Breakout, Paul Herron [chrome ebook reader .txt] 📗

into view, his watery eyes staring directly into mine. There’s a sheen of sweat covering his face. Sure, it’s as humid as the ass-crack of Satan himself in here, but Evans sweats regardless of the weather. He always looks greasy, like old cooking oil.

He waits for me to look away. Or better yet, down, a sign of total subservience. Dream on, fuckface. I keep staring straight ahead, my eyes not even flickering.

We stand like this for a long moment, neither willing to back down. Nick can see where this is going. He tries to head it off.

“Hey, Evans,” he says. “What’s the word on the storm?”

Evans grabs the opportunity for a graceful exit and turns his attention to Nick.

“The word is mind your own business.”

He moves on, clicking as he goes.

“That’s not a word,” says Nick. “That’s five—no, wait. Four! That’s four words, Evans! Four!”

After head count, we’re allowed to mingle in the dayroom, which is a fancy—and totally inaccurate—name for the un-evenly shaped wedge of floor space outside the cells. It’s like calling a dingy motel in the backwaters of Alabama a five-star luxury resort.

As always, it’s a mad rush for the phones. They’re everyone’s lifeline. Their connection to the outside world. I don’t know why they bother. About seven out of ten phone calls end up with the inmate slamming the phone down in frustration.

See, that’s the thing. Being in prison regresses everyone to the mentality of teenagers. Everything is blown way out of proportion. Your whole world—your whole universe—shrinks down to the equivalent of high school, just with killers and gangs instead of cliquey cheerleaders and jocks. A perceived slight becomes a deathly insult. A sidelong look proof that someone is going to attack. It’s just the way the mind changes when you’re inside.

But that change in thinking carries through to your connections with the outside world too. The tiniest pause on the other end of the line, the slightest hesitation, breeds paranoia and anger. Because every single inmate who’s still in a relationship has only two things on their mind: when is she going to leave me, and who is she cheating on me with? It could’ve been the strongest, most loving relationship ever on the outside. Childhood sweethearts, the first person you had sex with—whatever. It all crumbles to fear and insecurity as soon as the prison gates close.

The six hexagonal tables bolted to the floor are already full. Inmates claiming their spots, decks of cards appearing, commissary food changing hands to pay off debts. As with everything in prison, there’s a pecking order. No one sits down until Leon, the pod boss, decides where he’s going to sit. Then his lieutenants and bodyguards take up the chairs around him. Only then do the empty tables start to fill. Those currently in favor with Leon take the closest, leaving the unpopular tables next to the door for the other inmates.

I never bother with the seats. I prefer to pace the perimeter of the block, round and round. It has two benefits. It keeps me fit and sane, and it makes the others wary of me. Anything out of the ordinary singles you out, either to be taken advantage of, or to be avoided. Walking around and around—jogging sometimes, depending on how much nervous energy I’ve built up—not talking to anyone, for some reason marks me as unreadable. Unpredictable.

A few inmates did try to cause shit with me once, when I first came in and they found out I was a cop. I had to put them in the infirmary. One of them nearly died from internal bleeding. Another had a broken jaw, a broken wrist, and three fractured ribs. I had no choice, though. I had to make an example of them. You don’t do that, you let them push you around, then you live with a target on your back. And the target on a cop’s back is pretty fucking big, let me tell you.

I haven’t even finished one lap of the pod before my name is called over the speaker.

“Constantine, Manuel, Perez, Stevens, Deacon, Murphy, MacLeod, Felix, and Nunes. Line up.”

This gets everyone’s attention. Anything different from the normal routine is a source of interest.

We line up outside the door that leads from the block. There’s a loud buzz and Evans enters, standing to the side and holding the door ajar. I don’t even bother asking what’s going on. I know he won’t answer.

Deacon is the one who speaks up. “Hey, Evans, what’s up? We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

Evans just stares at his clipboard.

“Come on, man,” says Deacon. “I got low blood sugar. I need food.”

Evans finally gives him a bored look. “You’ll be fed later. You got work to do.”

“What work?” asks Nunes.

“Cleaning out the old prison.”

“The Glasshouse? The fuck for?”

That’s a very good question. The Glasshouse was put in mothballs about thirty years ago. The place is totally old-school. About seventy years old, I think. No electronic locks. All cells opened with a key. Barely any light. Cramped. Claustrophobic. More like an asylum than a prison.

“Why we being punished, man?” asks Manuel.

“You remember where you are?” says Evans. “You don’t get to ask questions. You do what you’re fucking told.” He hesitates. “But I’ll tell you why. Only because I want to tell you, understand?” He waits until Manuel nods in agreement. “Some of the other prisons are being evacuated because of the hurricane. We’re using the Glasshouse as temporary accommodation.” He turns and addresses the rest of the inmates watching us from their chairs. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be bringing most of you across in waves. Busy day today.”

He gestures with the clipboard and we all file slowly out of the pod.

ADVISORY BULLETIN

Hurricane Hannah Advisory Number 6

NWS National Hurricane Center Miami FL

2 A.M. EDT SAT AUG 28 2021

DISCUSSION AND OUTLOOK

Tropical Hurricane Hannah has fluctuated between Categories 2 and 3 for several days due to a series of eyewall replacement cycles. She has traveled through the Gulf of