Broken Steel

Chapter 2

TWO

Brian Armstrong opened his eyes to the sound of approaching work boots on the steel-grated floor. They sounded like a hammer on an anvil. His cell was dark, less for the light from the small window and the glow from the small television set that sat on a makeshift shelf in the corner.

Armstrong lived alone; all he had for company was his books that he had collected over the fifteen long years, as well as the respect of the other inmates who had named him Teacher.

The sound of the night made him think back to that first evening in Rikers. He’d arrived straight from the courthouse; it was late in the day and night shift was just about to start their handover/takeover.

Armstrong had been slapped in a cell with a small cockroach of a man named Gomez – some petty two-time loser who liked to r**e old women, which pretty much put him on everyone’s s**t list from the word go.

Armstrong got up on the top bunk but made sure he was facing the door, and his back was to the wall with the window; he wanted to see if anyone was coming for them during those dark nights.

He had closed his eyes only for a moment before the cell door opened and there stood three large black guys with armless shirts that showed off tattoos and too many hours in the gym. Their shaven heads glinted from the light of the moon that shone through the window. They were not particularly tall men; in fact, Armstrong would dwarf them at six-one, but they had a muscular advantage. The centreman was larger than the others. This was obviously the Alfa of the group. An angry-looking man with a scar that ran down the left side of his face, he wore a red bandana around his neck as though it were some symbol of authority.

“Now then, what have we got here, boys? Fresh ass, I do believe,” the man said. his voice gravely but quiet, as though he’d had surgery on his larynx.

The others laughed, but Armstrong didn’t. He just stayed on his bunk until he was called. Below him, the r****t scurried across the room to the corner, next to the stainless-steel toilet, and curled up like a frightened kitten.

“Don’t worry cockroach, we will get to you, but first we have to introduce ourselves to our new guest,” said the other, a bulky man with a goatee and a tattoo of a lion on his thick right shoulder. He was the muscle, the guy they sent in first because his mass could take it.

The insect in the corner giggled with excitement. Armstrong got off his bunk and stood with his back near the wall.

“I don’t want any trouble.” Armstrong raised his hands with the palms upwards in a stop gesture, but the three men just laughed.

“It’s okay, fish. You do what we tell you, and there won’t be any problems. Now get your ass down and get on your fuckin’ knees, b***h,” laughed the leader.

Brian Armstrong shook his head and moved his right leg backwards slightly. “Sorry, that’s not going to happen,” he said.

The man to the boss' left sucked his gold teeth and walked forward quickly. He went to grab him, but before he knew it, the goon was thrown to the ground, and Armstrong held the man in an armlock while his foot rested on the back of the man’s neck.

“OK, back off, or this guy has to find someone else the cut his food,” he growled.

The second goon rushed forwards to try and catch Armstrong off balance and save his friend.

Through the steel, corridors screams of pain echoed along the many floors of the blockhouse, but the guards didn’t care if these men took one another apart; they were there to stop riots, and if the inmates wanted to take out each other, that was fine by them. Fewer scumbags to look after in their eyes.

Hell, they were doing society and the taxpayers a favour. The sound of metal springs screeching was the only noise to break the silence as Armstrong got back on to his bunk. The cockroach had left, scurried away to find another hole to hide in.

“You must be the schoolteacher?” came a voice from the cell entrance.

He looked over at the doorway to see a huge form blocking it, but his face was obscured by shadows.

“It seems you are good at teaching, so maybe you could spread some education in here?” asked the shadowy figure.

Armstrong sat up as some other men entered and dragged away the unconscious three. “What did you have in mind?” he asked curiously.

“Maths, English, those sorts of things. This place has lost its purpose. I was hoping you could restore that,” said the mysterious man.

He nodded. “Sure, a man’s gotta have a purpose, right?” he asked with a shrug.

“Welcome Teacher, and I wouldn’t be worried about any more visits; you have definitely demonstrated that lesson.” The man’s booming belly-deep laughter echoed through the block as the doors clanged shut.

Armstrong opened his eyes suddenly and looked over to the small television set that sat in the corner and sighed deeply. The images of the past were now a distant memory, but one he would never forget. The television had a news report on the prison and, at first, his sleepy eyes couldn’t make out too much, so he rubbed them a couple of times to let the eyes natural lubrication get to work before opening them again.

