Writing Snippet 5: It's Ugly. Not For The Squeamish.
So, part of my ongoing novel.
This is a scene that made my wife look at me weird for a week after she read it.
Not for the faint of heart.
A not-so-nice guy gets introduced, and it's ugly.
Spacing between paragraphs just because Blogger doesn't like to format right.
Other Snippets here.
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CANTON CONTRACT CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, CANTON, TEXAS
He
awoke to the smell of burning. There was a fire, somewhere. He
peeled himself up from the cold concrete floor, and his stomach
rebelled.
He
fought back the urge to vomit, but wasn't fast enough to stop it. He
propped himself up on his elbows to keep his head out of the spreadin
pool. The fire wasn't just somewhere. He brought himself to his
feet and looked out of the thick scratched glass that gave the only
light in his dark cell. The fire stretched from the horizon to just
outside the perimeter fence of the prison, and it was huge. The sky
was filled with smoke. As he tried to make sense of charred outside
world, the flood of noise from the catwalks and central floor
filtered in from his cell door.
“The
fuckin' guards, man! The fuckin' guards just left us here to burn,
man!”
“Bitch,
you come near me, and I'll fucking cut you. You want some of this?
Come on, then, bit--”
“Oh,
sweet Jesus, I don't wanna fuckin' go out like this--”
“Open
the doors, motherfuckers! Open the fucking doors!”
“Time
to settle the fuckin' score, snitch-bitch. C'mon and open up--”
Water
spilled from the catwalks as dozens of inmates jammed up their
toilets, flooding their cells. Bits of mattress and toilet paper
fell in flames. There were six or seven bodies down on the main
floor. Dark, still pools of blood flowed from underneath them. Some
were stabbed, other bashed apart. A group of a half-dozen Latin
Princes were going cell-to-cell on the lower catwalk, doing cell
entries in the same manner as corrections officers.
“Vernon,
man, how are we gonna get the fuck outta here?”
“What
the hell happened to me?”
“I
don't know, bro. One minute we're watching T.V., and the lights go
out. You were up here, but you passed out or something.
“Next
thing the guards are saying that Dallas is blown up, or something.
They all left. They all fucking left, man.”
“Dallas?
Is that what's on fire?”
“Man,
everything's on fire. The whole pod is locked down, and we can't get
out. It's a like a fuckin' riot out there, man. Don't go out
there.”
Mario
Gutierrez had been Vernon Banks' cellmate for three months now. He
was clean, kept to himself, and didn't run with any of the Mexican
gangs. He was in for simple assault, and was just trying to do his
time. Big Pablo had 'invited' him into the Latin Princes, and
Gutierrez had turned him down.
He
was about to pay for that. No one turned down Big Pablo.
Another
group of Latin Princes were now at the cell door. Two had broken-off
broomsticks held like spears. Three others had improvised knives.
All were covered in blood. None came in to the cell.
“Hey,
homes, you remember me?”
Big
Pablo was pulling the door of the cell closed. A bottle of clear
fluid was in one hand. One of the gang produced a lighter, and lit
the rag stuffed into the bottle's neck.
“Oh,
shit,” Vernon and Mario said at the same time.
“You
should have jumped in with us, fucker. Nobody turns down the Latin
Princes. Time to pay, eh? All these fuckers are gonna pay, homes,”
he said.
He
lit the bottle's rag, and threw it. The cell filled with the stink
of gasoline, and then with fire. One spearman jammed the cell door
shut, while the other put his broomstick up to keep the two men from
leaving.
Mario
began to climb the bunk bed that took up the right side of the cell,
screaming at an unholy volume. Vernon panicked, falling to the back
of the cell and trying to brush the flames off. The flames clinging
to Mario spread to the bed, growing as another bottle was thrown into
the room in a crash of glass.
Vernon
Banks continued to beat the fire off his clothes. The sight of it
caused him to panic, but he was feeling no pain. Was this what it
was like to burn to death? Was there a calming shutdown by the mind,
or something?
Mario
jumped from the top bunk at the door, screaming in pain, trying to
make it through the group of men holding the cell door closed. One
of the spearmen caught him in the side of the torso, running him
through. Another man with a knife held his hair, and began to saw at
his throat. Another began to stab into his rib cage with a short,
repetitive motion like a sewing machine.
