They waited for Boone to finish.
“And one.” He breathed in deeply as he rose. Boone put on a T-shirt, then backed up to the door and stuck his hands through the slot. “You think I can take my books with me, boss?”
“No.” Hernández grabbed his wrists abruptly and yanked him back, forcing him to crack his head against the door. “You know, Boone, I can’t wait to see you gone.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
Steely teeth chomped at his skin as the handcuffs locked into place. He was told to take two steps forward before the door was opened and Hernández and Parish entered to secure the rest of his shackles. Boone shuffled out wearing the usual bright orange prison garb. Along with four more criminals he was led outside.
It was dawn. A summer breeze brushed against his face and he stopped for a second, raised his nose to breath in the fresh air. It didn’t last. Hernández shoved him forward. “Keep moving. We don’t have all day.”
“Just breathing freedom, boss.”
“If you call freedom taking fifteen steps to that bus, sure, all right, Boone.”
Hernández chuckled.
He had no idea.
Boone kept moving behind the line of inmates, all of them he knew well. These were guys that had done some serious shit: Tim Barnett, Joe Wilson, Wonky-Eye Pete and Mike Conley, to name a few. Most bore swirling ink on their skin and scars from one too many bar fights. No one wanted to be there. All looked subdued. That’s why he must have looked like an oddity, grinning as he got on an ancient prison bus. “You think they could have wrangled up a Greyhound or a luxury RV instead of this old beat-up piece of crap?”
“Shut up and take a seat.”
Boone shuffled down about halfway on the 70-seater. The seats were busted up with exposed sponge like a burst pimple. “Geez Louise. Boss. How long is the journey?” Barnett asked, taking a seat behind Boone.
“Five hours, give or take.”
“I heard it’s as long as they have gas,” Conley muttered. “Ain’t that right, boss?”
“Sounds like you’re all in a rush to get there,” Hernández added, smirking at Parish.
A third correctional officer, named Rodrigo, stepped on. Tall guy, dark skin with sun spots. “All of them accounted for?” he asked.
Hernández nodded and the doors were closed. Rodrigo removed his jacket and slumped into the driver’s seat. He adjusted his rearview mirror, ready to roll out. “This is going to be a long trip.”
“Just the three of you?” Wilson asked from the back.
“That’s all that’s needed,” Parish said, making his way to the rear where he could keep a good eye on him. The CO was packing a Benelli twelve-gauge, as was Hernández who had taken a seat at the front and was eyeballing everyone. Usually the inmates were separated from the COs at the front, but not on this bus. There were a few empty seats between Parish and the rest of the men. It was precautionary. Although they were cuffed the COs couldn’t be too careful. The bus hissed and peeled away. Hernández took out a pack of smokes, and tapped one out then cracked a thin window open.
“Think I can get one of those, boss?” Wonky-eye Pete asked.
“Sure,” he said. He got up, tapped one out and brought it up to his lips, only to pull it away fast as Pete leaned forward. Hernández burst out laughing.
“Oh c’mon man.”
“Gullible moron. The only thing I’d give you is a sharp jab to the gut.” He returned to his seat. Rodrigo glanced in his rearview mirror and chuckled. Hernández said something to him and they both laughed. Boone leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The smell of fumes from the bus was nauseating.
The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, its bright orange rays bursting through the giant redwoods, offering them a clear view of the town. Its silhouette cut into the sky. It had been years since he’d seen it. All of the men looked out wide-eyed at the devastation. Four months in and it looked a state.
“Are the rumors true?” Wilson asked.
“About what?”
“You know, the mayor is dead, and that militia were taken out by the native community.”
“Apparently,” Parish replied. “I don’t keep track. Too busy watching you assholes.”
Boone glanced back at Parish as the bus made its way around the winding roads heading toward the outskirts of the county. “You want to kiss me, Boone?”
“No, boss.”
“Then turn your head.”
He surveyed the area.
Business windows were boarded up. Brickwork was marred by swaths of graffiti. Artwork. Crude accusations against city officials. Stalled cars littered the roads, windows smashed, doors torn off. Most were lining the edges of the roads like steel walls. Boone caught sight of local police patrolling on bicycles, others on horseback.
“Hey, Hernández,” Boone piped up. He glanced his way. “So with the grid down, I gotta ask. They paying you guys in hand jobs?” The men in the bus laughed.
Hernández narrowed his eyes. “Well, funny you mention that. I had your old lady take care of me last night,” he shot back before he took another hit on his cigarette. “In fact she does the rounds. Don’t she, boys?” He looked to Rodrigo who eyed Hernández in his rearview mirror. Boone looked to Parish, who had a smirk but it quickly vanished. Boone hadn’t seen Leanne in over a year. She’d visited him in the first year then gradually stopped coming. Too busy looking after his two kids. Too busy with life. Too busy screwing others. He hoped that wasn’t the case but he wouldn’t put anything past her. She wasn’t exactly a first-class woman. He’d soon find out, and God help her if she had gone behind his back.
The bus had made it through Benbow and across the South Fork Eel River
