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G. Rynk

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By G. Rynk
Posted: Saturday, March 08, 2014
Last edited: Saturday, March 08, 2014
This short story is rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Recent stories by G. Rynk
· Evil Is In The Doing
· Chrissy's Independence Day
· Confession III
· My Reaction to Earthlings
· Doppler Radars Aren't Real
· The Man's Too Big; The Man's Too Strong
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This is a story about how evil can not only be born, but created. This story appears in my book The Reality of Fantasy.
In this world, there are those who are said to be evil. They lie, cheat, steal and sometimes kill. They however are not truly evil. As bad as these people may seem, there are those who are much worse. The truly evil ones are seemingly driven by hate and a lustful desire to witness the infliction of suffering upon others. These people are not just bad. These people are not the ones who merely strayed off the path of the righteous. No, these are the people whose very essence was formulated in the bowels of Hell. These are the ones whose spirits were infused with that of demons at the moment of conception. These are the pure evil. Born to inflict pain, to kill, to rape, to humiliate, to destroy.
Then there are those evil beings that are not born but created. As muses have been sent to inspire artists, musicians and writers to create and bring beauty to the world, Satan too has sent muses to inspire the murderers, the rapists, and the sadists to create and bring pain and suffering to the world. These muses create circumstances, situations and life decisions that force one to tap into and embrace his darker side. They create circumstances so horrible, so gut wrenching that it turns a good man into an unstoppable force of hate, anger and rage. This is one such story.
Ryan woke up in the darkest part of the morning. After his shower, his morning shave, and a huge cup of strong black coffee, he put on his uniform. The pants were black, pressed and made of a durable synthetic material. His shirt was also black, a polo. On the left side, an emblem of a badge was embroidered. Below, the words Claustrum Prison. Around his waist, Ryan fastened a thick leather belt. Upon it he hung what would become the tools of his new trade:
A flashlight with two purposes. One, to light the darkened nighttime hallways of the prison. Two, to crack prisoners in the head when they get out of line (at least that’s what he was told when he picked up his uniform and supplies.)
A radio, to call for support and back up when necessary. As Ryan was told, these men were the most violent of the violent, killers. No guard, not even the strongest or most seasoned confronted these animals without backup.
A nightstick, the quintessential tool of the security guard. To be used to beat, smack and jab those prisoners that just don’t listen, that just don’t know how to go along with the program.
After gearing up for his day, Ryan headed out for his forty-five minute drive to work. He left his quaint suburban neighborhood with well manicured lawns and tasteful lawn decorations only to begin his trek across the barren southwestern desert. While driving to work, Ryan began second guessing his decision to be a security guard. He never displayed or even in his own mind thought he possessed the qualities needed for the job. Of course, during his interview, he gave the personnel director a much different impression.
“No,” Ryan said with false confidence, “I’m not worried about the prisoners. I can handle myself.”
In actuality, he spent time trying to fill himself with the courage he was going to need to be a prison guard. This was not Ryan’s goal in life but, like so many others, his life sent him on a journey which was not originally his own. With the economy spiraling downward, a new wife and a set of twins on the way, Ryan had to take whatever job he could find. And this one paid well.
Today was his first day. Ryan turned off the lonely highway and proceeded to a parking lot situated by the front gate of the prison. From the lot, Ryan could barely make out the faint outline and lights of the prison which seemed to be miles away. Just on the inside of the front gate, Ryan could see two guards, both armed with what seemed like automatic rifles. Inside the guard house were two more guards. A faint light seemed to be illuminating their faces. Monitors. They must be watching video monitors, Ryan thought.
Sitting in his car, he watched as the lot began to fill. People began exiting their vehicles and gathering together. The best he could tell, some people were guards, others kitchen workers and an assortment of other civilian employees needed in the facility. Not being the most socially aggressive person, Ryan just waited in his car. Then, off in the distance he could see the highlights of a large bus speeding through the desert. This was his ride. When the bus reached the front gate, the two guards standing outside of the guard’s desk greeted the bus with weapons drawn and pointed at the bus. This was standard procedure. The guard in the bus, a rather large hulking gentlemen, exited first. As he stepped off, Ryan noticed the bus shook a little re-adjusting to the shift in weight. Then the driver, an older guy with a slight limp, exited as well.
As they stood alongside the bus, both men were frisked to ensure that neither one was trying to sneak out some illegal contraband, money or secret messages. This is common in other state-run facilities. The warden here though, is looking to ensure that never happens. While the two guards searched the two occupants of the bus, the other two guards searched the bus high and low to ensure that no one was trying to sneak out. After the search was completed, the four guards relaxed their demeanor and began talking as though they were all good friends. Because, as it turns out, they were.