The news report was about inmate Brian Armstrong going to the review board at county court along with nine other men, but it was his face that was making the news as it had done all those years ago. The press had labelled him then, and they were doing it now. To them, he would always be guilty; to them, he had stabbed his wife in that alleyway and left her to die slowly.

The journey from the prison to the city would take a good hour. Outside, the rain came down in thick sheets, making driving almost impossible. Bursts of light illuminated the sky as the storm clouds above crackled and flashed with the build-up of electricity. The streets outside the long white armoured prison bus were filled with inch-high water that reflected the lights of the stores and the headlights of the passing vehicles that waded through the ocean on the road, water spewing from the wheel arches as they flew past each other.

Armstrong looked out across the half-empty streets. He guessed that people were smart enough not to leave the comfort and safety of where they were. Closing his eyes, he felt the coldness of the window on his face and the rain as it pounded on the thick grating on the windows as it came down sideways against the bus. He watched the world as it blurred past through water-streaked windows; this was not a world he had known or knew. It was merely one he had passed through several times. He had no idea why, protocol he guessed, the whole human rights crap. Armstrong knew he was going to never get out, not while the press and joe public had a hard-on for him. Who knew, maybe one day when people had forgotten, or the President was making an ass of himself so much that Brian Armstrong didn’t matter?

His world had gone, ripped away from him in conspiracy and lies fifteen years before. Now, he had re-invented himself and established himself as a big part of the prison. The large man who had visited him in his cell on his first night had said something to him once.

“You can let this place consume you, or you can become so important that you are hard to be swallowed up by it.”

At that moment he didn’t understand, but as time went on and he saw the beatings and the stabbings he came to understand. Be someone they respected, not out of fear, no, that was someone else’s domain. Become something so different they couldn’t do without you; become an influence of a different kind … a teacher.

Armstrong was suddenly roused from his daydream by an argument between the head guard and the driver. He couldn't make it out as they held their tone down, as if not to alarm the prisoners, but he paid no heed and just went back to listening to the music of the raindrops on the metal.

“OK, ten minutes, people,” yelled the guard who stood next to the driver.

Armstrong opened his eyes and smiled. Even if the board never granted him early release, he had still gotten outside for a little while.

He looked casually around the bus, at the other inmates and three guards along for the ride. His gaze evolved into an interesting glare as he took note at the way everyone was settled, almost confused at the seating arrangements. The old soldier in him kicked in. He hadn't noticed it before; he hadn't really had time as they were carted on to the bus like cattle for the slaughterhouse.

He found it curious the way they were settled into two groups and his group was at the back of the bus, seated against the right-hand wall while the others were against the left-hand side near the front. He shook it off as his soldier paranoia kicking in and went back to looking out the window.

The rain had gotten heavier, making it almost impossible to see out of the glass, which was beginning to mist up. The glass, although strengthened, was still breakable; however, the steel caging on the outside of the windows prevented any escape. In addition, all of the men were clamped down by a securing grip that held the leg cuffs in place on the floor.

He stared out of the window as best he could, noting shapes of buildings blurring past; he realised, in horror, that the bus was moving faster. He turned towards the long gantry to see if there was a problem and everything seemed to slow as the bus skidded out of control when they turned a sharp bend. Those at the rear were thrown to the ground while the men at the front were pinned to the windows with the sudden velocity of the skid.

Armstrong heard screams and then what seemed to be a loud explosion behind them. Glass fragments fell like small diamonds from shattered windows, covering the men as they sought shelter on the floor. Then there was another massive shudder, and their bodies were thrown upwards as the bus was hurled to its side. Prisoners on the left side of the bus screamed in pain and fear as they hung upside down from their leg restraints. He looked up at the men as they struggled to grab hold of something to support themselves. Fountains of water sprayed inside from the broken windows, filling the interior with rainwater as the bus skidded across the deep water-covered road.

The sound of screaming and metal against concrete was deafening. Brian Armstrong covered his ears as best he could and closed his eyes. He knew it would only be a matter of time until it stopped, and the only question was how. He didn't have long to wait for the answer as he felt himself smash against the seats. Another loud explosion burst forth, and the bus came to a halt.

Half dazed, Armstrong sensed himself been carried, then felt the sensation of wet and cold against his skin; he was outside. He looked up through narrowed eyes and saw the two large black men that he had shared the back row with. Suddenly, his body felt heavy, as if he were losing consciousness. Then, he felt himself grow light, as though he was leaving his body. Slowly, he closed his eyes and fell into the darkness.