Fifty Falling Stars

by Wesley Higginbotham

  “Our second option is to just let everyone go. We just shut down and open the gates.”

  “You can’t do that!” Carlos said. “That would equate to condemning every descent citizen in the area to a death sentence. The gangs would tear each other apart first and then head out to the countryside to reap God-only-knows-what havoc.”

  “Relax, Carlos. I agree with you; however, I don’t really like option number one either. Even animals deserve better than to be left to die like that.” Carlos agreed. “I’m going to need your help to sell the third option the remaining guards. Can you help me do that?”

  “I’ll do what I can. What are you thinking?”

  “We round them up and shoot them.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  The Warden looked at him with desperate eyes. Carlos had worked with this man long enough to know that he had not come to this decision lightly. “I’m afraid I am, Carlos.”

  Carlos weighed the implications of the Warden’s suggestion. He couldn’t think of anything better. Could he kill these people in cold blood? Could he convince his other guards to do the same? A thought occurred to him. “Sir, why don’t we just release the minimum security prisoners? They’re not usually here for bad offenses. We could let them go and… ah…dispose of the more dangerous types?”

  “I’ve thought about that.” The Warden said. “Each prisoner we let out, whether one of the animals in maximum or the descent guys in minimum, will be just another mouth to feed, another competitor taking food and resources out of the mouths of the surrounding population, from our friends and families, from our children.”

  Carlos wanted to protest but couldn’t. The warden was right. “I’ll spread the idea around with the other guards.”

  “Thank you.” The warden said. “Let me know what the feeling is around noon. I’ll probably get everyone together around two and announce the plan. If all goes well, we’ll shut this place down and head home, probably for good, this evening.”

  Aurelio Godinez sat in his cell and thought over his plan. He thought he knew what awaited him as soon as the news started reporting about the economic collapse and the war. He didn’t know how long it would take for everything to collapse, but he figured it might. He hoped it would. He knew he was right when some of the guards stopped coming to work. With the staff getting shorter and shorter each day, he figured the guards would eventually come to put them down. It’s what he would have done. He didn’t worry. He had a plan.

  As he waited for that moment, he thought back to how he had ended up here. He’d joined MS-13 at age twelve and killed his first man when he was fourteen. He’d killed many men and women since. He’d worked hard to build a fearsome reputation and loved every second of it. Violence, in its most primitive and naked forms, excited him like nothing else. Just thinking of some of the gruesome murders he’d committed got him hard. His favorite was the woman he had disembowel down in Mexico. Others had come close over the years, but that remained the best. His reputation for such gruesome acts earned him the nickname ‘Vicio.’ He would have thought it fitting, if he’d given a shit.

  He thought back to the single event that landed him a permanent home in Wabash, the little piece of ass he’d raped eight years ago in the southeast quarter of Fort Wayne. He had just run a medium shipment of coke up from Mexico and completed a good sale to a local contact. He felt pretty good that night and thought he deserved a reward. The rest of his colleagues went out partying, spending their cut. Vicio had taken a walk. Dark had just fallen and the cool October air felt good, fresh, invigorating. As he walked by a trailer park, he ran across the little bitch. He didn’t know that she was fourteen at the time. He didn’t know she was a good girl from a poor family who was walking back home from studying with a friend. He didn’t give a shit when he later learned that she was the best student in her class and had dreams of being a pediatrician. All he had cared about was finding some fun. He walked up behind her and grabbed her when she passed in the shadows between street lights. He had dragged her into the trees across the street from the trailer park to enjoy her.

  One of the neighbors must have seen something and called the cops. They showed up while he was in the middle of taking his reward. He never got to finish. One of the policemen had vomited when they saw her lifeless body, her head crushed in from soft-ball sized rock he had hit her with. The trial had been quick. In less than a year, he found his new home in Wabash.

