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fiction: serial fiction
faraway: chapter eight
The sound of guard boots moving through the hall mingled with hushed conversations. All non-security related staff were confined to quarters, and there wasn't much activity about the darkened halls, punctuated with flashlight beams and quiet concern. The expected wave of human flesh against the battlements at the four general access doorways into the prison proper had not come, the battlements unmolested, which really threw everyone "inside" out. A joke was running around that Faraway had turned the tables, and now the jailers prayed for parole.
Stuart Grayson stood next to Keniston Spaulding looking over the darkened expanse of the exercise yard from what was once Spaulding's office, near Faraway's largely perfunctory Situation Room. Each held a handgun loosely in his right hand, and held that hand behind his back by the wrist. Contrary to their earlier hopes, it was almost impossible to see anything on the yard from here, with the loss of lighting. Vaguely, they perceived shifting shapes here and there, but nothing concrete enough to draw a bead on, let alone fire on.
"Two days, Ken," Grayson said grimly.
"This defies logic," Spaulding responded.
They stood for a while, saying nothing.
"I honestly don't know what they're going to do," Spaulding sighed. "I've analyzed the opposition's mind my entire life, and I'm confounded by a born-and-bred insurrectionist and a twentieth century throwback."
"You're sure they're the cause of the quiet?" Grayson asked, eyes slitted as he tried to hone in on anything down in the dark. "That it's not just mingling with the women convicts?"
"Thousands upon thousands of convicted felons are down there, without discipline," Spaulding said grimly. "Their jailers are, in effect, jailed just above them. The idea that they would voluntarily choose to do nothing in light of these facts, especially without food, is insane, women or no women. Someone has imposed control down there. If it's not Collins or Damu at the root of this, then the dreaded and unknown El Mysterioso has risen to hold sway, which is an even scarier option. Collins and Damu have intimate knowledge of the 'whys' here, at least. All I know is El Mysterioso is male and Latino, and his lack of public gaudiness lets me know he doesn't follow traditional psychological patterns there, so he's a complete X factor. Hnh. I should have just killed them both instead of treating this like a chess game."
More silence.
With some trepidation, Grayson asked, "Was it really the right idea to move in the White Knights?"
Spaulding rubbed the bridge of his nose and shrugged. "I'll need as many of them viable as possible to negotiate with these brainless hatemongers we have coming to save us. They'd be outnumbered and woefully outgunned in whatever kind of chaos exists down there. Besides, there's no way we could negotiate with the ones down there."
"How's your man Simpson?" Grayson wondered.
"Feeling your rank today, Stuart?" Spaulding chuckled, glancing at the older man. "He's doing surprisingly well. Adapting quickly to the new routines, meticulous, detail oriented, organized. He's the center of our efforts here, and even managed to squeeze and extra two weeks out of our initial estimates."
"So he's all right."
Spaulding let out a short laugh, like a bark. "Oh, god no, he's as mad as a hatter. His psychosis has been temporarily sublimated in the demands of the time. I examined his quarters while he was on duty -- he's taken to throwing tantrums, and has caused literally thousands of dollars of damage to the suite. Lots of extra training sessions. I'd assume no one will spar with him. I hope he can hang on until I can get him into a less explosive environment."
"Three months," Grayson nodded.
Together, they stared into the darkness.
• • •
When the locks that closed off the women's populace clicked open, Nosalira Sampson was waiting. Her last chat session with the mysterious Azure, months before, foretold of this day of darkness, and what to do. She'd chatted up some of the more dangerous prisoners she knew -- killers, burglars, and the like -- and gotten them to see some kind of reason. The soft "click" was audible enough to the four women waiting by the door.
"Explain to me why this leads to something I'll care about?" said a burly Latina, her red headband stained with sweat and rippling arms stretching from her torn brown tank top.
"I'm getting tired of going over this, Juanita," Lira said "The power just went out, like I said it would. There's five outbound doors in the women's section, and four of them we know lead to the prison staff or solitary. This is the only door we don't know, and the only one that could lead to a place for male prisoners. Male prisoners, aside from being men, are armed and looking for a way out of this hellhole or at least to some food and comfort. That sound better than the slop and thin stew we've been dealing with the last few weeks?"
