by Greg Barth
“Did you see your uncle then?”
“No.”
“He was the worst. Him and Magnus. And I hear your dad is a drunk on top of everything else.”
“No law against that,” I said.
She chuckled. “Don’t get defensive. You’re sober now. It’s okay.”
“You all loosened up?” I said.
“Oh, don’t stop yet,” she said.
I kept working her shoulders.
“I can do a back rub if you want.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
She got up into the bed and lay on her chest. I straddled her butt and pushed her shirt up.
“We should do something to stop them,” I said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just think with me hypothetical… If you could get out and do something, would you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, if I got out and did something, I’d be right back in. I don’t have a lot of time to do. I don’t think it would be worth it.”
“But what if you had nothing to lose?”
“You mean if I was pulling life?”
“Yeah, that or just a real stiff sentence.”
“And could actually get out?”
“Sure. Let’s say you could.”
“And I could get to them without any trouble?”
I rubbed her bare back with my hands. “That’s the scenario,” I said.
“Then I’d kill them,” she said. “Every one of them. I’d make it stop. I’d kill them and kill them and kill them. They deserve it like that.”
“Would you turn yourself in afterward?”
“Now that’s just crazy talk, Carson.”
“Well this whole conversation has been crazy talk, right?” I said.
“You keep it up with this back rub, and I may have to take you up on that front rub you’ve been offering.”
“It’s an open offer. When you’re ready.”
Carla laughed. So coy. What a tease.
E LEVEN
Magnus
MAGNUS STEPPED INTO Roman’s Barn. The air smelled of sawdust and dirt rather than the normal barn smells of manure, urine, and straw.
Roman’s barn was massive. It was constructed of rough lumber and its gray exterior and rugged tin roof gave it the appearance of an average, if over-sized, barn.
There were no animal stalls, grain bins, or haylofts. Instead, it was wide open from roof joists to dirt floor and from wall to wall. The only things taking up any space were the wooden support columns and rafters that held up the roof. In the middle was a large, oval dugout about thirty feet in diameter and four feet deep. A single wooden post stood in the center of the circle.
A young man stood by the post. He didn’t appear to be older than twenty-five. He was naked. He was muscled, like he’d been through military training. A slack length of steel cable hung from an electric pulley system on the post above him. The cable was affixed to a thick leather collar tight around the man’s throat. His hands were cuffed in front of him. His hair was unkempt. He had several days of stubble on his face. His eyes were red and the flesh around them puffy.
A long table sat at one end of the pit, well out of reach of the chained man. A selection of martial arts and crude melee weapons were lined up in a neat array along the length of the table. The weapons consisted of various knives, truncheons, baseball bats, three sectional staffs, a pair of nunchucks, a set of tonfas, and a machete.
Lights hung from the ceiling joists at regular intervals and illuminated the barn in bright circles of light.
A group of fifteen grown men and six teenage girls stood around the circle overlooking the chained, naked man in the pit below.
The girls were all petite, lithe, and not quite nubile, in t-shirts and jeans.
One of the men carried a pump action shotgun. He had long, greasy gray hair tucked under a red ball cap. He wore an olive drab US Army field jacket.
The other men in the room ran the full gamut of Appalachian redneck. Some were skinny, others fat. Some younger, others middle-aged or older. Most had facial hair. Some had long hair, others crew-cuts. Many had tattoos on their arms. Chain wallets. All wore denim jeans. Some were in t-shirts, others wore hunting camo. They all used tobacco in its various forms—chewing tobacco, dipping snuff, cigarettes, pipes, cigars. The smell of reefer hung in the air.
Everyone, the men and the girls, was drinking whiskey. Everyone except the naked man standing by the post in the middle of the pit.
Magnus was greeted warmly as he approached the group. A place was cleared for him in the middle of the throng. One of the teen girls poured him a glass of whiskey and brought it to him.
Magnus used his forefinger to remove his chewing tobacco from his jaw and accepted the glass.
“Thank you, dear,” he said to the girl. He smoothed out his thick black beard over his cheeks with one hand and took a drink of whiskey.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Can I rub your beard for luck?”
He extended his chin and she rubbed the long braid.
Roman walked up to them. Roman was taller than his father. He had a cut build whereas his father had a more natural strength to his frame.
“Roman,” Magnus said, and extended his fist.
His son bumped his fist with his own. “Pop,” he said.
“Figured there’d be more out,” Magnus said.
“Don’t think anybody’s missing,” Roman said.
“Ah, I invited the deputy. Thought he might come.”
“He likes the pretty things. I don’t think he’d care for this here.”
Magnus nodded. “Who’s this buck you’ve got here?”
“Some ex-soldier. Came back home trying to sell crank.”
“He one of JP’s boys?”
“No,” Roman said. “He don’t claim to be, anyway.”
“Too bad,” Magnus said. “He could pass for one.”
“You sure you’re up for him?”
“Him? Nah, I ain’t worried about him. Truth is, I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“Just let me know when you’re ready.”
“What the fuck’re we waiting for?”
