Dontrell quickly nodded his understanding. He coughed and massaged his neck after Nail released his grip. “What’s your problem, you crazy SOB?”
“You’re my problem,” Nail countered.
“You know what your problem is? You.”
“And I suppose you’re as pure as the newborn baby boy in the manger.”
Dontrell shot up off his bunk and came face to face with Nail. “You done crossed the line, Nail. I saved your sorry ass once when you tried to fight Fatboy when he was saying crude things about your sister, and what do I get? You dissin’ baby Jesus. I may have been convicted of killing a man, but no way would I ever disrespect Jesus. I should’ve let Fatboy kill you.” Dontrell gathered spit in his mouth and hocked it on the floor. “That’s what I think of you.”
Nail screamed a slew of obscenities directed at Dontrell, the prison warden, the hellhole of a prison, the bland food, the prison guards, his lot in life, and whatever else had gone wrong. His vile words riled up the other inmates, resulting in a deafening cacophony of indecipherable sounds, drowned out by the inmates beating on walls and using anything at their disposal to bang on the cell bars.
After a long minute of the eardrum busting noise, the inmates quieted. Nail threw himself on the other bunk, cursing the world and his bad luck at being convicted for killing that know-it-all supervisor on the construction site. The guy had it coming alright – ordering Nail around, criticizing his craftmanship, his tools, the type of work boots he wore. There wasn’t anything Nail could do right. To top it off, the guy was the reincarnation of Nail’s old man. Nag, nag, nag. Go to school, get a job, stand up straight, stop slurping, stop hanging around a bad crowd, practice throwing a football, study, study, study, join the band, do something with his life. It never ended. And his sister? She could do no wrong. She rarely cried as a baby, didn’t sass her parents, excelled in school, theater and arts, had loads of friends, and could walk into a store and get offered a job on the spot. Then the old man bought her a car when she was sixteen. She had the looks and the body of a model. Man, she got lucky in the DNA department.
Nail became increasingly jealous of her and the attention of boys towards her. He despised the way the guys talked about her. And though he was jealous of her, secretly he admired her and wanted to protect her from the scummy guys attracted to her.
When talk about her slid into vulgar locker room talk, Nail put a stop to it. Nobody dissed his sister in his presence – a fact not lost on inmates.
Though nobody knew it, the murder that sent Nail to the slammer wasn’t his first. Several years prior to his conviction, Nail was sitting at the bar of a seedy dive when he overheard some lowlife graphically boasting about what he planned to do to his sister. Enough was enough, so when the lowlife left the bar, Nail followed him and ran his truck off the back-country road. A bullet through the head took care of the guy. Forever.
“Hey, man,” Dontrell said. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
“Forget it,” Nail said. “I’m more worried about what they plan to do with us. It’s eatin’ me up they’d leave us locked up to die of thirst.”
Dontrell propped himself up on the bed. “I heard gossip we might get out.”
“No kiddin?”
“Fatboy has gotten real friendly with one of the guards who told him prisoners have been released in other parts of the state because of the EMP.”
“You believe the crap about the EMP?” Nail scoffed.
“Of course.” Dontrell answered the question like it was the dumbest he had ever heard. “I watch TV.”
“Nothing works?”
“Everything relying on a circuit board is useless now. No TV, cable, internet, phones, modern cars don’t even work. The list goes on and on.”
“If cars don’t work, it also means trucks don’t work, which means no food delivery.”
Dontrell chuckled. “You’re not as dumb as I thought you were.”
“You’re forgettin’ one thing,” Nail said.
“What?”
“Police radios and cars wouldn’t work either, and that means the prison is a sitting duck for a takeover.”
“Interesting.” Dontrell clasped his hands behind his head, thinking. “This could work out for us.” Dontrell turned on his side and propped himself up. “My old lady—”
“Shhh.” Nail put his index finger to his lips. “Listen.”
For a few moments, Nail and Dontrell listened to the quieting of the prison. The normal chatter waned and without the intercom, Nail focused on one particular sound, or rather lack of sound.
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Dontrell said.
“My point exactly.”
Dontrell put his hands in the air. “I’m waitin’.”
“The generator, you dumbass. Without a generator the prison has no power, which means the locks don’t work.” Nail’s heart beat fast as he approached the cell door.
He tentatively reached for the door, placed his hand on it, and pushed outwards. Nothing happened. Nail put more pressure on the door. It didn’t budge. Putting his shoulder into it, he used all his weight to force it open. Nail’s jubilance at getting out quickly morphed into defeat. He slammed his hand on the door. “Piece of sh—”
The sweet sound of clanging of bolts withdrawing from the steel reinforced cell doors echoed throughout the unit. A cornucopia of euphoric whoops and inmates praising God erupted, followed by a steady stream of inmates throwing anything at their disposal to celebrate their freedom.
“Come on, man,” Nail said. “Let’s go.”
Dontrell hadn’t moved from his position on the