The big woman Juanita Cruz seemed to ponder this a moment before nodding slowly. "Aight, chica, I just wanna be sure. C'mon Rochelle, help me get this door."
The two women strained against the steel doorway a few moments before it started to give, pushing outwards inch by inch, and past it one could make out grainy gray light filtering towards the quartet.
"Whoever you are," a nervous male voice said from around the door, "you'd better not be f**kin' guards, because you're dead!" Rochelle and Juanita paused and looked towards Lira.
Lira nodded towards a thin Asian woman who purred, "Oooh, baby, you're not gonna wanna hurt me, me love you so good!"
Silence. Rochelle, a tall Black woman with piercing looks and a shaved head, shrugged and began to push at the door again. Juanita joined in, and soon they had it open, staring down a long hallway and a thin man in a blue prison jumpsuit aiming a pistol and a small flashlight at them.
"We're prisoners, just like you," Lira called out cautiously. "My name is Lira, and we're looking for the guys running the show."
The man lowered the pistol a bit and said, "Lira?" in a faltering voice. "Lira! I'm Azure! Oh wow!"
"Mind not aiming that gun at us, since y'all are such good friends?" Rochelle called towards Jonesy.
Staring incredulously at the gun in his hand, Jonesy shook his head at himself and stuffed the pistol in his jumpsuit. Lira rushed forward and leapt into his arms, kissing him furiously.
Juanita raised an eyebrow and glanced at Rochelle and the Asian woman, Jennifer. Rochelle cleared her throat loudly and Lira was able to tear herself from Jonesy. "This is the guy! This is the one! We are so saved!
"Um, hi," Jonesy said with a wave. "My best friend Ishmael is teamed up with a bunch of other prisoners, and we're basically gonna take over the prison. He let me come to get Lira, but I guess it's cool if you guys wanna come too."
"Go where?" Jennifer spoke up, her voice harder and colder now.
Jonesy looked at the harsh little Asian woman and was reminded of Tommy Chunpakvenn. "Well, after all the big gang leaders meet and agree how they're gonna work together, we're all gonna meet in the yard for something. Are there gangs in your populace?"
"Not like that," Juanita said. "You guys always seem to take it more serious."
"Hm ... well ... if I walk a bunch of girls through, that place could go nuts. Better go through the service passages." Jonesy stepped over to a nearby wall and pounded at it for a moment before he managed to open a small opening secreted in the hallway's structure.
"That's not someting you expect to see," Juanita muttered to Lira as Jonesy climbed inside.
"This'll be fine," Lira smiled. "Just leave the door open, it'll be a good distraction in case something goes wrong."
Shrugging, Juanita watched Lira climb inside the hideyhole, followed by Rochelle and Jennifer, before wedging herself inside as well.
• • •
The showers were the only place big enough for the varied parties to meet with some degree of privacy, so they sat around a single battery powered lantern and waited. Fat Jack Matua, the Samoan warlord, stood by the door smoking a cigarette brazenly. Damu, Munoz and Harata sat side by side opposite the entrance, and Harata chuckled to himself the bad experience he'd had in this self same room, so many months ago.
"They're coming," Summers said from the doorway, stepping aside.
Five Latino men shuffled in together. Damu smiled, recognizing Manuel as one, who nodded amiably. The five Latinos sat down, one near the entrance to the rectangular room, and the rest along the wall. The youngest, no more than thirty and handsome save for a long scar from his forehead to his chin down his left cheek, spoke first.
"Despite our trust in all the parties here," he began, his voice soft and careful, "and our knowledge that the Warden's forces can no longer see us, we need to maintain our veil of secrecy this far. Know that one of us is in fact El Mysterioso, and we each can speak for every single Latino and Native voice in these walls."
Damu nodded slightly. "We respect your needs and appreciate your continued alliance. Our time is here, and we are ready to move to the next phase of taking over."
Manuel raised his hand. "We are interested in knowing your goals for this take over. Exactly what is the plan in hand?"
