Black Mountain

By Viktor Wolfe

New corrections officer Nathan Taylor finds his new job at the maximum security prison, Black Mountain, exciting, challenging, and a bit frightening. But once he settles in, the job is like any other; he gains some friends and even finds a new love interest. But Taylor has a dark sidea secret he has kept since childhood. It is not until he encounters inmate Knight that that secret gets exploited and ripped apart; it is not until he experiences signs of stigmata that his life begins to spiral out of control; it is not until he is caught up in the biggest and most violent prison riot in United States history that he discovers a part of himself that may have a tremendous impact upon all of humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546202776

Viktor Wolfe

Viktor Wolfe pulls no punches with his newest, in-your-face, adult thriller. Never before has there been such a blistering, brutal novel set in a prison environment. A new master of the macabre, Viktor Wolfe will leave you wanting more. Viktor has a BA in both English and History from Ohio University. In his free time, he likes to bodybuild and boasts that he is the only novelist who can bench press over 400 lbs. He is currently at work on his third and fourth novels.

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© 2017 Viktor Wolfe. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  09/07/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0278-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0276-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0277-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911982

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Commissioned in 1975 by Thomas Nelson Publishers, 130 respected Bible scholars, church leaders, and lay Christians worked for seven years to create a completely new, modern translation of Scripture, yet one that would retain the purity and stylistic beauty of the original King James. With unyielding faithfulness to the original Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic texts, the translation applies the most recent research in archaeology, linguistics, and textual studies.

Contents

Dedication

Black Mountain

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Afterword

About The Author

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to every

correction officer across the nation.

In today’s ever-changing prison environment,

they have one of the toughest jobs out there.

Hats off to them!

It’s amazing how some men can change, given the right incentive.

                                                      —Stephen King

                                                            The Green Mile

This is the real circus right here.

                   —Stephen King

                     The Green Mile

BLACK MOUNTAIN

A low fog lined the dark landscape in soft curls of cotton.

Poking into the damp, dismal, violet sky

were the sharp gables of the old prison—

Black Mountain, it was called.

Around its perimeter, sat a tall sleek fence,

topped with silvery coils of zigzagged razor wire

and a throng of barbed copper cable

fashioned into a tight V for those crazy brave

and dying desperate.

Four-story, gray-stoned towers loomed

like ancient

giant,

noble

sentries,

their angled dark glass forlorn and minacious

like the judging eyes of God.

Since inception, the archaic clink had claimed over

one thousand lives, each soul waiting

in resplendent fervor to wade through

its callous hallways and pitch-black tunnels,

to haunt those currently immured

inside its lunacy-ridden cells.

Murderers,

rapists,

and the truly insane

populated the penitentiary’s inner chambers—

dark pockets of

soul-searing

menace

and malice.

The countless cold iron bars,

standing for decades like brazen exclamation points,

enscapulated the very essence of the agony of hard time,

its gothic walls entombing its damned

as they waited for Death to escort them

in heavy rattling chains through the annals of Hell.

Suffering cries of wretched distress were swallowed whole

by the harsh and harrowing stones of gloom and doom,

a place where sodomy dwelt in the corners

like festering cockroaches,

where insanity brooded

within the shadows

like wriggling maggots,

where the gauntlet of pestilential sins

blossomed into giant,

oozing pits of despair.

It was the kind of place that seized hopelessness

like a defunct child in the arms of its birthing mother,

the kind of place that breathed fungus through its fetid dungeons

straight into the gates of eternal retribution

where the hellfires of Hades reached out with covetous thirst.

To all who enter,

welcome

to Black Mountain.

CHAPTER 1

What the fuck you looking at, shithead?

The harsh question gave pause to new correction officer, Nathan Taylor. The question was not directed at him; rather, it was directed at a skinny, short, black inmate walking into the Chow Hall. The inmate did not put his eyes on his inquisitor, who went by the nickname, Shorty D, standing all of five-foot-six and was as stocky as a small horse.

The inmate mumbled.

"What did you say? Shorty D demanded. Not allowing the small guy to respond, he grabbed him by the back of the shirt, pulled him backwards, and shoved him hard against the white-tiled wall. Get your fucking ass on the wall!"

The inmate planted his palms flat against the smooth tiles, then slowly put his forehead against it, his eyes closed, perhaps wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

Taylor stood off to the side, a bit nervous, not knowing what was going to happen; this was his first time setting foot inside a prison. While scrolling through Facebook, he’d seen an ad from the Department of Rehabilitation and Correction; they were looking for a few good men to jumpstart their careers as a corrections officer, a job with good pay and good benefits it boasted. At the time, Taylor worked at a dead end job putting new tires on cars and trucks all day long and was hoping (almost praying) that a better job opportunity would present itself to him. He had no trade, no degree, and lived in southern Ohio, where economic opportunity was quickly diminishing. Expenses were mounting, so he had to do something—anything, even if it meant working at a prison.

How bad could it be?

Shorty D towered over the inmate on the wall by one inch, but his fierceness more than made up for his lack of height. Let’s get something straight right now, he said, his body nearly touching the inmate’s side, his face about one inch from the inmate’s scabby left elbow. You don’t say anything to me. You don’t mumble anything to me. And you certainly don’t look at me like I’m your piece-of-shit dad who neglected you for your entire pathetic life. You got that?

Yes, sir, said the inmate, his forehead still on the wall, his eyes still secured shut.

Now how would you like it if I painted these tiles with your blood? said Shorty D.

The inmate shook his head. I wouldn’t like that at all, sir.

So we have an understanding?

Yes, sir.

All right, then. Now get your scrawny ass with your range and don’t say another fucking word to me ever again.

The inmate shot through the open door of the Chow Hall, and then Shorty D turned around to stare at Officer Taylor and Officer Edwards (who was Taylor’s OJT coach for the day). And that’s how you do that, kid, Shorty D said, fixing his beady eyes onto Taylor.

