by L. A. Cruz
“What the hell is that thing?” Tanker shouted.
There were more bursts of gunfire and bullets whizzed past Manny’s visor and punched holes into the creature. They kept firing, full auto, and the creature shrieked and fell to the side.
Manny held a hand to his neck. It was warm. Wet. The cops jumped on the creature and wrestled it down and twisted its arms behind its back and slapped cuffs on it.
Blood was streaked across Manny’s visor. He sat there, his veins pulsing in his ears. Then there were fingers in his armpits and one of the cops dragged him to his feet, dragged him back across the floor, and up the stairs.
Manny sat on the edge of the concrete pool, his legs dangling over the empty deep end. He pressed his palm to the bite on his neck. Behind him, from the patio door, the two cops who had cuffed the creature were dragging it out. It was a man, but not really. More like a walking corpse. The sunlight went right through the creature’s chest, a dozen holes at least. There was a sizzling sound and the creature flailed in agony.
An ambulance roared up to the pool gate. The paramedics hopped out. But they didn’t look like normal paramedics. They were all puffy, like marshmallow men, dressed in full gear like the canine training unit. Instead of rolling out a stretcher, they rolled out a hand truck and strapped the creature to it with thick restraints. Then they loaded it into the back of the ambulance.
Tanker came up behind Manny. He was no longer chewing gum.
“You okay?”
“What the hell was that thing?”
“I don’t know,” Tanker said.
“I thought we were here for a drug kingpin.”
“Me too,” Tanker said. “How’s your neck?”
“It’s okay. Not much worse than a mosquito bite.”
“You’re tougher than you look, kid. I’m sorry.”
“For what?“
Tanker suddenly grabbed Manny by the face and pulled him away from the edge of the pool. He put a hand over Manny’s mouth and a forearm on his throat.
“Shhhh, it’s okay, go to sleep,” Tanker said.
Manny flailed his arms, trying to get free, but he couldn’t breathe.
“It’s nothin personal,” Tanker said. “I’m just following orders.”
All Manny could taste was glove. Tanker’s forearm pressed against his Adam’s apple and Manny panicked and tried to fight back, but his only recourse was to kick his heels on the patio. For a brief moment, he was light-headed, his brain getting no oxygen.
Another hand truck was being rolled across the patio, the restraints jangling by its frame.
It was coming for him.
Then all went black.
Chapter 1
Despite the giant crucifix scratched into the hood of her SUV—she had attempted to paint over it with the Batman symbol—and despite her Catholic school upbringing—she used to roll the waist of her plaid skirt after leaving the house to show an extra inch of thigh—she didn’t believe in angels.
Not yet.
It was that crudely disguised crucifix on the hood that the guard in the fatigues was staring at as she pulled up to the security booth. Behind him was a tall, chain-link fence. The top of it was swirly and festive with concertina wire and the early morning sun cast curlicue shadows berried with decorative barbs across the path to the prison’s entrance.
The guard’s head was hidden behind the pink rejection sticker on the windshield. All the sticker needed was two dots and a smile—a grinning Mr. Yuck. From the driver’s seat, she could see no more than the guard’s combat trousers, his black boots, and the muzzle of his M16.
He stepped toward her window, revealing a shaved head and a black armband constricting his bicep like a blood pressure cuff. His mouth was a solid, horizontal crease.
He could use a smiley face, she thought. He was standing ram-rod straight and was robotic and precise in his movements. He was probably used to turning people away. It was his entire job, she reasoned. He stood in that booth all day watching booty videos on his phone and when a stranger approached he’d try to unstick his tongue and ask a series of questions that didn’t do a lick to prevent breakouts.
She pulled down the strip of cardboard that was duct-taped to the top of her window and passed her driver’s license through the crack.
The guard lowered his M16, took her license, and then looked her vehicle up and down. It was a black Isuzu rodeo, model year 1996.
“This vehicle didn’t pass inspection.”
“No, Sergeant,” she said. Indeed, the Rodeo had failed inspection—a few months ago—for its broken windows. Thankfully, a high school buddy of hers was in the police force and each time she got pulled over for the "dangerously broken window,” only a broad smile, a flip of her pony tail, and a mention of her buddy's name was enough to get the cop to thank her for her service, ma’am, and let her go on her way.
Safety inspections were for suckers.
The guard glanced at the Rodeo’s hood again. The Batman symbol was a matte black, but the sun over the concertina wire struck the grooves in the surface of the hood and illuminated that giant cross hiding beneath it. Her mother had scratched it there before her daughter went to basic training as a way of warding off evil spirits. Her mother was nuts.
“This is a real heap of junk,” the guard said.
“I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” she said. “That’s the beauty of driving an old beater. You don’t have to worry about it getting nicked.”
The guard glanced at her driver’s license.
“Can I have your military ID?”
She gave him that, too. The guard turned on his heels and took both forms of identification into the booth. He stood behind a computer monitor and his face turned slightly blue.
When he came back out, he was staring at both IDs. He looked confused.