"Harata has already been filled in, and brought into line even the rebellious Pacific Islander gangs, because it unites us against a common foe." He nodded over at Matua, and continued, saying, "Our good friend Fat Jack there has even taken the few straggling unaligned white prisoners under his wing. Anyway, I'm sure Munoz has communicated as best he can. I will hold nothing back from you."
Damu took a breath, a slight smile on his face, and began to speak. "My father knew that this prison would be virtually impregnible from within and without. He moved our family nearby after construction began. He also knew of plans within plans, that your people inside the prisons and out were allied with the new Brown Beret movement and their plans to throw off the yoke of American oppression. You've spoken of my alliance with Fidel Ruiz, so obviously you know of his work in Cuba and Mexico to bring military power to bear against the US government. It is my belief Fidel, my father, Harjanto Kwon and several others have succeeded in their work, as my father planned. Outside these walls, there is no United States of America. The staff probably see themselves as the last defenders of democracy or something, and it's up to us to turn this into another Alamo. My father's intention in sending me here was to help unify the prisoners within -- people of color and otherwise, if they're in -- and together for all of us to commandeer this prison as a fortress which we will be able to use to further our quest for freedom. Therefore, to satisfy my purpose for being here, we must all work together and we must command this place completely, since there are almost certainly forces on their way to come help us."
Matua, who'd just heard this hours before from Harata, chuckled, his tattoos glistening in the dim light. The five Latin men looked to one another quickly, and Manuel continued. "We have had some ideas about this coalition of forces aligned against a common enemy. Are you certain that they have met with success?"
"I am not certain of anything but my own behavior," Damu grinned ruefully. "However, the fact that it has now been a number of months since the prison staff begin cutting back on supplies and now finally, the power has gone out. The facts don't add up to a 'drill,' so either my father was as right as he almost always was, or this is the most elaborate 'drill' in the history of the Department of Corrections."
The lean older man next to Manuel opened his mouth to speak. "It has been a long time since this land has seen freedom," he said in chopped English. "You'll have to forgive us if this seems too good to believe, and that one such as you could be this well prepared."
"I find it hard to believe myself, some mornings," Damu smiled sadly. "For years I would wake up and look in the mirror and think it was stupid, that my father sent me here to die or to waste my life. A few months ago I got the idea he might have been right. Now I'm a lot closer to certain. I'm actually in the best mood I've had in years, because everything I grew up getting ready for is happening, and I've managed not to screw anything up."
The room rippled with a slight chuckle, before the young Latino spoke again. "Regardless of what larger plans may exist, you are well prepared to lead an insurrection here, and the Order stands with you."
Damu nodded. "Thank you. All that's left is to do is present our unified front to the everyone, which we can do tonight. I hope ..."
A large Black man in a red jumpsuit rushed in, and everyone turned to regard him. He whispered something to Summers and rushed out. Scratching his head, Summers said, "Um, it looks like the female prisoners found their way to us and ... well ..."
"Say no more," Damu said. "That's to be expected, may even help things. Let's see about prepping some of the food we stashed and getting 'our display' ready for us to speak to everybody on the yard."
"Why the yard?" Manuel asked. "Can't the guards see us from there?"
"Part of the plan," Damu replied. "Power ran out before they could install sniper's holes, and we need to send a message of synchronicity to everyone, on our side and against us, without getting shot. Any chance I could get you five to stand with me?"
Manuel replied, "I will come, as will Joseph, the youngest of us. When they see us, the members of the Order will know you speak for us all."
Damu nodded and stood slowly, bowing to the assembled men. "Then let's get ready to put on a show."
• • •
The only sounds were those of murmured conversations, the wet smacking of lips on skin, and fires blazing all over the yard. The majority of the prison populace was collected there, happy to be away from locking doors, happy to have the company of the opposite sex in the quiet dark, happy for the change in the draconian oppression of their daily routines. It hadn't taken long for the open door left by Lira and Jonesy to be discovered by both male and female prisoners, and the corridor became awash with people rushing to and fro in one section and out of another. The main yard, with its larger size, had come to collect most of the people in the prison, and word was going around that this is where something big was gonna happen.
