Tag Archives: Shane T Clark

CHAPTER 1

Present Day 

Blood oozes out from under the prison cell door slowly, methodically, and purposefully, like it has a predetermined destination in mind. Below, on the first tier, two correctional officers lounge, oblivious to the actions above. The first officer is at the computer screen, using the light to study notecards. Today, he brought thirty-one. He is in his second semester of nursing school and is working third shift. Seven hours into his shift, he has memorized twenty-nine. Six months removed from the academy, he has grown quite proficient at studying while listening to inmates sleep, pass gas, and snore. The second officer reclines in a chair with one boot over the other. He is forty minutes into a deep sleep, dreaming of lotto numbers, mansions, and Swedish maids, Babette and Inga. He is the senior officer. 

The first officer reads over his thirtieth card and notices the time. He fists the thigh of his partner. “It’s four forty-eight.” He hears him stir, adds, “It’s count time.” 

Sleepy croaks back, “I got it,” moans, and stretches his arms. He comes down hard on both feet and lets out a whine and stands up. He yawns and sticks out his hand. “Keys?” 

The first officer unclips the keys, extends them, and returns to his cards. Sleepy flips the flashlight on and starts his round on the right-hand side of the range. He draws close to the door and squints through the window. When he sees two bodies breathing, he pushes on, continues, and crosses over to the other side. When he reaches the desk, he says, “All good,” and heads toward the stairs. Swipes away a bead of sleep from an eye and lumbers up. 

Hears his partner call out, “Are you counting?” 

He squints down and says, “Huh?” When he receives an annoyed grin, Sleepy says, “What time is it?” 

“Told you it was almost five.” 

“Oh,” Sleepy says and continues. His eyes seesaw between cells as he counts the condemned. He gets to the end of the range with a count of sixteen and crosses to the other side. Eighteen . . . twenty . . . twenty-two . . . twen- . . . “Oh, shit!” he yells as his feet slip, and he lands on his back. He fishes for the light with his right hand. His left goes to the back of his head. 

He hears the steps below, a voice calls out, “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says as he struggles to pull his head off the concrete. He gathers the flashlight and notices blood on his palm. Light on his hand. He follows the blood under the cell door and stands up, and peers over the rail. “Call help!” 

“What is it?” 

“Just call,” he says and gropes for his keys. Come on. Come on. The darkness, adrenaline, and fear of the unknown hinder his depth perception. He unclips the keys, shines the light on the door, and keys the lock. 

Before he turns it, he hears the rookie say, “What are you doing?” 

He grits his teeth at the rookie jogging toward him, airs a fist, and grinds out, “Can’t you see the fucking blood?” When the rookie looks down at the pool under their feet, Sleepy adds, “We are only standing in it.” 

“Don’t open the door,” the rookie says and slows to a tiptoe. “Someone might have a weapon.” 

“Did you call for help?” 

“No.” 

He leaves the keys hanging and hands the radio to the rookie. “Call for assistance and go wait by the door.” 

The rookie is flustered. He stomps around and stutters, “Is someone dead?” Rips at his hair. “Are you going . . . we’re dead. Didn’t I tell you I heard some screaming earlier?” 

“Relax.” 

“You didn’t hear the screaming?” His voice ricochets down range, fills the air.