Ryan realized it was now time for him to get out of the car and take the first step of his “thousand mile” journey. By the time Ryan reached the bus, he was at the back of the line. He watched as each person was frisked and searched. When he reached the top of the stairs, Ryan placed his finger on a small screen. A light scanned his fingerprint and verified his identification. He walked to the back of the bus and took the only available seat. He sat next to an older man dressed in what appeared to be civilian clothes. His ID badge read: Eric Blair. Under his name it read Kitchen.
“First day, huh?” the man asked.
“Yeah. I haven’t even been here before. I was interviewed at the Human Resources office downtown.”
“Well then, let me fill you in on some of the details. First, there’s a three mile perimeter around the entire facility. Most of it is hard desert terrain filled with rattlesnakes and sharpshooter pillboxes.”
“How many?”
“No one knows for sure. They figure if no one knows then the inmates won’t be able to figure out how to avoid them. Even the sharpshooters in the pillboxes don’t know how many are out there. As a matter of fact, I think the only person who does know is the warden.”
“With all this ground, how would anyone even know if someone was out there?”
The man pointed skyward, “Geo-synchronous orbiting satellite. Eyes on this place twenty-four seven. Infrared and heat sensitive cameras can spot any moving person. If the satellite catches someone moving, they contact the pillboxes and order them to shoot on sight. If the pillboxes are out of range or can’t get a clear shot or if there are too many escapees, they call in the choppers.”
“Yeah. About a mile off the grounds is a small airport with armed helicopters ready to be scrambled at a moment’s notice. They’re ordered to kill anything on the ground moving. Last month a few guys thought they could make it. Just imagine the damage that .50 caliber machine gun bullets fired from a military helicopter would do to human flesh. Those guys were shot up so badly the buzzards couldn’t even scrounge up a dinner. But even if all that technology fails, the desert conditions alone will kill them. During the day, the desert reaches highs of 110 degrees. At night the desert temperature falls to below fifty. So, if the environment alone wasn’t bad enough, then the prisoners have to deal with all the animals,” as they continued their drive to work the old man pointed out to the desert. “Out there,” he continued “one may meet up with coyotes, rattlesnakes, and poisonous spiders.”
Ryan sat there in disbelief as Eric continued to explain the difficulty in escaping from this prison, “So if you somehow are not seen by the satellite, not shot by the snipers, not killed by the animals you still have to deal with the fence. It’s electrified and ten feet high. On top of the fence is another five feet of razor ribbon wire.”
“How do they get away with all this? Isn’t it a bit extreme?”
“Our facility houses those who cannot be safely housed anywhere else. My understanding is that since we are a private facility the state has given us some liberties not afforded to the government-run facilities. Recently though, we’ve come under fire from some international humanitarian groups. They say our treatment of prisoners is the same as torture.”
As the bus approached the main facility, the prison started to shine in the morning sun. The entire building was white with narrow slits that Ryan could only imagine would be the prisoner’s windows. The building was huge, square and institutional. Immediately surrounding the building was a wall that Ryan estimated to be about ten feet high topped with more razor ribbon wire. A large steel gate began to open slowly as the bus came within a hundred yards. Once within these inner walls Ryan could hear the sounds of barking dogs and began scanning the area. Off to the side being held back by other guards were several large Rotweillers. A large garage door at the main facility opened and the bus pulled in. Red flashing lights and alarms began to sound. An automated voice warned–Put all windows up and keep them up until alarm ceases. Moments later, searing hot water blasted the entire bus, like an automated car wash system from hell.
“The water outside is 250 degrees. It’ll burn the skin right off the body. They use it to scrub off any people who may have tried to enter the prison illegally,” explained Eric.
After the automated car wash, the employees all exited the bus and headed toward yet another door that required both fingerprint identification and the swipe of the ID card. Upon entering, Ryan was greeted by his supervisor.
“Ryan,” he called out. “Over here. I’m gonna give you a brief tour and show you the sections you will be patrolling.”
“Great,” Ryan tried to shake the insecurity off his voice. “I’m ready.”
Ryan’s supervisor escorted him down a back hallway. “These hallways can only be accessed by employees. They lead to every part of the building. Now, you’ll reach certain security doors along the way. As a guard, you can access any hallway. All other employees have limited codes and limited access. So, a cook can’t go past a security door that leads to the prison. All of our employees have limited access, except the guards, we can go anywhere.” Ryan and his supervisor, after already passing through several security doors came to one that read: SECTION I.
