Then there was Level 6.
Black Mountain was the only Level 6 prison in Virginia. Most of the prison housed inmates on 23-hour lockdown, meaning they only left their cells for one hour of recreation a day, five days a week. They showered, lived, and ate in their cells. Interaction between inmates and staff and inmates and other inmates was very limited. One building housed the institution’s “Good Behavior” section. Those prisoners were either given that designation from acting civilly for a few years, or they were on the cusp of getting out of the prison system altogether. Contrary to popular belief, most inmates who were imprisoned did have a release date. Most of the time when someone went to prison, it was “out of sight, out of mind” until their name came up again for whatever reason. Roughly 75% of the inmates in Virginia would end up back out on the street at some point in their lives. Alpha building was populated by many of those inmates.
Alpha is where Michael would be posted.
The large, green administration building was directly in front of him. That’s where he was supposed to go inside. Once in there, he would have to make time for getting through the front search officer. While it didn’t take long, thirty or so other officers were trying to get in as well, slowing progress a bit.
Michael parked his truck and sat for a moment. He was nervous to the point of shaking. Throughout the academy, their instructors had told the future officers that life was going to be different once inside the walls of the prison. They’d been warned of what actual prison life was like as compared to the academy. Things that were taken for granted on the outside were in short supply once inside. Temptation would be there, fights were going to happen, and a person was genuinely going to test his or her ability to cope with extremely difficult situations. Most of the facility was on 23-hour lockdown. Those were deemed the “worst of the worst” in Virginia’s penal system. Murders, rapists, child molesters, vicious gang leaders and the like were going to be the people that Michael had to deal with on a daily basis. That being said, there was a new protocol for dealing with prisoners, and it would make drawing the line between the convict and the officer a little blurry.
Throughout their training, they had been taught dialogue. Not just talking to someone, but also effectively communicating with them. Ask open-ended questions, try not to fall into arguments, and whatever you do, don’t insult them. Virginia had a long, sordid history of having issues with the treatment of inmates, but now that tide was turning in the favor of making them into productive citizens. Gone were the days of straight, brutal punishment. Incarceration alone was not enough to make a person ready to face the outside world again. Programs, therapy, and counseling were now a bigger part of the indoctrination of reintegration into society.
There remained room for the iron fist, but wrapped in a velvet glove.
Michael grabbed his duty belt. On it were his OC holster, cuff pouch, flashlight, and radio holster. Meager as they may be, they were his tools of the trade. From that belt, he was supposed to be able to subdue and take into custody any inmate in the institution. Well, he wasn’t fucking Batman, so would have to rely on what little training he had in the ways of defensive tactics. What he had been taught at the academy was to keep your shit together and stay alive long enough for help to get there. That length could be anything from a few seconds to a few minutes, depending on the severity of the situation. If you were taken hostage, the state would do everything in its power to rescue you, but they would not trade an officer for an inmate.
Basically, if you were taken hostage, you were fucked.
Michael took a deep breath and exited his truck. What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette. He had smoked one right before getting to the prison, but there were strict rules for smoking at the prison. Inmates weren’t allowed to have tobacco products, and neither was he. Bummer.
“You ready for this, Caine?” A familiar voice called to him.
Michael looked around for a moment before spotting Zachary Grant. “Oh God. I have to work here with your ass on my shift? At least it’ll be interesting.”
Grant walked up to Michael and held his hand out. The two engaged in a hearty handshake. “Damn right you will! I figure on locking up at least two of ‘em tonight!”
In prison, the term “locking up” meant a trip to the Segregated Housing Unit or SHU. If you fuck up in life, you go to prison, if you fuck up in prison, you go to SHU. Nothing to read but religious materials, no access to commissary, and only three phone calls allowed per month. The old term for SHU would have been “solitary confinement.” However, it wasn’t completely solitary. Inmates could still yell through the small cracks in the doorframe or tap coded messages on the wall in Morse code. They were conniving little bastards.
