Free Ruthless by Robert J. Crane Page A

pointed to an itty-bitty vent at the top. “We can get it completely full in less than five seconds, if you can believe it.” Anselmo had figured that one out in his first week, the dick.
    “Where’s my bed?” Simmons asked.
    “You sleep on the floor,” I said. “The gel packs are pretty comfortable. It’s like a waterbed.”
    “You’ve tried sleeping on it, then?” Simmons asked, nonplussed.
    “I have.” He looked at me in sharp disbelief, so I shrugged and elaborated. “I’ve slept in worse.”
    “You—” he started, giving me a furious evil eye but apparently thinking the better of whatever he was going to say. I wasn’t super petty, but other inmates had occasionally irritated me enough that I pressed the FLOOD button on them as I left.
    I sighed. “If you’re searching for something to call me that’s not going to result in me punching you in the kidney, you could try ‘Warden.’” I reached down and started to unlock his hands.
    “When do I get out of here?” Simmons asked as he rubbed his wrists. “For exercise or whatever?”
    “You don’t,” I said. “You’re in solitary.”
    “What the hell?” His voice got sharp and high. “When’s my trial?”
    “You don’t get one,” I said, drawing up to look him in the face as I pulled the chains free of him. I watched his body for a hint of defiance; I could put him down before he could raise a hand to me, but I’d probably just shove him into his cell and call it good.
    “Where’s the bathroom?” he asked, peeking in. “Oh.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “And it clogs if we have to flood the cell, so …” I tried not to make it sound like a threat, but who wanted to float in gel along with their own waste? Other than Anselmo, anyway.
    “Man, this isn’t right!” Simmons said, looking at me in disbelief. “This isn’t fair!”
    “I agree,” I said, admitting to him something I wouldn’t even say to my brother, “but it’s what we’ve got.” I shrugged. “It’s not like I can stick you in gen pop at the local jail, because you’d just break out.” My lips were a grim line as I stared at him. “I wish I had a better solution, but I don’t.”
    “You’re gonna regret this.” His jaw was set, face was red and eyebrows turned down to show his growing, impotent rage. He believed me now.
    “Because your girlfriend is going to make me sorry?” I didn’t say it with any spite, just calm resignation.
    He didn’t bite on the bait, so I pushed him beyond the threshold and sealed the door. It closed with a quiet swish, leaving me staring at his disbelieving face as he stood in the gel-sealed cell, comically distorted by the clear-pack door.
    I shook my head and turned away, but I could feel him watching me the whole time. I didn’t dare look back as I walked, though. I just kept going to the end of the row.

12.
    I stopped near the end, as I always did when I brought a new prisoner down or came for inspection. I paused before a door not that different from Eric Simmons’s. It certainly wasn’t blacked out like Anselmo Serafini’s. I saw the prisoner moving around inside. He’d been watching the entry as I came in—they all had, really—and he stood as I approached. I flipped the switch on the audio microphone and speaker hidden somewhere in his ceiling came to life. “Hey, Timothy,” I said.
    Timothy Logan walked up to the clear, distorted door and nodded at me through the barrier that separated us. “Howdy, Warden. How’s it going?”
    “Not bad,” I said. That bluster when I closed the door on Eric Simmons? That was the norm around here. It was almost like the prisoners had to posture, had to wave their thingies around to show me that even though I’d stripped their freedom from them, they still had pride. The threats were … graphic, in some cases. Most of them were murderous, and not nearly so subtle and tame as what Eric Simmons had just offered. They were also, between our eighteen prisoners, almost