Death Watch - Ep 2 Part 1
Episode Two - The Cell (Part One)
DISCLAIMER
DEATH WATCH is a work of fiction. While the author works as a Corrections Officer and draws on that experience to create a semi-authentic atmosphere and somewhat procedural accuracy, all characters, events, institutions, and incidents depicted in this series are entirely fictional. The town and prison are fictional and coincide with the Towers Valley universe which I have created.
This is horror fiction, not memoir. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or institutions is coincidental.
The views, actions, and conduct of characters in this story do not reflect the views, policies, or practices of the Federal Bureau of Prisons, the Department of Justice, or any correctional institution or agency.
This is a story. Nothing more.
Towers Valley Penitentiary
August 25, 1989
0615 Hours
Sergeant Briggs keyed his radio. Old Eddie’s advice sat heavy in his gut—better to be safe than sorry.
His hand didn’t shake. His voice didn’t waver.
“Sergeant Briggs to Control. I need two officers on C Block. Cell 113. Now.”
Static hissed back at him.
“Say again? You got walked—”
The line died.
Briggs stared at the radio and shook his head. Of course. Of course it had to fucking cut out now. The radios here were for shit when you needed them most.
“Briggs to Control.”
Nothing.
“Briggs to Rourke?”
The fluorescent bulbs above the tiers began to buzz—not an electric hum, but something alive. Like a hive rattling inside the tubes.
Briggs looked up.
The inmates looked up.
The air changed. A pull in gravity came from somewhere, as if a weight pushed through one’s body, sweeping through C Block. Briggs felt it in his teeth, in his chest, in the space between his ribs and his uniform.
He held his breath.
Then—
Pop.
The lights dropped to a sickly dim. The weight lifted and the air felt like it returned to normal once more.
Briggs didn’t buy it.
The radio squealed back to life, off-key and sharp:
“Control to Briggs. What was your traffic, you got walked on?”
“Control. I need two officers to C Block.”
He clipped the radio back to his belt and stood there, staring down range at Cell 113.
The door hung open. Steel frame bent away from the wall—not pried, not broken. Bent. Debris scattered on the concrete outside. And beyond the threshold: darkness that didn’t sit right. Darkness that felt like it was looking back.
“Copy that. Control to compound and D Block, Cade.”
Briggs turned.
Every inmate continued to stare at him, or at the door. No noise.
Twenty years he’d been doing this. Twenty years, and he’d never seen a cell door do that. Never felt air go wrong. Never had a block this quiet while the lights were still on.
But that was the thing about prison—shit was never the same twice.
“Sergeant Briggs needs you guys in C Block, forthwith.”
Old Eddie stood at the bars of his cell, both hands gripping the steel. His good eye locked on Briggs. His bad eye—milky white, half-closed—didn’t move.
“Sarge... Don’t do it. Just wait for backup!” Eddie pleaded.
Briggs didn’t answer.
He reached down and pulled the wooden baton from his belt. Hickory. Eighteen inches. Scarred with nicks and dents from over twenty years of corrections work. The handle was smooth where his hand had worn the wood down. The business end was splintered from impact.
It had broken ribs. Shattered kneecaps. Stopped riots.
Briggs started walking toward Cell C-113 and the inmates watched him. The closer he got, the more their faces changed, all of them were scared.
Briggs had seen fear before. He’d seen it in the jungle, in the eyes of men who knew they were about to die. Da Nang in ’66. A time he will never forget.
This was different.
This was the kind of fear that came from seeing something you couldn’t explain.
Briggs stopped outside the cell door and his breath caught.
For a moment—just a moment—he wasn’t in Towers Valley Penitentiary anymore.
He was back in the jungle. Point man. Walking through elephant grass taller than his head. Waiting for the ambush he knew was coming. That same cold sweat running down his spine. That same tightness in his chest. That same certainty that something was about to go very, very wrong.
He raised the baton.
“Drop the weapon!”
Nothing.
No response.
Briggs stepped closer. His boots scraped against the concrete and stepped directly in a glob of jugulated blood.
“Drop that goddamn weapon and get on the deck, Roy!” Briggs screamed at his friend.
CUT TO:
Special Housing Unit (SHU)
The Special Housing Unit was the worst post in Towers Valley Penitentiary. Worse than anything except Death Watch—or “suicide watch,” as the administration sanitized it. The two areas shared the same section, separated by a heavy metal door only Control could pop. Beyond that: a layered sallyport system, steel grill after steel grill, all controlled by the SHU bubble officer.
Everything was controlled by someone who wasn’t on the floor. That was the point.
