set the dogs loose on Nicky, Cyrus wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep him safe. But what the fuck was the alternative? Become the aggressor himself? How the fuck was that helpful?
Christ. He hated prison politics.
Webster arrived at his new home sometime mid-morning after being stuck on an unairconditioned bus for three hours. On the outside, the building was just a four-story, windowless concrete block surrounded by razor wire, but the inside was a horror show for his Asperger’s. The walls were painted a nauseating mint green shade, and the once white trim was now a nicotine yellow. The floors alternated between concrete and a linoleum that looked like somebody had put it down in the early seventies and never bothered to update it. The need to stick the curling, peeling edges of the thin squares of material was an itch under his skin.
The lighting in the facility was just bulbs behind metal cages, causing lights to dance and flicker even when he closed his eyes. If Webster had thought county lockup was bad, prison was a never-ending overstimulation of his senses. Lights flickering, alarms blaring, doors buzzing, metal doors slamming, men hollering and banging things against the bars.
The booking process started all over again. He was stripped, searched, thrown into a cold shower, and doused with lice powder. Once he was dressed in his unflattering orange jumpsuit, they gave him two white t-shirts, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and what looked like the world’s ugliest pair of shoes. They also gave him a mat and told him it was his responsibility to hang onto it and that he wasn’t getting another one. They told him anything else was his problem and he’d have to purchase it from the commissary, which he couldn’t do because he didn’t have his information yet.
Webster did his best to keep his shoulders back and his head up despite his overwhelming urge to just disassociate from the shit around him. He couldn’t look weak, couldn’t look like a target, but also couldn’t look too cocky either. Guards walked the new prisoners into the unit single file, and as soon as they entered the large room, a bunch of catcalls and wolf whistles began seemingly from everywhere.
Webster had just been dropped straight from the zoo into the jungle, and there was no missing the hungry expressions on the men’s faces. They elbowed each other, licked their lips, rubbed their hands together, and paced closer. Some even pretended to sniff the air. Webster could feel himself falling away, trying to hide somewhere in his own head, but he bit down on his own tongue until he tasted blood. This wasn’t a game. It was kill or be killed inside these walls. If he couldn’t handle strangers, how the hell would he handle Cyrus?
Some of the men Webster walked in with were clearly not first-timers. There were head nods and hand signals and furtive glances that Webster tried not to think too much about. There were bodies strewn everywhere. Far too many for each person to have their own space in the wall of cells. All the cell doors sat open, and there were inmates playing cards, watching television, using the payphones, and just lounging against the wall watching everybody else.
Each cell had two metal bunks, a sink, and a toilet, but all the cells seemed most definitely taken. Webster guessed that was why there were cots and blankets on the floor of the rec space. His guess was the new guys got stuck on the floor? Fucking awesome.
“Find a spot. There aren’t enough cells for everybody, so just pop your shit wherever you find a space. Don’t be shy,” a portly guard with a receding hairline told the group.
Webster found a spot on the floor, but a female guard snagged his arm. “Not you, pretty boy. We got someplace special for you,” she said with a cold laugh.
A shiver of fear crept along his spine, but he tensed his jaw and gave a single nod, following her up the stairs to the second tier of cells. Other inmates were congregated outside each cell, but they made way for the guard, even as they called out, “Here, kitty-kitty.” She paid them no attention.
They stopped in front of an open cell right in the middle. It was empty, but the top bunk was clearly lived in. There were pictures taped to the wall, and books sat on the lower corner of the mattress. “Bottom bunk’s yours, inmate. Make yourself at