JAMES: I LUNGE and grab Marcel’s arm. My weight isn’t enough to bring the massive man down, but it’s enough to get the knife away from Pedro’s neck.
The guard twists out of Marcel’s grip, pulls something out of his pocket, and jabs it into Marcel’s side.
I feel an electric jolt go through me. Marcel convulses. The knife falls to the linoleum floor, and Marcel and I follow, two sacks of potatoes dropping.
I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for Pedro to have an electric stun gun in here. But I’m glad he does.
I roll away from Marcel’s arm, and the electric current ceases. I’m woozy. My limbs feel like dead weight.
The large man flails like a fish on the dock until the electric tat-tat-tat stops.
Pedro reaches for the knife. To my surprise, Marcel’s hand reaches up and grips Pedro’s arm, but he’s too weak to hold him back. Marcel lashes out with his other hand instead, punching the smaller man in the ribs. Pedro cries out.
I crawl over on shaking limbs and smother Marcel’s arm as he’s reaching back for another punch.
I hear shouting outside the door. A group is coming toward us, calling Marcel’s name.
Pedro has the knife now, and suddenly there’s a river of blood spurting down Marcel’s body, engulfing his chest and arm and me with it. I swear I can feel him getting colder.
Marcel gurgles, and his eyes turn to glass.
Pedro rolls off of him, grabs his radio, and brings it to his mouth. I raise a bloody, shaking hand. “Don’t, Pedro.” He pauses.
Between pants, I manage to say, “Outnumbered. Guards. To inmates.
Hundred to one.”
That gives Pedro pause. Finally, he shakes his head.
“I have to go, Doc. This is my job.”
“Listen to me. When he came in here, he didn’t instantly slit your throat.
Why?”
Pedro squints, thinking.
I answer for him.
“He wanted you as a hostage. A bargaining chip-in case their plan fails. A human shield. If you go out there, they’re going to capture you. Use you against your people. Put you on the web, tied up, maybe beaten, for the world to see, for your kids to see.”
Pedro glances at the laundry room door. It’s the only way out of this room.
The shouting is growing louder. We have a minute, maybe less.
“There’s no way out, Doc. Just stay here.”
He rises, and I grab his arm with my bloody hand. “There is another way out.”
“What-”
“No time to explain, Pedro. Do you trust me?”
WHEN THE PRISONERS ARRIVE, I’m lying on the floor next to Marcel, twitching.
There are six of them, carrying improvised clubs and knives. One has a radio.
“We found Marcel. He’s dead.”
They surround me. I sit up with effort, still twitching. The charade isn’t hard to pull off. I’m still weak.
“Who was it?” their leader shouts. “Didn’t… see him.”
A bald guy about my age with tats up and down his arms raises a blade to my Adam’s apple.
I feign terror-also not a stretch.
“He came in… behind Marcel. Shocked him and pushed him into me. I blacked out.”
Gunfire sounds over the radio. The leader turns and barks questions, pacing the laundry room.
“I can’t… walk,” I whisper. “I need you to carry me out-”
The blade is withdrawn from my neck, and they push me back to the floor and storm out.
When I’m sure they’re gone, I strip off my bloody clothes and stuff them in a laundry bag. I crawl to the middle dryer and whisper, “They’re gone.”
The sheet pulls back and I see Pedro’s eyes. Scared, but grateful.
“Stay until I come get you.”
Luckily for him, Pedro isn’t a large man. Still, he’ll be sore when he gets out.
I’m a little taller than he is, five-ten. It’ll be a tight fit, but I don’t have a choice. I can barely walk. Definitely can’t run or fight. I’m in no shape to escape or battle my way out of here, if it comes to that.
I turn the volume up on the TV to cover any sounds Pedro and I might make. I hear a noise from his machine and realize he’s turned his radio on to check the situation.
“Pedro,” I whisper, “you’ve got to keep the radio off. Sound equals death, my friend.”
With that, I stuff myself into a large commercial dryer, cover the glass door with bunk sheets, and wait.
IT FEELS as if I’ve been in here for hours.
I listen to the news, straining my ears for any clues about what’s happening out there.
Every story on the TV seems to be about the Long Winter and how one family is surviving it.
I try not to move, but my body is aching-both from being crammed in here in the fetal position and from the electrocution earlier.
A breaking news story begins. The words “prison riot” and “National Guard” catch my attention. I pull the sheet back just enough to see an image of helicopters landing outside the prison. They can’t be more than two hundred yards from where I am now.
The reporter’s words echo what I’ve suspected since this began. “With the Long Winter draining federal and local law enforcement resources, the rules of engagement for prison riots has clearly changed.”
I’m so engrossed I don’t hear the footsteps until the inmate strides through the open doorway, followed by two others. They’re looking for us. For Pedro, to use as a bargaining chip. As for me, when they figure out what I did, they’ll want revenge. Revenge is big in prison. And there may be no one to stop them.
