Fallout

The Officers came to the quad, emptying the tiers of all the inmates. One line began forming at the wall. Chowtime. Time to feed the animals. Monica took her place behind Stephania, feeling her insides turn over again and again.

"Girl...something isn't right." Stephania commented.

"Yeah....I feel it. Something is WAY off, and I get the feeling it has to do with me." Monica whispered.

"Don't worry girl...like I said...we got ya' back."

Monica took the words as assurance. But deep down, she swallowed it with a grain of salt. When the fighting started, there was no doubt...she was going to be on her own.

As the prisoner line made its way to the chow hall, Monica scoped out the Stewards that took care of the prison for good behavior. Mostly they were prisoners that behaved well or had only a little time left to their sentences. While polishing brass, dusting, sweeping or mopping might not seem like the most fun in the world, it gets most of them off the tiers and out for some exercise. When she passed, Monica made note that many of them turned away from her gaze. Some because she didn't know them; but the ones that did...

The chow hall was becoming more crowded as the other tiers ate their lunch. Low murmurs were allowed only. But the sea of conversations merged to create a cacophony of noise. The smell of the food assaulted Monica's nose as they entered. Whatever was being served smelled noxious. Much akin to that of burning oil from an overheated car engine.

Monica finally got to the serving line and saw what was attacking her nose. Today's menu consisted of over-cooked vegetables, hard bread, and what she could only suppose was mystery meatloaf. No telling what exactly went into making it. But whatever it was, was most likely NOT fit for human consumption. Just as she gathered her tray of slop, that's when it happened. From her left, she heard a voice call her name.

"Monica....!"

She immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Lupe. The South American beauty that currently caused her hair to stand on end. Turning, Monica looked at her full in the face.

"I'm sorry..." she stated.

Monica's senses immediately went on high alert; they served her well. Monica turned just in time to see Brandy Simpson approaching from her backside. Quick as a cat, Monica threw the food in her face. Preempting the sharpened plastic implement from finding its mark. Monica was nowhere near the savant that her younger brother Ryan was at martial arts. She just didn't have the same acumen, nor desire to learn as extensively as he had. But what lessons she did master, came flooding back to her. Shifting the tray to her right hand, Monica's left hand came down in a chopping swipe that caught her assailant in the side of the neck. The gathered bundle of nerves taking the full brunt of the assault. Quickly she brought her right foot up with all the power in her body, connecting with the bundle of nerves in the front of her pussy. The effect, no different than that of a man that was kicked in the balls. Brandy went down in a heap at Monica's feet. Out of the fight just as soon as she was in it. The hairs on Monica's neck saved her again. Lupe was coming from behind to hold Monica by the arms. Just as she was ensnaring her biceps, Monica threw her head backwards, smashing powerfully into Lupe's beautiful face. The crunching sound of bone breaking ringing in her ears. No doubt obliterating her nose, as evidenced by the wet spray that hit her neck and back. While effective, this move caused just as much damage to the giver as the receiver. Monica's head ached from the contact made. But she had MUCH bigger problems.

No sooner did she shake off the effects of the blow, her eyes caught the glint of light off metal. LaTrisha Coleman was coming for her pound of flesh. Looking to injure Monica for the slight. On instinct, Monica dodged backward. The majority of danger just missing her head, but not entirely. The very tip of the sharpened metal shank grazed across her left eye. Cutting just deep enough to draw blood. There was no time to lose. No time to think. Just attack. Save herself from being further damaged from her assault. On the following swing, Monica allowed the shank to pass by, throwing LaTrisha off balance. There it was...the opening she needed. With all the might in her body, Monica swung the metal food tray as hard as she could. The edge of the tray was just as useful a weapon as the homemade knife that currently threatened her.

The 2 ½ pound tray sliced through the air, and eventually through the corner of LaTrisha's eye. Cutting through skin and bone. A small spout of blood sailed through the air to splat against the sneeze guard over the salad fixings. A blood curdling howl erupted from LaTrisha's throat as the pain lanced through her. Monica didn't wait or have pity. Her body on autopilot. Her survival instincts taking over. She stepped in close as her instructors had shown her, hooking her foot behind her attacker's ankle. Throwing her weight forward, Monica came crashing down on top of LaTrisha. Getting to a straddling position, Monica bashed the tray into LaTrisha's face, again and again and again. Her eyes were filled with blood. Her heart filled with fear, Monica continued to slam the tray against her attacker's face for all she was worth. Until...