From the dark corridors came the rumble of marching footsteps and a rhythmic chant.
"Hold up, WAIT A MINUTE, hold up, WAIT A MINUTE ..."
The varied prisoners stopped what they were doing and observed as a tightly disciplined line of armed prisoners, Damu at the front, emerged from the west hallway carrying torches.
The line marched, still chanting, sixty men deep, towards the east wall, and ended up directly below Spaulding's office, just out of line of vision from that window. Half of them carried large poles (salvaged from the laundry and the chip assembly room), with the corpses of guards hanging loosely as they marched. The torches cast a haunted glow on the area, and people squinted to see what was going on.
The chanting stopped when they reached that spot, and only the synchronized bootsteps could be heard, settling into a formation. Damu stepped out front and the others formed three lines of twenty, with Harata, Matua and the men from the Order prominently in front, feet shoulder width apart, torches in left hands and right arms behind backs. Slowly, people began to move towards this formation and encircle, quietly listening.
Damu raised his torch high and paced in front of the formation of men. When he was certain all eyes were locked on him, he stood still and began to speak.
"The prison does not exist," he said loudly, letting the words sink in for a beat. "We are no longer prisoners. It is within our power to remake this place into something better. The power is off. A whole lotta racist white prisoners have been removed from our presence. The guards hide behind their battlements. You are not confined to your cells. That is because the government that convicted us and shipped us here no longer exists.
He paused to smile, and gaze out over the disheveled mass of men and woman, looking expectantly at him, as he'd been told they would. "I am very pleased to be here, speaking to all of you," he said, somewhat softer, causing many to lean in to hear. A bit louder, he continued, "I want to thank you for helping us out and not rioting and not going nuts, and we will continue to keep our promises, and keep you fed and well taken care of. There'll be a meal after we're done here. I'm pleased to be speaking to you because it means that things are changing.
"Right now, an army of people like us -- people who've had hard times, people of color, people of conviction -- is coming here, to let us out of this place and let us go wherever we want. They will then live here, changing this prison into a fortress. To make that happen, we'll have to be in complete control of this place, and to do that we have to work together and we have to not screw up. That doesn't mean working the 9 hour shifts we all did, slaves for corporations. That doesn't mean not enjoying the company of the women and men we each never suspected were here. It does mean following orders. The main Black, Asian and Latino gangs are already aligned, and we hope any remaining independants will see the logic of working together for a time, which could be a few months, to get out of here. Considering everyone here is probably a lifer, I think 'months' seems like a walk in the park."
A small chuckle rippled through the crowd, and Damu raised his torch again. "I will call on many of you, soon, to enter the guards' quarters. You will be motivated to destroy, to kill, and so on. You'll be free to do so if that's your thing. You'll even be armed by then. Today, and the next few days, I will be taking some of the gentlemen you see behind me to soften up the resistance. Now, some of you have notice the White Knights are not with us -- they've aligned themselves with the guards, and now live with the guards. That doesn't mean anything to the rest of the white prisoners -- they're in this with us, and none of them should be punished for the stupid ideas of a bunch of losers we will more than likely kill. It's important to be clear -- everyone here can either fight to take over this prison and be free or get the hell out of the way, because the guards aren't taking informants anymore and can't come in to stop us. This is The Way of The Circle, and either you're part of the solution or you're probably in a world of trouble.
"If you just stick with us for a while, and don't do anything crazy like riot amongst yourselves, we can keep you fed, two squares a day, and set you free inside of a year. I guarantee that." He paused and looked around, catching the eye of as many as he could see before asking loudly, "Can we do this?"
Fists flew in the air and a roar of approval echoed through the yard. Damu nodded and stepped back into formation, and marched his men back towards the west hallway. Cheers and applause followed them, and as they exited, another group of men entered with packages of food and water bottles. There was a moment of fear, as the former prisoners rushed in and grabbed at the piles of food, but two solitary gunshots, fired at the ceiling by Damu, ultimately quieted the crowd and reminded them of the "why" and the "how." After that, everyone lined up in an orderly fashion, and everyone got fed.