Edwards laughed, then turned toward Taylor. Don’t ever put yourself in that position, he said to his pupil. "The proper procedure for pat-downs is directly behind the inmate. That guy could’ve elbowed Shorty D right in the face."

Shorty D smiled, showing two rows of small white-squared teeth, which were accentuated by his neatly trimmed black beard. Yeah, but they’d soon find out how big a mistake that’d turn out to be. They’d wake up to the tips of Satan’s pitchforks probing their assholes.

By the way, Shorty D, this is Officer Taylor.

They shook hands and exchanged nods.

Everything they taught you up at the Academy—forget it! said Shorty D. Down here in maximum security, we have our own set of rules.

I’ve been told that, said Taylor, offering a small grin. Many times, in fact.

And you also probably heard that we’re a bunch of redneck pricks down here, too, huh? said Shorty D.

Taylor added a laugh to his grin. Yeah, they might’ve mentioned something along those lines as well.

Well, fuuuuuck them! said Shorty D. Those asshole instructors up there couldn’t survive down here. That’s why they’re up there, running their jib, and talking shit.

Well, I’m a fast learner, said Taylor. "And I’m from West Union, he added. So I’ll probably fit right in."

That’s what I like to hear, said Shorty D. I hope you adjust well to this crazy environment.

C’mon, Taylor, said Edwards. Let’s get inside before this guy starts to corrupt you.

Ha! Shorty D laughed. There’s more inside there that will corrupt him than me! He gave a half salute and said, Best of luck to you!

Thanks, said Taylor, returning the salute.

Inside the large, echoy Chow Hall, a nasty warmth enveloped Taylor’s skin and tickled his nose with the faint smell of B.O. and old food. Inmates of all varieties—black, white, and Mexican—filled the four-seater tables from the front all the way to the back. But that wasn’t the scariest part; the scariest part was that there were only four officers on duty. Taylor guesstimated the grossly lopsided ratio to be about two-hundred inmates to those four officers—not good odds.

The main thing is, Edwards said to him, leaning over, is to not look nervous. These guys can smell it on you as if you were dipped in pig shit.

If I seem nervous, I don’t mean to be, said Taylor. It’s just that I’ve never been around this many inmates before. It’s kinda hard not to be leery.

It’s perfectly natural, said Edwards. Just try to remember where you are at all times. These motherfuckers may look like they’re having a good time, but they’ll cut your throat at the drop of a dime if given the chance.

"Well, that’s certainly reassuring," said Taylor, wondering what he got himself into. He looked up at the slowly twirling ceiling fans that were easily twenty feet high, and not circulating an ounce of the stale air.

An inmate stood up, showing the officer nearest him his empty brown cup. The officer shoved his finger downward and said, Sit the fuck down! his face drawled into a vicious scowl. The inmate dropped back down onto his seat and shared a small smirk with his three tablemates.

The same officer turned toward Edwards. "Hey, Edwards, you lost? This is called The Chow Hall, bud. There are inmates in here. In case you forgot. He laughed. So you’d better scram while you still can!"

Very funny! Edwards called back, meeting him by the brick wall, Taylor following close behind. Edwards and the officer shook hands, then the gruff-looking CO, sporting a half-gray-haired goatee, looked at Taylor and said, I got one question for you.

Taylor gave him his full attention.

What kind of dude are you?

Taylor wrinkled his brows and shook his head. What do you mean?

Well, said the officer. "Are you a cool dude? Or are you a shady dude? Or a dude who’s got your back? Or a dude who’ll stab a motherfucker in the back?"

Definitely a cool dude, said Taylor. And one who will always have your back.

The officer smiled. Man, that’s so nice to hear! He stuck his hand out. The name’s Dittman. D-I-T-T-M-A-N.

Taylor gripped his hand. Taylor, he said. T-A-Y-L-O-R. Nice to meet you.

Dittman laughed. Nice sense of humor. Now let me ask you another question: are you a racist?

Taylor quickly shook his head. Because he wasn’t. He’d spent a term in the Navy and true to the cliché, one of his best friends was black, though he didn’t bother to mention that little tidbit.

Well, you might want to start considering it, said Dittman. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but we have a room full of niggers in here and not a one of them are any good to society. Might as well go out and hang ’em. Hang ’em all! He pointed toward the large bay windows. And who knows how many more of ’em are out there … just waiting to get in.

Even though Taylor was only twenty-six years old, he knew there were bad seeds in all races, in all walks of life. But someone like Dittman wouldn’t understand that; his hatred of black people must have been ingrained in him during his childhood. Which was sad, really.

If you’re not one now, Dittman went on, "you will be by the time you make probation. I good God gar-ran-tee-ya that! He straightened his black uniform shirt and adjusted his buckle. So are you sexist?"

Dittman! Edwards broke in. Enough with the questions. Shiiit, man!

Let the poor boy speak! He’s got a mind. I wanna hear it!

Taylor wished Edwards would pull him away from Dittman, at least to one of the other three COs. But he supposed this was all part of the experience. Soon he was going to be left alone with these kinds of people. Better to learn how to deal with them now than later. He shook his head in response to the question.

Did you have any cunts or niggers in your class? Dittman asked.

Taylor shook his head. No, I was the only person going to this prison, he said.

Hot damn! Dittman exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Maybe we’ll finally get a decent set of COs around here yet! Back like it used to be.

Corrections are changing, said Edwards. Nothing you can do to stop it, Dittman. Even country folks like us.

Bullshit, said Dittman. It all starts in the personnel department. He shook his head. Motherfuckers and their goddamned minority quota!

Well, if the officers around here would quit all the backstabbing …

Taylor scrunched his face in disgust. You mean that’s actually a problem around here?

Both Edwards and Dittman laughed.

Hell, if you stick around for another hour or two, said Dittman, you might get to see some of it in action.

But I thought we, as officers, are supposed to stick up for one another and protect each other? said Taylor.