The baton slammed like a freight train into Monica's back. Forcing all the air from her lungs. One, two, three sticks popped her all over her body until she could do nothing more than curl up into a ball and cover her head. In the next instant, several sets of hands grabbed her wrists and forced them behind her back. Making her defenseless against anything else that came next. It wasn't until they hauled her to her feet, that she realized it was the set of guards that patrolled the dining hall that were just trying to get Monica to quit attacking LaTrisha.

But Monica's adrenaline was overflowing. Fueling her body with more strength than normal. Looking down at her handiwork, she saw the damage she had caused her attacker. Through the blood streaming into her eye, LaTrisha was on the ground out cold. Blood streaming into a pool surrounding her head like a crimson halo.

"Yeah BITCH!!!" Monica shouted at her wounded assailant. "All that ass whipping over an APPLE?! FUCK OUT OF HERE! FUCK YOU BITCH! FUCK YOU, YOU OVERWEIGHT, UGLY, GARGANTUAN, BULL..."

The rest of her rant was lost in the crack of the wooden baton to the back of her head. For Monica...the lights went out: all over the world.

---------------------

Travis

Finally, the tier was silent. Two hours seemed like twenty as the asshole down the tier lost his shit. Screaming, cursing, and generally making as much noise as he could. But, in this world, the S.A.R.T. team reigned supreme. As evidenced by the screams of agony when they forcefully entered the man's cell and quelled whatever issue he was having. Travis lay on his bunk, trying to not imagine the painful ways in which Capt. Miller and his goons shut the guy up. He was a former professional football player after all. He was used to seeing the size that men get when they worked out vigorously. Erecting their bodies into hardened pillars of pain. But some of the guys that he had met on the security crews, could easily be placed in the same realms as his former teammates on the Sun.

Travis closed his eyes, hoping against hope that he could get to sleep fast and not have any dreams. One prayer was answered, as he drifted swiftly to the other side of consciousness. He was unfortunate with the other. His mind took him back. Back 3 ½ weeks ago. Back to his old life. Back to the mansion in Sacramento. Back to the darkened room he lay in naked. Back to her.

Her name had been Tiffany. Or at least that's what she told him her name was. His name had been Travis Robert Morrison. Professional Quarterback for the California Sun of the NAFL. A four-time collegiate National champion. A three-time NAFL champion. Young, rich, powerful, and the son of one of the most prominent Senators in the US. Travis was just shy of being a God. That night, he was in the presence of what he could only imagine to be a young, beautiful goddess. After making love, Tiffany had gotten out of the bed next to him. Putting on a dance of appreciation for the stallion she just rode to an epic series of orgasms. Her smooth, ebony skin slick with the sweat of their lovemaking. Her hair, still flawless. He watched as her breasts rose and dipped as she moved like sex itself. Her slim, but wide hips swaying in time to the beat of the muted music. Even her eyes, shone like sparkling diamonds inside the darkened room. Reflecting the light cascading through the curtained windows. For Travis, in a long line of one-night stands with women of every stripe, to him; Tiffany was perfection.

Then...his world came crashing down around him. They had missed the sounds of the heavy boots running up the stairs due to the music. What they didn't miss, was the horrific sound of the door being kicked off its hinges. The sight of the black clad shadows storming into the room; the innumerable lights and pencil-thin laser lights lancing through the darkness attached to the gaping maws of the firearms that in an instant could snuff out his life. He didn't miss the gun butt that bashed his head in when he jumped from the bed still naked. Knocking him to the ground. Nor did he miss the pain that shot through his arms and body when he was forcibly flipped on his stomach and his wrists were handcuffed behind his back. Nor did he miss the blood curdling screams from Tiffany's throat as she was led away. After a few minutes, he found that the intruders had been law enforcement. Sent there to break up a party they thought to be inhabited by drugs, gambling and human trafficking victims. When he was led outside, he tried in vein to find her. The lithe, little body of the ingenue that had just been stripped from his bed.