Overhead, Keniston Spaulding watched with great concern.
• • •
Rayner sealed his door behind him and pulled off his duty cap, letting his unruly mop of jet black hair fall about his ears. He was glad to be back in his quarters after twelve hours on shift, and glad to have the set of candles his sister had sent him for his birthday, more than two years before. At the time, he thought it was a stupid thing to send him, but with power rationing it allowed him to continue his art, which was all that mattered to him in this dark, quiet place that seemed to get smaller every day. It had been five days since the convocation of prisoners in the main hall, and Spaulding had everyone on shift-and-a-half, so Rayner was dog tired and needed to work out his frustrations. He quietly lit a number of candles, set them around the table, and sat down on one of the unfinished wood benches to examine the drawings he'd left before work.
Before he had come to babysit the Secretary, Rayner had been drawing a humorous comic strip. Large representations of the characters were plastered to his walls -- an anthropomorphized schnauzer, a buxom and ditzy blonde, and so on. Recently, he got the idea to do a more politically charged strip, about heroic soldiers. The sturdy men in gray uniforms held assault rifles at the ready, their chiseled chins and grim expressions following the viewer.
Rayner frowned at the stack of drawings on his desk. It wasn't as much fun as his wacky cartoon. He sighed, wondering if this sort of thing would help the kids settle in, or even could be used outside the prison as positive American imagery. Maybe even get him a nice, cushy DOC job away from all this danger, somewhere behind a desk. Shrugging off his duty jacket, he grabbed one of Warden Spaulding's incredibly helpful pencils and sat down to work.
"You're really quite good," a voice said from behind him.
Rayner's head popped up, and a quizzical expression crossed his face. He turned slowly to see a tall, muscular Asian man, wearing a battered guard's uniform, resting on his couch. The Asian man was aiming an assault rifle at him.
"My little cousin Hiro was one of the best young anime artists in Japan," Harata said, gesturing the barrel of the weapon towards the art. "He used to show me some great turn of the century comic book stuff, Alex Ross, Vince Moore, Ed McGuinness, Joel Gomez ... your talents are wasted here."
Rayner said nothing, his eyes trained on the gun.
"Oh, this?" Harata laughed. "This you shouldn't worry about at all. Too loud. Now, my friend on your right, well, him ... you might wanna worry about."
Rayner glanced to his right and jumped with a gasp. A stocky Latino man was standing no more than three feet away from him, poised in a fighting stance, holding a wicked looking survival knife in each fist.
"Yeah," Harata smirked. "He's the one you might have problems with. How fast are you?"
"What?" Rayner managed, eyes unable to move from the gleaming blades poised so close, so close ...
"Drawing," Harata said quietly, leaning back on the unadorned sofa opposite Rayner. "Do you take a long time to do things, or can you draw sketches fast?"
"Um, I'm actually kinda fast." Rayner was seriously confused, but somehow talking about art seemed to calm him down, at least a little.
"Good. I'd like you to draw two identical pictures of me and my friend, side by side. I'll let you keep one, and one I'm going to save, hoping I'll get to give it to my cousin."
Rayner cocked his head to the left, unsure of what was going on. "Why?"
"Because, as I said, I like your work," Harata said with a grin. "Now, my dear friend Munoz here wants to open up your stomach and redecorate this room with your intestines. I don't want that to happen. I know a picture will soothe my mood, and hopefully we'll be able to convince him not to eviscerate you."
Rayner nodded slowly.
"Go ahead, turn and get your pad and pencil. We won't be moving much until you're done, anyway."
Rayner carefully reached behind himself for the pad, and groped for the pencil nervously. He leaned his back against the table, propped the pad on his knee, and started tracing the lines of the man aiming a gun at him. The quiet sound of his own breathing was all Rayner could hear -- neither man in the room with him seemed to emit any sound unless they wanted to. His thoughts raced -- room alarm was behind the gunman, weapons by the door past the knifer. Despite good marks at the DOC training grounds in Louisville, Rayner was never a real soldier, and he knew these two desperate men had his measure in full. He quickly finished the sketch of the first man and turned it towards him.