You know what, Edwards? Dittman said, slapping his arm across Taylor’s shoulders. I think I’m already starting to like this guy!

Edwards opened his mouth to say something, but the radio mic that was fastened to his shoulder strap squawked to life: MAN DOWN IN K-CORRIDOR! REPEAT! MAN DOWN IN K-CORRIDOR!

Edwards sprang to life. C’mon, Taylor! he shouted behind himself. Looks like you might get some action today, after all!

Taylor’s heart leaped up into his throat as his nerves engulfed him in a hurried panic. If he followed Edwards, if he stayed hot on his trail, he should be all right. As he ran past inmate after inmate, who were looking up at him like an actor on a stage, several scenarios of prison riots danced in his head. A thought of doubt entered his brain: I can’t do this. I can’t do this. But then his thoughts wrangled around his bills—rent, electric, car payment, credit cards. And that transferred to homelessness and hunger. He wasn’t about to go down that road.

He propelled himself forward.

Once Taylor broke through the threshold of the main doors of the Chow Hall and into the bright lights of the hallway, he heard a great commotion to his left. He turned and saw a number of inmates lined up along the wall, on their knees, with their palms flat against the wall. In the center of the hallway were what appeared to be four inmates and four officers engaged in a free-for-all. Shorty D was one of them. A barrage of expletives poured from his mouth like water from an open hydrant.

Taylor started that way; one, because his fellow officers needed his help; and two, because he didn’t want Dittman, Edwards, and Shorty D to think he was a coward. Also, he wanted his fellow co-workers to know that he was true to his word—that he had their backs. No matter what.

Other responding officers came barreling toward the fight from the opposite end of the hallway. Once Taylor closed in on the brawl, he saw an inmate rear back his fist. He grabbed it out of instinct, jerked him backwards to the ground, and lay on top of him. Taylor managed to pull his handcuffs out of his belt and slap them on the inmate’s wrists.

Other COs converged on the other fighters. Mace was deployed; there were a barrage of bumps and bruises, maybe even a broken finger or two; and people’s feelings got hurt.

Once the grayshirts showed up—two lieutenants and a captain—the fight was well under control. Taylor stood up, then jerked his cuffed inmate to his feet.

One of the lieutenants—Tucker—looked at Taylor and said, Who the fuck are you?

My name’s Taylor, sir.

Did you cuff this guy? Tucker asked him.

Yes, sir, said Taylor. He was about to punch Shorty D.

Shorty D piped up, holding onto his own prisoner. Good fucking job, Taylor! he announced, giving him a thumbs up. I saw you, boy! Nice job!

All right, said Tucker, pointing down the hallway. Take these dumb-asses to the Hole!

Taylor didn’t know where that was. But before he could take that first step, Dittman stepped in front of him, and took control of Taylor’s inmate. It’s all right, Taylor. I got him. You go do your paperwork. You need to learn how to do that, too.

When Dittman and his inmate were a few feet away, the inmate turned and stared at Taylor with red-rimmed eyes, mixed with a touch of fear. You’re a guardian angel! he exclaimed, his eyes trying to widen, blinking through a film of mace. He looked to the left and the right of Taylor and said, "And your wings are magnificent! I’ve never seen such an angel before!"

All right, cocksucker, let’s go! Dittman ordered the inmate. You can look at angels later.

Confused, Taylor turned toward the Captain’s Office, and when he did, he saw another inmate against the wall, cuffed and shackled. His head was turned toward him and his eyes were glowering with salacious jocundity—almost like a cat’s in the gloom of night.

Taylor’s skin rose in goosebumps.

CHAPTER 2

By the time Edwards showed Taylor how to fill out the proper forms, Taylor had met another slew of employees, mostly those involved in the scuffle. They all seemed to be good people, the kind who had each other’s backs. Whoever Dittman was talking about earlier, he hoped he would never meet any of them for at least another week or so.

Taylor scribbled his John Hancock to the bottom of the reports, and handed them to Lt. Tucker, who read them with consternation. He grumbled when he finished, then said, Looks all right, now get back to whatever you were doing.

Out in the hallway, Edwards said, What was up with that inmate? The one who thought you were an angel? He laughed. "I mean you’re pretty and all, but damn … I wouldn’t go that far."

Taylor shrugged. I have no idea. That threw me for a loop, too. And so did the one who looked at me with those crazy eyes.

It’s just funny, said Edwards. But I wouldn’t worry about it too much. That dude is as crazy as they come. I don’t know what the hell he was even doing out of P-4—that’s where all the nut cases are kept. He waved his hand. But we’ll get there, eventually.

We going to have any more fights tonight? Taylor asked.

Edwards looked at his watch. Hey, the night is young. You never know what you’ll get into before eleven.

Sounds like fun.

You betcha!

The two of them headed down K-Corridor (which stood for Kitchen Corridor) toward the next checkpoint—the central metal detector. Walking through the open gates, Taylor saw a large glass-enclosed control booth, manned by three officers. Out front was a wooden table that sat beside a tall walk-through metal detector, the kind commonly found at airports and courthouses. This area was also manned by three officers.

Edwards spread his arms out in a welcoming gesture, no doubt used by great kings of the past. This is the Control Three area, he said, also known as Grand Central. The three people you see in the booth over there operate the gates, which allow access to each of the four housing areas of the prison. He pointed and named each one. O-Side, P-Side, Q-Side, and R-Side. The names of each corridor was printed in large white letters above the gates to each side.

The color of the letters should appease Dittman, Taylor thought, but then cursed himself for playing into Dittman’s racist thoughts. Damn you, Dittman!

Edwards spun around. Over here, he said, pointing to the table and metal detector, is where all the inmates go through when they go to chow and other various destinations, such as library, school, chapel, and the infirmary.

The three young officers standing behind the table looked numbly at him, neither of which offered any kind of greeting. Taylor wondered if they were all like Dittman, or worse—those he spoke of earlier. Or maybe he was just going to have to get used to everyone’s leery looks until they got to know him. He realized coming into a new work environment—especially one like this—uncomfortable and hateful stares were going to come by the tens of dozens.