“How do you pronounce your name?"
"Helia,” she said. “Like hell-yeah.”
He lowered her driver’s license and looked at her. "Hell. Yeah? As in hell yeah! Like hoo-rah?”
“That is correct, Sergeant,” she said.
“Helia Crane?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
He didn’t bother to hide his smirk. ”I bet the guys love that name.”
She didn't flinch. She had been hearing that remark ever since she was in junior high. I bet the guys love to shout it out in bed, they all said.
“Absolutely, Sergeant. The boys like it even more when I twist their nuts like those Chinese medicine balls.”
The guard straightened and cleared his throat and handed the license back through the broken slip in the window.
“What’s the matter, Sergeant, afraid I’ll report you?”
“No, Corporal.”
The military was trying to crack down on harassment and it gave her a certain thrill to talk back to those who outranked her.
“Am I good to go?”
“Yes, Corporal. Drive through the gate, make a right, and park in the lot on the far end."
"Thank you, Sergeant,” she said. She reached for the stick shift. “Oh, and Sergeant?”
“Yes, Corporal?”
She raised a hand and squeezed her fingers. “I wouldn’t mind a good swat at your balls. I’ll make ‘em swing like Newton’s cradle.”
The guard faked a smile. “Good luck, Corporal.”
Satisfied with her comeback, Helia replaced the cardboard over the gap in the window, smoothed the duct tape flat, and reached again for the stick shift.
“One more thing, Corporal?” the guard said.
Helia groaned. “What is it, Sergeant?”
“If I were you, I would get that window fixed. It’s hard to escape the vehicle in an accident. You don’t want to be trapped in there.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Thank you for looking out for little old me. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I drive off a cliff.”
“I’m serious, Corporal.”
“Me too,” Helia said. And she didn’t flinch. �
�Do you mind? I’m supposed to be there at nine.”
“Go ahead,” the guard said. He motioned up to the tower next to the gate. Inside it, the shape of a man lowered his rifle and the gate opened by sliding to the side, the curlicue shadows sliding across her path.
She shifted into first gear and pulled forward.
Helia parked in the lot. It was mostly empty. She jiggled the door handle, slid out, and smoothed down her combat greens and made sure that her battle dress shirt was tucked into her belt. She made sure her trousers were bloused into the top of her combat boots and she adjusted her pony tail, making sure it was as tight as it could be and that there were no loose hairs escaping. She straightened the black armband on her right sleeve, so that the letters MP were clear to read.
Then she headed for the front doors. She rounded the flag pole, gave it a mental salute, and followed the walkway. When she was in uniform, she walked like a proper solider. Shoulders back, hands at her sides, no swaying hips.
The sally port was a red brick structure that jutted out from the main building by about ten feet. Recessed within that structure was a set of glass doors. Overhead, the giant letters read: USDB. United States Disciplinary Barracks.
This facility was brand-new; the old Castle had been torn down in 2007. In the reflection in the doors, the Kansas plains stretched behind her. The barracks were atop a hill, the bottom of the hill yellow and dotted with housing and motels for the family members who came to visit the incarcerated former soldiers. Far past the plains, the Missouri River looked like the painting of a blue snake.
Helia pulled the doors open, splitting her image, and stepped into a bright white, modern space. Her boots clacked on the tiled floor. Ahead was a steel door and in front of the door, a soldier was sitting on a stool behind a podium.
“Helia Crane?” The soldier pronounced it like “helium.”
Helia didn’t bother to correct him. Often, she just let it go. For strangers, she even sometimes gave the name Jenny. Everyone knew how to pronounce the name Jenny.
“Yes, that’s me,” Helia said.
“Good morning, Corporal. Stand tight. The Major will be with you in just a minute.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Helia said.
A buzz sounded overhead and the heavy steel door opened. A man in combat greens came out. He was tall and his hair was buzzed so short, she couldn’t tell if it was graying or not, but the heavy bags under his eyes betrayed his age: midforties. He was thick in the middle, not fat, but not fit, somewhere in limbo, like those magazine photos of the people thirty days before they tried a crazy new supplement.
Helia saluted him. It was sharp and precise. At the beginning of basic training, she had been uncomfortable with saluting superiors, even uncomfortable with addressing anyone as “sir,” but now it was second nature.
“Good morning, Major Detores,“ she said.
He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering a bit too long on her hips. They were slim, but nothing to write home about. Her chest was concealed by the baggy combat uniform, so her hips were his only ogling option. Regardless, she was used to getting the once-over. You don’t join an institution that’s primarily men and expect them to be on good behavior at all times, honor code or not.
“You must be Hel-E-ah Crane,” he said.
She returned the favor by looking at his chest as if she were sizing up a piece of meat. Not a cut she wanted, she decided, but she made sure he saw her looking, made sure he knew he wasn’t going to be the only one who could treat a fellow solider like an item in the grocery store and get away with it. Her eyes stopped on his crotch and she narrowed her eyebrows in disgust. This piece of meat had expired.
