Time Spike: Chapter Eighteen

    “Hey, Injun!”

    James Cook took a deep breath and kept walking.

    “I’m talking to you, sister!”

    The voice was coming from one level up. The line of sixty men he was in was making its way across the metal grating that porched the fourth floor of the five-tiered cell house. The metal stairs leading to the ground floor were packed. He was trapped. He looked around for a screw. There. At the door. A guard. If he could get close enough to be seen, if he got stuck, at least he wouldn’t bleed to death before they found him. The line moving from the back of the cell house to the door slowed to a snail’s pace.

    He knew the score. He had just hoped it would be someplace else, someplace in the open. His uncle had explained it to him as soon as they knew he was going to be doing some serious time. “Boy, how you start is how you go, so be careful. You’re looking at half a lifetime behind bars. So, as good lookin’ as you are, you have no choice. If you don’t want to be turned out and punked out, you’re going to have to be one hell of a hog. You can’t back down. You gotta beat the shit out of some big motherfucker. Hell, you might have to kill someone as soon as you get the chance. Whichever way you go, make sure the shitheads know you got heart, that you done it. But try to do it in a way the turnkeys can’t pin it on you. There’s no sense upping the ante to a lifetime behind bars.”

    The old man looked grim. “And never forget one thing, either. There’s no men behind them bars. Just animals. Wolves and rabbits. And you’ll be one or the other. So make up your mind as to which.”

    It hadn’t taken James more than a couple of days in the fish tank to realize his uncle was wrong. There were quite a few men behind the bars, actually. They were just hiding it from the wolves because they didn’t want to become rabbits.

    He slowed his pace to match that of the line. Fear was the one thing he wouldn’t show.

    “Hey, squaw! What’s your hurry?”

    Cook resisted the urge to drop his hands into his pockets. The voice was closer, but not close enough for him to play his hand. There was still a chance the guy intended to take it to a blind; someplace the guards wouldn’t be so likely to see.

    He walked with the line, not crowding the man in front of him and forcing himself to keep his breaths steady.

    Finally, they were through the door and onto the street. This was better, but not the best. He glanced around and spotted where he wanted the fight to take place. It was a small area of hard concrete and scattered gravel. It was the same area he had picked up the small stones he now carried inside his pocket. The footing was good, too, which he’d need against a man a lot bigger than he was. He’d finally gotten a glimpse of the guy who was after him. He probably outweighed James by a good fifty pounds, and it didn’t look as if much of it was fat.

    He hunched his shoulders, jammed one hand into each pocket, and picked up his pace. He wanted the wolf to think he was scared, running.

    It worked. The large man with full sleeves—snake tattoos running from shoulder to wrists on both arms—hooted and followed him toward the open area away from the guards. Cook sped up, forcing the man behind him to break into a trot. When he was sure the guy was closing in, he stopped and turned around. He could see other prisoners a dozen yards away. They weren’t here to help with the beating; they were just sightseers along for the fun.

    One on one, then. He had a chance.

    The man coming toward him had a pillowcase in his hand. James knew it would be filled with batteries, scrap metal or something equivalent. That was okay. It wasn’t a banger. He had a chance.

    He pulled his hands from his pockets, slow and easy. He wanted one fight and one fight only. He wanted the rumors that followed this fight to tell he was bare-fisted. The small pebbles he had tucked into his right hand wouldn’t be visible. There were about a dozen of them, none bigger than a beebee.

    He waited. He would let his assailant throw the first punch. That was for the audience. He knew the way he wanted to do his time. He wanted to be a man others felt safe around. A man who didn’t look for a fight. But he would also be a man that wouldn’t run. One who could inflict some damage when pushed.

    The big man hesitated. He had expected the Indian to turn and run, but he hadn’t. Instead, James brought his fists up in an exaggerated fighter’s stance. The big man sneered and swung his pillowcase, aiming for the head.

    James had counted on that. A man this much bigger than he was would assume that his weight and strength would be enough. And he wasn’t likely to know that James had done a lot of amateur boxing.

    He dodged the blow easily. Then, sent a left jab into the man’s face, followed by another. Quick-quick. He had good speed and reflexes.

    Most important of all, he’d boxed enough to know you had to control the adrenaline. Watch. Take that extra split second to see what the opponent was doing before you threw another punch. If you lost that control, the adrenaline took over and you just started swinging madly. Against a man this much bigger, that was hopeless.

    His assailant was surprised. Then, furious. He howled something and drew back the pillowcase for another blow.

    His face was wide open. James hurled the pebbles right at his eyes.

