What's Left of My World (Book 3): We Won't Go Quietly

by C. A. Rudolph

  “Confirmed,” the other officer said. “Minimum twenty-four hours, per the warden. We’d be on full lockdown if it wasn’t for the work being done, I’m sure.”

  Dan nodded slightly, gesturing to a thick set of blueprints perched on the desk bearing the same company name as the van that had pilfered his parking spot. “Is that what I think it is?”

  The second officer nodded. “They’ve been hard at it since late last night, and I think they’re almost halfway done with housing unit one. Looks like a ton of upgrades. Front-end graphics, more advanced PLCs, and it looks like they’re doing away with all the pneumatics in the entire complex.”

  Dan shook his head pensively. “Ray at WCI next door has been cluing me in for the past week. It’s a thoughtless idea, if you ask me…not to mention a waste of money.”

  The first officer smirked. “Why do you think that, Dan?”

  “Because there’s nothing wrong with pneumatics,” Dan said. “They serve us well and have for years. It’s not broken, so why fix it?”

  “Probably because the air system is such a pain in the ass to maintain,” the second officer stated. “The compressors need constant routine maintenance, and we’re always leaking air and oil all over the place and draining moisture from the system. The new system is direct digital control, it won’t have any of those issues.”

  “Just because it’s electric and digital doesn’t make it better,” said Dan. “You know what I like best about air?”

  The second officer grinned. “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell us.”

  “To open the prison doors, you need air pressure. When pressure isn’t there, the doors stay closed, the prison stays locked down, and we stay safe. No power means no running compressors. No compressors means no air in the system to operate the pneumatics. This electric-powered stuff bypasses all that, and it gives me a bad vibe.”

  “Come on, Dan,” the first officer said. “It’s the wave of the future. Solid-state electronics are an upgrade. The new actuators and servos will be just as safe and even more reliable. You’ll see.”

  The two uniformed men gathered their things, said their goodbyes, and headed out the door while chatting back and forth among themselves.

  Dan took a stroll around the perimeter of the control tower and scanned the housing units and grounds below before returning to the workstation, taking his seat, and finally reaching for the blueprints.

  As he went for his coffee, the door opened again, and a tall, skinny, clean-shaven young man slid into the room, a shiny backpack slung over his shoulder and a small leather binder in his hand. He wore a white, perfectly pressed polo shirt embroidered with his company’s name and logo.

  Dan studied him. He was definitely the fresh-out-of-college, successful, inexperienced and highly idealistic type. The kind that spoke to others as if he were a hundred times smarter than they were.

  For an instant, Dan began wondering what mister perfect’s cute, young wife with the flawless body looked like, thanks to his friend Ray informing him of that little tidbit.

  “Good morning,” the man with the well-ironed shirt said as he slithered over to Dan, holding out a hand that reeked of fruity hand sanitizer. “I’m Paul Haber. Sales engineer with HTIS.”

  Dan gave him a snarky look. “Do you, by chance, own the company, Paul?”

  “No, sir. My father does.”

  “Had to be one or the other,” Dan said, grinning. “Dan Abrahams.”

  “Pleasure,” Paul said, shaking Dan’s reluctant hand. He motioned to the drawings in Dan’s lap. “Finding everything you need? Need me to explain anything to you?”

  Dan slowly shook his head. “I’m muddling through on my own just fine, so far,” he said. “But if I need anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Perfect. No problem. Take your time,” Paul said. He sat and fidgeted for a moment, but was soon overcome by a mysterious inability to remain silent. “Just so you know, we’re putting our best product lines to work here. The state pulled out all the stops on these projects. Basically, your facility is getting a major upgrade in terms of safety, security, and technology. It’s a truly extraordinary thing.”

  Dan chuckled. “Well, at least one of us sees it that way, Paul.”

  Paul didn’t respond. He’d begun busily stirring about, rummaging through and pulling items from his backpack, including a pristine laptop and several other digital devices that Dan didn’t recognize.