Gutierrez
pulled away, blind with panic and pain, away from the blades. The
fire now filled the cell. There was no where to go. He fell to
Vernon's knees, trying to claw his way up Banks's chest as hot blood
pumped out of his aorta into the fire.
Vernon
pushed him away with a panic-induced burst of energy. Mario's body
fractured under the sudden force. The gang members blocking the cell
door went from hooting and cheering to fearful silence.
Vernon
Banks looked at Mario's burning body, his head bashed to pieces from
hitting the floor, his arms at odd angles. Oh, shit, sorry,
Mario, he thought.
He
looked at his hands, covered in flame and blood. His clothes were
peeling from him. He walked calmly to the cell door and slammed it
to the left. It folded like cardboard, coming off the tracks with an
enormous crashing noise. The nearest Latin Prince, the one who slit
Mario's throat, tried to carve Vernon's jugular in a similar manner.
The knife slipped off his skin. Vernon backhanded him, bashing his
cheek bone into bloody splinters.
“Holy
shi--”
A
spearman was next. Vernon grabbed the screaming man by the throat,
and threw him. He flew over the common area, smashing into the
catwalk on the opposite side of the pod some fifty feet away.
The
cacophony of the rioting prison pod ceased when the man splashed
against the concrete wall. The only sound to be heard in the
collection of four dozen prison cells was burning beds and gang
members being pulled to pieces.
The
wet ripping sounds and terrified screams continued for twenty seconds
as Big Pablo's group of men was reduced to a collection of separated
body parts and torsos with fist-sized holes punched in them. The
other Latin Princes working the far side of the catwalk responded to
the sight of Big Pablo being dismembered by Vernon Banks, and charged
to his rescue.
Vernon
was now intoxicated with the strength surging through him. His
stomach was contracting from the impulse to vomit, but it was not
because of the sight of the killing floor he had made of the southern
side of the second-floor catwalk in pod seven. He gripped the rail
as another wave of nausea bolted through him. It passed after he
threw up that morning's powdered eggs from the cafeteria, and he
pulled his hand away from the crushed metal railing. Latin Prince
blood dripped from the furrows he left in the steel. He wiped his
mouth on an unburnt portion of his sleeve and looked up, elated, at
the men charging him.
He
split the first man from his shoulder to his navel with a single
karate chop. Blood and bile sprayed from the man's ruptured torso
over his comrades. They recoiled from the splashing entrails. The
five men back-peddled as one, stumbling over each other while
slipping in the gore.
Vernon
Banks set on them, a demonic grin on his face. He found one man's
head in the pile, and popped his skull like a water balloon full of
spaghetti sauce. Vernon grabbed the corpse by a stub of spine
sticking up from the neck, and flung it over his shoulder. He
reached in to the group of gangsters for another victim. A hand held
up in pleading submission was crushed at the wrist. Vern pulled the
screaming man to his feet, and head-butted him. Banks was drenched
as the man crumpled like a scarlet-stained rag doll. Vernon stomped
his foot between the shoulder blades of a man crawling away, smashing
the legless man's spine into his heart.
The
last man tried to jump off the catwalk into the common area below,
but Vernon caught him by the foot. Banks swung him back into the
air, caught him at a better angle, and snapped the screaming man in
half over the edge of the handrail.
One
dozen Latin Princes, slightly soiled, he thought to himself with
a chuckle. The nausea was forgotten. The kill was all he cared
about. He looked at his hands, dripping with blood and meat, and ran
them through his hair. He licked the fingers clean on his right
hand. Glorious.
Vernon
walked slowly down the the catwalk to the stairs. His fingertips dug
furrows in the concrete walls as he passed cell after burning cell.
The fire outside was brighter and closer. He didn't fear it. He
welcomed it. He knew it had no power over him.
The
remainder of the prison pod's population, those who weren't already
dead or hiding in their cells, were now piled at the main entrance
doors of the pod. They were two dozen men, blind with panic, all
attempting to break down unyielding doors. They were doomed rats
crawling over each other, trying to escape the cat locked in their
cage with them. They were pathetic. They were meat.
Vernon's
face pulled back into a blood-soaked smile, and he leapt into them.
* * * * *
Best,
JBR
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