The scrabble table is on a scratched wooden table in a room off the library, the letters long worn down to mere outlines. On opposite corners of the table are official Scrabble Dictionaries, thick paperbacks with backs long broken, cover ink lost incrementally to the fingers of cons reading the books over and over for years. A social worker had brought the gang leaders together after finding out they all played Scrabble and had a hard time finding competition.
Six long years ago, before the collapse of the East Coast, climate refugees flooding the Midwest . . . Now, a Civil warfront was a few miles from the prison. Bloody, relentless, unstoppable by a crumbling US Government, that may or may not still exist...
Ken's spelling earned him his place at the table, not power. He speaks quiet and deferential to the gang leaders around him, as even the guards would. “You don’t have to be some comic book soldier to know how to stop an assault. Just prepared. We have more … motivation, I guess, than they do. Only reason they are fighting is because they have guns at their backs. We can use how much you fucking hate that.”
“We’re supposed to follow your plan?” Khalib words were quiet and firm and deadly. “That it white boy?”
Ken kept his eyes on his letters. “I just brought it up. Red did most the planning. I figured if I asked the right questions… we prepare then we will win. They come in here and we are unprepared… we die. So we can fight among each other again or… live another fucking day.”
Red leans over the table toward Ken, a six foot seven wall of massive muscles. “This is no time to be blowing smoke up any asses. Better dope than hope, dude. We all talked about this. He isn't...” He waved his hand toward Ken, who was known for waking up the cell block with his screams, "gonna lead shit, this white boy says we all take our positions, three generals."
The game continues as they talk. Per their habit they didn’t announce the word they were laying out. Just wrote down the points and handed the pad to the next player.
Ken added, “Man, it will work. I go straight up the middle like I told you. Like Khalib said, a force on both sides in the trees, IED's ... We can’t let the tanks inside the walls.”
Jorge has been watching them all looking like he feels like he is being ignored. “We vote on this. Now. Ken’s right, we need to get started. Last I heard, half the guards took off, other half have their families here.” The others nod slightly, confirming they heard the same from their people. Pissed now, Jorge gets up and moves toward the door. “Let’s take the place, Khalib?”
Glother turns to a fresh page on the notebook they kept score in. Begins drawing the prison. "First, let's
put a plan together, talk to Maya. They are pissing their pants up there. We come to them with a hundred soldiers..."
"Well, let's make this work... drawing in the prison, the attack route, where the IED's would be planted. Ken's drive up the middle required a series of hidden fox holes, filled with the proper explosives and guns they would need at each stop. They chose where they would be fluidly, working like one gang for an afternoon. The gangs were not used to seeing how close their leaders actually were. Red was supposed to avoid even going near a basketball court blacks played on and he was joking with Khalib, speaking a universal language of soldiers that rang almost like the gangs spoke to each other. A couple fights had to be stopped, the rooms segregating even as they watched their leaders laying out a plan, where they were going to have to find as one entity.
Everyone has an assignment except those who will follow Ken up the middle, the suicidal assault. After no one volunteered, the gang leaders assigned young, fast and half-crazy kids and there was no telling anyone not to be high when they fought.
Ken interjects, “You have to decide. The ones who come up the middle with me, need to be fast, vet’s who’ve seen battle, or total bad asses. We have plenty of both. We’re the sacrifice, so to speak.”
“You gonna live through this?” Red asks him like he is joking.
Ken shrugs. “That’s not what matters. The words in play are: plan, execute, escape, sanctuary.”
