Richard Stephenson - Collapse

Once the men took their seats, A.W. Kapparis addressed the group. “So, what are we going to do?”

The men in the room looked to their boss, who said, “We can’t very well let them out. The first thing they would do is follow the road down to Highland Valley, storm the city where our families live, and do God only knows what to them. The fate of the men under our care has already been sealed. I will not grant them freedom if it comes at the expense of the lives of our loved ones. If the Lord wants to hold me accountable, I will gladly trade my own soul for the lives of all of you and your families.”

The warden looked out his window, seeing flakes of ash falling to the ground, he cursed his EPO for lying to him and making him think they had more time. If the fool tried to kiss his ass and keep his job, he was sure he was going to slap the man across the face like the bitch he was. He ordered Captain Zamir to move the Riot Control Teams up to their assigned gates.

Warden William Vandehoef was about to tell a lie and administer the death penalty to one thousand, nine hundred eighty-seven convicted felons.

Richard Dupree wiped the ash from his bald head and took off his shirt. He tore the shirt down the middle, urinated on it, and wrapped his head like he was standing in the Sahara Desert. The three skinheads with him watched him with interest; Spider even laughed like Richard was playing a perverted dress up game.

“Should I ask why you did that? What is wrong with you?”

“Protects your nose and mouth from breathing in smoke,” Richard explained.

“You stayin’ out here? What’s wrong with you?” Head’s large eyes looked at him in confusion and disgust.

“Suit yourself, not asking you to do it,” Richard said calmly.

The three Aryans mimicked his action, minus the urination.

“Fuck this, I’m going inside,” said Head, hoping for support

“Quiet. Just stay there, keep quiet and let me think.”

“Look around Richard! We ain’t got no choice! We stay out here, we dead!” Spider turned in the direction of their block, hoping the others would do the same.

Billy “Tank” Bratchett, the six foot nine, three hundred twenty-five pound monster, spoke an octave higher. “Richard, we gotta go man, I can’t stay out here! My eye is hurtin’ like a bitch!”

Richard knew all too well why Tank’s eye was causing him agonizing pain.

Tank’s eye was only one of the many injuries on his massive, linebacker frame. A few months after he and Richard starting running on the track together, Richard would ask him about the scars on his body and how he got them. The stories surrounding each scar finally answered the question of the extremely offensive tattoo on his right bicep and why he still had it, the one showing a black man hanging dead from a tree with three hooded Klansman looking up at him.

Every morning when they hit the track, Richard noticed that the black inmates were terrified of Tank; most wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Nearly every black gang in the prison had tried to murder Tank and cut the racist tattoo off his massive arm. Tank had the scars to prove it. One scar cut across Tank’s chest, severing the arm of Hitler. When he realized the damage done to Adolf, he proceeded to break every bone in the hand that wielded the offending knife. The most gruesome scar on Tank’s body was on his left cheek. A large chunk of flesh had been torn away and damaged his left eye, leaving the pupil with no pigment. Tank was already a terrifying monster to look at before the damage to his eye; now he looked like some sort of demon. If he were walking the streets as a free man, the sight of him would no doubt make a small child cry and grown men cower. The eye was very sensitive to heat. Tank countered the heat with sunglasses, and in the scorching heat of the summer, he had to wear an eye patch. Richard could only imagine what the heat and smoke was doing to him. Probably felt like a hot poker being driven into his brain.

The final attempt on Tank’s life pretty much ensured that no one would ever bother Tank again. In his last gladiatorial match, it was four Gangster Disciples against Tank. Tank managed to kill two of them before the bullets from the guard tower started whizzing past his head. One of the unlucky fools thought he had beat Tank when he managed to stab Tank in the thigh with a shank. Tank responded by pulling the shank out of his own leg and thrusting it into the Disciple’s chest, piercing his heart and killing him. After the fight, no one dared give Tank so much as a disrespectful glare.

Richard could handle his own without a doubt, but Tank was too important an asset to just ignore. He was an important tactical advantage that Richard couldn’t pass up. Tank gave one last look at his cellmate for some sort of answer.

“Billy, trust me. We let them lock us in our cell and we’re dead. Them too,” Richard said, pointing to Spider and Head.

“Dumbasses, get back here!” Tank screamed at the confused pair ten yards away. When Tank yelled, you obeyed.

Think, Richard, think! What are you not seeing?

Richard had listened very intently to the warden when his choice of words set off alarms in his head. He knew something wasn’t right. Richard was no expert in ventilation, but it was just something about the warden pleading with them that struck a chord. He was desperate. The safety and well being of the inmates under his care was not the cause of his desperation; it was more. Richard tried to imagine how the ventilation system would work. He guessed that the system was designed to pull smoke out of an area and keep them from dying from smoke inhalation. He figured that being in the desert, the air filters had to be pretty top notch to keep the dust and dirt out.

He was forgetting one very simple thing — the ash.

The ventilation system would never be able to protect them. The ash would clog up everything, including the motors for the air handlers that were on the outside of the cellblock wall.

What was the warden so desperate about? Think. Why is he so desperate to get us inside? He could leave them on the yard and they would die regardless. Then it hit Richard like a bolt of lightning.

They were going to abandon the facility and leave them to die.

The only problem was they had to get the inmates to go to their cells and lock them in before they could make a break for it. Then every staff member would high-tail it to the front gate and flee home to their families.

This is not good , thought Richard. Think!

Then he saw the answer. He squinted his hawk-like eyes to the other side of the yard.

“Follow me.”

Tank, Spider, and Head started to follow him as Head shouted towards Richard, “Where are you going? Our block is back this way!”

Richard confirmed what he thought he had seen. Four utilities foremen were pushing a cart to Cellblock A.

“We have to get inside Cellblock A. It’s time for us to leave.”

Tank had his hand over his left eye and was pressing as hard as he could. “What do you mean leave? You mean out there in that hell” How the fuck we doing that?”

“Let’s just say I have a little experience.”

Chief Maxwell Harris was on the floor of the City Garage screaming in desperation. Roscoe Stern was pacing back and forth a few feet away, crying hysterically. The crumpled corpse of the gunman was at the foot of the stairs, minus most of his head.

“Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Stay with me! C’mon!” Max tore away Elizabeth’s shirt to see just how bad her injuries were. Her left shoulder was covered in blood and she was moaning. Max checked her pulse to find that it was racing.