by Sophia Gray
“That's good to know,” Hank said, trying to keep his voice even.
Bull laughed again, patting Hank on the back. “I know, I know. You've probably bought into all the lies peddled by those Jews in Hollywood, trying to make us all look like a bunch of rednecks and hate-mongers. And I get that, you know? They control everything we read and hear and watch until we're nothing but a bunch of brainwashed zombies, so of course it's hard to separate the facts from the bullshit.
“But the more you hang with us, Hank, the more you're going to see that we're no different from anyone else,” Bull continued. “Our thing isn't about hate. It's about love. Love for our heritage, love for our country, love for our white brothers and sisters and parents and children. Love for ourselves. We see our freedom and our way of life threatened, and we do what anyone would do. We resist. We protect what's ours, with force if necessary. You bikers might not have the same tattoos we do, but you've got all the same values, and we respect the hell out of that.”
“If you say so.” Hank glanced at Speed Bump, who was shifting his weight nervously and trying to keep his smile in place.
Bull sighed good-naturedly. “There I go, rambling again. Sorry about that, Hank. You didn't come here to debate a bunch of sociological and political theory, did you? No, you just want to get your two years out of the way, right? No problem. Come on, I'll show you around.” He turned to Speed Bump. “Go grab a couple of the guys to guard my cell while I'm gone, okay?”
“You got it,” Speed Bump said.
As they walked around the cell block, Bull pointed to a few dozen prisoners gathered around the TV in the common area. Most of them were black or Latino, and Hank saw at least ten different gang tattoos that he recognized from the outside, but all of them had the letters NOS inked on them somewhere. Several of them shot dirty looks at Hank and Bull.
“That's the Nation of Sinners,” Bull said. “They come from a bunch of gangs. On the streets, their beefs keep them at each other's throats. But in here, they band together to survive. Needless to say, relations between the Knights and the Sinners generally aren't too cordial, ha.”
“I guess they wouldn't be.”
“They control all the drugs that come through here, which is a big reason why the Knights and Warriors are strictly forbidden from messing around with that shit. The last thing we need is our guys owing them cash, or tweaking for their next fix—puts kind of a strain on their loyalty, you know?”
“Who are they?” Hank asked, pointing to another group. There were fewer of them than there were Sinners, they were comprised of many different ethnicities, and they mostly seemed devoid of tattoos. A few of them played chess, while others read books and magazines or talked quietly among themselves.
Bull let out a derisive snort. “They call themselves the Shepherds. They're non-violent and they don't do drugs, so they're basically nothing to worry about. Just a bunch of bookworms and holy rollers who try and act like their shit don't stink—always pushing people to go to drug and alcohol counseling, get degrees, attend religious services, stuff like that. A couple of them even have law degrees and help folks with their appeals.”
“If they're the pushovers you claim they are, then how do they survive in here?”
“Well, there's a lot of them, and they tend to stick to the shadows and keep their eyes open. So they've usually got valuable info to share about their fellow prisoners, which makes them useful enough to stay alive. Just make sure if you have to do anything that's against the rules, one of those creeps isn't watching you.”
“Fair enough,” Hank said as they completed their lap around the block and returned to Bull's cell. Two skinheads were guarding it—one had 88 tattooed on the side of his neck, while the other had his face inked to look like an exposed skull with War Skins on his forehead.
Bull pulled the curtain aside, gesturing for Hank to step in.
Hank entered Bull's cell, looking around curiously. There was a large flat-screen television, with a Blu-Ray player and several stacks of movies—including plenty of porn. Several cell phones and an iPod were arranged on the bunk next to two makeshift shivs, and there was a mini-fridge with bottles of vodka, whiskey, and tequila resting on top.
“Nice setup you've got here,” Hank remarked.
“Not bad, right? We own over half the COs in this dump, so we pretty much get to do whatever we want.”
“How'd you manage that?”
Bull shrugged. “On the outside, hacks are no different from anyone else. They've got credit card debts, gambling problems, extramarital affairs, sick parents and little kids to worry about. We've got people out there working for us, including a couple of private detectives, so it's not hard to figure out how to lean on them the right way. For instance, Captain Butler has alimony payments to make and likes to buy a bigger TV every year. We make sure he gets plenty of envelopes stuffed with cash out there, and in here, he makes sure everything goes the way we want it to go. Hey, you want something? A cold beer, or maybe something harder? Some fried chicken?” Bull opened the fridge, removing a KFC bucket and offering it to Hank.
“No thanks.”
“You sure? Believe me, it's better than lining up for the slop in the cafeteria. And if you don't like chicken, we can get you anything you want. McDonald's? Subway? Or no, how about some Wendy's?”
Before Hank could answer, Bull leaned out of the cell, talking to War Skins. “Hey, what's the name of that new guard? The chick with the dago name?”
“D'Amato,” War Skins answered.
“Right, right. Tell her to come over here.”
“Listen, I don't need any food...” Hank protested.