The supervisor prompted Ryan to swipe his card, the door buzzed and they pushed their way through. They entered the unit known as Pied Piper Lane. As they entered the unit, Ryan was first surprised by the solid steel doors on all the cells. In his mind, he was expecting cells with bars and two men to a cell.
“This unit houses 250 scumbags that targeted, raped and eventually killed little kids. This is the first unit you will be patrolling. Don’t be fooled by their appearances though, all of these guys are very dangerous, especially if you’re under fifteen. We keep them separated from the others because, well let’s just say, not all killers follow the same code. These sick bastards would be shanked in a heartbeat by anyone of our other guests. As you can see, these men have a little bit of freedom. They’re allowed to walk around and are only locked down for twelve hours a day, unless there’s some kind of problem.”
As Ryan walked through this section, listening carefully to his supervisor, he couldn’t help but stare at some of these criminals. All of these men possessed soft, baby-like features. None of them looked like murderers. Instead, he could see them in their outside clothes—businessmen dressed in suits, youth scout leaders proudly adorning a uniform that would later become the vision of sexual violation and death, teachers at blackboards teaching grammar, math, history, and unfortunately fear. In a crowd, these meek and frightened men would never stand out, never be identified or seen as the killers of children they really were. Here though, they were seen for exactly what they were, methodical, deviant, exploitative killers.
As they reached the end of the unit, Ryan was faced with another locked door and a key card swipe. He swiped the card entered the door and crossed over into The Wild Country.
“This is where we house the gangbangers. These guys were some of the hardest hitters in the country. They’re not the low-level street punks selling rock on the corner. These guys are the soldiers, the shooters, and the leaders. They’re on twenty-three and a half hour lockdown. We keep them apart because very simply, if they ever get together, they will start up their old gangs, start new gangs or just kill one another. They get thirty minutes in the yard a day. The yard is a fifteen by fifteen courtyard with twenty foot high walls and a sniper tower. We have ten such courtyards here. If they give the guards a problem, don’t follow directions, or mess up in any way, they lose their outdoor privileges indefinitely.”
Then the supervisor took Ryan to the most dangerous unit in the building, The Valley of Death.
“This is where we house our serial killers and terrorists. They’re a different breed altogether. They don’t act out of anger or some need to protect their business or territory, they just kill because it’s who they are. We have a little less than 100 men in this unit and collectively, they have killed close to two thousand. They are on twenty-four hour lockdown. Food is slipped in under the slot in their door. Each cell has a shower and a toilet. Once a week they get a new prison jumpsuit. These guys are never to be underestimated. In the rare occasions we have to do an entry, we usually go in ten men deep. It’s the only way to ensure a guard’s safety.”
“Who’s your most dangerous prisoner?”
“Our most dangerous prisoner is Nick Kiever; we call him The Animal.”
“What cell is he in?” Ryan asked looking down the long corridor expecting his supervisor to point out the correct door.
“He’s separated from everybody. We keep Nick in a separate building. I’ll take you there next.”
Ryan and his new boss exited the main prison. A few hundred yards behind that stood a large building that looked similar to an airplane hangar. When they reached the hangar door two guards stopped them and checked their IDs.
“Thank you gentlemen, you may now enter,” the guard stated simply.
“As a trainee guard, you will not be granted access into this building unless it is with the warden, a shift supervisor or one of the two senior guards. The only other people allowed in are the two guards posted outside the outer door.”
After entering the outer door, the two men walked toward a room within the hangar. As noted by his supervisor, two guards were posted outside a huge steel door. Above the door read the Latin phrase: CARCER INTUS A CARCER .
“Only a few people ever enter this inner room. It can only be opened with fingerprint access.” He placed his hand on a touch screen that scanned his fingerprints and unlocked the door. With a huge tug from both men the two ton steel door was opened. Measuring almost a foot thick, the newbie could not fathom what one would have to do to end up in a place like this.
Upon opening the door, newbie looked around. This room was about thirty feet by thirty feet. There were no windows and the only lights were hanging above a clear sheet of what appeared to be Lexan glass. In the middle of the room was another steel box with one door in the center and no openings.
A few feet away from the cell door stood a small metal podium. On the podium was a screen that received a live feed of the inside of Keiver’s cell. Inside, Ryan saw a man with steel bracelets around his ankles and wrists. The steel bracelets were connected to chains that were securely fastened to the rear of his cell. Even with these chains on, Kiever could move freely around his cell which included only a few of the essentials.