    The man howled again and clutched his face. James kicked him in the groin. Not the full swinging kick he’d have used on a football. Just a quick snap-kick. Everything had to be quick. It was his only chance.

    It wasn’t the kind of blow that would collapse a man, but any kind of blow to the testicles hurt like hell. The guy’s hand came away from his face and went to his groin.

    Again, his face was open, but that wasn’t James’ target. The man had the sort of square heavy head that would just break knuckles if James tried a full punch.

    He gave him two more left jabs. Quick, stinging blows; designed more to confuse the opponent than hurt him.

    The man roared with fury and charged.

    Now.

    James met the charge with his first full punch. A right cross with everything he had and all his weight behind it. But his hand was open, the thumb and fingers forming a vee, and he wasn’t aiming for the face. The throat below was completely exposed.

    It was a blow that might have killed a smaller man. This one’s neck muscles were just too thick for the impact to collapse the throat. But it took him down, it surely did. Down hard, and down final.

    James looked down at his assailant for a moment, gauging whether he needed to start kicking him.

    No. He was on his side, clutching his throat, gasping for breath. His eyes were bulging.

    The fight was over. It hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. That would do more for James’ reputation than any amount of pointless stomping. He just turned and walked away.

    Carefully, keeping his face calm and expressionless, he headed toward the infirmary. The crowd parted, letting him walk through. Just as he reached the door to the infirmary he heard someone say, “Injun, you in deep shit now. That was the Butch. Luff’s favorite boy.”

    James stopped and turned around, to see who was talking. Making sure to turn easily—no spinning around, nothing that looked excited or nervous—and keep his face expressionless.

    But whoever it had been was not inclined to speak up again.

    Good enough. After a second or so, James went into the infirmary.

    Later, as he scrubbed the counter with the foul smelling mixture he had been given by Barbara Ray, James wondered what the nasty stuff was. Back home, when he cleaned the equipment at the firehouse, they used a bleach solution. This was not chlorine or alcohol based. The familiar odor of antiseptics was not present anywhere within the infirmary. Barbara, the LPN on duty, had told him they were out of the regular cleaners. They were using stuff from the machine shop and hoping it would do the job without causing too much damage. According to her, they were in the process of producing a little alcohol. So, hopefully, they would have at least one of the old tried and true products within a few days.

    The infirmary had changed since he first arrived. Its six beds were now reserved for C.O.’s and inmates who were critical. Now, inmates needing non-intensive medical care were housed upstairs in what used to be the psych ward. The psych patients had been returned to the general population or moved to X-row.

    The beds situated inside the holding cell just outside the examining room were occupied by two female guards and an infant. The C.O. with the baby was Kathleen Hanrahan. The other bed was occupied by a young and very pretty black woman who looked to be in rough shape. She had to be Elaine Brown, the one who took it in the gut right after the shit hit the fan.

    There was also one patient tied to a gurney inside the examining room he was cleaning. The guy didn’t look like a guard or an inmate. And he looked like he’d been busted up pretty good.

    After a few minutes, the man gave a small moan and mumbled something Cook couldn’t quite make out, so he moved closer, his heart in his throat. It had been a long time since he heard Cherokee. His great-grandmother was the last one he heard speak it, and she died when he was fifteen. But even so, he was sure that was the language the man was using. Its familiar rhythm caused his chest to squeeze tight in an ache for home.

    It took him a minute to translate what was being said. The man was in pain. He was also thirsty. Cook looked around and found a cup, then filled it from the water pitcher sitting on the medicine cabinet. The old man gulped the warm liquid down in three gulps then gratefully patted his hand.

    “How did you know what he wanted?” asked Jenny Radford, the nurse practitioner who ran medical. She was standing in the doorway. Captain Blacklock and Lieutenant Hulbert were behind her.

    “He speaks Cherokee.”

    “He is an Indian, then. I thought he might be.” Hulbert was nodding his head. “And you can understand him.”

    “A little.”

    Jenny’s grin was almost contagious. “Great!”

    James shook his head. “Lady, you don’t understand. I was a kid the last time I heard someone speak Cherokee. I haven’t spoken it or heard it spoken in years.”

    “Try,” said Captain Blacklock. “Try hard. I want to know who shot him.”

    Cook shrugged and looked at the man. “Who shot you?” he asked in English. He had no idea how to phrase the question in the old language.

    The old man looked at him then tugged at the straps holding him in place. He spat out a string of words and Cook shook his head.

    “Go slow. I can’t catch what you’re saying unless you slow it down.”

    The old man surprised him; he slowed down and repeated himself. He was now speaking so softly that James had to bend over and put his ear just a few inches away.