Another row of inmates passed through the metal detector, a couple of them removing their watches and necklaces, and placing them on the table. A few eyeballed Taylor like he was a fresh piece of strange meat, while others smiled inwardly at him. But they weren’t what one would classify as good smiles, or salutatory smiles. One inmate said to another, Hey, check out dat baby-faced muthafucka! We’s gonna have some fun wit him when he gets down to da block, huh? And then a soft chorus of laughter filtered through the line.

Taylor’s face reddened, figuring he was going to have to get used to that kind of stuff, as well. When it was evident that he, nor the three officers standing behind the metal detector were going to respond to the inmate’s snide remark, Edwards came to his rescue. What the fuck you guys laughing at? he said. Didn’t I tell you faggot nutsacks not to speak while going through my metal detector?

Wow. He sounds just like Shorty D. Who knew?

Taylor wondered if that was the standard attitude one had to take once entering through the prison’s gates. But the trouble was that he had never spoken to anyone like that in his life—unless he was spitting mad—and he guessed that, too, would take some practice.

None of the inmates said a word as they marched across Grand Central, through the gate, and down K-Corridor to the Chow Hall.

Edwards and the three young officers looked at each other, then chuckled. One thing you need to learn, Edwards told Taylor, is that you have to establish yourself. Don’t be afraid to strike back with words. They like to use words as their first line of offense. Just to see where you stand. They want to know if they can get under your skin. They want to know if you’ll stand up for yourself. These first couple of months will be nothing but a huge test.

Taylor nodded. Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.

So you up for the challenge? Edwards asked him.

I think so.

That doesn’t sound very confident.

Then yes! Taylor firmly stated.

So you want to try the next range? Pick somebody out?

Taylor’s heart quickened. He nodded, then gulped. Being put on the spot was not his idea of a good time. Especially when he was pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. Yeah, I’ll give it a shot, he said, his words still not very confident.

When the next range of inmates filed through the metal detector, a few of them gave Taylor that standardized hardened look, as if they were trying to intimidate him with their gangbanging antics.

Taylor took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. What the fuck you looking at? he said as gruffly as he could, picturing himself as Shorty D, which made it a bit easier, although he forgot to add shithead to the end of it. Still, he could feel his face burning with embarrassment. It was like the whole world knew he was trying to be something he wasn’t. What if the inmate came back with something really nasty and insulting? Or what if the inmate was so offended that he threw a punch at him? What then?

Thankfully, the inmate turned toward the front of the range, and shook his head.

Not bad. Not bad, Edwards said once the entire range was through the gate.

The three metal detector dudes chuckled to themselves, again holding their hands over their mouths. Edwards looked over at them. Hey, don’t laugh. I remember when you fuck-sticks were new. You were afraid to cuss an inmate for six months.

All three mouths straightened, none of them uttering a word.

C’mon, Taylor, said Edwards, leading him toward O-Side, the side furthest to the left of Control 3. Let’s go see what kind of trouble we can get into, shall we?

Taylor did not like the sound of that. Haven’t I been in enough trouble already?

Edwards smiled. Not even close, my friend.

Once they passed through the gates and were standing in O-Corrridor, Edwards said, How old are you?

Twenty-six. Why?

Can you grow hair on your face?

I guess, why?

You might be wise to consider it, said Edwards. Just like those inmates said back there, you don’t want to be walking around here looking like a ‘baby-faced muthafucka.’ He considered a moment, then added, And, if you notice, the only people walking around here with smooth faces are the women and the fags. You catch my drift?

Taylor nodded. Point taken. Four years ago, he had been discharged from the Navy, an establishment that instilled a clean shave every morning. I guess I’ll give it a try. You thinking mustache or goatee? he said, rubbing his chin.

Edwards considered for a second. You should probably go with the goatee. Having just a mustache might make you look like a child molester.

Jesus, said Taylor. There’s so many rules.

Stick around and we’ll convert you into a hilljack CO yet! And when you hit your thirties and start losing your hair, you’ll be shaving that shit off, too—just like everyone else around here. He smiled, taking off his cap. Bald and goatee. It’s the only way to be!

Taylor laughed, and they continued to walk.

Has anyone told you about the history of this place yet? Edwards asked him.

Taylor shook his head. I don’t believe so.

It’s quite interesting, actually. It was commissioned in March of 1933, the day after President Franklin Roosevelt’s inauguration. See, back then, presidents were inaugurated on March fourth until the passing of the twentieth amendment, which moved it back to January twentieth. Pretty cool shit, huh?

I guess, said Taylor, shrugging.

Hell yeah, it is! History is awesome, man! You should look into it sometime. Anyway, Alcatraz opened just a year and a half later. That would be August of 1934. Black Mountain got all the federal inmates east of the Mississippi while Alcatraz got everyone else. And in 1961, the rumor was that an officer had transferred from here to The Rock. And the rumor goes even further, proclaiming that that officer assisted Frank Morris and his compatriots in making their infamous escape on June 11, 1962. Weird, huh?

"Now that is interesting, said Taylor. I loved that movie, by the way: Escape from Alcatraz."

Edwards smiled. Yeah, who didn’t? So by the late 80s, the state started allowing women the equal right to work in the back, you know, in the cellblocks and shit. He shook his head, scissoring his hands back and forth. "Biggest fucking mistake ever! The inmates, or animals, if you will, absolutely loved when that happened, as you can imagine. For them, this was the next best thing to conjugal visits because now they were able to interact with a real live woman, and not just a picture or a figment of their imagination.

Well, you couple that with a new warden who wanted to ‘crack down’ on a bunch of policies and restrictions, and you have the short riot of June 8, 2005 that lasted three days. During the aftermath, investigators found ten inmates murdered in their cells, along with four officers, all of which were male—surprisingly. Because no females were taken hostage—surprisingly.