The next time he saw her face, his jaw dropped to the floor. The TV in the common area of the maximum-security prison was set to the news. For the past week, his face had been plastered all over the screen. Many of his fellow inmates introducing themselves to the local celebrity. But this night, Channel 9 news was running an exclusive: an interview with the UNDERAGE, trafficked GIRL that had slept with him. There on the screen, he and everyone on the tier watched as SOMEONE talked to the reporter. Her face and body in silhouette.

The program said that "Tiffany" was actually named Evanna Middlebrooks of Youngstown, Ohio. A runaway from an impoverished, drug infested, abusive home. That she had been kidnapped from one of the bathrooms in the local mall. Beaten, drugged, and raped several times in order to "work." That she was forced to dance and prostitute in a strip club for her mafia pimps. That she met Travis several months ago. That he fed her more drugs before and after they had sex. That he paid her pimps extra because she was a minor. That she was his favorite. That she knew of several other young girls that worked in the club that he had as well. The camera flashed Tiffany's picture and that of several other young girls that Travis allegedly slept with. All the while, the backdrop of the pictures was Tiffany's voice cracking and stuttering through a sea of tears.

Travis lost it!!!! It was all LIES!!! Every bit of it!!! In his anger, he threw his plastic chair at the TV. The furniture smashing against the plexi-glass enclosure of the set. The WOMAN Travis had sex with THAT NIGHT, was at least twenty-four years if she was a day. In his career, Travis had been propositioned by MANY a young teenage girl when he did his rounds of the schools he visited as part of his league's "Community Outreach" PR programs. He had NEVER and would NEVER even DREAM of sleeping with an underage girl, no matter WHAT they looked like. Furthermore, the pictures of "Tiffany" they showed were at LEAST six or seven years old! HE wasn't just set up; he was being railroaded! It took 6 guards from the tiers to get him under control.

Once dragged off to the infirmary, the doctors hit him with some cocktail of drugs that medically calmed him down. He felt like shit for the next three days afterward. Walking through a fog that took him so long to get out of. As he walked through the prison for those few days, he felt the eyes of every inmate on his back. No longer wanting to be his friend. But to do him swift and undue harm. During his sibling's visit, even THEY acted as if they wanted his blood. He was at his lowest. If they had killed him, it would have been fine. He had nothing else to live for. His life was gone. His money, his career, the women, the friends, his reputation, his freedom, his family, his father...even HER. Were all gone.

His only saving grace had been the voice of his brother assuring him he would take care of everything. Travis remembered how his little brother used to idolize him. Following him around like a lost puppy dog. He remembered when Ryan would steal his letterman jackets and wear it around. When he would allow him to carry his football gear like a valet, it was wonderful. He was so proud of his little brother. He was making his life so good. Able to skirt around their father's machinations so well. What he would give to hear his voice right now...

"Travis! Travis!"

The sound of his name being called awoke him from his slumber with a start. Immediately, a hand pressed down on his neck. Not hard, just enough to push him back into place.

"Travis, wake up! Travis, don't fight or this will get worse." The voice commanded. At first, he thought this might be the second time in his life that he was going to be taken against his will. Abused at the hands of more men than he could fight against, no matter how strong he was. He panicked. His muscles tensing, preparing to defend himself as best he could.

"Travis, stop! Travis, don't make us hurt you! Travis, relax. Travis; it's me...Officer Deckard."

Through the fog of sleep, the voice and name finally broke through. Officer Deckard worked night shift. A young man that had just left the military. A young family man with a wife and child. The only guard to treat him half fair. He remembered their talks when the officer was doing his rounds. Speaking through the door and asking questions. Most of all...a true fan.

"Deck?" Travis asked.

"Yeah 'T-Bird.'" The young man answered.

It was the nickname Officer Allen Deckard had given to him in their conversations. The first time in his life he had ever been called that. At first, he hated it. But now...it was one of the sweetest sounds in his life. Travis relaxed.

"What's going on?" Travis asked

"I don't know, but me and the boys here were just sent to fetch you. Travis, there are 6 of us here man...please don't fight. We're just here to take you somewhere. Just let us do this...everything will be fine."