"Impressive," Harata nodded with a kind of a smirk. "I'm especially pleased with the shadowing you do around the face, very nice. Now, do my friend, and then duplicate both pieces, if you don't mind."
Rayner quickly sketched the lines of the second man, Munoz, standing mostly in shadows. It went even quicker, because the shadows allowed him to suggest the menace in Munoz without needing a lot of detail. Rayner grimly admitted to himself that he really liked drawing this Munoz, and could easily imagine using this kind of imagery in an ongoing story. Again he turned his pad to show them. Munoz grunted in a strangled kind of way and again Harata nodded.
"Munoz had his tongue cut out," Harata explained, "so that's his way of expressing his pleasure. He'd have probably knifed you if he didn't like it, so I'd say we're doing quite well here. Go ahead, do the copies."
A single bead of sweat slid down the side of Rayner's forehead from the line of his unruly black hair. He drew quickly, examining the first drawing and making subtle enhancements on both as he went. Within another few minutes he was done.
"What's your name?" Harata asked quietly.
"Rayner. Lyle Rayner." Rayner set his pad down
Harata rose and walked over to Rayner, picking up one of the drawings. "I really appreciate this, Rayner Lyle Rayner. This brings me memories of my cousin, which I don't get very often, so I thank you."
Rayner nodded nervously.
Staring at the drawing, Harata spoke. "I told you I wouldn't let Munoz here eviscerate you, and I won't. I simply can't betray the young artist's hospitality by letting you torture him to death, Munoz."
Rayner looked to his right, but Munoz wasn't there. The guard started to get up a little, and his head spun quickly left, as though surprised by a sudden sound, as Munoz quickly snapped his neck and let the younger man fall to the ground like a sack of forgotten seeds.
"Now, at least, you can be known more for your art, in death, my friend," Harata said softly to the pile of flesh that was once Lyle Rayner. Bleakly, he added, "This is way better than what could have happened to you." Harata nodded to Munoz, folded the drawing and carefully stuffed it in a pocket, before he joined Munoz at the crawlspace entrance they had created behind the couch.
• • •
Jeffries counted the sacks of rice for the second time this week, muttering unpleasant things about Simpson under her breath. Her wide hips had difficulty moving between the cramped aisles of shelves in the pantry, and with the supplies from the prisoners' mess were added, it was even more crowded.
"Ding dang dumb people overthrowing the government," she sighed.
"Shut up, Shiela," Stephenson said from a row away. "Working inventory is way easier than riding herd on female prisoners."
"Yeah, well," Jeffries sputtered, "that, that may be true, but ... well, it was better than being treated like a second class servant because we're not so big on combat training."
"You can go out there and get shot up with that lunatic Simpson," Stephenson, a tall, lanky girl with stringy brown hair and eyes like wading pools. "I'll be fine here, away from whatever's going on ..."
"Waiting for whoever wins to say you're done," a deep voice said from between them.
Jeffries reached for her sidearm, but found thick fingers covering it and a thicker arm around her throat. She heard a wet thump, like a bat hitting a sack of wheat, and Stephenson grunting and falling to the ground. The rough fabric of a black uniform brushed against the back of her hair and a supposedly calming "shhhhhhhh" brush across her cheek. Her weapon ended up jammed in her back, and around the corner another black uniform emerged, with a man almost as dark barely contained by its lines inside.
"If you want to die, scream loudly, and I'll snap your neck," the voice by her cheek said quietly. "You should know how thick these walls are. Therefore, you should know screaming will accomplish nothing. Resisting will get you killed by my dear friend over there, who's been stuck in general population starving, so he's not terribly friendly. Nod slowly if you understand."
Jeffries felt one of her dirty blonde bangs fall across her face, and the hot moistness of sweat spreading under her arms. Slowly, she nodded her head twice.
