Page 1 of Omega's Fever

1

Kellen

I spot the punch coming from six feet away. Roberts telegraphs everything. His shoulders bunch and his weight shifts back. His eyes give away his target before his fist even twitches.

Amateur.

I sidestep. His knuckles whistle past my ear, close enough that I feel the displaced air. The circle of inmates pressed around us groans. They want blood. They always want blood.

Roberts stumbles, momentum carrying him forward. He’s a big guy, but he’s no fighter. I know his type. He’s relied on his size to win against unskilled opponents. Unfortunately for him, I’m not only bigger. I’m better. He spins back toward me, face flushed red with embarrassment and rage and I smirk. He started it and if he wants to start a fight, I never object to finishing one.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, charged with running illegal fighting rings, while guards place bets on prison yard brawls right in front of the security cameras.

“Come on, Hayes!” someone shouts from the crowd. “Put him down!”

The concrete is rough beneath my feet, damp from the morning rain dripping from the chain-link overhead. Cold air bites at my exposed arms through the thin prison uniform.

Roberts charges again. This time his right hook has some power behind it, aimed straight for my jaw. I catch his fist mid-swing, fingers wrapping around his knuckles. One twist. Applied pressure to the right spot on his thumb.

Crack.

He drops to the concrete, howling. It isn’t broken, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“And I’m done,” I say. I step back, hands raised where the guards can see them.

Officer Woods takes his sweet time strolling over. “Break it up!”

Roberts is on the ground, cradling his hand against his chest and whimpering like a baby. “He broke my fucking hand!”

“I dislocated his thumb,” I correct. “The nurse can pop it back in.”

Woods extends his palm toward Officer Antonini without even glancing away from me. Antonini peels off a crisp fifty-dollar bill, slaps it into Woods’ waiting hand. They don’t bother hiding it.

“Pays to bet on the pro,” Woods chuckles, tucking the money into his uniform shirt pocket.

“Hayes!” Antonini’s bark lacks any real bite. The guards like me well enough. I’ve made them a fortune over the past eighteen months. “Back inside. Transport in twenty.”

I nod once and scan the yard. Roberts wasn’t the first this week to try his luck. Word travels fast in here.

My retrial starting means I might be out of here soon. That means fresh meat looking to make their reputation by taking down the biggest guy in the block without having to deal with him afterwards. I’m tired of it, but I’d be lying if I said the exercise wasn’t welcome.

Besides, jokes on them. I’m never getting out of here.

The other inmates part like water as I walk toward the door.Even the hard cases suddenly find the concrete fascinating. Six-foot-six and two-ninety of solid muscle tends to command that kind of respect.

Inside, the familiar cocktail of disinfectant, unwashed bodies, and institutional food hits my nostrils. Home sweet home. The irony is that prison doesn’t bother me the way it should. Three meals a day, a roof over my head, and clear rules about what’s expected. I’ve had worse.

“Hayes, move your ass,” Antonini calls from behind me. “You know the drill.”

I do, indeed. I get handcuffs and leg shackles that make walking an awkward shuffle. I stand patiently while they fit me up.

“You ready for round two?” Woods asks as he checks the cuffs. There’s something almost sympathetic in his voice. Almost.

“Ready as anyone can be for a rigged game.”

He snorts. “Still claiming you were framed?”

I don’t bother responding. What’s the point? The first trial ended in mistrial after seven of the jurors were mysteriously followed home by the same man. Coincidence? Sure. And I’m the Easter Bunny.