Bull raised a hand. “It's no trouble at all, I promise. She'll run out and bring it right back for you.”
The curtain was pulled aside, and Hank's heart jumped into his throat when he saw the CO standing in the doorway.
It was Beth.
And from her flat eyes and carefully-neutral expression as she looked at him, Hank immediately knew that the worst thing he could do was acknowledge her in any way.
But for the second time, Hank wondered just what the hell was going on here.
“D'Amato, this is my new friend Hank,” Bull said good-naturedly. “I want you to go get him a double bacon cheeseburger from Wendy's, a large fries, a cup of chili, and...” He turned to Hank. “Do you want one of those shakes they've got?”
“No, really, I'm fine,” Hank insisted.
Bull smiled slyly, then returned his attention to Beth. “Sure he does, he's just too macho to admit it. Go ahead and get him a nice big shake. Chocolate, to dip the fries in. And here, get something for yourself, too.” He handed a wad of cash to Beth, who nodded once and left without a word.
“So listen, now that you're here, there's something I need you to do for me,” Bull said. “Don't worry, it's nothing bad—I know you don't want to get involved in a bunch of nasty shit while you're in here. But I heard you used to do some boxing, right?”
“Sure. I did a bunch of bare-knuckle bouts in parking lots for beer money. Bib saw me one night and said I should hook up with the club as a prospect, and the rest is history.”
“Were you any good?”
Hank raised his eyebrows. “Twenty or thirty fights, about four or five losses. You tell me.”
Bull cackled, rubbing his hands together. “Good, good. See, we've got a boxing match coming up against the Sinners in a few days. They're putting up Manolo Torres, whose brother Roberto runs the gang. We need someone who can clean his clock. What do you say?”
Hank thought it over. The idea of boxing on behalf of a bunch of skinheads made his stomach turn—but on the other hand, he had to admit that as favors went, it was pretty tame. Most prison gangs would demand a much more dramatic show of loyalty than putting on some gloves, stepping into the ring, and going a few rounds.
And the bottom line was, whether he liked it or hated it, he'd still need protection while he was in Bluebonnet. Trying to go
it alone would be suicide.
“Shouldn't be a problem,” Hank said.
“Excellent! I'm so happy to hear you say that. I'll tell Butler to make sure you've got extra time in the gym if you need it. Meanwhile, Speed Bump can take you back to your cell. I made sure you got Ram as your cellmate. He's my right-hand man, and he'll be able to watch your back.”
“Thank you.”
Bull shook Hank's hand again. “It was absolutely a pleasure to meet you, Hank. And I meant what I said earlier—ideological differences aside, I'm certain we'll be the best of friends.”
Chapter 8
Hank
“See?” Speed Bump said as he walked with Hank back to his cell. “Bull ain't such a bad guy, is he?”
“For a fucking Nazi, I guess,” Hank replied grimly. “How come I'm just finding out about all of this now? Why doesn't Bib know the Warriors in here are bending over for the goddamn Aryans?”
“Aw, well, I was gonna tell 'im,” Speed Bump mumbled. “But Bull said it'd maybe be better if he didn't know. Bull said it'd be best for all've us if things in here kept runnin' smooth an' simple. He said if Bib heard about our arrangement an' decided to interfere, it could fuck up his whole operation an' then he might not be able to protect us no more.”
“Jesus Christ, Bump, do you hear yourself? You were one of the founding members of the Carnage Warriors. You swore an oath to the club, to your brothers, and especially to Bib. And now it's 'Bull says this' and 'Bull says that,' like you're some kind of hand puppet. I mean, what the hell, man? On the outside, we used to stomp these racist goons for fun on weekends just because they're so fucking pathetic, and in here they're telling us what's what?”
Speed Bump seized Hank's upper arm. Despite how scrawny he was, his grip felt like a vise.
“Now you listen to me, Mister I-Ain't-Never-Done-No-Time-Before,” he hissed. “Me an' Bib formed the fuckin' Warriors back in the day 'cause we were both realists, and we saw that the ways things were goin' in this country, a man couldn't protect what was his without plenty've bikes, guns, an' brothers to back 'im up. Well, I dunno what kind've bullshit fairy tale kingdom Bib gets to live in these days while he's still breathin' the free fuckin' air, but I'm in here, which means I still gotta be a fuckin' realist. You gotta stop thinkin' of these Nazis as lazy slobs an' trailer trash meth heads like they are out there, 'cause in here, they're an army that outnumbers us about twenty to one an' they're the only ones willin' to put their arm around us. You get with that program, you get to live an' maybe even serve your time a little easier. You don't? You get treated like that fucker over there.”
Speed Bump pointed across the cell block. Hank looked, and saw that Foley was sweating and stammering nervously as a group of Sinners surrounded him, taunting him and shoving him.
“You go ahead an' make your choice, kid,” Speed Bump said. “I already made mine.” With that, he turned and walked away.
