The Beasts of Juarez

Atlas had said, giving the statement little credence then but thinking a lot about it after the last thirty-day stint in the hole.
Having been attacked three times, Atlas was the proud recipient of seven stab wounds, four fractured bones, a cracked molar, and a trio of fading pink scars where some barbarian scratched his face with dirty fingernails. And still, Atlas kept to himself. If anyone thought they could own him, turn him out, or break him, now they were thinking twice. That was the way it had to be. To survive in NorCal, one had to adapt. But he wouldn’t conform. Before he managed to lose that soft, timid edge, the legend of the killer ex-cop was a tale too large for any real man to fill. But now Atlas was living up to both monikers: killer ex-cop and sucker ducker. Unfortunately, what he had done and who he was would ensure that he would always have to watch his back.
When he did burpees, push-ups, sit-ups, punches, and kicks, he did so knowing his time was likely short and he had to be ready for a fight. But whoever came after him—be it the guards or the inmates—he was going to make sure they ate their own asses before he was done with them.
While fine-tuning the countless self-defense moves he had learned in the academy and on his own in the line of duty as a former SWAT commander at Vacaville PD, he dreamed of breaking someone’s back and neck enough to shove their head up their own ass. Something like that was impossible, of course, but by the time someone smoked his ass or he was back door paroled (dead in prison), he vowed to at least try.
Atlas’s daily workout regimen kept him fit and supercharged, but it also kept him relatively sane. By relatively sane, that meant he harbored a constant agitation—a barely-checked rage that seemed to fester just below the surface. His life was unsettled, to say the least. Aside from the obvious problems prison life brought to him, his daughter was alive and being held captive somewhere, his ex-wife was shacking up with some supermodel pretty boy named Rocco, and Atlas had had a taste of freedom in Russia and Ukraine five months ago with no follow-up from either Leopold or Cira since then. Now, all he had for stress management was maintaining his physically imposing size and being ready to go flat-out fucking aggro at a moment’s notice.
After doing two fifteen-day stretches and a thirty-day stint in the hole, he was starting to rethink his plan. As of now, he just needed a break to clear his head. A little direct sunlight wouldn’t hurt either.
“Hey,” Trigger whispered as he passed Atlas in line, his tray of “food” in hand. “Keep your eyes open.”
Atlas had been thinking about Jade right then. Ever since he’d mailed his ex-wife a current photo of their stolen daughter, Alabama, he was expecting her to visit. For the first few months, she didn’t come and it drove him crazy. Had she truly put her daughter’s disappearance behind her like it no longer mattered, like Alabama was just gone and that was it? Jade’s boyfriend, Rocco, wasn’t much more than a dick and a pretty face. Would he even care about another man’s missing kid? Atlas wanted to think so. Unfortunately, he’d become rather pessimistic lately.
Now, however, he shifted his thinking to what Trigger just said. Was something about to go down? Looking around the chow hall, feeling for the ripples in the pond, he wondered what spooked Trigger. He was smart enough to know that one of these guys could have a shiv, a lock in a sock, or some other makeshift weapon with his name all over it.
“You’re about to get fucked, yo,” the guy behind him said. “Watch your six. And don’t tell anyone I gave you the grapes.”
He turned slightly expecting to feel the electric charge of a prisoner about to unleash the beasts. He didn’t get that feeling, though. The guy who gave him the info, or the grapes as it was called, was an inmate named Charles. Word had it the former comedian gave up the big show in Hollywood to take care of his dying parents. Now he was doing a dime for knocking off some Broadway sissy who wouldn’t stop running his mouth about the merits of communism or something like that. Charles was the guy who brought the cart of books around. He’d given Atlas a copy of 1632, an immensely entertaining novel by Eric Flint. Aside from being well-read, apparently Charles kept his affiliations with others loose as well.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Atlas said under his breath.
“If you need to chill your melon, the eagle has landed,” he said. Charles was a lugger as well—a guy who could get you smack. Atlas wondered if the man had a line on more than just heroin. Like a cell phone, perhaps?
“I’ll let you know if I need anything,” Atlas said. “Thanks, though.”
“I have magic cookies, too.”
Atlas gave a low chuckle and said, “I bet you do.”
When it was his time for chow, he held out his plastic bowl. Fearing what was coming, he asked, “Shit on a single today?”
The man serving him “lunch” frowned then filled his bowl with hot slop. Shit on a single was some sort of mystery-meat patty covered in watered-down gravy. Looking down with a frown, he realized that this was something else entirely. Today was some sort of stew concoction.
“The semen count is high on this one,” the cook mumbled as Atlas moved on.
Looking over his shoulder in disgust, Atlas found the man shaking in a fit of muted laughter. Charles was