“Well, as long as you leave me alone tonight, I will call that a victory. How’s that sound?”
Grant shrugged his shoulders. “Works for me, bro.”
A half-hour later, Michael Caine was at his assigned building for the night, Alpha Building. While it wasn’t the best post on the compound, the guys in Alpha rarely gave the COs any trouble. Most of them had worked their way into Alpha building by behaving and acting like civilized human beings, or were close to being released. They had to work to get where they were, and allowed a few more amenities than the rest of the prison. They weren’t going to do anything to fuck that up.
* * *
Officer Caine sat at the small metal desk in Alpha Pod 1. Outnumbered eighty to one, he was the lone officer in his side of the building. Pod 2 held 96 inmates, and Pod 3 held 80 more, so even greater numbers than that outnumbered him and his fellow officers. The only reason you get to go home in the morning is because they let you do so. Words of wisdom from Captain Chance rang through his head. He was there to do a job. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Most of the inmates were milling about in the day room area of the pod. Eight round, metal tables lined up in an upside-down “V” made up the seating. Two sets of aluminum staircases on either side of the room led to the top tier. A closet was off to his left, and another closet was on the top tier. The top tier had railing all the way around, along with a flat, metal strip that ran along the bottom, preventing the inmates from sliding underneath the railing. Every door was painted green, with the cell number in white. The cell number was painted vertically, to be easily identified from the control room that sat above him. The control room sat fifteen feet above him, mindful of everything going on in the pods below it. The control room had Pod 1 to the left, Pod 2 directly in front, and Pod 3 off to the right. Between the control room operator and the myriad of cameras in the building, very little went on that the staff did not know about.
“Look at this muthafucka here! It’s the goddamn rookie of the year!”
Michael snapped out of his stupor. Daydreaming was not conducive to a safe work environment. He would have to work on that. When he did look up, there was an inmate standing over his desk. While the man wasn’t overly big, he still made Michael a bit leery. This guy hadn’t been sent to prison for missing church on Sunday. He was about five feet, ten inches tall, and around a hundred and eighty pounds. While the rest of the population around Black Mountain was white, nearly half of the inmates in the prison were black, as was the man standing in front of him.
The inmate had his orange, state-issued ID card clipped to his shirt. “Mr. Stanley. How can I assist you?”
Inmate Demarco Stanley held his hands up. “Ain’t tryin’ to cause no trouble, officer…Caine,” Stanley said, leaning down to see Michael’s own state ID card on his chest.
“Then what do you want, Offender Stanley?” Beads of sweat popped up on Michael’s brow. This was the first genuine encounter with an inmate that he’d ever had. While it was not overly stressful, it was something new and relatively awkward.
“Look, man. I get out this bitch in fifteen more days. I ain’t tryin’ to stir no shit up. I just noticed that you ain’t ever worked in this pod, so I figure I would come by and make nice with the CO
. Don’t get it twisted, son. I ain’t givin’ you no shit, but this is my house – you just work here.”
“I appreciate that, Stanley,” Michael replied, trying to keep his cool. He had to stay on his toes, though. This was another game. One of the inmates would try to distract the floor officer, while others snuck things back and forth. It was a simple bait and switch.
“Just wondering if I can get you to put the TV on CNN. These niggas here ain’t tryin’ to watch reruns of The Walking Dead. Niggas always be dyin’ on that show.”
Michael had to chuckle a little bit. For some reason, the black characters always seemed to be getting killed off regularly on The Walking Dead. It didn’t make much sense to him, but that was Hollywood’s decision. He’d been a big fan of all things horror since he was ten years old.