In one corner there stood a solid steel toilet. In the other corner was a shower stall. The water turned on the same time every day whether Kiever was in there or not. Along the wall opposite the door was a concrete molded cot with a thin mattress laid on top. Flush with the ceiling were several lights that remained on twenty hours a day. No one wanted Kiever unseen and in the dark for too long.
On his body, Nicholas wore a small pair of underwear with hook and loop fasteners on each side. Stuck in his arm was a tube that was fed through the chains. This tube was actually an IV lead that fed Kiever. Around his torso was a huge white vest pulling tightly around his chest.
“What’s with the IV?”
“That’s how we feed him. We used to slide in a tray of food through a small slot in the door, until he quickly reached out and grabbed a slow moving guard’s hand.”
“What happened to the guard?”
“He lost his hand. Kiever pulled it through the slot and grinded the guard’s wrist against the corner of the opening until he severed it. By the time, the other guard could respond the guy had nothing left but a bloody stump. His strength is unbelievable. They guys in the Valley of Death that know of him are afraid of him. As a matter of fact, they are part of the reason we separated Kiever.”
“What the hell did he do to end up here?”
“It happened at his last prison – a state run maximum security prison. During lunch, that man beat the hell out of some gangbangers, a few of them even died. When the security guards arrived he killed some of them too. None of the other prisoners were quite sure why he snapped but rumor has it one of the guy’s was bold enough to take a piece of fruit off his tray. Nick snapped and grabbed the man by the throat, squeezing tighter and harder. As his grip tightened, the inmate’s friends started hitting him from behind and punching him in the head. He kept squeezing until the guy’s body went limp. The inmates in the cafeteria were going wild and the guards were trying to rush in before things went too far. After releasing the dead gangbanger from his group, Nick turned and punched one of his “brothers” in the face. When his fist made contact, a loud cracking sound resonated throughout the cafeteria and the rather large convicted drug-dealer murderer fell to the ground. His life was over. As more of the men jumped on Nick, more men died. Some were choked while others had their necks broken. Nick grabbed one guy by the back of the head and smashed his skull against the hard cold concrete floor until the grey floor was painted in deep crimson. His rampage continued. Nick snapped necks, broke jaws, and collapsed windpipes. A group of five guards entered armed with mace, tasers and batons. First they maced him with what you would have thought was just water. Then they pulled out their tasers. Nick was hit directly in the chest with two leads that delivered 200,000 volts. As though he were completely unaffected, Nick reached down and ripped the two leads out of his chest and charged the guard who made the stupid mistake of firing upon him. Before he could react, his life was ended. Two other guards died that day.”
“Then, how was he stopped?”
“After he killed the guards, he just sat down on the floor of the cafeteria and folded his legs. ‘I’m done’ is all he said. One of the remaining guards pulled back with his baton to swat at him but the other guard grabbed his wrist mid-swing. Nick just looked at the guard and nodded politely as though he were telling them that they did the right thing. That all transpired within a few minutes. I’ll show you the tape one day. Immediately following the incident, Nick was brought here. Originally, this room was going to be turned into a pistol range. But instead, we built a prison within a prison.”
“What is that white vest around his chest?”
“Oh that. That is a constriction vest. We call it the corset. It prevents him from getting a full breath of air. See, with that on, he can’t expand his chest all the way. So, he can’t breathe heavy.”
“Why don’t you want him taking a full breath of air?”
“Because if he breaths a lot then he can exercise in there and get stronger. That’s the last thing anyone wants is for him, to become stronger. The stronger he gets the more dangerous he will become.”
“Is that even legal?”
“We’ve gotten away with it so far. But I heard some human rights group got wind of it and is going to try and fight it. The warden wanted him chemically sedated but we were instructed that full-on chemical sedation would definitely be considered a human rights violation. The corset’s a compromise.”
Ryan’s supervisor escorted him out of the building and then continued the tour with the more mundane portions of the prison such as the cafeteria, locker rooms, medical station, and gun room. As Ryan continued following his supervisor around, he could not help but to fixate on Nick. How could a man be that deadly?
Ryan walked the halls with a more senior prison guard for the remainder of the day. He was in Pied Piper’s Lane. This is where most new guys started. Despite the fact that each one of these child molesters killed, they were pretty harmless to full-grown adults. As Ryan made his rounds, he could hear the sounds of men weeping, and some even verbalizing their sick fantasies while satisfying their basest desires.