“Yes, sir. But it’s pronounced hell yeah.”
He smiled. “I like it. Are you ready?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Let’s go then.”
She followed him through the heavy door and down the hallway. There was no holster at his waist, nor at the waist of the other guard. The only guns she had seen so far were the rifles of the men at the gate, the men outside the compound. Guns had been outlawed inside the barracks for nearly a century. For obvious reasons.
They stopped at the first door on the left.
“There's the mess hall,” he said. “Everybody’s favorite stop on the tour and arguably the most important. And down to your right, is the break room. The second most important stop.”
Helia saw no trace of a smile in his delivery. “Yes, sir.”
Major Detores extended a hand. She looked at it for a moment and then shook it.
“It was nice meeting you, Corporal,” he said.
“That was an awful short tour.”
Then, from down the hall, came another set of boots. “Allow me to introduce you to a more qualified tour guide. And by that, I mean, he has far less to do. Sergeant Erickson will take it from here. If you need anything, you let me know. We run a tight ship here at battalion 157.“
“I’ve heard the rumors, sir.”
“All good, I presume?”
“Very good.”
“Good,“ he said. “I’ve been spreading them myself. Welcome to Fort Leavenworth.”
Major Detores walked away and Sergeant Erickson took his place by stepping both boots exactly where the Major’s had been. Just by looking at him, at the precisely buzzed head, at the close shave, at the glasses, she knew Erickson’s type immediately. She had met plenty like him in basic. He was a high-speed soldier who had been with the 157th military police for five years now, stationed the entire time here at the Disciplinary Barracks. He was the type of guy who would work so hard at morning PT that he would vomit. He was more heart than fitness, the type of guy who shined his boots first thing in the morning, the type of guy who never wanted anything more from life than to join the military.
He did not look at her hips.
Sergeant Erickson showed her around the facility. First, he explained the schedule. Wake up call for inmates was at 5:30 AM, followed by chow, followed by work call, followed by lunch, followed by activities hour, followed by the second work call, followed by dinner call, followed by a brief activities time where the inmates were allowed to exercise or go to the library, followed by night call, when the cells were locked down at 11 p.m.
He said this all without coming up for air.
He was a military brat, no doubt, and had been dreaming of serving his country since the age of three. And despite the fact that he woke up at 4:45 a.m. every single morning and did his push-ups, judging by the lack of definition in his neck muscles, Helia was willing to bet that she could beat him in the PT test. Genetics were not on his side.
Sergeant Erickson walked her down the adjacent hall. He told her about her routine duties. She would begin as a guard in the day room where she would have to get use to keeping a watchful eye on the inmates as they spent time outside their cells. He told her about protocol in the mess hall, about how the inmates were supposed to take their trays from the stack, were supposed to take only as much food as they could eat, and were supposed to leave a clean tray by the door.
His glasses were thick, making his eyes seem twice as large as they were, and every time he pointed at something, he made such intense eye contact with her that she knew he was doing everything in his power to keep himself from looking at her chest, baggy uniform or not.
As they passed the mess hall, she said, “I’ll save you the trouble. They’re B-cups, Sergeant.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said where are do you keep the cups?”
“The inmates use plastic. They can pick them up in line for chow.”
“Would you like to know my panty size too?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s in the food pantry?”
“The best food in the service,” Sergeant Erickson said proudly. “The inmates eat the same food as us.”
He showed her to the separate wings where the soldiers’ barracks were located. He told her abou
t weekend leave and about not getting piss drunk or she would get arrested by her fellow battalion members.
“Don’t worry. I only get piss drunk on duty.”
“Excuse me?”
She grinned. He was fun to mess with. “I said where’s the duty log?”
“It’s all electronic,” he said.
By the end of the tour, she decided definitively that Erickson slept with his boots on—which was sometimes hot, but not in his case.
“Do you have any questions for me, Corporal?”
They had come full circle and were now standing in the empty mess hall. Helia looked out across the empty tables. It felt like a high school cafeteria. Here she was, back in a secure facility. Part of her felt like she had never left.
“No, sir.”
Sergeant Erickson looked aghast. “Don't call me-“
“I know,” she said, cutting him off. “Don’t call you, sir. You work for a living, Sergeant. I'm very sorry. Momentary lapse of judgment.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Let's hope that was the last of your lapses. When someone lapses in here, they get killed.”
Helia could feel her face turning red. She didn’t need a lecture about the dangers of her job. “Yes, Sergeant.”
“Relax. No need to get your panties in a bunch. We all make mistakes.”
She faked a smile. “No, Sergeant. I understand. Don’t get your tighties in a twist.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing, Sergeant.”
She followed him down to the day room. She hated that comment about her panties. She had been hearing it constantly since enlisting. But little did she know that by the end of the day, every single soldier, every single inmate, and even the news media, would get to see her in her underwear.
Chapter 2
Later that morning, she stood in the corner of the day room at parade rest and watched the inmates file through the door. They were returning from the mess hall and had forty-five minutes of free time before the 1:00 work call.