While he wasn’t entirely comfortable with hearing the “N” word every other sentence, he understood where Offender Stanley came from. Just because a prisoner was from a certain area of the state, it did not mean that he would be locked up in that area. Most of Virginia was culturally diverse, but Western Virginia was mostly white, while Eastern Virginia was primarily black. Cultural diversity was something preached at the academy. Michael knew from the moment that he walked into the prison that he would face racism. He could tell from the looks of some of the inmates that they hated him just because he was white. No reason need be given; they threw him into the stereotype of the typical Appalachian male. Some black inmates would hate him just because he was white. White inmates, especially White Supremacist ones, would hate him if he tried in any way to help a black man.
Michael reached into the drawer and grabbed the remote, flipping it over to CNN. From what he could tell, there was more media-induced panic filling the airwaves. While some of it might have been legitimate, the news always had a knack for exacerbating any bad situation. Civil unrest reported in some East African countries, as well as spats in Eastern Europe. The virus that he’d heard of in the last few days was making the rounds overseas. Won’t be long until that shit makes it over here, Michael thought.
“Look at that shit. More niggers rioting? What now? Did some white cop shoot a black man?”
The voice behind him was different this time. Michael turned around to see one of the members of the Aryan Brotherhood standing behind him. He had been taught in the academy to look for certain characteristics of the Neo-Nazi based movement. While it was difficult to spot some of them, the one standing behind him was the picture definition of one. He was a white male in his late thirties, maybe early forties sporting a shaved head. While some of the Brotherhood sported tattoos on their arms and chest, this one had a very visible pair of Nazi SS bolts on his neck. Along with the bolts were “14 Words” across the front of his neck, just below the Adam’s apple. Several more tattoos decorated his neck and head; most of them looked like prison ink.
“Something I can do for you, sir?” Michael asked.
“Name’s Bill Young, CO,” the man said, identifying himself. He thumbed back towards Demarco Stanley. “That nigger giving you a hard time?”
Michael frowned at the Aryan. While he wasn’t used to being around black men, he was by no means racist. The “N” word ran all over him. While Stanley used it as a term to describe other blacks, Bill Young used it as its intended purpose, to disparage an entire race. He also knew better than to make enemies out of either one of the men, so he played it as cool as he could. Young was in Black Mountain for killing a black man in Northern Virginia. Michael didn’t know the details, but a quick trip to the computer would reveal a past riddled with drug problems, assaults on law enforcement, and a generally shitty attitude towards authority figures.
“No, he just wanted to change the channel,” Michael replied. “There are seventy-five other guys in this pod that aren’t watching the TV, so I did. He wasn’t causing me any problems. Did you need something, Mr. Young?”
Bill Young chuckled. “Ya’ll ain’t allowed to talk shit to the convicts any more, are you?”
“I choose my battles carefully, Bill Young. I got no issue with you or Offender Stanley. Don’t start none, won’t be none. Get my drift?”
“Whatever, bacon. I’m not starting any shit, just looking out for my fellow white brother,” Bill Young said. His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Bacon. That’s original, you skinhead fuck. That’s what he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Michael knew that he would be called names during his time at Black Mountain, and as far as that one went, it was tame. Pig, bacon, po-po, and the ubiquitous “HACK” (Huge Assholes Carrying Keys) were commonplace. He cleared his throat and stood up.
“I appreciate that, Offender Young, but I have to make my rounds now. If you don’t need anything from me, I will be on my way.”
He tipped an invisible hat to Michael. “Have a good day, Officer Caine.”
Bill Young walked over to a table full of his Aryan brethren and took a seat. He waited until Officer Caine was out of direct sight, doing his rounds. He leaned forward on the table, speaking to the men seated there.
“So, what’s the deal?”
One of Bill Young’s cohorts slid him a piece of paper. Bill looked at it for a moment and smiled, revealing a smile that any hockey player would envy.
“Almost time to down the duck, boys. Almost time.”