If a hostage situation went down, no key in an officer’s hand would open a single grill or door. Only the control pods. There were emergency keys for power outages, but they stayed locked in Control or the SHU bubble. Never on the floor. Never in reach.
For officers like Booker and Vincent Gallo, working the floor meant being comfortable in an airtight sardine can where someone else held every exit.
The SHU held two hundred inmates in small cells. One hour of rec a day. That was it.
It housed the most violent. The most chaotic. The ones who couldn’t function in general population—mentally ill, unstable, too dangerous even for the yard. The ones who’d proven that even in prison, they couldn’t be trusted anywhere but a concrete cage.
This was where some men went to disappear.
Booker walked the lower tier with Gallo.
The air was thick and muggy. It was always hot on this range and smelled of smoke mixed with prison hooch.
Somewhere above them, an inmate screamed. Booker didn’t look up or even skip a beat.
Gallo did and looked over. “How long’s he been doing that?”
“Fuck I don’t know.” Booker checked his watch. “Twenty minutes? That’s what the morning shift said atleast.”
“Jesus.”
“Medical won’t see him until Thursday.”
“That’s two days.”
Booker shrugged. “So?”
Gallo looked at him. “So, maybe someone should check on him.”
Booker kept walking. “He’s fine.”
“He doesn’t sound fine.”
“He’s breathing, ain’t he?” Booker asked, getting slightly annoyed. “Look man, he’s screaming right? So he must be alive. That’s all that matters.”
Gallo didn’t answer.
They kept walking.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. One of them flickered. It had been flickering for six months. Maintenance kept saying they’d fix it.
They never did.
An inmate pressed his face against the bars. Skinny white guy, mid-30s, covered in scars. The tip of his nose was a different color than the rest—looked like a burnt piece of fatty bacon with hair sprouting out of it.
Gallo’s stomach turned.
“Officer Booker,” the inmate called out.
Booker stopped. “What, fuck-nose.”
“My cellie’s been crying all night and shit. Can you move him?”
“What? No.”
“He’s keeping me awake.”
“Good, figure it the fuck out. This ain’t some resort, you know that!” Booker smiled. “Maybe you’ll think about what you did, ass-nose.”
“I already know what I did!” the inmate smiled back, revealing a set of yellow teeth. Two of them were missing in the front.
Booker leaned closer to the bars. His voice dropped. “Then you know why I don’t give a shit if you sleep.”
He kept walking. Gallo caught up.
“What’d he do?”
“Raped his last cellie with a mop handle,” Booker said it like he was reading something off a grocery list. He didn’t even look up.
Gallo stopped. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“And he’s still in a cell with someone?”
“Gallo, don’t. Don’t.” Booker looked at him. “Where else are we gonna put him?”
Gallo shook his head. “That’s fucked up.”
“That’s the job.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
Booker stopped. He turned and looked at Gallo. “You think any of this is right? Huh? Look around you.”
Gallo didn’t answer.
“These animals don’t deserve right.” He pointed his hand to cells down the range. “They gave up that privilege when they did what they did. You want to feel sorry for them? Go ahead. But don’t expect me to.”
“I’m not saying feel sorry for them.” Gallo looked at the floor. “I’m just saying—”
“What? That they’re human?” Booker laughed hard. Bitter with hatred and disgust. “They stopped being human a long time ago.”
Gallo didn’t answer.
They reached the officer station. A small room with a desk, some chairs, a filing cabinet, and a coffee pot. Booker poured himself a cup. Gallo leaned against the desk. He looked tired. He’d been awake for twenty-two hours. His hands shook when he thought no one was looking.
“How long you been working the Hole?”
Booker set the cup down. “Too long.”
“Why do you stay?”
Booker looked at him. “Because somebody has to.”
“That’s not an answer, man.”
Booker lit a cigarette. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Gallo nodded. He didn’t look convinced.
Above them, the inmate screamed again. This time it was louder and sounded more painful. The kind of scream that didn’t sound human anymore.
Gallo looked up. “What’s wrong with him?”
Booker blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Everything.”
“Medical should see him.”
“Medical doesn’t care.”
“They should.”
“You still think the world works like that?” Booker took another drag and shot Gallo a long look. “We were in country together, Vince. You saw what people are capable of. You saw what they did to those women. Those kids. You think these animals are any different?”
Gallo’s jaw tightened. “That was war.”
“This is war too. Just a different kind, look at it that way.”
“No, it’s not.”
Booker leaned forward. “You remember that village? The one outside—”
“—don’t, please. Don’t bring it up,” he pleaded.
“You remember what we found?”