    James still didn’t understand. He shook his head. “Say it again.”

    The man repeated himself. Then, said it in English. Perfectly understandable, although the accent was odd.

    James looked at Hulbert and Blacklock. He didn’t think they’d heard anything understandable, that far away.

    So, he shook his head. “I don’t know what he said.”

    “Take a guess,” Hulbert said.

    “I can’t.”

    Radford walked over and touched the old Cherokee’s hand. “I was watching you, and I know you understood what he said. So, tell us.”

    James took a step back. Damn! What a day! He wasn’t going to tell these people anything. They were stupid—too stupid to realize the old man understood everything being said. Stupid and nuts. And the old Indian was nuttier. He was claiming Spaniards shot him!

    Lieutenant Hulbert smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “By the looks of you when you came in today, I would say you need a rest. I’ll send you back to your cell. You haven’t been here long. You haven’t had much time to get to know everyone. Or the way things work. Maybe we could let you have the rest of the day off; let you visit a friend. Luff, or one of the other boys in the cell house might invite you over for tea.”

    The guards were no different from the cons. Everyone knew that. They would use you, then leave you to die. They were worse than wolves; they were vultures. Vultures that picked you down to the bones but kept their hands clean. You would be dead, but they could pretend their souls weren’t sullied.

    But James didn’t let any of his anger show on his face. “You want something from me, I’ll give it. But you have to give me something first. I want a roommate transfer. I want…”

    He thought fast, picking through the information he’d gotten since he arrived. A lot of it was just scraps and rumor, of course.

    What James needed right now—needed desperately—was protection. That meant protection from one of the bosses, not the guards. Unless they kept you in solitary, the guards had no way to keep a man safe, and James didn’t want spend the next twenty years in solitary. Even if he got out alive, he’d be a jibbering nutcase by then.

    He decided his best bet was Boomer. He was the only boss who didn’t care what race you were, as long as you weren’t full white. And he didn’t care what got you behind bars as long as you hadn’t done some kid. But even so, to be in his cell and not be one of his men, that could get you killed. It was a gamble, but it was his best chance.

    “I want Boomer moved into my house, and no one knows why. And it happens today. Now. I don’t go back to my cell until he’s sitting on that bottom bunk. And you keep me here during the day, every day. You can let it out that I was an EMT in my former life.”

    “You were?” Jenny sounded pleased.

    “I think he’s lying.” Hulbert shook his head. “And we don’t bargain with the inmates.”

    “Believe what you want. I don’t care. But if I tell you anything, especially what this guy just said, my life’s worth nothing. We both know that. Rats don’t make it. Besides, things are different now. You can strike deals. And if you had any idea as to what was happening behind those bars you would be stalking the walkways for anyone who’d ride your leg.”

    Captain Blacklock gave a small laugh. “Maybe. But I’m not sure I need to deal with you. The way I heard it, you’re life’s not worth much one way or the other. We know about the fight with Butch Wesson.”

    “You knew about it and didn’t do a fucking thing to give a fish a hand.” He gave the men in blue uniforms a cold stare. “It doesn’t matter. When I’m sent back to my cell I’m done. That bastard has friends, and they’ll be looking for revenge and to save a little face. So, why not send me back to a new roomie? You do that for me and I’ll sing like a bird.”

    Blacklock returned the gaze calmly, for a few seconds. Then, shrugged. “Okay, you’ve got it. But you’ve got to have two roomies. We’re tripling everyone up.”

    “Okay, then. The Boom and Adrian Luff.”

    Hulbert chuckled. “Well, I guess that’d be one way to solve your Luff problem.”

    James Cook shook his head. “I want to live. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m not some lily-white-ass. I either get the Boom on my side, or I die.”

    Andy thought about it. Cook was right. The guards couldn’t protect him. They hadn’t even been able to protect the Martinez kid before the Quiver. Now, after it, no one was safe.

    “Okay, kid. You’re in with Boomer. And if your records say you once worked as an EMT, you can have a permanent work posting here in the clinic. But I’m not giving you an upper-level Aryan to put between you and the Boom. You’ll have to work it out on your own. I’ll pull Paul Howard out of your cell for a few days. Six days, counting today. Then he gets popped right back in. The man is white, but he’s level headed and doesn’t mix with trouble. He and the Boom won’t become the best of buds, but they’ll be able to co-exist.”

    He then gave Cook a little headshake. “Just for the record, we didn’t find out about the fight until it had already started. And by the time we got there, you’d ended it and were already gone. Believe it or not, I actually hope you live till tomorrow. But, just in case, what did this guy say?”

    Cook shrugged. “Ask him yourself. He speaks English.”