* * *
Michael came to a realization a few hours into his shift. Night shift inside a prison is boring as hell. Make rounds, write down activities, occasionally reprimand inmates, repeat ad nauseum. The job became easy once you knew the routines of the inmates. Who went where and at what time, that kind of thing. The day-to-day workings of the prison reminded him of his military days. Life was structured, punctually driven. Be at a certain place at a certain time for a certain duration. Not difficult, but tedious. Unfortunately, those imprisoned inside the walls had nothing to do but notice differences in their daily routines.
During his rounds, Offender Stanley approached Michael again. Michael didn’t have anything to say to the inmate, but Stanley obviously had something on his mind. As Michael passed his open cell, Stanley sauntered to the door.
Stanley stared at his fingernails, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. “Ya’ll think we don’t notice. Ya’ll think that whatever is goin’ on out there ain’t gonna affect us ‘cause we locked up. They shoulda taught ya’ll better than that, Officer Caine.”
Michael paused for a moment in front of Stanley’s cell. He had to stay on his toes. Just like the TV earlier, every conversation with an inmate served a purpose, even if he didn’t know what it was. Michael turned to face Stanley’s cell.
“I think you’ve been watching too much TV, Stanley.”
Stanley grinned slightly. “Ya’ll think we haven’t noticed the same people workin’. I mean, I’ve seen it shorthanded around here, but damn. Ya’ll workin’ the same dudes to death.”
It was true. Much like Lindsey’s call ins at Bluefield Regional, the prison was in the middle of a rash of no-shows and call-ins. Michael knew it had to be because of the virus. More unfounded panic infecting metaphorically long before it could physically. Panic spread much faster than any sickness ever could.
“That’s why there’s so many new guys like me around here, Stanley. Got nothing to do with the outside world and what may or may not be going on.” There ya go, Michael. Lie to ‘em a little bit more and see if they don’t see right through that, too.
Stanley looked at Michael with a face full of disgust and contempt. “Whatever, Caine. Tell ‘em what you want, but there is some shit goin’ down soon. Best you figure out what it is before you get caught up in it, too.”
CHAPTER 5
Twelve hours later, Michael was on his way home. The rest of the night had gone on uneventfully. As he drove home, he couldn’t help but dwell on what had happened his first night. Merely speaking to some of the prisoners had given him much insight. After a few weeks or months, he would feel more comfortable with it, h
e was certain.
After midnight, the inmates were required to be in their cells, so he only had to deal with them six hours a night. In those six hours, however, he couldn’t help but feel a heightened state of awareness. That heightened state wore off after midnight, and it drained what little energy he had left before six in the morning came. He was unreasonably tired for not having done much. Some of the other COs had made the comment: It’s a crying shame to call what we do “work” most of the time.
Work or not, he was ready for bed.
Michael pulled into his driveway and parked his tried-but-true Chevy Silverado. A wash of relief came over him as he looked up. Home. It was amazing to see how much he liked being at home. You didn’t realize what liberties you had until they were taken away from you. He hadn’t had any of his freedoms taken away, but he was around a thousand others who had. Strange how that rubs off on a person, just being around something makes you feel part of it.
Michael went to his front door and opened it, being careful not to make too much noise. Anna was still asleep, and he wanted to keep it that way. To get to his bed, he would have to sneak past the sleeping infant. He stealthily took off his boots and tiptoed into his bedroom, glancing at his sleeping daughter as he did. She was fast asleep, snoozing away.
Michael had to smile. She was a beautiful baby, and not just because it was his own child. Anna was as gorgeous a baby as anyone could ask for. She had her mother’s blonde hair and blue eyes, and her father’s sense of humor. Even at the tender age of thirteen months, she shared Michael’s easygoing sense of humor. Everything was funny to her.
Michael got undressed and got into bed, being careful not to disturb Lindsey as he did. Within a few short minutes, he was out cold. Being a night owl most of his life would serve him well working night shift, but for now his body was still getting used to being awake all night long. Daytime sleep was the most restful for him, and it came quickly.
Refuge From The Dead (Book 1): Lockdown Page 3