  He looked around his cell and down at his hands in quiet thought, at the tattoos that ran over the backs of them. The rest of the cell block yelled and screamed, trying to get some attention and some food. The guards had locked them down and hadn’t fed them in three days. He admired his strong, dark, wide hands. They fit his body well. He took after his mother’s side of the family, making him short, wide, and dark. He wasn’t very fast, but he had honed his given lot well. He carried very little fat on him now. He worked long hours to transform himself into a short, broad wad of muscle and violence that commanded respect. Over the years he had killed with guns and blades. He prided himself on his skill with a razorblade. What skill Botticelli lent to a paintbrush, Vicio matched with a razor. But those were just tools; his hands were the real weapons, weapons that couldn’t be taken from him. They had won him much respect when he first arrived at this shithole seven years ago.

  Vicio looked over at his cellmate, a tall black man named Donald. He held the same contemplative look as Vicio. Don had been a Blood when he got transferred to Wabash Valley. He had integrated with his new gang brothers, but life was tough in a maximum security prison where over fifty percent of the inmates were white, and ninety percent of those were controlled by a gang that hated “niggers.” The Aryan Brotherhood infested every nook and cranny of Wabash. Their core membership, their “council,” wasn’t that large; but they held the place under tight control. Don didn’t buy into Vicio’s plan to unite the gangs when he had first bunked with him five years ago. Vicio made some headway in unifying the gangs. His reputation helped him unify the Hispanics into one gang inside the prison. Over the next few years, Vicio’s reputation grew as he killed two more inmates and sent dozens to the infirmary. Don had proved instrumental in helping Vicio get the Bloods into the new prison gang. It wasn’t long until the Crips set aside their differences long enough to join in as well. To call it a gang wasn’t accurate. It was more of a nonaggression/mutual protection pact to balance the Brotherhood. Vicio trusted Don like he did no one else. Living together that close for five years in such a shithole prison and watching each other’s backs and corn holes would do that to even hard men. Don knew Vicio’s plans.

  When the inmates down the hall ratcheted up their unrest, Vicio knew the guards had come into the cell block. He held his breath and looked over at Don as the last of the guards entered. This was the only moment that concerned him. As he had explained to Don, the most dangerous part was figuring out what the guards would do. If the guards were smart, they would just shoot the inmates in their cells. Vicio hoped they weren’t that smart. He had learned a little about the warden during his stay at Wabash. He was known to be a good, moral man. Vicio wondered if Warden Phillips would have the balls to kill the inmates or if he would let them starve. He hoped that the man’s conscious would lead him to give them the mercy of a short death. He also hoped that the man’s conscious would make him do something stupid and descent like corralling the prisoners in the yard so that they could have proper burials or some shit like that. He figured the guards wouldn’t be stupid enough to attempt to coral all of the prisoners at once. They would most likely lead them out in small groups. His entire plan counted on just one of the twelve men he had conspired with getting out of their cell, fighting their way to the block control room, and disengaging the electronic locks. Once everyone was out, the prisoners would decimate the guards. With all of the guards dead or preoccupied, he could deal with the fucktards that ran the Aryan Brotherhood scum.

  Vicio glanced over and
saw Don praying silently. He would have prayed too if he thought the Almighty gave a shit. He ignored the yelling and screaming of the other inmates as he listened for the sound of cell doors unlocking or for the gunfire that would mean their deaths. One of the guards gave instructions through a megaphone. “Listen up, you degenerate bastards! We know you are hungry and thirsty. We have just received a shipment of food and the warden has decided to feed you in groups out in the yard. When you hear your cell door unlock, step forward with your hands on your head. If any of you get so much as a cunt hair out of line, we will shoot you! Understand?”

  Vicio’s heart leapt as he heard a quarter of the cells in the block clink open. Half of the cells across the hall from him opened. He’d bet on the guards taking them out in smaller groups and had chosen men positioned to make sure someone got out in the first group. He smiled when he realized that four of his men were in the first group. The other prisoners yelled obscenities and threats at the guards and those released. Shouts of “Fuck yeah!,” “About Goddamned time!,” and others came from the open cells.