“Alright,” Roman said. He extended his glass, they bumped glasses, and tossed down the remaining liquor.
Roman walked away. He descended the steps that led down into the pit. He walked over to the chained man in the center. “If I can have your attention,” he said with a loud voice. He already had it. “Folks, here’s what we’ve got in store for you tonight. This poor, big-dicked son of a bitch standing beside me is most likely going to get his ass killed. Yes, he’s in the prime of youth. Yes, he has pure fury coursing through his veins. Yes, he would like to kill every man and woman in this room right now. Yes, he has adrenaline pumping from glands that are fueled by the desire to be free. Do you hear me? Yes, he has a cock long enough to choke a girl... from the back end!” Everyone laughed. “Yes, this motherfucker is so damned tired of being ass raped by a bunch of fucking hillbillies he’s tried to chew through his bindings. Yes. Yes. Yes. We have a real contender on our hands.”
Applause erupted.
“You can place your bets on this man. You hear me? You can place your bets on this man, and I hope you do. Just to be clear, he has his choice of any weapon on the table. Please, take a long look at the weapons on the table.”
Everyone reviewed the array.
“Pop, how you feeling tonight?” Roman said.
Magnus raised his hand horizontal and gave a “so-so” motion.
“You want to double down, Pop?” Roman said.
The gathering roared their approval.
Magnus held up his empty whiskey glass and shook it. A girl ran over and poured him a refill. He drained the glass and held it out for more. She poured it full to the brim. Magnus drained it in three quick gulps. He looked up and nodded his head.
The gathering shouted applause.
“Alright!” Roman roared. “We a
re doubling the fuck down! You know what that means? This motherfucker gets the choice of not one but two weapons!”
Magnus made a show of shaking his head.
“What are you saying, Pop? More than two?”
Magnus nodded. He held up his glass and tapped for a refill. The girl came and refilled his glass.
“How many, Pop? Three?”
Magnus shook his head.
“You mean? The whole table? The whole goddamned table?”
Magnus nodded.
“There you have it folks. You’ve got this young soldier in the prime of his life fueled by rage with every weapon in one corner. In the other corner you have my old man. Show them what you’ve got, Pop!”
Magnus set his glass down. He stripped off his shirt and raised his arms high above his head. He was lean. His skin was pale under his scraggly long dark hair and beard, hung loose around his thin frame. His body was decorated with dark blue tattoos. The beast of Revelation on his forearm. 666 in large print across his chest. A Babylonian lion on his back. A large swastika on his right bicep. The SS logo loomed from the patch of hair below his navel and above the waistband of his jeans.
Magnus strode down into the pit. He raised his arms and walked back and forth in front of the group.
The crowd cheered him.
“Place your bets, gentlemen,” Roman said. “Bet on our new contender,” he gestured toward the man by the post. “Or bet on this tired old fuck. Up to you. But if you’re here tonight, you know the rule, you must bet. Nobody rides for free. And I think you all know the minimum.”
Magnus flipped open the leather pouch on his belt. He removed the chain whip. He grasped it by the swiveled leather-wrapped handle and let the weighted dart at the other end drop to the ground by his feet. He raised his hand to shoulder level. The dart raised up an inch from the ground. The chain whip was made up of nine lengths of metal connected by rounded chain links. He spun the whip. The length of it moved like a solid metal staff and spun around his hand. He spun it forward in one direction as he moved around the circle. He demonstrated various changes with the whip. He changed direction alternately as he stepped forward by catching the spinning chain with his elbow, his armpit, his neck, and his foot and knee. The chain spun and changed direction in a blur.
His moves were fluid, the whip was like an extension of his body. Everyone watched as he moved around the circle.
Once he was good and warmed up, Magnus killed the whip in one graceful move by extending his arm horizontally. The steel links stopped in mid arc and fell to rest by his side. He doubled the chain, flipped it over his head and draped it over his shoulders.
Roman raised his voice again. “You might know that our guest here is wearing a special collar. It contains several ounces of a powerful explosive and is set to detonate should he attempt to remove it himself. To show our sincerity, I’m going to remove this collar. If he is victorious in combat tonight, he is free to leave, his sentence served. And if he’s not victorious? Well, he won’t be needing the collar again anyway.”
Roman approached the chained man. He removed a tool from his belt and used it to unfasten the man’s collar. In a low voice Roman said, “You see that man over there with the shotgun?”
The chained man nodded.
“You do anything funny and he’ll fill you with buckshot. You understand? Your only chance of getting out of here alive is by winning this fight.”
“You won’t get away with this,” the naked man said.
Roman unfastened his handcuffs. “I most certainly will. And good luck you stupid motherfucker. You’re going to need it.”
Roman walked away from the man. He tossed the handcuffs on the table in the pit. There were two boxes near the steps that led out of the pit. As he passed by them, he kicked them over with his feet.
A dozen mountain rattlesnakes slithered out of the boxes onto the dirt floor of the pit. They scattered slowly around the steps.
Roman ascended the steps and took a spot with the group gathered around the edge of the pit.