  Paul’s actions were odd, awkward, and twitchy, as if he had come close to overdosing on caffeine this morning. Dan estimated him as one of the impatient motorists he would see each morning on the way to work, idling in single file for a half hour or longer at the local Starbucks while reading the Wall Street Journal, irascibly awaiting his cup of milk and shot of coffee. Dan guessed Paul even had satellite radio with all the trimmings, but only used it to listen to NPR—probably while piloting his leased top-of-the-line Audi.

  He was the category of person Dan had often referred to by means of one idiomatic, sometimes objectionable term: A peckerhead.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” Paul began. “It’s just a little exciting being here. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

  Dan peered at the young man over the brim of his reading glasses. “And why is that, Paul?”

  “Well, it’s probably due in part to the fact that I’m actually sitting inside the walls of NBCI. A true hypermax prison—the only one of its kind.”

  Dan nodded slightly and flipped through blueprint pages while failing to utter a response.

  Paul continued undeterred. “You know, I remember watching a documentary about this place on Megastructures when I was a kid. At one time, it was the strongest, most technologically advanced maximum-security prison in the world. Fascinating, really…especially now that I’m able to see it from the inside.”

  Dan chuckled. “It still is the most technologically advanced maximum-security prison in the world, and not much has changed since the day it was built—until now, anyway. North Branch is just as unique as it’s always been—just like the inmates held here.”

  Paul was distracted, and while he tapped busily on his laptop’s keyboard, Dan studied the blueprints in his lap, which included a set of cut sheets and electrical schematics for each of the devices being installed by Paul’s company.

  After a moment, Dan came across something that caught his interest. He lifted the sheet in the air and waved it like a flag to grab the young salesman’s attention. “Paul, would you mind explaining to me exactly what this is?”

  Paul blinked a few times, looking confused. He squinted. “I’m sorry…what exactly what is?”

  Dan turned the page over and then back, this time with his index finger on the symbol and corresponding circuits in question. “This. This device right here. What exactly is that?”

  “Oh, um…looks like a capacitor to me. Hold on, I’ll look it up. I think it’s a high-capacity, high-discharge lithium-ion. I’ll find the specs for you.”

  Dan smirked. “I know it’s a capacitor, Paul. I have an electronics degree, so I know what a capacitor symbol looks like on an electrical schematic. My question is, what is a high-capacity, high-discharge capacitor doing in an electrically powered actuator and servo mechanism for a prison cell door?”

  Paul smiled nervously and nodded. “Oh…well, that’s easy. Would you like me to explain?”

  Dan lowered the prints to his lap and frowned, his level of annoyance showing. “Yes, Paul. I would like that. I’d like it very much.”

  Paul nodded. “It’s a power source for the emergency door-release mechanism. First of its kind. Something the Canadians invented, it’s really cutting-edge stuff.”

  Dan’s eyes grew wide as his brow descended. “Emergency door release?”

  “Yes. It, uh…works like a…well, like a mini-UPS backup, so you and the other COs can open all of the doors in the event of an emergency, or something. The system is designed to react when it receives a high-f
requency coded radio signal sent from a transmitter we’ll be installing here in the control room. It’s pretty ingenious, actually.”

  As Paul shuffled through papers in his binder in search of more documentation, Dan held up a stiff hand to accompany his cantankerous body language, and Paul’s actions slowed to a halt.

  “I don’t think it’s ingenious at all, and I definitely don’t believe it to be cutting edge. I think it’s reckless and lacks forethought. Pray tell, Paul, what sort of emergency would warrant us opening all the doors in this prison, or in any prison, at the same time? If you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Well, I’m not entirely sure, exactly. But I assume…maybe a bad storm, or even a tornado, or something that causes a power outage lasting for an extended amount of time. A catastrophe of some sort.”

  “A catastrophe?”

  Paul’s smile began to dissolve. The reservoir that once held and maintained his comfort level had been ruptured. “Mr. Abrahams, I don’t know for certain. I sell direct digital control systems, sir. Ask me questions about my products, and I’m the expert in the room. Ask me questions about catastrophes and why research and development teams come up with the ideas they do, and I’m back to shooting from the hip.”

