Last Burn in Hell

Part One:-3

My mind is starting to wander. To most of the African American women here I'm just an MO: muthafuckin’ ofay. Chauntelle hasn't spouted any of that yet.

In an hour or two the sun is going to creep up over our world and put an end to all of this. It occurs to me that Chauntelle's lower lip is beginning to tremble—it's best not to look. This is always the end-sign leading to the final revelation. On the up-side these women get more than just physical comfort or release from my service. This thought is the most rewarding; that there can be spiritual and emotional benefit for the inmates makes every second worthwhile.

"I ... I...” Her rough voice quavers, incapable of continuing.

"Chauntelle, listen. It's okay. Just take your time and tell me whatever you want. Whenever you're ready. Okay? Really.” I tilt her head toward me so that she can look into my eyes. “I'm here for you.” That's when she breaks down, blubbering self-hating syllables and regret and, well, snot. Tissues are kept on hand for times like this, and after restraining Chauntelle's wrists to keep her from clawing at her face I hand her a couple. These are the cheap kind and when she blows her nose she punches a hole in the flimsy tissue. “Sorry about that."

"S'okay, s'okay,” she says to herself more than me. “Ken...” Chauntelle's voice cracks and she sobs before continuing. “I did it. I, uh, you know, I really did ... it."

It's made clear from the get-go my name is Kenrick, and they can call me Ken or Rick, just not Kenrick. Not sure what she's referring to by “it” I stay quiet for the moment and stroke the cornrows of her hair.

"Rajhid, he was only three ... wh-when I killed ‘im. I threw ‘im down the steps, down the steps in the ‘partments, one floor and then I did the ‘nother floor and the ‘nother floor but he must'a been had his neck broke on just the first one. I don't...” Her voice trails off as her pupils seem to focus on something looming over us in the darkness. “Don't know why I gone done that.” She faces away from me, ashamed or something. The heaving of her breasts as she hyperventilates is a little unnerving. “Ain't never told no one that. Not the laws, or the PD, or the sistas, or no one. Just you, white boy."

"It's okay. I'm not judging you.” My hands massage her arm, her shoulder, and she rolls away from me. Not for me to stop, just to talk to the wall. This is the most physically intimate we've gotten the whole time. Up until now it's just been the occasional comment in the darkness, and laying here naked side-by-side, but not in an awkward way. She's just been enjoying the time at her own pace, savoring her last moments. “Chauntelle—"

"Why come you don't call me ‘baby?’ Ain't I your baby now?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Whatever you want baby. You like that?” My fingertips are gently dragged along her skin, from her neck to the small of her back.

She grunts in the affirmative. “His brains, they come out on the last fall. It come out all over th’ floor. It was metal steps up in there, where we lived. And I just stood there, like I's simple, just lookin'."

"That's all behind you now.” To say that it's over would be in bad taste, considering tomorrow's scheduled event. “It happened. Just don't let it keep happening in your heart, you've gotta let it go. You know?” As my lips brush her neck a shudder runs through her.

After a long while she breaks the silence. “All this time ... if just one'a these head-shrinkers would'a said that to me!"

"It's okay baby."

"Whycome you don't shove me outta this here bed?! You ain't even mad!"

"I told you, I'm not here to be judging you. I just want you to take care of yourself."

"Don't you think it's all late for that and whatnot?” Despite her confrontational talk she seems to be calming down a bit. Suddenly she flips back over, facing me with wild eyes and rough, rushed hands. “Do me,” she commands. I'm not sure if she wants me to execute her or give her lust, but I'll opt for that second one.

* * * *

Every once in a while it feels like TV cameras are on me, the star of my own little show. One set is filled with torture instruments out of a dungeon, and the other is a dungeon. Which one is home and which is my job? When in doubt, look to the supporting cast. I nod to Cialis, better known as C.C., while she pushes buttons and pulls levers.

"What up, Mack Jackoff."

"Wonder what the consumers would think if they knew such a sweet girl was making their bread.” She sneers and shoos me away, already starting to fall behind on the packaging. “Oh yeah, and try not to steal any of the product today."

She punches my upper arm. “I done stole you, son, how ‘bout that?” Stole is to have struck a blow—not an all-out fight, in the traditional “fisticuffs” sense. Not abducted, not hijacked, not taken against my will, although maybe my standing with the sentry has got “stoled.” His scowl is obvious even from here. Then again, Ritchie is always looking for a reason to scowl at me. He's already warned me once about “fraternizing"—what he probably thinks is this gigolo is trying to score more “business.” It only takes a minute before I'm out of the bread packing station, some of the inmates hooting and whistling—everybody seems to know about my “secret” job.

One of them calls out, “I gots ta thank yo pops fo’ givin’ ya that ass, son."

