyes on you for any reason...any reason at all...such as you simply looked them in the eye for way too long, they would use the wave of prisoners as the perfect cover to open you up like a tuna can.
“You keep your eyes out on the right flank,” Blood insisted as we all jogged almost in lockstep. “I look left. We both keep an eye out on what’s happening behind us.”
It’s because of the perpetual danger from stabbings that the guards on duty inside an ultra-max are allowed not only to wear full, black military-grade protective gear, including Kevlar vests and crotch protection, but they also wear jackboots and helmets equipped with protective face shields. Their hands are covered with tactical gloves, which means their knuckles are protected with a thick plastic that can easily break your skin when it connects with it in the form of a round-house blow, or a swift uppercut.
More importantly, the guards are allowed to arm themselves with AR-15s. They’re also allowed to carry 9mm sidearms, smoke grenades, stun guns, plus smoke and concussion grenades on their thick, black utility belts. It’s a surprising move on the part of the prison owners because all it takes for a prisoner or prisoners to arm themselves is to surround just one guard, tear him from limb to limb, and steal his arms and armament.
Blood and I are smart enough to make our way along the left-hand concrete wall. That is, as close as we’re allowed to hug it. A thick yellow line stripe painted down the center of the battleship gray-painted floor indicates where each inmate is to position himself while walking, although many men veer from it, including Blood and me. The guards don’t seem to mind either. They know we were not only survivors inside this ultra-max, but that we could take out anyone who dares try and take us out.
Blood and I believe it’s the same situation with the guards. Sure, they’re well armed, but like I said, in lots of ways, carrying guns makes them more of a target. They’re also grossly outnumbered which makes matters one hell of a lot worse. What it means is, one or two of them has made sure to befriend us.
One of them is a short dude by the name of Arty. He claims to have served in several wars as a C47 gunner and retired to the state prison system in Upstate New York. When he heard about the opening at The Oven and that it paid twice what he was making at Sing Sing or whatever hell hole he’d been spending his days and nights in, he jumped at the chance.
While Blood and I jog our way to Gen Pop where our cell is located, Arty caught up to us.
“What the hell do you think that thing was that killed Dave Smith?” he asks, his voice tight and anxious.
“Who’s Dave Smith, Arty?” I say.
“The guard...the guard that...that...that thing dragged down into the basement,” he says. “That monster that’s probably swallowing chunks of him as we speak.”
“What’s it look like to you, Arty?” Blood asks.
“Like, like, like...an alligator,” he says. “Only one fucking hell of a lot bigger.”
“Then that be what it is,” Blood says.
“I come from Upstate New York,” Arty adds. “I ain’t never seen anything like that before. Do those things really get that big?”
“Even bigger,” I lie. “And you can’t stop them. They’re like Godzilla. A prehistoric, hungry, angry freak of nature. Maybe it came from out of the bowels of a nearby nuclear power plant. Maybe by morning, we’ll all be dead. Torn to shreds.”
“What the fuck are you saying, Steele?” the guard nervously says.
“Arty,” I say. “I hope you’re not working the action shift tonight. Because once it’s lights out and this prison goes dark, you’re gonna start to hear some real screams.”
“What my cellmate is tryin’ to tell you Arty,” Blood adds, “is that the gator...the Max Gator...is going to go hunting. He’s nocturnal by nature, which means he hasn’t even begun to feed on his prey. And man oh man, do they love human flesh or what, Harry?”
“That they do, Blood,” I say.
Inside Gen Pop, Blood and I approach the metal stairs that led to the second level of the circular, concrete walled area.
“Good luck tonight, Arty,” I say, taking the stairs two at a time. “You’re gonna need it.”