  The prisoners came out of their cells as instructed. Vicio saw that there were fourteen guards and thirty prisoners. Guess the retards thought that one guard with a shotgun gun and a sidearm was enough for two prisoners. Vicio thought. The prisoners filed out toward the exit to the yard. Vicio smiled, when one of his men filled past one of the guards, lunged low at the guard, and tackled him. Before the prisoner could get the man’s gun away from him, the guard beside him lowered his gun and decorated the block floor with what little brains the prisoner’s skull contained. The second guard, so intent on the kill, didn’t see the other prisoner come up behind him and execute a rear chokehold. The other guards tried to react, but the rest of the prisoners attacked, sending the whole block into mayhem. Shots fired out and blood began pooling on the cell block floor. In all of the chaos, Vicio saw two of his guys running toward the control room. He just hoped one of the dumb fucks had the good sense to get the keys off of one of the guards.

  Vicio saw that dickless shit Ricco lock the door through the control room window. As the two men rushed up the short flight of stairs for the door, one of the guards broke loose from the mass of gunfire and human bodies. The prisoner he struggled with managed to get his shotgun. The guard pulled out his sidearm and made two new holes in the prisoner’s face before he could rise. The guard saw the two men heading for the control room and realized what they were attempting. He fired at them, striking the one that had managed to grab a shotgun. The bullet stuck the man in his left kidney. He turned as he fell and began shooting into the crowd. His first shot took down the pursuing guard. The rest tore into the crowd.

  Vicio saw the other prisoner fumble with the keys, working to get the control room door open. The guards had taken down most of the prisoners by this time. Vicio guessed the lack of food and water had weakened the prisoners. The seven remaining guards regained control over the six prisoners. It would only be a matter of seconds before the guards dispensed with the remainders and fucked his plan. “Hurry up you lazy cocksucker!” He yelled at the prisoner who held their freedom in his hands.

  Carlos heard the lock click open as the prisoner got the right key into the slot. He ran to throw his weight into the door and keep the man out, but he was too late. The door rushed to meet him, knocking him back to the wall. He barely had time to get his shotgun up as the man rushed him. The blast took the man where his collar bones met, staggering him back out the door to bleed out on the floor. Carlos saw the other prisoner with the gun fall. He scrambled to his feet and rushed toward the door. He had only taken two steps when the other prisoner fell into the doorway. Carlos leveled his shotgun a second too late. The prisoner’s shotgun blast tore into Carlos’s hip and spun him around. He landed facedown, next to the wall. The prisoner struggled to his feet and staggered over to the control panel. Carlos ignored the roaring pain in his hip and the numbness in his left leg as he sat up against the wall. He saw the unbelievable flow of blood coming from the prisoner’s lower back. He didn’t have time to aim, shooting on instinct. A red plume appeared in the prisoner’s upper back as the momentum of the shot threw the prisoner onto the control panel. As the prisoner fell back, his hand found the master release button.

  Vicio and Don watched in disbelief as the guards killed the last of the prisoners in the first batch. Five guards had survived the onslaught. Vicio couldn’t accept that his plan had failed. He hated failure. They had seen the dying prisoner enter the control room and heard shots. He figured the man had failed and was dead. The doors should be open by now if he had succeeded. Vicio knew their chance was gone. After this colossal fuckup, the guards would just leave them to starve. He glanced over at Don. He liked the son of a bitch but wondered how long he could survive eating him. He had hardly finished the thought when he heard that beautiful buzz and click. His heart leapt as he and Don rushed out of the cell.

  As a hundred bloodthirsty murders and rapist ripped apart the guards, Vicio found his next target in his plan. Jerry Schwartzman, that white supremacist fuck who led the Brotherhood bitches, had lost his shirt in the scuffle. He raised his arms in triumph, contorting the Nazi Reichsadler tattoo that covered his back and shoulders. Vicio had no trouble finding the six foot seven inch behemoth. Vicio palmed the small blade from a disposable razor. He had hid this in various, creative ways for months, just waiting for an opportunity. He charged at Jerry, but another Brotherhood member saw him and intercepted. The man threw an overweighed right hand at Vicio. Vicio leaned back to dodge and sprang forward and low when the man’s momentum carried him too far. He hugged his attacker from behind and ran his right hand down into the man’s crotch. With satisfying release, Vicio felt the small blade severe the ligaments in the man’s groin. The man collapsed on his useless leg. Vicio still hoped to surprise Jerry and turned just in time to catch a left hook on the chin. The blow sent him reeling. He landed well and rolled onto his back, looking up at the Brotherhood leader.

