Half Past Dead Read Free Page B

Baton Rouge who’d ruled the kitchen for twenty-three years.
    Kat didn’t respond. What difference did it make how well peeled the beets were? Few prisoners ate them. Most tucked them in their uniforms and took them back to their cells to make pruno, rotgut hootch.
    She chipped away at a beet the size of a football. Whatever they were using to fertilize the garden really worked. Her hands were scarlet from beet juice that wouldn’t wash away for days, but she kept scraping at it. This was better than her last assignment in the laundry.
    Don’t you dare hope, she told herself.
    Still, she couldn’t help fantasizing about being assigned to the garden. It was backbreaking work, but at least she’d be outside in the sunshine. The air would be fresh, the way it was in Twin Oaks. If she were home again, she wouldn’t complain about the dank scent of the Big Muddy when the wind blew toward the town. Anything would be better than a jail rife with body odor that the most powerful disinfectant couldn’t wash away.
    â€œYo, Wells!”
    Kat kept her back to the male voice and furiously hacked at the huge beet. Male guards sometimes singled out female prisoners to get them alone. They’d be pulled into storage closets while the other guards pretended not to notice.
    â€œHey! Bitch! I’m talkin’ to ya.”
    Kat looked over her shoulder at the hulking guard, who was new. He glowered at her from the double doors that led into the kitchen area. Even though there were five women around Kat, an eerie stillness enveloped the room. She knew what they were thinking: the closet.
    Kat was prepared with a shank hidden in her shoe. She was ready to use the makeshift knife even though it would mean solitary confinement. Then she would have to start over and be assigned to the latrines. It would take her two years to work up the job chain to the kitchen again. Extra time might be added to her sentence.
    â€œWarden wants to see ya.”
    Yeah, sure, she thought. And pigs fly. Warden Bronson didn’t want to see her. This was just an excuse to get her alone. She slowly washed her beet-stained hands in the large sink where the remaining beets were soaking off the dirt.
    How exactly was she going to stop him? She didn’t want to kill him—then she’d never get out of this hellhole—but she wasn’t going to allow him to rape her. Sweat began to bead on her scalp. She took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her.
    â€œHop to. The warden doesn’t like waitin’.”
    No one looked her in the eye as she crossed the large room. The guard moved aside, and she sized him up. He was a short man built like a coal furnace. A shank wound might just infuriate him, and he could use it as an excuse to beat her to death.
    Under the glare of fluorescent lights, she walked at his side down the corridor. The concrete walls had once been painted gray, but they appeared to be molting now. There was a guard at the far end of the hallway, watching the women working in the laundry. Several storage closets lined the corridor. The guard marched her right by them.
    â€œYo, Hank. Hozit goin’?” he greeted the guard stationed at the laundry. “We’re off to see the warden.”
    â€œGet out!” the guard replied as he gave Kat the once-over.
    She had green eyes with long lashes and brownish blond hair. She’d come into prison chunky but hard work and prison food had left her slender. Once an ugly duckling, she realized she was somewhat attractive now. Once she would have welcomed the change, but in prison she knew this was bad news. She’d learned not to encourage guards by making eye contact.
    The guard led her down the cement stairs to the first floor—the way to the administrative wing of the prison. A flicker of apprehension registered deep in her brain. She’d never actually known anyone who’d been taken to see the warden. Once a week, he