Maybe my double lives aren't so separate anymore—the inmates aren't as dumb as most of my coworkers want to believe. Sometimes I almost slip up and call them the “mates” instead of the “inmates,” but luckily that little problem has been kept in check. In reality, “female offenders” is the correct term.

Out of the seventy thousand women in the United States prison system less than one percent are death row occupants. Point-zeroseven percent. Of course, my home state is the leader of the pack with nearly a third of that doomed .07 percent locked behind its penal walls. What the general population doesn't realize is what life is like behind those walls, especially in maximum lockdown. It's like landing yourself on some space colony. Huge, fortress-like installations are so out, and pod design is so in. Circular units that allow 180 degree visibility for the officers, with inmates in the smallest possible clusters. Instead of long hallways everything is compartmentalized into tiny security zones: automated security for every room, every quadrant, and on and on. Motion detectors and vibration detectors have replaced humans on the ground. Gone are the barbaric days of having to see walls and barbed-wire fences surrounding our facilities; exterior upgrades include a continuous field of laser-activated claymore mines. All rooms and walkways are fitted with cameras, except for the cells, where cameras are replaced by “sniffers"—hormone detectors used to gauge when inmates become dangerously depressed or angry. Of course, sniffers don't work on the true sociopaths who kill or maim on a whim, but that's another story.

As for employees, most of the staff has been replaced over the last twenty years by drone carts and other robots. Why risk using people to do the scrub jobs in our prisons? The guards overseeing a pod, they're not armed with guns these days. Instead you get man-down triggers that alert the security matrix of trouble. Personnel are then dispatched to the pod, or in the case of a general riot the computer may choose to pump out nerve gas. Me, I never made it that far as a new boot. Of all the stupid jobs in my life Jack Mack patrol was my lamest, and it's the one that's most hated by the prisoners. They thought I was a G.I.—gang investigator—and called “Auguas!” to alert others I was coming.

Jack Mack is canned mackerel felons get from the commissary. A lot of times the cans are used for bartering, but mostly they can be put in socks and swung around as weapons. Since it's all canned the sniffers can't pick up on it. When inmates realize you're Jack Mackin’ it, not G-eyeing them up, then they really hate your guts. That's because Jackers, as they refer to us, ransack what little belongings they have, half the time walking away with money, narcotics, or pictures of their relatives. If you're in the white state-issue jumpsuits nothing goes your way, or as they say around here: white ain't right.

"Hey. Hey Brimley!” Someone's coming up from behind. Fast.

It's Ritchie again, leaving his station in the bread packing area just for the chance to give me a piece of his mind. We get into it for the umpteenth time: the whole exporting of slave labor never sat well with me. Isn't that one of our main problems with China, that they sell goods their prisoners are forced to make? On the West Coast they export prison-made shirts, because our laws only say you can't sell the product in the USA. Down here in the South it isn't shirts, it's white bread, AKA bolillos. The Hispanic chicks, in their white state-issue jumpsuits, they call me and the other white officers bolillos too. But Ritchie, you could just call him a fuckin’ asshole. And I do.

That's when he grabs me, and that's when I shove him, and that's when his fist slams into me, and that's when the inmates start jumping up and down cheering us on like it was the Birmingham Black Bastards versus the Washington White Devils in the playoffs. It would make their day to see us off each other, but a slew of other guards rush in and separate us. As much spy tech as we've got up in here it's a wonder we didn't get slammed soon as we raised our voices up a notch. You've been slammed when a guard harshly takes you to the ground and restrains you.

It's no surprise when the others slam me but let Ritchie split my wig. That extra quick little punch is gonna cost somebody, just wait and see. Punks. While they're busy getting the population settled down Ritchie leans in and whispers, “I got a long memory, boy."

"And a big fuckin’ mouth!"

The fists come out to play again.

* * * *

Can't even remember why I signed up with the correctional system in the first place. Up north, where I'm from, the weather wasn't nearly so hot and even now, a few years later, it still leaves me drained most of the time. So why stay here? For a new boot the pay was just so-so, and quitting to find a more pleasant line of work was my next step. That is, before an unusual sort of counselor job opened up. The rumors about an upcoming position were passed on by Fred in the cafeteria and Cindy the train driver—the train is the bus that drives prisoners from county jail to prison. Neither of them took it very seriously; after all how could such a wild rumor be true? Just to be on the safe side I lodged an official complaint about the matter.

"Kenrick Brimley. You ain't a relation of that actor, I don't suppose?"

"Um ... pardon me?” I found myself standing alone in front of the warden, J. Marlan Dempsey, for the first time in my seven months of employment.

"That fella, Brimley, eats the oatmeals."

"Sanders said you wanted to speak to me about something. Sir?"