"There are two of us in here, both armed," the voice continued, a smooth, flawless tone that was dark in tone and deep in timbre. Jeffries thought crazily to herself that singing from this voice would probably be pretty enjoyable. "There is another one outside, equally armed. Cooperate and I won't let my dear friend have his way with your rapidly cooling corpse. I'm going to release you now."
The arm around her throat slid away like a python in underbrush. She slowly turned to face her captor, and recognized him instantly.
"Damu," she said in a mournful tone.
"Glad to meet you, Corporal ... Jeffries," he replied, reading the tag on her breast pocket. "Now, sit down next to the wall."
Jeffries darted her eyes from Damu to the other inmate, standing in the light, a large, angry silhouette. She sat down quickly, her knees up against her chest.
"Very good," Damu said calmly. Jeffries wondered about the fluid quality of his voice, wondering inside her shell of terror why she was also able to find this voice soothing. "Now, you are going to very slowly pull your handcuffs from the pocket on the left side of your belt, and fasten one cuff to your right wrist." Footfalls signaled another entry into the room, and Jeffries vaguely saw the shadow in her peripheral vision, afraid to turn her head. Damu continued talking, smoothly, staring directly into her eyes, his presence imposing and hypnotic. "You will then stick your right wrist under your right thigh, between your ankles. I will then connect the other cuff to your left wrist, to the left of your left ankle. This is how you will remain as long as you are silent and unmoving. My friends will take a large amount of supplies from this room in the next ... seventeen minutes or so, while I sit here watching you. Then the three of us will be gone, and we will lock the door. When your shift is over in ... four and a half hours, someone will come looking for you, and unlock your cuffs, and take you to Keniston Spaulding."
Damu knelt down slowly and continued. "When you are taken before Spaulding, you will tell him exactly this: 'Ishmael Damu is looking forward to chatting with you again.' I would strongly suggest you get it right, more for your sake with him than anything I might do. Ken's probably touchy as hell by now. Okay. Make with the cuffs."
Jeffries stared numbly at him for a moment and slowly pulled her cuffs from their pouch. She followed his instructions carefully, and stared at him as he attached the cuff, making sure they were secure.
"Now, I don't want to talk with you," he said quietly, like someone putting a child to sleep. "I'm just going to stand here, and you're just going to sit here. That's all there is to it."
Jeffries finally turned away from him, and noticed the two men -- the one she'd seen earlier and a thinner man in a blue uniform -- rushing to and fro with sacks of food. She considered this, mentally adding up the effect of the missing supplies on the staff, sighing lightly. She rested her chin on her knee and glanced at Damu, serenely staring at her, a slight smile on his face.
Time passed. Damu was a statue, immobile and serene, watching over her as the others moved quickly, clearing out most of the room. Absently, she wondered where they were all hiding, how they had gotten in ... she envisioned herself sitting between the warden and that lunatic Simpson ... and wished she'd never been born.
The blue jumpsuit finally came and tapped Damu on the shoulder before rushing out. Damu smiled brightly at Jeffries. "The time has come to say good bye to all your Negro friends," Damu crooned softly, laughing a bit at the end. "We're done here, and I hope Ken won't have you killed. Remember, I'll hear you scream before anyone else would, so don't make me kill you myself. Good night."
She watched him slowly walk out and started to cry. Sobbing softly, she barely noticed Stephenson waking up, alarmed at being bound. "Shiela, are you alive?" Stephenson asked, gasping for breath.
"I'm alive, but be quiet," Jeffries said, still crying. "If they hear us they'll come back and kill us. They said somebody will come looking for us at the end of the shift."
Stephenson crawled over, hands bound behind her back like a barbaric trophy of war, gasping all the way. Finally she made it over closer to Jeffries and lay on her side, grunting slightly. "This is so not good," she said.
Jeffries nodded, saying casually, sniffing with tears. "Oh God, why is this happening?"
• • •
Spaulding looked at Shiela Jeffries defeated form, retreating from his office, in a kind of dumb awe. Across the dim room, mostly lit by fires down on the yard, Grayson sat, slumped down, in a chair in the corner, looking like a child caught talking in class. Quietly, Simpson stepped back inside the room and closed the door.