Wow, said Taylor. I had no idea all of that happened. He shrugged apologetically. I guess I don’t really watch the news much. My friends used to tease me that I found out about 9-11 on the actual day it happened. Usually, I’m a day late and a dollar short.

Edwards shook his head. You should at least watch the eleven o’clock news, dude.

I can’t. It’s too depressing.

I can’t argue that. Edwards demurred with raised eyebrows. But there are still some guys here who were around during that 2005 riot. If you catch them in the right mood, they’ll talk about it with you.

Was Dittman one of them? Taylor asked.

Edwards shook his head. Hell no! He was in the very next group of new hires. A bunch of people quit after that mini-riot, understandably. But Dittman’s sorry ass talks like he was a hostage in it. You can’t believe a fucking word he says.

I’ll bet it was crazy, though.

For sure, said Edwards. But the state was no longer proud of their big, mean prison here in Adams County. All the inmates were transferred out and the governor put the bitch up for sale. Ridiculous offers came in well below its value. Needless to say, Black Mountain sat empty for three solid years. So Hollywood came calling, taking advantage of the opportunity, renting it for two months to film a movie.

Cool. Which movie? Taylor asked, interested.

"It was called Dark Cell or something to that effect, said Edwards, wrinkling his brow. It was a low-budget horror flick. It was on at the theaters during the Halloween season a few years back. I think they even did The Shawshank Redemption here."

Taylor knew that wasn’t right because that movie was filmed at a prison in northern Ohio. But he nodded politely, anyway.

"And then Ohioians elected a new governor who reopened Black Mountain and had another prison built up north. How’s that for job security?"

Nice, said Taylor, nodding. Certainly glad he did.

Let’s keep moving. Much more to see.

Taylor followed him down O-Corridor to a much smaller control center—Control Center 4, as it was called; it was the size of a toll booth, manned by a single guard.

This is the control booth that opens the main doors to the four blocks on the left: O-1 through O-4. On the opposite side of the hallway are the three doors to the unit offices. Before the riot, both corridor officers carried a key, but not anymore. It’s all controlled from this booth now. Would you like to take a wild guess as to why?

Taylor thought for a second. I guess so the inmates couldn’t take the keys from the hallway officers in another altercation.

Edwards beamed, his head tilted sideways. Wow, check out the brain on Mr. Taylor!

Taylor shrugged. I’ve had a couple college classes, he joked.

"Wow. And sarcastic. He pointed toward the unit offices. P-Side is just on the other side of those unit offices, he said. So if you can picture it, both unit staff for O-Side and P-Side are holed up within those walls."

What’s the unit staff do? Taylor asked.

Aw, shit, Edwards said defiantly. You don’t really want to get me started on them, do you? They’re somewhere on the same level as Payroll, meaning, they fuck up a lot of shit.

Just a real quick run-through? Taylor begged, wanting to know everything.

All right, Edwards lamented. "Within those walls, there are secretaries, who don’t really get in the way. You might find a couple of them who are kind of hot. Well, not hot, per se, but do-able, I guess is the right word. I’ll fill you in on all that shit later, too. Then there are the case managers, who handle different things for inmates like their case, legal shit, their money, etc, etc. They can get on your nerves a little bit because they’re always calling you for stupid shit. You’re supposed to pat the inmate down before you send them over to the office, but hardly anyone does. I guess that’ll bite someone in the ass the one day one of those cocksuckers goes over there with a shank and stabs one of them."

I’ll pat them down, said Taylor. I won’t care to do it.

Edwards chuckled. You might at first, he said. But you’ll get lax. We all do. It’s all a part of the peer pressure around here. It’s a motherfucker, trust me. You’ll find out what I mean soon enough.

So is that everyone in the unit staff?

Hell, no, said Edwards, shaking his head. You got those ignorant ass unit managers, who are basically the case manager’s supervisor and your supervisor if you’re working in their area. It’s funny because they know virtually nothing about security. They like to think they do, but they really don’t. And with you being new, they’ll patronize the fuck out of you! So be prepared for that.

So what you’re saying is that they’re straight dicks?

I couldn’t describe them any better, said Edwards, a grin widening on his face. You might get along with a couple of them. But then there are a couple who don’t give a fuck about you. Welcome to the real world, huh?

Seems like there are people like that everywhere you go.

Agreed. Fact of life, Edwards said. But that shit shouldn’t happen in a fucking prison. If this place ever goes up again, we should be able to count on the other employees for help. Don’t you agree?

Taylor nodded. Oh, yeah, absolutely. One-hundred percent.

Edwards shook his head. But sadly, that’s not the case. Back-stabbing, sons of bitches, they are! And for what? A measly promotion that doesn’t amount to a flaming pile of dog shit? It’s just one stepping stone to get to the other. If you’re a female, then you’re sucking someone’s dick. If you’re a guy, then you’re up to your elbows in someone’s asshole.

What’s their problem?

Edwards turned his palms up. Who the fuck knows? Jealousy, maybe? He turned toward the first cell block—O-1. C’mon, let’s go in here for a hot minute.

Edwards motioned to the man in the control booth, and then the door opened. He walked inside, Taylor right behind him. The block was a long rectangular structure, reminiscent of a boot camp barracks. There were dozens of inmates moving around, some sitting on their bunks, some playing cards at a table, some slapping down dominoes, some strumming the strings of an acoustic guitar, and some washing their clothes in a plastic tub.

Everyone on O-Side is kept separate from the rest of the prison, said Edwards. These are the guys waiting for bed space at lesser security prisons. So I guess it’s no secret that Ohio’s prisons are overcrowded. In my personal opinion, I’d say we could use at least ten more prisons throughout the state, which would, in turn, create more jobs and all that happy horseshit. He shrugged. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to give us substantial raises to balance out the rising cost of living in this country. Have you ever noticed that twenty items in your grocery cart costs over a hundred fucking dollars? It’s goddamn ridiculous. Sometimes I feel like I’d be better off on welfare. And that ain’t no joke! He gestured with his hand. And to throw fuel on the fire, you might as well throw in an ADHD kid so the government can throw more of our money away.