  “Well, then, speculate, Paul. Tell me what you think. You’re an engineer, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Okay. And I take it, a university graduate?”

  “University of Maryland, College Park. Magna cum laude.”

  “Of course you are,” Dan said, smiling. “Go on then, enthrall me.”

  Paul sighed. “Okay, fine. How about if the climate control or ventilation system was down? You wouldn’t want them to sit and swelter in their cells forever, would you? Or even worse, in the winter, if the heating system was down. Or maybe if the plumbing somehow failed—I imagine that would be quite a mess to deal with, especially over time.”

  Dan grinned. “Actually, Paul, the truth is, and I’m sorry if this sounds harsh—but I wouldn’t give a damn—on all counts. The only thing I’d want to happen here in the event of a catastrophe—and I mean any catastrophe—would be for all the inmates to remain exactly where they were until whatever was happening was over.”

  Paul chewed nervously on a fingernail. “Sorry. But that sounds—”

  Dan leaned forward, turning his head to the side so Paul could speak into his ear. “Sounds…”

  “Inhumane. It sounds inhumane to me. That’s all.”

  “Inhumane,” repeated Dan. “You mean coldhearted? Cruel?”

  “Any one of those synonyms will suffice,” said Paul, casting a snide look.

  “Okay. Let’s call it inhumane, then. Inhumane—just like the crimes that most, if not all, of the men confined here have been found guilty of committing against their victims. They’re called convicts for a reason—because they’ve all been convicted of a criminal offense.”

  Paul shook his head. “Mr. Abrahams, please don’t twist my words. I know when I’m being patronized.”

  “Do you know what a no-human-contact order is, Paul?”

  Paul shrugged indifferently. “I can probably surmise.”

  “I have no doubt. It’s an extreme form of solitary confinement—the most extreme. Some people, such as yourself, might even consider it a form of cruel and unusual punishment. But I assure you, the orders are handed out deservedly. An inmate under this type of order sits in a vacuum—with nothing to occupy his or her time except total isolation, and he or she remains that way, completely inaccessible for the duration of the order. There’s no social visits, no telephone privileges, no entertainment of any kind. The only books they’re allowed to read are War and Peace and the King James Bible—with very few exceptions.”

  “That does sound cruel and unusual to me,” Paul uttered.

  “I imagined it would,” said Dan. “Quite a few inmates at NBCI are under those orders—either due to the nature of their crimes, or for crimes they committed after being imprisoned, such as attacking or killing another inmate…” Dan trailed off and paused. “Or threatening or attacking a corrections officer.”

  “That happens here? Even in a facility as secure as this one?” Paul quizzed. “I don’t believe it. NBCI was designed to thwart that very thing.”

  “It happens everywhere. We have some of the most dangerous offenders ever to find themselves caught up in the system here. Most of them are high-level gang members—Bloods, Crips, Neustra Familia, and of course, the Aryan Brotherhood—the most notorious of the bunch. They make up a tenth of a percent of the entire American prison population, but are responsible for thirty percent of murders occurring on the inside.”

  Paul hesitated. “Has anyone been murdered at NBCI?”

  Dan nodded. “Several.”

  “Inmates or guards?”

  “Both,” Dan replied, taking a sip of coffee.

  Paul shifted in his seat as he absorbed everything. “Have you ever been threatened?”

  “Many times…especially earlier on in my career,” Dan said. “You learn who to mind and who not to mind, when you work in a place like this every day. Sometimes, just making eye contact is enough to set some of these men off. But no strategy is foolproof, and complacency is a known killer of men behind these walls.” He paused. “Speaking of mankillers, have you ever heard of a man they call the Gardener?”

  “The Gardener?” Paul repeated, his eyebrows sinking. “No. Can’t say that I have.” His look of curiosity began to transform into one of deep interest.