Travis relaxed the muscles in his six foot three, 224 pound body. Splaying his hands and fingers in a show of surrender.

"Sit up please."

Travis rolled over, letting his feet touch the floor. Looking around in the dim light of the room, he saw the members of the S.A.R.T team had filled into his cell. Even though he couldn't see through their masks, he could see that their bodies were ready. Any silly movement from him would be swiftly dealt with in pain.

Officer Deckard grabbed his hands and applied the cuffs to his wrists. Not too tight, just enough to keep his hands from causing any problems. In the front...transport position.

"Is it done?" A voice boomed from outside the door.

"Yes...he just needs to put on his sandals." Deckard answered.

"I don't hear the ankle bracelets."

"Come on Cap...he's harmless. There's 8 of us, his hands are tied. What could he possibly do? This is Travis Morrison sir. He's an honorable man. You aren't going to do anything funny, are you Travis?"

It was refreshing. Looking into the eyes of the young man, Travis saw the spark of admiration. Here was this officer taking up for him. A man he barely knew. Only the perception of what he deemed to be true. Since the whole situation began, no one had taken up for Travis and his plight. Yet, here was a man doing just that. No way would he betray that trust.

"Not a chance." Travis said.

Captain Miller walked into the doorway. His perpetual scowl etched deep into his face. Another former man built by years in the military, Miller was a staunch disciplinarian. A man that knew he was surrounded by the worst of societies failures. A man that understood that he and his teams were outnumbered and outgunned. A man that lived his life like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. But no one mistook him for not being a man-eating lion.

"Fine...he's your responsibility."

The S.A.R.T. team moved outside while Deckard raised Travis to his feet. Walking onto the tier, the team encircled Travis and Deckard like a trained unit. Forming a wall of muscle and bad intentions around the prisoner. Silently they escorted their charge off the tier. As the traveling caravan proceeded down the hall, Travis' mind picked up on something strange. Even though not a man there weighed less than 200 pounds, the collection of boots made no sound whatsoever on the polished floors. Travis had to ask one of them what kind of boots they were when this was all over. He had to suppress a soft chuckle. Travis was being led God-knows-where in the facility and he was thinking about shoes.

At the fork in the facilities walls, the procession went left, away from the infirmary and headed to the administration building. "Uhhh....Deck...where are we going?" Travis asked. "To Admin." Deckard answered. "and no...I don't know why."

"Enough." Barked Miller. "You didn't want your hero in leg irons; you got your wish. That didn't include talking to him. Don't press your luck Deckard."

Eventually the procession stopped at a door. The letters on it read Conference room "A." Capt. Miller knocked first and awaited an answer. "Come." Was the only reply. Opening the entrance, Travis stepped forward. The light inside blinded him momentarily. But when they made the adjustment, they almost rolled out of his skull.

Seated around a beautiful, shiny conference table, sat some all too familiar faces, and quite a few that weren't.

At the head, sat Warden Collier and Deputy Warden Spooner. Two men that Travis met the morning after being brought to the prison. The looks on their faces saying they were pissed for having to be awake at such an early hour. To his right sat a team of people that he had never laid eyes on before. But from the way they were all collectively dressed, tailored suits, sparkling, wingtip shoes and hushed tones. They all must have obviously been shysters. Land sharks with law degrees.

But to his left, was a slightly better sight. Seated in a high, leatherback swivel chair sat a man that Travis had seen before, though at the moment his name completely escaped him. He did remember seeing him around his father a number of times though. But, next to him, sat a much better sight. His older sister Monica sat calmly.

Even though she looked much the worse for wear. A huge bandage encircled her head. A nasty looking black eye adorned her normally pretty face. She was holding a large bag to her head that Travis could only suspect was ice. Something he was all too familiar with. He could only imagine what she must have had to endure on the female side of the complex.

"Are those really necessary? I want those cuffs off my client right now." The man to his left said.

"They're policy. I'm more surprised that he isn't in leg irons. That TOO is policy when transporting prisoners. I will have to find out WHY he was brought here without them, and WHO authorized that." Warden Collier spoke.