Magnus watched his opponent. As the man walked over to the table to select a weapon, Magnus took a pouch of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco out of his hip pocket, opened it, and withdrew a wad of dark tobacco leaf. He stuffed it into his jaw and worked it around with his tongue and teeth. He put the pouch back in his jeans pocket and spat tobacco juice into the dirt. He raised his hands and swung his arms to loosen up his shoulders.
The naked man picked up the baseball bat first. He tested its weight, changed his mind, and put it back on the table. He went for the machete instead.
Magnus took the chain whip from around his neck. He held the handle at shoulder height, his elbow bent at the level of his ribs. The heavy dart on the end of the whip hung about an inch off the ground. Magnus chewed his tobacco and watched the man move the machete through a few test swings to get the feel of its balance and weight. Based on the man’s movements, Magnus knew that he had determined the machete to be a hacking weapon, not a stabbing weapon. Magnus had no fear of the machete.
As the man stepped away from the table he almost stepped on one of the rattlers. He saw the snake coiled by his ankle and leaped backward, nearly losing his balance in the process.
Magnus put one foot forward and rocked his body back and forth, worked his weight and center of gravity by bouncing with his knees and rotating his hips in a side to side motion. He spun the chain whip in a circle by his side, the weighted dart at the end spinning from high above Magnus’s head all the way down to an inch from the ground. Magnus did not spin the whip by twirling his wrist. His arm and wrist stayed straight and firm. The movement of his body kept the whip spinning and put momentum into each down stroke.
Magnus stepped toward the man. The snakes parted as he moved closer. With each step, he pivoted one hip forward and changed the direction of the whip. There was no way to keep up with the direction the whip was going in, as though Mangus was surrounded by whirling barrier with a heavy dart at the end ready to strike in any direction. He moved relentlessly forward. The dart made a whistling sound as it zipped through its accelerating arcs.
The naked man held the machete at the ready. He waited for Magnus to come close enough.
When Magnus was within six feet of the man, his opponent rushed forward with a cry, the machete held high. Magnus stepped forward and kicked out hard with his right foot. His kick drove his foot forward and down hard into the spinning chain. He caught the chain with the down stroke of his kick. The chain jerked tight and the dart on the end was thrust forward, straight ahead. The heavy dart impacted the naked man in the center of his chest.
The man stopped short. His face reddened. His breath caught in his throat.
Magnus kept the chain spinning. He backed up half a step and swept the chain forward at a horizontal arc. The dart smashed the man’s fingers against the machete handle. The machete fell to the floor. The man dropped to his knees and reached for the machete. He immediately jerked his hand back. A rattlesnake was attached to the back of his hand, holding on by its fangs.
Magnus spat tobacco juice. He took another step back. He rocked back and forth using his hips. The chain built up momentum. He stepped forward and again kicked down hard on the chain while it was in its down stroke. The dart shot forward and hit the man in the dead center of his forehead. The man fell forward, his face in the dirt.
Magnus spun the chain, putting on a show for those gathered. He paid no attention to the snakes. He had snake guards on under his jeans. He wasn’t intimidated.
The man on the ground didn’t move.
Magnus stepped forward and brought the heavy dart down hard on the back of the man’s head, crushing his skull.
The small audience roared applause. The sound of their cheers filled the barn.
Magnus raised his tattooed arms high in victory.
T WELVE
Selena
THE WEEK PASSED before I was ready.
On the morning of the day p
lanned for the job, Janson made eye contact with me from across the room. Everyone was in the mess hall for breakfast. Breakfast and lunch had the highest concentration of inmates in one place at any time. They also had the highest concentration of CO’s.
I was shoveling some powdered eggs into my mouth when I caught her gaze. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. I looked away.
Chav was seated three tables down from me with her entourage. I watched her eat.
No sign of the cherry girl, Gina, that Janson had mentioned. If she existed, odds were that she would be here. The food was best during breakfast and lunch. She’d be new, so she’d have a lag in getting funds to her commissary account even if Pete was helping. The system takes time. She wouldn’t still be in the shower or the toilet, not if she was Chav’s bitch. No. She would be here.
Something didn’t pass the sniff test.
I decided to call the number Pete had given me. Later in the day, after count, I’d make the call.
I nibbled at my breakfast, returned my tray and utensils, and went to work.
The day sucked. Work was no harder than ever. I had the standard issue paint. No need to mix anything. I knew my work, had my equipment. Nothing was out of the norm. The only difference was my anticipation of the evening.
I progressed through the early part of the day and through lunch, my mind fixed on the necessary confrontation with Chav, the escape, and the request from Malucci. But mostly my thoughts were fixed on the need to right a wrong perpetrated by my family—a wrong I felt responsible for. I didn’t feel guilt for their actions—I felt responsibility to end those actions.
That was on my mind along with the very real possibility that I was being setup by someone unseen.
I was standing beside my bunk alongside Carla at four o’clock for the afternoon count. The first CO entered our tiny room and counted us both.
While waiting on CO number two, I told Carla, “You know? I’ve really enjoyed our time here together.”