  “You spic fuck! You’re going to earn the name ‘wetback’ after we gangfuck your greasy, beaner ass!” The giant white supremacist yelled as he pressed his advantage and mounted Vicio. A little dazed by the initial blow, Vicio let the bastard get past his guard. He tried to catch one of the giant’s arms but couldn’t as he pummeled Vicio with blow after blow. Vicio knew he was in trouble. He had managed to get his arms or hands in the way of the blows, turning them from lethal to just damaging. He tried to reach the big man’s face but fell short. After seconds that seemed like years, Visio maneuvered his left knee inside Jerry’s mount. He thrust outward for all his might. The push caused the giant to shift his weight and bring his upper body down just within Vicio’s reach. The tiny blade shot up in Vicio’s hand and left a deep, clean cut that started on Jerry’s nose, passed through his eye, and curved slightly up at the outer edge of the socket. The giant screamed as he jerked away and covered his eye with his hands, blood and eye jelly seeping through his fingers. Vicio brought his left knee back in to weakly smash at the man’s dick. The blow wasn’t hard but it rolled the big man over and off of him. Vicio rolled, climbing to mount the man when he looked up into the barrel of a shotgun aimed at his face by another Brotherhood member.

  The unexpected blast tore off the jaw of the Brotherhood man in front of him, leaving a gaping hole in the bottom of his face. The man fell, clutching at his mouth that was no longer there. Vicio looked over to see one of his Crip amigos holding a smoking shotgun and smiled. He turned his attention back to the giant. The man rolled over on his stomach, regaining his composure with refreshed rage. Vicio mounted him from the back and grabbed his right arm. The big, dumb bastard made the fatal mistake of turning away from him. Vicio smiled as he rolled over with the man and placed him in an arm bar. The arm snapped when Vicio thrust his hips. He rolled away from the big man and got to his feet. The big bastard held his broken arm and tried to rise. Vicio’s boot dislodged several of his teeth.

  With the gia
nt cowering on the floor above a growing pool of blood and teeth that fell from his mouth and eye, Vicio barked orders to his gang members. They gathered the leaders of the Aryan Brotherhood and forced them to their knees in front of him. Some fought and were quickly dismissed with the boom from one of the stolen guns. Vicio smiled as he realized that all the firearms were in their possession now.

  “Don! Bring me some handcuffs and one of the batons from the guards.” Don complied. Vicio walked over to Jerry and sent him sprawling with a hard kick to the short ribs. He grabbed the broken arm and rolled Jerry onto his stomach where he handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Vicio grabbed the handcuffs and dragged the big man to one of the picnic-style tables in the center of the block. “Help me get this big fuck up on the table!” He barked at two of his followers. They slammed Jerry up on the table. Vicio got two more men to hold his legs.

  “You, ‘minorities!’ Crips, Bloods, MS-13, Latin Kings, and others represented here at beautiful Wabash Valley Resort and Spa. We have all suffered at the hands of these inbred, sister-fucking ‘supremacists!’ Well, they don’t look so goddamned superior now, do they?” He looked at the nine remaining true Aryan Brotherhood members on their knees before him. Some showed fear, some apathy, and some rage. “To all you other white trash simpletons who followed these assholes, their time is at an end. You will follow us now or you can meet the same fate as these bitches.” He addressed his new gang now. “These useless fucks on the floor, they are a gift to you my black brothers! Save the bullets. We will need them later. Execute these pieces of shit!” A couple of the men on the floor tried to rise and meet their fate in battle rather than cowering on their knees, but they were not fast enough. Waves of minority gang members and even some of the white prisoners descended on the kneeling men. They bashed at them with baton, fist, and feet. When the last Brotherhood member became a boneless mass congealing on the floor, Vicio spoke again. “This cocksucker,” He said as he grabbed the top of Jerry’s skull and pulled his head back. “Is a gift to my hermanos! This fucker tormented us!” He said as he reached down and pulled Jerry’s left nipple with his left hand and cut it off in a slash from the tiny razor blade. Jerry screamed in pain, the sound muffled by his broken, blood-filled mouth.