"It's all gone," Spaulding said quietly, shocked.
Simpson nodded. "Within the last six hours, and under the noses of extremely tight DOC regulation security, we have lost 85% of our food stores and 75% of our weapons stores. In addition, four hundred seventy three staff members have been assassinated, mostly within their quarters, mostly male. I have distributed the remainder of the weapons and ammunition to tactical guards posted in strategic positions, and likewise removed the remaining food stores to the cafeteria."
Grayson drew in his breath and opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it, slumping back down into the seat. He was back in uniform, but after all these months it had lost a great deal of luster, with fraying epaulets and charred medals decorating its frame.
"Simpson, I need to know how," Spaudling said urgently. "The prisoners have access to us and we don't have access to them. Without that data, we're just waiting to be slaughtered. Do you have anything?"
Simpson was quiet a moment and then began, calmly and smoothly, as if he were discussing an impressionist painting. "We have eliminated both regular points of egress and the ventilation system, both of which are far to well supervised to provide access. The only other option available to us are, to be clear, impossible. With the data we have now, and without proper surveillance and detection equipment available, we must assume the prisoners are somehow capable of traveling through the walls of the facility, and they can walk into our hallways and passages at will."
Grayson looked up. "Can you take the batteries from the stun sticks, shunt them into sonar sensors or something? Then you could ..."
"Those batteries were commandeered for cooking and light days ago, Stuart," Spaulding said tiredly, rubbing his eyes.
"I have a suggestion, sir," Simpson said, his eyes still staring a million miles straight ahead.
Grayson and Spaulding looked at one another before Spaulding asked, "What is it, Simpson?"
Without stopping to take a breath, Simpson replied, "Full frontal assault on the prisoners by a specially prepared tactical squad, intended to reduce the numerical superiority of the enemy forces to a more managable sum."
Grayson gasped, and Spaulding held up a hand to quiet him. "Simpson, there are more than thirty thousand angry, armed, hungry, determined prisoners down there, prisoners who have most of our weaponry."
"I recognize that, sir. I also recognize that those prisoners lack training, centralized command structure, and preparation. With one battalion of tactical troops, roughly two hundred men, I'm confident we could chop that number in half, maintaining acceptable losses and sufficient manpower to repel any survivors."
"Your optimism is overwhelming, Commander," Grayson said, "But thirty thousand is a big number. You'd need ten battalions easily, and I don't know that we've got the wherewithal to field a force that size."
Simpson said nothing.
"Can you field ...," Spaulding thought for a moment, "four battalions? A thousand soldiers?"
"According to my current assessment of the staff," Simpson said simply, as if he was ordering lunch, "I could safely field three and still leave one to protect the bulk of the staff. To do more would place the staff at undue risk."
Grayson watched Spaulding carefully. "Commander, let us have a few hours to mull this over. I assume you'll have some scenarios to show us by that time?"
"Yessir." Simpson replied tersely, his stance and stare as rigid as titanium.
"Dismissed, Commander," Grayson said.
Simpson clicked his boots together, still impossibly polished, turned and left the room, the door closing quietly behind him.
"He's insane," Grayson said nervously.
Spaulding nodded slowly. "Unfortunately he might be right. Sitting here is a death sentence no matter how you slice it." Spaulding stood up and gazed down at the yard. "Before I got bored with it, I counted twelve hundred down there yesterday, that I could see, coupling and eating food that they shouldn't have. I'm wondering ... what's that ..."
Grayson stood and they both noted a group of men down on one of the few visible spots of the yard, standing near a fire, holding some kind of tube. They moved around until one put the tube on his shoulder and the others ducked away ...
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Spaulding bellowed, pushing Grayson towards the door rapidly. They got through, slammed it behind them, and had just made it to the situation room when Spaulding's office erupted in flames and shrapnel.
Grayson and Spaulding tumbled on to the floor with the blast, and they looked up to see Simpson staring impassively at them.
"Commander," Grayson said shakily, "you have a green light."
Simpson nodded calmly and walked out of the situation room. Other guards scampered for first aid kits to help their senior officers.
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