Hank rubbed his temples, trying to take it all in. But as perplexed as he was by the relationship between the Warriors and the White Knights, it was the thought of Beth working as a guard in Bluebonnet that made his brain vapor-lock.
He walked into his cell. Ram was still reading in the top bunk.
A few minutes later, Beth appeared in the doorway of Hank's cell, holding a Wendy's bag and a large cup. “Here's your food,” she said tonelessly. “Before you eat it, though, you'll need to come with me. The warden's secretary wants to go over some of your paperwork with you to make sure everything's accurate.”
Ram sat up. “What do you mean? What's wrong with his paperwork?”
Beth rolled her eyes. “Don't ask me. I just do what I'm told, remember? Come on, Hall, let's go.”
Hank set the bag of food on his bunk and got up. “You want some of my fries, help yourself,” he said to Ram. “You can do the ketchup in the shape of a swastika or something.”
“Wiseass,” Ram muttered.
Beth led Hank into an empty stairwell. Once the door shut behind them, her expression relaxed. Now that they were standing so close, Hank saw that even though most of her face looked the same, her eyes made her look like she'd aged ten years since he'd seen her.
“Beth, what the fuck is happening here?” Hank asked. “Have I stepped into the goddamn Twilight Zone or something? What are you doing in Bluebonnet? Why are you taking orders from that Nazi shitheel?”
“I know, it's a lot to process at once. Just take a few deep breaths and try to relax, okay? I'll tell you everything.”
And she did.
Chapter 9
Beth
Becoming a prison guard hadn't exactly been the cakewalk Bib told Beth it would be.
The initial application was easy, sure. It was simple enough to list members of the Warriors as personal and professional references, and give them fake stories to tell in case they were called—which, it turned out, none of them were.
Then came the interviews. The first one was conducted by the warden's secretary, an obese, disheveled, mumbling woman in her fifties with thick glasses and thicker orthopedic shoes. The second was with Warden Quayle himself, a gray-faced, professorial-looking man in his early sixties who spent most of the time talking about the home he was having built in Corpus Christi for his retirement. In both interviews, the same bland questions were asked:
What was her previous job experience? A year sweeping up hair in a salon, a summer doing bookkeeping for a garage, and six months waiting tables in a bar. Yes, she could provide specific dates of employment and phone numbers for her supervisors—although the salon had long since closed down, and she was pretty sure she'd heard that the owner of the garage might have died the previous year.
Why did she want to work as a corrections officer? The money and benefits, mostly, although she also felt she currently lacked direction and felt a job as a CO would provide her with a more focused career path. Her father had encouraged her to join the Marines—like he had when he was her age—but she felt this was a better option.
Had she ever been a member or associate of any gang or criminal organization? Not unless she counted her old cheerleading squad from high school, ha ha.
Did she have any friends or relatives who were currently incarcerated in the state or federal prison system? No.
Was she willing to submit to drug screenings and strip searches when required to do so? Yes, of course. She had nothing to hide.
After she was sent to an outside lab to pee in a cup, she was ordered to undergo a psychological examination. The multiple-choice questions they asked were laughable, since it was obvious which answers they were looking for. She received a letter with her official job offer less than a week later.
Then came basic training.
Eight hours a day. Five days a week. For three long weeks.
Four sweaty, aching hours a day spent doing endless push-ups and sit-ups, climbing ropes, running laps, learning self-defense and disarming techniques, and routinely getting her ass kicked by her sparring partners—all while drill instructors screamed and cursed in her face:
“You call that a push-up, girlie? You just bought yourself ten more, and I'd better see your nose touch the fucking floor on each one! Count 'em off!”
“You think you're on the way to the fucking prom or something, princess? Get that goddamn hair tied up before someone yanks your head back and cuts your throat!”
Then—while her face was still red and her muscles were twanging like badly-tuned guitar strings—Beth had to endure four hours of classes a day on prison procedure, with entire books full of rules and codes and statutes to memorize. There were dozens of gangs whose symbols, hand gestures, and tattoos she had to learn. There were first aid classes and drills on how to react to a hundred different emergencies. There were tests almost every day, and every night, she went home with at least three hours of homework to complete. Some nights, she was so exhausted and sore that she cried herself to sleep.
But through it all, she kept telling herself that
it was all worth it. Soon, she'd be able to see Hank again, and she'd be in a position to help him when he needed her the most.
At the end of the training period, Beth graduated with mediocre grades and received her certification, along with her new uniform. She took it home and tried it on in front of the mirror, modeling it for herself proudly. She liked how it looked on her. She liked how powerful and authoritative it made her feel, with the baton and pepper spray hanging from the shiny brown belt.
But most of all, she liked the fact that she'd actually earned it. She hadn't finished high school, and all the jobs she'd ever worked had been easy to get and easier to keep. She'd abandoned piano lessons, she'd dropped out of dance classes, and she'd never even bothered to try out for the cheerleading squad in real life. The path of least resistance had always been the obvious choice for her.