For the next several hours, Ryan listened while the senior guard bitched about his wife, kids and the job. Ryan couldn’t stop thinking about this place. He never believed himself to be a “bleeding heart” but the confinement and control exerted in this place just made him feel like maybe it was overkill.
Ryan thought a lot about his job but never really spoke about it with his wife. He felt it would be unfair to share with her the disgusting details of his job.
“I just walk up and down the halls every day. It’s an easy job,” he would say.
However, after a few weeks Ryan started to get used to the fact that he worked in one of the most secure prisons in the world. He was paid well and had very little direct contact with the inmates. As time went by though, he started to learn more about their crimes and the horrible acts of brutality they inflicted upon others. At times, his sympathy would fade, but at other times like the rare occasions he would see into the eyes of the inmates; he started to realize that this was to be the whole of their existence from now until the day they died.
Watching these men mentally deteriorate would sometimes remind him of Chekov’s The Bet. How maddening it must be to be teased by the sunlight but never be warmed by its rays, to catch occasional wafts of fresh air, but never be able to suck in a deep breath of it, to know there is a big beautiful world out there but never be allowed to see it.
For those whose crimes were recent, it seemed reasonable to lock them up, but Ryan often wondered about the octogenarians whose crimes seemed to have occured lifetimes ago. Was it not time to let them go? But then he would remember that elderly, timid grandfather figure savagely beat, murdered and raped ten women—women who never got to see their senior years.
Finally though, Ryan resolved himself to the fact that this was just a job, one that paid well but still just a job. But the treatment of the prisoners still never seemed to sit right with him. It was as if the building was nothing more than a giant pressure cooker. Sometimes Ryan scared himself with the thought of all the cell doors opening up at once. All of their rage, anger and aggression would wash over the guards like a wave of fire from the depths of Hell. Shivers went down his spine.
Despite all his fears and anxieties, Ryan was still fascinated by Nick. He seemed, to Ryan, to be the most interesting prisoner in Claustrum. However, Ryan never got to see him since he still did not have the clearance to enter his room alone. So whenever he could he would ask questions about him or listen in on conversations surrounding him. So when a guard started talking about Kiever at lunch one day, Ryan paid close attention.
“Did you say Nick?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah, The Animal. You know of him?”
“My first day here, the supervisor took me to his cell. I looked him up on the Internet but couldn’t find anything except for a small blurb about him being sentenced to life in prison for a multiple homicide. It was almost like he didn’t exist.”
“That’s because the police blacked out any information regarding his initial crime. As a matter of fact, I was just telling this guy about what he did after he was arrested. They brought him in for booking and threw him into a holding cell before transporting him to county. Well, you gotta figure, in the holding cell they had a couple of DUIs, marijuana possession, domestic violence, no hard core killers. Well, one of the guys, who was in for a B&E started giving Nick shit. Nobody’s sure what it was about, but the guy wouldn’t get out of Nick’s face. Nick tried walking to the other side of the cell but the guy got in his way and started poking him in the chest. Finally, Nick had enough of it and grabbed the guy by the back of the head, punched him in the throat and slammed his head into the bars. After that, he sat on a cot in the cell, crossed his legs and just sat there.”
“What happened to the guy?” Ryan asked.
“He died. It seems Nick smashed this guy’s head into the bars so hard that his skull shattered and his head got stuck between the bars. A welder had to come in and cut the bars to pull the guy’s head out.”
“What about the rest of the guys in the cell?”
“What about ‘em? They just sat there and didn’t say shit. Didn’t want to provoke him.”
Despite the horrific nature of his crimes, Ryan was even more intrigued by Nick. He was a one-man-wrecking-machine that could kill one second in a fit of rage and then be completely calm the next. Ryan’s fascination for this angel of death only grew stronger.
As Ryan continued working in the prison, his days were filled with fantasies of meeting Kiever face to face. Sometimes in his fantasies, Ryan would talk to Kiever and convince him never to kill again and the two of them would become great friends. Sometimes in his fantasies, Ryan would engage in this glorious fight with the madman and kill him with his bare hands. Sometimes his fantasies turned to nightmares and Ryan would just imagine himself curled up in a ball getting beaten by Kiever.
After his first ninety days, just like all the other new guards, Ryan was to meet with the prison shrink. The doctor had to make sure the new guards were not showing any signs of sympathy or over-agression toward the inmates. Very often these were the two extremes that the prison had to deal with. The overly sympathetic guards would eventually let their defenses down and be assaulted by prisoners or the overly-aggressive guards would unduly agitate the prisoners and set them off. What the prison really needs is level-headed-guards that respect the prisoners but still have the ability to be firm with them. The doctor spent a good half-hour going over the usual checklist questions to make sure Ryan was still mentally fit for the job. Then, completely overwhelmed with curiosity, Ryan asked about Kiever.