Taylor laughed. Yeah, it’s definitely a struggle. I’m hoping this job will take care of a lot of things for me.

"Don’t count your blessings yet, my friend. For one, you have to survive here a whole year to at least be partially protected. Because inside a prison, especially this one, anything can happen. And for two, haven’t you heard the old saying, ‘the more you make, the more you spend?’"

Yes, but I’d like to think I’m a little smarter than the average Joe.

Edwards grinned, walking down the steps from the upper landing. I’ve been told on numerous occasions by guys who have retired from here that if you take care of this job, this job will take care of you. You can’t get stupid out here. Sure, your blood pressure will boil from time to time, but you have to maintain a level head. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes people can’t do that. That’s what separates us.

Have you ever gone out to lunch? Taylor asked.

In my six years? Of course! Many times. I’m good for three-to-four a year! He snorted laughter. One of these times, though, I’m kinda scared I’ll go way over the top and get fired.

Ever do anything that could’ve gotten you fired?

Almost, Edwards replied. Just so you know, they kind of frown upon fist fights with other employees. And don’t look at me like that, he said, pointing his finger at him. "You might realize soon enough that sometimes it’s the employees and not the inmates who get under your skin the most."

It must take all kinds.

You have no idea.

Taylor looked out at the milling inmates. So what are these guys allowed to do in this block? he asked.

Edwards leaned against the wall, shaking his head. Let me tell it to you this way: after working with the fucking pricks on the other three sides, you tend to get a little bitter and hardened. Not your dick. I’m talking about the ice in your veins. Once you get accustomed to that state of mind, and then come over here, where these soft asses reside—

Fuck you, Edwards! called out an inmate.

Edwards smiled, cocking his thumb behind him. See what I mean? These guys are pretty much allowed to go and do anything they fucking want … let me tell you, it’s a change. You have to be able to adapt.

Taylor nodded, feigning understanding. He supposed the best way to learn was to get out there and do it.

Sometimes motherfuckers don’t realize that these guys were once on R-side and Q-side and need to be treated as such, not like fucking babies. They’re still violent criminals. And in my most humble opinion, he said, putting a hand over his chest, they should still be locked down in a goddamn cell twenty-three hours a day.

Fuuuck you, Edwards! came another voice from halfway down the range.

Edwards reiterated his sentiments in a louder voice. And anyone who thinks differently can come suck the warts off my dick!

Taylor noted that the work environment here was undeniably different than anywhere else in the land of employment. Nowhere else could a person enter the workplace, cuss at the top of their lungs, and not be reprimanded for it. Nowhere. And as a result, Taylor had a keen awareness that he might actually enjoy working here. And that led him to believe that he was already starting to sound crazy for thinking such a thing.

Maybe I can do this.

Yes, maybe. Only time would tell.

CHAPTER 3

Eli Jenkins sat quietly on his bunk and watched his cell door slam closed. Graffitied on the inside of the door, hidden from the world, was some type of gang symbol drawn from someone who had housed within these confined walls before him; it was a five-pointed crown with two three-pronged pitchforks crossing in the background. He didn’t know what gang the symbol was affiliated with because he had never involved himself in gang activity before, nor was he a regular in prison. In fact, this was his first number. He sickly wondered how many times he was going to see and hear that dooming sound of the cell door slamming shut before he was allowed his freedom again.

Too many to count, he thought.

For his first day at Black Mountain, all was OK. So far, so good. During the entire walk from the receiving bay, he’d gotten dozens of crazy looks from most of the other prisoners. Maybe they were looks of curiosity, but he detected a few looks of anger from others—the others being the blacks. Even though he had never associated himself with a gang, he still knew about the Bloods and Crips and a few others. And he knew that if he wanted any kind of protection from those gangs, he’d have to join a gang as well, most likely the AB’s.

But he didn’t want to; he wanted to stay in his cell, and do his time in peace.

What world do you think you live in right now?

Jenkins wasn’t by any means small-statured and unable to defend himself; he was a hair over 5’ 10" and around two-hundred pounds; he didn’t want or need any extra, unnecessary time tacked on to his sentence. The good thing was he did have a release date. Which was more than he could say about some, who would be locked away in a tiny cell until the day they died.

Jenkins shivered at the thought.

There was another thing that worried him: prison rape. He’d heard about it ever since high school, which, for him, was twelve years ago. The subject of prison rape was always brought up in a jokingly manner, but now that he was living at the most likely place something like that could happen, he was worried sick about it.

I got eight fucking years to go. Jesus.

Jenkins wasn’t dumb by any stretch of the imagination. As far as book smarts were concerned, he was average. But in terms of street smarts, he was beyond his years. Because of his upbringing—running the streets as a poor kid, doing anything and everything on this side of the law to get his hands onto some money. And that included running errands for the drug pushers. But that’s not what landed him in prison. That was attributed to a stream of bad luck, which ended with a strand of bank robberies.

Eight years flat.

There were high doubts he would be able to serve that kind of time trouble free, especially at Black Mountain, where the worst of the worst got a hold of you and manipulated you into their way of thinking and acting. He heard the prison itself would not allow its inmates to do their time peacefully, as if the prison was a live, breathing, personified son of a bitch. There was a lot of politics involved; that went without saying. And below the surface was a war-like atmosphere ready to explode.

Kill or be killed; that was the motto.

But he could be wrong. At least he hoped that wasn’t the case. Maybe he could find a way to fit in, to not be harassed.

Again, what world do you think you live in?

