Page 6 of Endangered Species
Rogers twirled his baton before replacing it in his holster, another fucking grin spreading over his doughy face. How many times had Cyrus thought about smashing his smug face against the bars until there was nothing left? Too many to count. “What kind of plan?”
“The kind that’s none of your business. This is between me and the kid. We got a lot to talk about.”
“Yeah, I feel ya,” Rogers said.Sure, you do.“Just don’t take too long or none of us will be able to keep the others off of him.”
The guard’s laugh echoed in the space like he was a comic book villain, but Cyrus didn’t ignore the implication. If they set the dogs loose on Nicky, Cyrus wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep him safe. But what the fuck was the alternative? Become the aggressor himself? How the fuck was that helpful?
Christ. He hated prison politics.
Webster arrived at his new home sometime mid-morning after being stuck on an unairconditioned bus for three hours. On the outside, the building was just a four-story, windowless concrete block surrounded by razor wire, but the inside was a horror show for his Asperger’s. The walls were painted a nauseating mint green shade, and the once white trim was now a nicotine yellow. The floors alternated between concrete and a linoleum that looked like somebody had put it down in the early seventies and never bothered to update it. The need to stick the curling, peeling edges of the thin squares of material was an itch under his skin.
The lighting in the facility was just bulbs behind metal cages, causing lights to dance and flicker even when he closed his eyes. If Webster had thought county lockup was bad, prison was a never-ending overstimulation of his senses. Lights flickering, alarms blaring, doors buzzing, metal doors slamming, men hollering and banging things against the bars.
The booking process started all over again. He was stripped, searched, thrown into a cold shower, and doused with lice powder. Once he was dressed in his unflattering orange jumpsuit, they gave him two white t-shirts, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and what looked like the world’s ugliest pair of shoes. They also gave him a mat and told him it was his responsibility to hang onto it and that he wasn’t getting another one. They told him anything else was his problem and he’d have to purchase it from the commissary, which he couldn’t do because he didn’t have his information yet.
Webster did his best to keep his shoulders back and his head up despite his overwhelming urge to just disassociate from the shit around him. He couldn’t look weak, couldn’t look like a target, but also couldn’t look too cocky either. Guards walked the new prisoners into the unit single file, and as soon as they entered the large room, a bunch of catcalls and wolf whistles began seemingly from everywhere.
Webster had just been dropped straight from the zoo into the jungle, and there was no missing the hungry expressions on the men’s faces. They elbowed each other, licked their lips, rubbed their hands together, and paced closer. Some even pretended to sniff the air. Webster could feel himself falling away, trying to hide somewhere in his own head, but he bit down on his own tongue until he tasted blood. This wasn’t a game. It was kill or be killed inside these walls. If he couldn’t handle strangers, how the hell would he handle Cyrus?
Some of the men Webster walked in with were clearly not first-timers. There were head nods and hand signals and furtive glances that Webster tried not to think too much about. There were bodies strewn everywhere. Far too many for each person to have their own space in the wall of cells. All the cell doors sat open, and there were inmates playing cards, watching television, using the payphones, and just lounging against the wall watching everybody else.
Each cell had two metal bunks, a sink, and a toilet, but all the cells seemed most definitely taken. Webster guessed that was why there were cots and blankets on the floor of the rec space. His guess was the new guys got stuck on the floor? Fucking awesome.
“Find a spot. There aren’t enough cells for everybody, so just pop your shit wherever you find a space. Don’t be shy,” a portly guard with a receding hairline told the group.
Webster found a spot on the floor, but a female guard snagged his arm. “Not you, pretty boy. We got someplace special for you,” she said with a cold laugh.
A shiver of fear crept along his spine, but he tensed his jaw and gave a single nod, following her up the stairs to the second tier of cells. Other inmates were congregated outside each cell, but they made way for the guard, even as they called out, “Here, kitty-kitty.” She paid them no attention.
They stopped in front of an open cell right in the middle. It was empty, but the top bunk was clearly lived in. There were pictures taped to the wall, and books sat on the lower corner of the mattress. “Bottom bunk’s yours, inmate. Make yourself at home,” she said before turning and leaving him on his own.
As soon as she was gone, the other inmates on the floor swarmed in front of his door. A light-skinned black male in a white wife beater pressed his hands to the doorframe and leaned in. “Welcome to the block. What are you in for?” Webster supposed he should be relieved that the man’s tone seemed only vaguely curious and not hostile.
“Terrorism,” Webster said, keeping his voice bored.
The group of guys laughed, and a dude at the back with a black skull cap on snorted before saying, “You don’t look like no terrorist I ever seen. What you terrorizing, homes? The yogurt shop?”
Webster shrugged. “They say I hacked the FBI.”
This brought a smile to the first inmate’s face, showing Webster a mouth full of perfect white teeth. “Oh, they say, huh? But, let me guess, you didn’t do it,” he said with a laugh.
“Nope, I’m innocent,” Webster said, holding up his hands. “They got the wrong guy.”
The man nodded. “Okay, Poindexter, I see you. We all innocent, too. The law just got it out for us.”
Poindexter. They always went to Poindexter, no matter who they were or what their background was. Even without his glasses. Webster thought it seemed like low-hanging fruit as far as nicknames went, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Mr. Wife-Beater with his bulging biceps.
Before he could say anything else, the group of men started to fall back, making way for somebody. “‘Sup, cuz,” the man at the door asked somebody out of Webster’s line of vision. “We were just saying hi to your new roomie. His name’s Poindexter.”
Anything Webster might have been about to say died as his new roommate entered the narrow room, taking up more than his fair share of the space. Cyrus. Had he somehow grown even taller? Webster was a few inches shy of six feet, but Cyrus had to duck to enter. He wasn’t just taller, he was broader, making Mr. Biceps look like he was the before photo.
He swallowed the lump in his throat as they stared at each other, and Webster could swear one of the guys made a noise that made Webster think he should be very afraid.
Was he afraid? He didn’t feel afraid, exactly, but there was a strange shock of adrenaline that rocketed through him, like seeing a ghost appear right before his eyes. Cy’s tattooed forearms flexed as he crossed his arms over his tight white t-shirt, calling attention to perfect ochre-colored skin, the orange jumpsuit sleeves peeled down and tied around his trim waist. His eyes still looked the same honey brown, but he had a skull and crossbones under his right eye, and his head was shaved into a buzzed close-cropped mohawk. Webster could only gawk at him. Was this the same boy he had called family for a whole year?
Cy advanced on him, his expression menacing, his full lips flattened into a hard line as he closed the distance between them. Webster didn’t even panic. If anything, he had a moment of total clarity and perfect peace. He had this coming. He completely deserved whatever punishment Cyrus planned on doling out to him right then and there in front of the other inmates. At least Webster wouldn’t have to worry about sleeping on that uncomfortable fucking mattress.
Cyrus gripped his arm and yanked him forward, arms closing around him tight enough to cut off his breathing. It took a full thirty seconds of Cyrus clapping him on the back for Webster to realize he was being hugged and not murdered. “Good to see you, brother. Sure wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
