Omega Days (Volume 1) - By John L. Campbell Page 0,15

to hold inmates, so we’re making accommodations. However, that does not mean you get the opportunity to fuck around. Fucking around will have severe consequences.”

Technically, the COs were not supposed to curse at them, although it happened. The driver’s tone, and more the look in his eyes, told the inmates that the rules had changed, and he was not fucking around.

“We’re going to exit you from the van in a minute,” he continued, “where you will line up in close single file. Don’t get out of line. Then we’re going to all take nice little shuffle steps to the middle building, to that green metal door.” He pointed out the windshield so every inmate could make no mistake of where he meant. “Another officer will open the door and you will file inside. You will cross the room and sit down on a long bench against the far wall. It’s the only one in there, so you can’t miss it. Once you are seated, you will each be handcuffed to a bar.”

A few of the inmates began to grumble. The CO in the passenger seat lifted a shotgun and racked it.

“Understand this. If you deviate from my orders in any way, it will be considered an escape attempt and you will be shot. Are there any questions?”

There were none. Several minutes later the line of men in orange was shuffling across the lot, the two officers walking slowly on each side watching them, shotguns ready. No one got out of line. The green metal door opened as promised, and an overweight CO in his fifties and wearing khaki, also armed with a shotgun, motioned them in. Soon all eight inmates were seated on a bench in the main room, a classroom of some kind, each with his right wrist handcuffed to a bar bolted into the wall. Their waist and ankle chains had not been removed, and the position was both awkward and uncomfortable.

With the men secured, all three COs moved to a corner of the room and started speaking quickly and quietly. At the far end of the bench, Carney strained to hear, but was unsuccessful due to the constant complaining of the other seven men seated beside him. He looked around the classroom instead. There were bulletin boards covered with official-looking documents, notices of upcoming athletic and shooting competitions, colored fliers announcing picnics and family outings, and a few photographs. Some flip charts leaned against walls, and posters with silhouettes of weaponry and statistical data were mounted to others. On the wall near the officers someone with at least a little artistic talent had painted a cartoon of a ridiculously-muscled guy in a corrections uniform, with the words NO PAIN, NO GAIN! stenciled over it. The rest of the wall was covered in a detailed diagram of San Quentin and the surrounding area.

“Man, I just know someone is gonna get to LeBron before I do,” whispered TC. Carney ignored him, watching the officers closely. The two COs from the van looked pissed, and the fat guy just looked scared. He was some kind of put-to-pasture caretaker, certainly not one of the buff, aggressive tactical officers who trained here. Carney had a good idea they were all busy up at the Q. There was some sort of brief disagreement, which the van driver seemed to win. All three approached the inmates then, who quieted down again.

“Officer Zimmerman is going to watch over you for a while,” said the senior man, indicating the fat caretaker. “We’ll be back when things settle down. In the meantime you will remain on the bench, without exception.”

The inmates started moaning. “What if we gotta go to the john?”

“Yeah, I got to go right now,” said another.

“Then you’ll have to piss yourself,” said the driver, “but you’ll stay on the bench. Officer Zimmerman will use deadly force on anyone who gets out of line.” The driver and his partner left the building to cries of “Fuck You!” Zimmerman went into another room, where Carney could hear another official-sounding radio talking.

He was almost certain he heard gunfire in the background of the transmissions.

SIX

Napa Valley

He was supposed to be the new Jack Kerouac. He was supposed to write the next great American road novel, and had in fact hand written two-thirds of it in the notebook he kept in his old Army surplus backpack. Now, as Evan Tucker looked out the window of the tiny efficiency cabin he was renting, he realized his dream of becoming the