Serving time at Black Mountain was not a nice way to live. But Jenkins was well aware of the path he was pursuing when he decided to start looking for another way through it. His no-nonsense solution was to rob banks; he saw no other alternative. There was no money, nor any means to get money—no rich relatives, no one to sue, and no more drug pushers that he could trust. The government wouldn’t help, either. At least as much that was needed. Sure, Ohio gave him a food card and a medical card (which helped tremendously), but he needed cold hard cash. It was one of the hardships of not going to college, of not trying to better himself. And since most of the manufacturing jobs had all but dried up, it was just one dead-end job after another. He hated this side of his life. And since that side of his life had been unfair to him, he thought he should take matters into his own hands to even the odds a bit. He wanted to move his wife and two children to a better neighborhood, but couldn’t afford it. Bills were piling up. He had already filed bankruptcy just three years prior and was right back in financial trouble. So now his wages—what little he received—were being garnished by credit card companies.

Life was so fucking unfair.

But he was going to turn the tables on it. Oh, yes! Just a little get back. He had successfully robbed three small banks from neighboring towns with little payout and thought one more would do the trick. But this one turned out to be his last before he was arrested and whisked away to spend the next eight years in the slammer. Now he was no help whatsoever to his family. And that beat him down worse than he could ever imagine.

He looked around his tiny cell. There was a dirty stainless steel toilet and sink combo; a small metal, three-tiered shelf; a small steel table with a square steel seat; and a narrow bunk space with a thin mat, no thicker than a 500-page book. The window was made up of five plate-glass slats about five inches wide that opened only four inches outward.

He closed his eyes and willed the next three-thousand days to pass in his sleep.

But no such luck.

An hour later, his cell door opened.

Jenkins thought a guard was coming in to officially welcome him to Black Mountain with his nightstick. And then an image ran through his mind of a trio or more of black inmates rushing into his cell to give him a proper welcome, whatever that consisted of. And then a loudspeaker announced that it was chow time, to exit the cell properly dressed and to remain quiet.

He pulled on his light blue shirt, clipped his I.D. to his left shirtsleeve and stepped out onto the range. His cell was located about two-thirds of the way down the length of the cellblock on the second tier. He looked down over the railing at the inmates on the ground floor, then up at the inmates on the third tier. A number of the guys were eyeballing him, as usual. Making his way down the range toward the front of the block, he saw that several of the guys had remained in their cells, which made him think the meal was not worth leaving the cell for. It was probably what he should have done. But he was so hungry; he hadn’t had breakfast or lunch.

Must be some pretty shitty food up there, huh? he said to the black guy in front of him, figuring he ought to befriend at least one of them to show the others he wasn’t such a bad guy with a bad attitude.

The black guy didn’t turn around, nor did he respond. Instead, he hollered at one of his homies on the ground floor about a coffee.

Jenkins was unsure how to react. After careful consideration, he leaned up and tried again. Hey, man. Any idea what they’re having at the Chow Hall?

Suddenly the black guy whipped around (he was a good head taller than Jenkins) and stared down at him, slowly rocking back and forth on his feet. "Look, motherfucka! If I don’t talk to you, you don’t talk to me! You got that? Are we clear?" His brown nostrils flared wide, his finger about a fingernail from touching Jenkins’s nose.

Jenkins nodded. If he had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs right now.

The outer door to the block opened and the line of inmates filtered out.

Behind him, a voice said, Beef an noodles. Maybe some applesauce.

Jenkins turned around; it was a white inmate. Why didn’t he try to talk to him in the first place, instead of trying to force small talk with someone who was the complete opposite of him?

Ma name’s Hillbilly, said the inmate, offering his fist.

Jenkins tapped his knuckles against Hillbilly’s. I’m Jenkins. I guess I don’t have a cool nickname yet.

Hillbilly shrugged. Roadkill prolly wooda workt if dude swung on ya.

I know, right?

Ah, doan worry bout it, said Hillbilly. You’ll git a name soon nough.

Yay! said Jenkins, holding up his fists sarcastically. I can’t wait.

Less you had one on da street.

Jenkins shook his head. Just Daddy and Honey. But I doubt those would work here.

Prolly not, Hillbilly agreed, smiling. Prolly not.

They approached the metal detector in front of Grand Central. One of the guards pointed to Jenkins before he could even go through it. You! On the wall! Jenkins looked toward Hillbilly as if asking him what this was about. But Hillbilly filed through the metal detector without saying a word, as if he didn’t know him.

Suddenly the guard grabbed Jenkins by the shirt collar and pushed him against the wall. What did I just say to you? Get on the fucking wall!

What did I do? Jenkins asked, turning his head.

The guard got in his face. "Boy, I’m only going to say this one time. When an officer puts you on the wall that means you put your palms flat on the wall and face the fucking wall. You got that? You don’t look around. You don’t ask questions. He tapped the wall, his ring clacking against the white tile. You stare at this pretty white tile in front of your nose. Jenkins did. And you put your heels on the outside of this red line. Jenkins did that as well. Now that you’ve properly assumed the position, you mind telling me what your major malfunction is?"

Sir, I don’t know what you mean, said Jenkins.

When you come out of your block to walk amongst us out here, you will make sure that you’re properly dressed. That means I.D. clipped to your left collar, not your fucking shirt sleeve. You make sure your shirt is tucked into your pants and your pants legs are out of your goddamn shoes. This ain’t the fucking city where you bastards still think you’re gangbangin!

Jenkins nodded, almost sure he was going to spend his first night in the Hole. Wherever that was. Yes, sir.

Now will I ever have to jump in your shit again?

No, sir.

Then we have an understanding?

Yes, sir.

You best unfuck yourself and get your ass to the Chow Hall before I decide to have a change of heart and send your ass to the Hole.

Yes, sir, said Jenkins, fixing his malfunctions.

Wow, he thought dismally. Eight more years of this? I’m doomed.

But that wasn’t even the icing on the cake. That would come later.

CHAPTER 4

Taylor and Edwards walked back down O-Corridor to Control 3, just missing the talking to between the officer standing at the metal detector and inmate Jenkins. They rounded the control booth and headed up P-Corridor. The only difference between P-Side and O-Side was that P-Side housed another status of inmate, although some claimed to say another breed of inmate.

