Free American Criminal by Shawn William Davis Page B

quarter of a mile down the bland two-lane service road until they reached the next fence. Burnside noticed this one wasn’t as high as the first and had no barbed wire.
        I could scale that one no problem. At night, in the dark, with the nearest guard-shack two hundred yards away, I could climb it without being noticed.
        Then he saw a sign on the fence; DANGER: ELECTRIFIED: KEEP BACK.
        So much for that plan.
        Burnside waited impatiently while the bus driver went through the same routine with a pair of guards at the second shack before driving through.
        The prison walls looked about four stories high. From far away it looked like a long, low structure, but closer up, it appeared taller and more imposing. They arrived at a small parking lot next to a large loading dock area and took a right. Burnside scanned the loading dock as they passed. The dock was raised so trucks could back up to it and unload cargo. Four massive gates towered above the raised platform. Only one of them was open. A tractor-trailer truck was backed up to it. As the prison bus drove past the truck, Burnside craned his neck and saw a forklift drive out the back of the trailer with a crate attached to its fork. He watched it speed across the platform through the tall gate. He had to turn away as the prison bus turned onto a service road, which was tight against the towering prison wall. Burnside knew they were approaching a guard tower, but he couldn’t see it from the close angle. He tried to look up as they passed and only succeeded in straining his neck.
        The bus continued rumbling down the service road until it reached a wide courtyard. It turned left into the courtyard and drove around a circle to a set of double glass doors.            
    The bus stopped and the engine shut down. Burnside wanted out.
        But not out to that place.
        The double glass doors opened and a procession of guards filed out two-by-two. Burnside counted at least ten of them walking toward the bus. The bus guards let the prison guards into the caged area and the prison guards took over. All the prisoners were shackled with behind-the-back wrist and ankle restraints. The going was slower as both sets of restraints were attached and the prisoners shuffled forward slowly. The short chain on the ankle restraints meant that the guards had to actually help lift the prisoners down the short set of bus stairs to the ground.
        Burnside’s turn came all too soon. He scowled as a guard undid his handcuffs to replace them with another set of behind-the-back restraints.
        Now would be the time to make a move.
        He did nothing. He stared ahead while the guards snapped the metal restraints on his wrists. He did the same for the leg restraints. He was biding his time. Any fighting would be useless at this juncture. He would wait until fighting meant something.
        They walked toward the main entrance in a long, single file line. Burnside stopped when the prisoner in front of him stopped. A new group of guards blocked their progress.
        “Hold up!” one of them shouted.
        Burnside peered past the shoulder of the inmate standing in front of him, and watched as a pair of prisoners at the front of the line were disconnected from the rest and led through the double glass doors - surrounded by four guards. Six more guards dispersed on either side of the line of prisoners and took up positions. Burnside stepped back and to the side, so he had a better view of the front of the line. He guessed there were at least eighteen prisoners standing in front of him.
        “Get back in line,” the nearest guard, a freckle-faced kid who looked like he was fresh out of the Corrections Academy, said to Burnside as he drew a baton from his belt and stepped toward him.
        “Sure, no problem, officer,” Burnside said, lifting his eyebrows in mock innocence as he stepped back into line.
        He watched the