  Dan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands before him after setting the prints aside. “He’s one of the worst. Killed two inmates last year, and put three fellow COs in the hospital in the process. Billy Joe Jackson. Age thirty-five. First incarcerated at the age of fifteen after being convicted of two counts of voluntary manslaughter. Killed both of his parents following a disagreement over his report card. The murder weapon he chose was a pickaxe. He was paroled several years later, only to commit a host of other murders—mostly members of his own family. He always used gardening or farming tools—that’s what earned him the nickname. It also earned him the death penalty, but the state was kind enough to belay the order. So here he sits, in a state-run facility, living on taxpayer-funded government assistance. ‘Till the day he dies’.”

  Paul’s brow furrowed. “That’s tragic. I can’t believe I never heard about it before. But what do you mean, ‘belay the order’?”

  “Maryland has no death penalty, Paul. Not since the governor was kind enough to abolish it years ago, making us the foremost state in the country to do so. We house death-row inmates who can no longer be put to death because the law says it isn’t the moral thing to do. The highest form of correction, even for the most heinous of crimes, is simply life imprisonment without parole and occasionally good, old-fashioned solitary confinement—which in some cases can be made permanent. Ever heard of Reina de sangre? Or the blood queen, Sofia Reyes?”

  Paul’s expression contorted again, his facial muscles clearly tensed. “No.”

  “That’s not surprising. She’s a serial killer…but not a prevalent one like Dahmer or Gacy, or even Aileen Wuornos or Nannie Doss. Her deeds didn’t allow her to gain the fame. She’s the real deal, though—a true psychopath who has to be restrained in bondage twenty-four hours a day like Hannibal fucking Lecter. She’s murdered dozens, mostly by stabbing or bludgeoning, and after she’s done killing them, she dismembers their bodies and consumes her victim’s blood. And not just a shot glass of it, either. She drinks all of it over time. A real-life vampiress. Supposedly, she’s killed over fifty men, but no one knows for sure.”

  “I thought NBCI was a male-only prison.”

  Dan huffed. “Reyes was moved here because there isn’t a women’s prison in the state secure enough to hold her. Besides, no man in his right mind would try messing with her. She’s one of our ‘dirty dozen’…folks who’ve earned the privilege of remaining in solitary
confinement, with no-human-contact orders in place for the duration of their stay.”

  Paul began to fidget as his fingers tapped the keyboard on his laptop. “Well, that’s a lot to think about, Mr. Abrahams.”

  “Yes, it is. But don’t exit the conversation too soon, Paul. I’m just getting started. Imagine a three-hundred-pound monster like Gus Grimes hanging out at your dinner table. You’re a good-looking guy, Paul. Young. Flourishing. I take it you’re married?”

  “I am,” Paul said proudly, presenting his platinum wedding band.

  “Nice ring. I’m sure your wife is a proud lady. Children?”

  “Two. A boy and a girl.”

  “Sounds like a nice family,” said Dan.

  “Yeah, they’re great, actually. But who is Gus Grimes?”

  “Nobody—just a former resident of the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum turned escapee,” Dan said. “He broke into a house not long after he got away and clubbed a family to death at their dining room table, using a nightstick he’d taken from a state trooper he’d killed an hour before. Neighbors heard the screams and made the call, and when the cops showed up to arrest him, he didn’t even mind them. He was too busy chomping on a hamburger. He let them take him without a fight, but while he sat in a holding cell, he bit off his own tongue and swallowed the damn thing to keep from answering the homicide investigator’s questions. Coincidentally, he doesn’t talk much these days.”

  Paul took a long pull from a bottle of water, his face turning pale. His stomach turning, he waved Dan off. “I hope you don’t mind if we change the subject.”

  “Sure, Paul. Whatever you say,” said Dan.

  Paul spent a moment gathering himself and pulled up a manufacturer’s website on his laptop screen, displaying it to Dan. “The servos and actuators we’re installing here are state of the art. It’s an improved technology that replaces all your current devices, which are years out of warranty.”

  “All of which were still working fine, last time I checked. I’m afraid there isn’t much you can say that’s going to convince me, Paul, but hopefully, you can answer this. If the power is off, whether due to a catastrophe or if I just go down there and turn it off, will the doors stay shut?”