They came to another small control center. This control booth is the same as Control Four, said Edwards, It controls the gates of P-Side and the main doors of P-1 through P-4, which are on the right side, as you can see. Remember, those doors on the left are the unit doors that connect with O-Side.

Got it, said Taylor, smiling in spite of Edwards talking down to him like an imbecile.

Edwards seemed to catch Taylor’s expression and said, If you feel like I’m talking down to you, just try to remember that we get a lot of fuck-sticks around here. Hang around a little while, and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

Taylor laughed. It’s OK. Quite understandable.

They stepped over to the door leading into P-1. Edwards waved his arm at the control booth officer, and the door popped open; they went inside.

Here is where our glorious prison starts to take a little shape, said Edwards.

Taylor saw many cells lined down both lengths of the cell block, stacked three tiers high.

The bottom range on the left numbers one through twenty-five. The middle range, twenty-six through fifty. Top range, fifty-one through seventy five. He shifted his left hand for his right hand. And then you start at the bottom on the right side. Their numbers are seventy-six through one hundred. Middle range, one-o-one through one twenty-five. Top range, one twenty-six through one fifty. Got that?

Blood rushed to Taylor’s head; he was becoming slightly overwhelmed. That’s a lot of cells.

You bet your ass it is! said Edwards. And a lot of crying-ass inmates inside them, too. He smiled. Now there is supposed to be one officer per level, but that doesn’t always happen. You know, the whole ‘short-staffed business’ and all. Most times there is one officer out here and one in the booth. He tapped the side of the metal structure, which had tinted windows. P-Side is the population side, whereas when we get to Q-Side, you’ll find that those cell blocks don’t have this booth. It’s still ran the old-fashioned way—with a control panel that sits alongside the wall. You’ll see what I’m talking about when we get over there. They just haven’t switched things over yet. In due time, I suppose."

Taylor took another gander at all of those cells.

I know it can be a little intimidating at first … Edwards clapped him on the shoulder. But you’ll get used to it. I promise.

Taylor nodded, not sure.

Each of these cells can be opened by a key if something were to happen to the control panel. But you don’t have to spend your whole day out here or in there. Periodically, your partner will switch out with you. If you’re assigned to this block for the day, then you and your partner run it how you like. There’s no set way.

Taylor nodded again, processing the stacks of information.

A little bit about the inmates here on P-Side, Edwards continued. These guys are in their own cell. No two people are allowed in one cell at any given time, you know, for obvious reasons. This may sound like it’s defeating the purpose, but they can virtually get out of their cell for anything: to go watch T.V. in the dayrooms, which are between the blocks. Go get their hair cut. Go get a plastic tub to wash their clothes in. Go use the phone. Go speak to the unit people if they’re here. But let me lay out this golden nugget of information: it’s entirely up to the officer if he wants to let them out or not. If you want to be a total dick, you can leave all hundred and fifty inmates locked in their cell all day long with a few rare exceptions. He smiled. That’s one of the few perks we have here.

Taylor offered another short laugh. So there are officers who actually do that?

Edwards gave him a sideways look. Well, yeah. There has to be discipline somewhere. Right?

Taylor nodded. So if I was called off to work here on my first day, I could basically just tell them all to shut the fuck up, that no one’s getting out for anything?

"Yeah, you could, in theory. But I wouldn’t advise it, with this being your first week and all."

Why not?

Because you’ll end up having a much longer day than you anticipated. Trust me on this.

How? said Taylor, intrigued.

It could get ugly, Edwards sighed, raising his brows. There’s a fine line between being an asshole and being a pushover. In order to survive here, you need to find that line. Me, I’m an asshole, and everyone here knows it. For the most part, all these inmates know what to expect when they see me come into the block. But you, they don’t know you from Adam, so you need to find an identity for yourself.

Taylor nodded. I guess that comes with experience.

Definitely, said Edwards. But you seem like a cool cat. And I’ve seen you in action. I’d like to see you make it here. We need people like you.

Taylor smiled, even though he couldn’t tell if Edwards was being sincere.

There was so much to learn. He was the kind of person who wanted to learn it all in one day. But with this kind of environment, that just wasn’t feasible.

CHAPTER 5

Once inmate Jenkins rejoined his range in the Chow Hall, he found Hillbilly laughing at him. What the hell is so funny? he said.

Man! You shoulda seen da look on yer face when dat CO pulled you over!

He didn’t pull me over, said Jenkins. He shoved my ass against the goddamn wall!

Hillbilly laughed some more. Yeah, I know! Dat’s what’s so funny!

Ha-ha! Glad you enjoyed yourself on my behalf.

Don’t worry bout it, dude. Dat CO jus picked on you cause you was new. It happens ta all of us.

Maybe you should’ve told me my I.D. was clipped in the wrong spot.

Hillbilly waved a dismissive hand. Ahhh! He woulda fount anudder reason. Dey do dat kinda dumb shit. Iss called being a fuckin asshole. Some of ’em are purdy good at it!

Well, I’m just saying.

Jus stick wit me an I’ll show ya da ropes, dude. No worries.

Jenkins nodded, grabbing a tray, putting it on the stainless steel tray rack above the food. The inmate servers in paper hats behind the line skimped him on his portions, doling out only half a spoonful. He was about to go off when Hillbilly told him he’d share his tray with him. They walked off and found a table to themselves.

Don’t worry bout da food, either, man, said Hillbilly. Dey do dat shit ta new jacks all da time. Dey juss wanna test ya, man. It won’t last long, I promise. But ya gotta be cool bout it.

How am I supposed to be cool about it when I’m fucking starving, man?

Shhh! I said I gotchoo. He slid his tray over to Jenkins.

But what about you?

Aaaa! Don’t worry bout it. I gots some commissary in da cell. I’ll be aight.

If it’s not the officers, it’s the goddamn inmates, said Jenkins, shaking his head and shoving a