“What about Kiever? What did he do? I mean originally. Why was he first arrested?”
“Why do you need to know? You have no direct contact with him. He’s just another prisoner here, right?”
“Come on, this guy is far from just another prisoner. He lives in his own building guarded by four men and is fed intravenously. I’ve heard some crazy stories and to be honest until I know why he was placed here I don’t know if I can think about anything else.”
“Well, based on the forensic reports and his allocution this is what happened...” The doctor began telling him the story of how he was first arrested.
“His wife and child were killed by a biker gang. Apparently, during a robbery of a local convenience store, the clerk pulled a gun and a firefight ensued. The clerk, his wife and his child were all shot dead. The police were able to narrow down the gang based on the logo on the jackets. However, the men were all wearing masks and the police could not identify individuals. So an arrest was never made. In anger, he took it into his own hands.
After several days of investigative work he found the Gang’s clubhouse, it was a run-down home in the middle of a seedy section of town. From here, they guys manufactured and sold meth. There lab was in a little storage shed out back.
Then one night he waited until all the guys in the gang had a huge party. They were drinking, getting high and having wild sex with their wives and girlfriends. As the night dwindled on and partiers started passing out, he approached the house with a black machete in his hand. He kicked in the front door and began what was soon to be a huge massacre. Apparently, the first guy he killed charged him with a bat, and according to the coroner’s report in one unhesitating slice, he severed the guy’s head from his body. From that point, he just continued to hack his way through the whole gang. Since most of the men were passed out the dismembering came easy. Body parts were dropping off like slices of deli meat coming off a slicer. Although no one knows for sure, some people assume that many of the victims may have woken up mid-assault. Imagine the horror of waking up screaming in pain from having a limb removed by a machete only to have that scream silenced a half a second later by a death blow that slices through your skull spilling your grey matter on the floor. One of the gang members tried to defend himself by reaching for a gun.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because his body was on the floor and his severed hand was on the counter wrapped around a nine milimeter. Based on the reports the women gathered up all the kids and hid in a bedroom together. This is where it gets ugly. He kicked in the bedroom door and proceeded to slice, cut, mutilate and destroy every living thing in the room. The women tried to huddle themselves around the children to shield them from this mad man, but he just stabbed and sliced right through them, penetrating the soft unmarred skin of the children.”
“How did they catch him?”
“Damndest thing. The next day the police were scheduled to raid the place due to reports of them selling meth out of the house. When the police got there, the front door was already swung open and he was sitting in the center of the living room floor with his legs crossed and the machete lying across his lap. The cops were stunned because the house was just splattered with crimson. As the men entered the rugs squished with the dampness of blood. Couches were soaked through, the walls were painted red with the viscous life fluids, and body parts were strewn about like pieces of confetti in the aftermath of a dark and morbid parade. But he was just sitting there. Not sad. Not smiling. Just sitting there.”
He looked up at the police and said, “I got them, I got them all. I got their lovers. I got there demon spawns. I got them all.”
At that point, he ceremoniously handed the blade over to the police, laid face down on the blood soaked floor and put his hands behind his back. Quickly the police put the cuffs on him and dragged him out of the house fighting ever urge they had to just shoot him dead right there. I mean these cops were street-hardened men with years of experience under their belts. But it was said that on this day, these men, who had seen horrific crime scenes before, wept openly after laying their eyes on those poor dead children.”
“This guy’s nuts. Couldn’t a lawyer get him off for being mentally unbalanced?”
“Well, he didn’t have a lawyer so the state appointed a public defender. Apparently, at their first meeting the public defender suggested that he plead insanity.”
“Apparently the two of them started arguing. Things got heated and he picked up the lawyer’s pen and plunged it into his carotid artery. Sat there in silence as the blood drained out of his body. After that, he said he would gladly represent himself in court. So, he plead guilty and gave his allocution. The judge said it was the most sadistic single act of violence he had ever heard of in all his years sitting on the bench. That night that man killed twelve hard-hitting brutal gang bangers, fifteen women, some wives, some girlfriends, some just friends, and eight children, the oldest was seven and the youngest only several months old.”
Ryan left the doctor’s office convinced that Kiever was a psychotic killer. However, his fascination still did not fade. As a matter of fact, it only intensified.