“I said don’t.”
“Bodies. Women. Children. Babies. All of them—”
“I remember!” Gallo’s voice cracked. He looked at Booker, eyes red and wet at the edges. “I remember, Ellis. Every goddamn day. It eats me up inside, man. That’s why I can’t stay in one place. Why I can’t get stable. Since the war, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard. “Maybe I’m just weak. I don’t know.”
Gallo sat in the chair and covered his face. Booker stood there, didn’t move, didn’t speak. He wasn’t trying to break his friend. But he couldn’t let Gallo go soft in here either. Not in this place. Not in this hellhole. Inside these walls, you stayed wired tight or you didn’t stay at all.
“You’re not weak. I’ve seen you, Gallo. I’m alive today because of how brave you are.” Booker sat in the other chair and looked directly at his friend. “We all get lost. We all struggle. I’ve been there. It’s time to let that shit go. Look at it different, ya know? We had a job to do—just like here. You got a big heart, man, and I care about you. That’s all. That’s why I’m hard on you this morning.”
Booker dabbed his cigarette off in the ashtray and sat back. Gallo nodded, fought the tears back, calmed himself down.
“Thanks. Thanks for everything.” Gallo smiled. “You went out of your way to get me a job here. It means a lot.”
“At the end of the day, you’re gonna be your own kind of hack in this place. Just like we all are. That’s what’s great, in a way, about this shithole—there’s no right or wrong way to do it, for the most part. You wanna run around like a chicken with your head cut off, check on all these guys, baby ‘em? Be my guest. Just be fucking smart. Don’t let your guard down. And don’t trust one of these cocksuckers. Got it?”
The radio crackled.
“Control to compound and D Block, Cade.”
Gallo and Booker looked at one another. Silence fell over them.
“Sergeant Briggs needs you guys in C Block, forthwith.”
It was too early for some shit like this.
0615 Hours
D Block
Officer Cade walked the tier with Officer Mercer. She moved like she’d done this a thousand times. Because she had.
Kyle stayed two steps behind, listening, watching, trying to remember everything she said. His notebook was already half-full—names, faces, rules he’d never learned in the academy.
The day room was open.
Breakfast chow wouldn’t roll for another fifteen minutes, so the tier was alive with morning rituals. Inmates shuffled between cells and tables, some already heating water up with stingers, others doing push-ups or dips off the benches. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and instant coffee.
Every Block was its own small town and the Prison was the city.
The races were separated. Always. That’s how it works in places like this.
On the left side of the day room, the whites clustered near the phones. Bald heads, ink crawling up necks and forearms. They moved in tight formation, never alone. One of them was on the phone, two others standing close, backs to the wall, and eyes on the room.
The Blacks held the center tables. A few were playing cards, others just sitting, talking low. One guy was in the shower stall at the far end, water running, while two of his people stood outside the curtain, arms crossed, watching the room like sentries.
The Latinos had the right corner. Rosaries, San Judas ink, quiet conversations in Spanish. One of them was reading a torn paperback, another was shaving at the sink with a disposable razor, using a piece of polished metal as a mirror.
Cade stopped near the railing and nodded toward the Latino corner.
“See that one? Reading the book?”
Kyle looked. Older guy, maybe mid-40s, covered in tattoos from head to toe. Even his face. Rosary around his neck.
“That’s Chino. He runs the Sureños on this tier. You don’t fuck with him. You don’t disrespect him. You treat him like any other inmate though, but you remember who he is.”
Kyle pulled out his notebook and wrote it down.
“Put that fuckin’ notebook away. You look like a damn student on a field trip. Just remember.”
Cade kept walking, Kyle put the notepad away. Her boots echoed on the metal grating. She pointed toward the white car.
“That one. Bald guy by the phones.”
Kyle looked. Big dude, swastika on his neck and chest, doing slow, controlled push-ups against the wall. His arms were thick as tree trunks.
“That’s Cutter. Aryan Brotherhood. Shot-caller for the white car. He’s smart. Polite. And he’ll kill you if you give him the chance.”
Kyle looked at Cutter.
Cutter stopped mid-push-up and looked back up towards them. He smiled.
Kyle looked away.
Cade stopped and caught the exchange. “You see that?”
“What?”
“What he did, and you just did?” she asked. “He smiled at you and you looked away.”
“So?”
“So, now he knows you’re scared. You look at the belly of the beast in the eye here. Everyday. Don’t back down for shit.”
Kyle frowned. “I’m not scared.”
Cade looked at him. “Then don’t act like it. He does that shit again don’t look away.” Her voice was flat and honest.
