Gilbert got a spring in his step as he began to think of all the things he would do as a free man. The food he’d consume. The women he’d have sex with, and more important — those he planned on visiting.
“And this blackout? What’s the deal with that?”
They’d been very vague about it. Some in the prison had said the power grid was down, others were saying it was done by the warden to make their life a living hell. They still hadn’t gotten an official word from the COs.
“God, you ask a lot of questions.”
“Well, don’t I deserve answers?”
Marko stopped and pushed him up against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he spoke through gritted teeth. “My kid was at that school. The only thing you deserve, Sanchez, is to do more time… but I’m sure we’ll see you again.”
“I wouldn’t bank on it!”
He scowled at Gilbert and they continued.
Led through a series of corridors and heavy metal doors, Gilbert was taken down to the main foyer to collect his civilian clothes. He was greeted by the sight of ten cons, others just like him. Some he knew, some he didn’t. There were two he recognized. Brock Fernsby and a black guy named Deshawn Cyrus.
“Well damn, if it isn’t Sanchez,” Brock said. “Seems we all lucked out.”
Gilbert was confused. “Why are they letting you out? The CO said they were only focused on nonviolent offenders.”
“Got a medical condition.”
Sanchez frowned. “Dare I ask?”
“Not if you don’t want to get shanked.” Brock laughed. He had been convicted for carjacking, kidnapping, and murder. He’d already served eighteen years in prison. “How did the governor word it, Cyrus?”
“You had exceptional conduct.”
“Exceptional?” Sanchez asked. He laughed, thinking back to the guy shanked in the showers. It got blamed on the wrong guy. They didn’t think it was Brock because he was mentoring younger inmates and already being lauded by the administration as a model inmate.
“Yep, I knew those hours would pay off in the end.” He laughed. “Rehabilitated, I am, just like the thousands of other inmates that are being released. That and I’ve been deemed as high risk because of my medical condition. It could make me vulnerable to the pandemic.”
“Yeah, you keep on telling yourself that,” Marko said, walking back into the room to hand Gilbert a plastic bag full of clothes. Clothes he hadn’t seen in months.
“Oh, don’t be a sore loser. Just think, Marko. You no longer have to put up with our crap,” Cyrus said.
“Lucky me,” he replied before leaving through one of the steel doors. As Gilbert stared at his old clothes he couldn’t believe they were letting this guy go. Brock had been given 72 years to life for killing a woman.
“Yeah, it seems that those who’ve already served a lengthy sentence and pose a low risk and are vulnerable to what is going on out there are being considered. I’m just glad they thought of me,” he said, tying up his scuffed old boots. He had short ginger hair that was cut in a way that made him look like he’d just gotten out of the military. Tight at the sides. Tidy. He was the kind of man that was found doing push-ups in his cell at all hours of the day. He wore glasses not because he needed them but because he said it made him look intelligent, trustworthy, mature. The fact was he was a con in every sense of the word. A complete con artist. Brock, at thirty-six, was twice the age of Gilbert, a local from the same town as him. He didn’t know him when he arrived but he’d taken him under his wing like many of the others, offered them protection, not for money, not for sexual favors, but so it would help him at a time like this.
“And what about you?” Gilbert asked Cyrus. “You got a medical condition?”
“Yeah, I’m allergic to this place.”
Brock burst out laughing and fist-pumped him. Like Gilbert, Deshawn Cyrus was close to being released after four years inside for assault with a deadly weapon. He came to learn that he’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes, how much truth was in that, and how much he’d paid someone to sign off on it was unknown. Deshawn was in his early forties, a resident of Merced, a city twenty minutes north of the facility.
Gilbert eyed the others. “You both have a ride?”
“A ride? Best of luck with that. Jameson over there said he talked to a few guys who were brought in on the day the power went out. They told him that transportation isn’t working. All the cars are fried. Something to do with a nationwide event.”
“Five days ago?”
“You got it!” He stabbed his finger in his direction.
Gilbert said, “Yeah, the CO told me the internet is down. What about phones?”
“That’s down too,” Brock said as he shrugged into his jacket.
Phones. Transportation. Internet. Could this get any better? “That’s perfect,” he muttered.
Both of them looked at him like he was insane. “Perfect?”
He waved them off, his mind distracted by what he could imagine the town of Gustine was going through. Five days, no power, no communication, no transportation. “That means no cameras, no cops.”
“Oh there’s cops,” Deshawn said. “There’s always cops.”
“Not in Gustine. They barely have enough staff as it is.”
Brock walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder while he wriggled on his socks. He leaned in close. “You trying to get sent back here?”
“That would require transportation.”
He stared at him then burst out laughing. Gilbert stripped out of the old prison uniform, and got back into his black jeans, then pulled an AC/DC T-shirt over his head. He followed up by sliding his arms into a green army jacket he’d picked up from some thrift store. He checked his wallet and found it was light by about forty bucks. “Damn those COs. And they call us criminals?”
“Probably bought beers with it,” Brock said, chuckling as he sat down