After about six months of working at Claustrum, Ryan was fully integrated into his role as prison guard. He pounded on a few inmates, bloodied some skulls, and broke a few bones. The inmates feared him and the guards respected him. His role in Pied Piper’s Lane led him to a position working in The Wild Country. Even there the hard-core gangbangers and white supremacists started to fear Ryan. He was becoming a guard of guards. His latest promotion involved him being placed on the entry squad. He had only been on the entry squad for about two weeks and participated in only one entry when it happened.
Ryan got a call on his walkie-talkie.
“Entry team to Kiever’s cell now! Guards have been taken hostage! I repeat! Guards have been taken hostage!” screamed his supervisor.
“On my way!” Ryan quickly ran to the equipment room and donned his entry gear: a helmet, tactical vest, knee and elbow pads, Kevlar gloves, cut resistant arm shields and a riot shield. After entering the outer hangar door, Ryan and the rest of the entry team assembled in front of the inner door.
Ryan’s supervisor was already geared up and ready to go in.
“Here’s the situation. Kiever somehow got out of his cell. The two guards stationed out here entered when they heard the door alarm sound. We haven’t heard anything from inside. So, we’re going in as though this is a hostage scenario. Go in slow, stay tight and be ready to bring him down. Remember, this guy is a killer, the most dangerous killer we’ve ever housed here.”
The supervisor punched in the key code combination, scanned his fingerprint and entered the room followed by the rest of the team. On the floor were the two guards, lifeless and limp, necks probably broken. Kiever was standing above them, chains hanging from his wrists and trailing on the floor behind his ankles.
Kiever charged the team and forced five of the men out the door. He slammed it shut and smashed the electronic control panel next to it. As an escape proof measure, once the control panel is broken the door locks and cannot be opened. Now, only half an entry team had to face Kiever.
“Get back in your cell Kiever!” screamed the supervisor. The team formed a line and slowly began walking toward him in an attempt to force him back into his cell. Riot shields in hand, they continued their slow march toward Kiever.
Kiever charged the center of the line and slammed three of the remaining members of the team up against the wall. He punched one guard directly in the face, crushing his skull with a single blow. Now there were only four guards left. Outside, the rest of the entry team was working frantically to figure out how to override the failsafe locking system.
Inside, the four remaining guards drove Kiever up against the wall, but Kiever drove them back. The men jumped on top of Kiever and brought him down to the ground. Kiever managed to throw Ryan off him. In a flurry of punches, kicks and swings of the chains, Kiever managed to kill the other three members of the entry team. Ryan was on the floor motionless. Now, only he and Kiever remained.
Ryan sat up staring at this man, this beast that he both admired and feared. Ryan admired his ability to kill and destroy so swiftly yet he feared the fact that this man was now focusing in on him.
“You’re next!”
“Kiever, just get back in your cell. When those guards get in here, they’ll shoot you dead. I know the protocol. The next step is armed guards. Get back in your cell and you’ll live.”
“Live? Do you think this is life? Inside me there is an inextinguishable conflagration of rage. I just look for an excuse, the slightest thing. I hope for an excuse, for a reason to let it out. Even in that fucking cage, I can feel myself getting stronger! Even with that constriction vest, I grew stronger. When they come in, I’ll kill them too. If I die in the process, then I die.”
Ryan continued to slide backward on his butt searching the floor for his nightstick while keeping his eyes locked on Kiever. Fear started to course through his veins. In a flash, Nick cracked him over the head with the length of chain dangling from his arm. Blood began dripping down his face. Ryan blindly swept his arm across floor, grabbed his stick and began swinging violently at Kiever. His attempts were in vein because every swing missed. Kiever then began pounding on Ryan. Unlike the others, Nick did not go for a kill immediately. With no one around, Nick could toy with his prey.
“I have all the time in the world. They’ll never fix that lock.”
Ryan fell to the ground and curled up in a ball. Kiever kept kicking him, punching him, breaking bones and bruising organs all along the way. While taking his beating, Ryan started to think about his wife and his child that was to be born soon. He started to grow angry knowing that this animal would take all of that away from him. His fear started to transform to hate. His hate started to grow and give him strength.