They kept walking for a moment.
Cade stopped at a cell near the end of the tier. She pointed inside.
“That’s Preacher. Real name’s Marcus Webb. Used to be a minister before he killed his wife and her boyfriend with a claw hammer. Beat them so bad dental records couldn’t identify them.”
Kyle could see the man’s gray hair and reading glasses. He sat on the bunk without a care in the world. He looked like someone’s grandfather.
“He looks...”
“Normal?” Cade finished. “That’s the point. Half the men in here look normal. That’s what makes them dangerous. You can’t tell who they are by looking at them. You have to know.”
Kyle wrote it down.
Cade kept walking. “You see that Black kid in Cell 22?”
Young inmate, early 20s, thin, nervous. He was sitting on his bunk, staring at the wall.
“That’s Dante. First-timer. Got fifteen years for armed robbery. He’s scared shitless. Got here on the bus two days ago and hasn’t left his cell. The gangs are already circling. He’ll either join one for protection or he’ll get eaten alive.”
“Can we help him?”
Cade looked at him. “No, that’s not our job. Unless his life is in danger, but most of the time. We’re too late.”
Cade stopped. She turned and looked at Kyle.
“Our job is to keep them alive. Keep them fed. Keep them from killing each other. That’s it. We’re not social workers. We’re not therapists. We sure as shit ain’t there fuckin’ friends. We’re corrections officers. You understand?”
They reached the officer station. Cade stopped and looked at her watch.
“Tomorrow you’ll be on your own in another block. But they’re all the same, really. You got the cars. You got the gangs. You got the shot-callers and the politics. You respect the structure, you don’t pick sides, and you don’t let them think you’re soft. Got it?”
Kyle nodded. “Got it.”
The radio crackled.
“Control to compound and D Block, Cade.”
She looked at Kyle for a moment. “I’m gonna have to go, you got this.”
“Sergeant Briggs needs you guys in C Block, forthwith.”
Cade keyed her radio. “Cade to Control. I’m en route.”
Kyle stood alone.
The day room was still open. Inmates were still moving, still talking, still watching.
He walked toward the railing, trying to look like he knew what he was doing.
One of the whites broke off from the group near the phones. Big guy, shaved head, lightning bolts tattooed on his forearms. Two others followed him.
They walked straight toward Kyle.
Kyle’s stomach tightened. He didn’t move.
The big one stopped a few feet away. He looked Kyle up and down as if assessing something before buying it.
“You new, boss?”
“To this Block, yeah.” Kyle nodded. “What can I help you with?”
“What’s your name?”
“Mercer.”
“Mercer…” the inmate nodded as if thinking for a moment. “I’m Hatchet. This is Bone and Ricky.”
Kyle didn’t know if he was supposed to respond. Cade had told him not to get too friendly. But she’d also told him not to be disrespectful.
He nodded. “Hatchet.”
“You look like you got your head on straight, Mercer. You seem solid.” Hatchet smiled. He stepped a little closer. “You with us wood?”
“Wood?” Kyle blinked. “What?”
“A wood. You white, right?”
Kyle shook his head. “I’m a CO.”
Hatchet smiled again. “I know that, boss. I’m asking if you’re our kind of white. You know what I mean? You can still be a hack but on the right side.”
Kyle felt his pulse in his throat. He kept his voice steady.
“I’m just here to do my job.” Kyle said, firmly. “I don’t look at skin color.”
The three men laughed loudly amongst themselves like bullies on a playground. Hatchet nodded slowly. He looked at Bone, then back at Kyle.
“Fair enough. But you should know—this place runs on respect. You respect us, we respect you. You need something, you come to us. We need something, we come to you. That’s how it works.”
Kyle didn’t answer. Hatchet leaned in just a little and Kyle signaled for him to stop. His voice was quiet now. Almost friendly.
“And if you ever need backup in here, Mercer...” he said with a quiet, almost friendly tone. “You let us know. We take care of our own.”
“Think about it, boss.” Bone added turning away.
They walked back to the white car and left Kyle standing there, heart pounding in his chest. He controlled his breathing, forced it steady. Looking around the day room, he could see the Latinos and Blacks had been watching the whole thing.
Some still were.
Kyle turned and walked back to the officer station trying to be as casual as possible. Cade’s words resurfaced in his mind. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He stood there for a moment. Breathing.
His hands were shaking.
He looked through the window at the tier. The whites were back at the phones. The Blacks were still at the center tables. The Latinos were still in their corner.
Everything looked normal.
But Kyle knew better. He’d just been tested.
And he didn’t know if he’d passed.