Ryan got up to his knees and Nick pulled the length of chain connected to his wrist around Ryan’s soft, weak neck. Standing behind him, pulling the chain tighter, Nick started to rob Ryan of his life force. Then, Ryan’s anger and hate grew to a boil. He managed to get to his feet, stepped to the side slightly and drove his night-stick up into Nick’s scrotum. For a moment, the tension on the chain loosened and Ryan was able to slip out. From there, Ryan continued to beat and pound on Nick. He could hear a crunching sound emanating from Nick’s body as the night stick cracked and pulverized the bone beneath his before believed invincible flesh. His continued strikes led to open wounds. Blood began spraying and for the first time, Nick Kiever was on the other side of a brutal beating. Nick was face down in a puddle of his own blood. Ryan, now completely overwhelmed by rage, turned Nick over, dropped his night stick and began punching Kiever repeatedly in the face.
Meanwhile, on the outside of the door, the warden, who was on the phone with the security company, found out how to override the automatic lock out. The entry team finally breached the door, prepared to find Kiever hovering over the bodies of the dead guards. Instead, they found Ryan on top of Kiever still punching his bloodied and tattered face. Ryan’s constant punching and pummeling caused cuts and abrasions to form on his own fists. His blood and that of Kiever’s mixed together in an orgy of crimson.
The entry team was shocked and frozen for a moment when they saw Ryan drenched in blood. Sprays of red were scattered across the room and Ryan was still pounding on Kiever’s seemingly lifeless body. Three guards rushed to Ryan and tried pulling him off Kiever, but Ryan just kept hitting him. With each punch of his fist, more and more blood splattered along the floor, the wall and onto Ryan’s face, like war paint on an ancient warrior. After several moments of struggling, the guards were finally able to get Ryan off Kiever. Then without warning, Ryan collapsed onto the floor.


After the killing, as part of normal protocol for any guard assaulted by or in a physical conflict with an inmate, Ryan was sent to the shrink. He entered the room dressed in his civvies, only coming in today for his psych eval.
“First Ryan, I want to start off by saying that I’m sorry. I know based on our other discussions you had conflicting feelings about some of the inmates here. You are a compassionate man. Not many people like you end up working here.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said calmly.
“I just need to ask you a few questions. This evaluation is being conducted just to determine whether or not you are mentally and emotionally ready to get back to work, Okay?”
Ryan sat in the Doc’s office for about an hour answering questions about his dreams, sleeping habits, drinking habits, sex life and emotions. It almost seemed as though the Doctor was just asking a group of pre-written questions off some checklist. Then Ryan was hit with the one question that he almost stumbled on.
“Ryan, did you enjoy killing Nick Kiever?”
Ryan paused for a moment that seemed to be more like an eternity, at least in his mind.
“No, Doc. I didn’t. It bothered…I mean still bothers me. But, if I didn’t kill Nick he surely would have killed me.”
“Okay then. We’re finished here Ryan. I’ll be sending my preliminary report to the warden. As far as I’m concerned you can come back to work whenever you’re ready. If you need to talk though, I’m here.”
Ryan thanked him and headed out the door. Images of beating Nick began flashing through his mind. Ryan could see, as if in slow motion, his fists pounding Kiever’s face to a meaty pulp. He could see his swollen and bloodied face. He could feel the blood on his hands. He could still feel the individual bones in his face cracking and breaking under the power of his fists. He could see the fear and panic in his eyes as he watched him slowly slip away. Then the corners of Ryan’s mouth began to bend upwards. Ryan was happy. In that uncontrollable moment of rage, Ryan was happy. And so, another truly evil man was created.


Reader Reviews for "Rage"

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Reviewed by Ronald Hull 3/9/2014
As I read, it seemed to me that you have had some experience in prisons. On the other hand, some of your description seemed to be purely fiction. As far as your description of an evil being like Nick, his seemingly superhuman strength from rage is more the stuff of movies rather than good fiction. You seem to be channeling a little bit of Hannibal Lecter without the special nuance… the psychology.

As I read, I couldn't help notice a few mistakes in your writing that would turn off the reader. I've noted a few here before I stopped (there are many more):

Being a "security guard." [?] The "highlights" of the large bus.… You can delete "what appeared to be" in some places because appearance is just Ryan's reality. The pillboxes armed with the snipers is a bit far out and really old-fashioned. Technology can do better than that. And the desert animals aren't as dangerous as the heat and lack of water. The prison "shone" in the morning sun. After [delete already] passing several security doors…Lexon is a brand name for an acrylic plastic, not glass. One of the "guys" was bold enough…

I think the story might have been better if you had toned down the gore a bit and focused more on the psychological aspects of rage rather than improbable multiple murders with bare hands. You should also have someone help you edit your work. A good editor will make the story much more readable.


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