Prison Riot
It was a typical day: count inmates, watch inmates, direct inmates, and count again. My post for the day was the chow hall. I counted, I watched, I directed. In the middle of the chow hall, I stood waiting for the last couple of stragglers to finish their meal before I could send them on their way and close the doors. The conversation between the inmates having lunch and the inmate workers bounced across the cold, brick, cream walls. The floor tiles were gleaming with its recent wax job from the night crew, and you could hear the clanking of prison gates as staff and inmates walked through the facility.
The everyday prison sounds were replaced by chaos echoing just outside the chow hall doors, Inmates scuffling and shrieking. Something ruthless was happening beyond those doors. Voices blared from my radio, but I couldn’t hear the commands.
I observed my environment, and I noticed the older correctional officer was tugging at the door and leaning his husky weight as far back as he could, and all three of us were looking at him. He held the door closed. Why? The door locks automatically when it’s closed and appears to be closed. I thought to myself. Then my gut twisted into a knot and sank to the floor when I realized it wasn’t locked.
It felt like a ton of bricks placed on my shoulders, firmly planting me where I stood. I froze with fear realizing that the chaos just outside the doors was trying to get into the chow hall. It was just us, two correctional officers, surrounded by the ensuing violence.
Looking around, I noticed the other inmate’s eyes flickering back and forth between me and the older officer at the door. It was the two stragglers and the kitchen workers. Questions and concerns were flashing across their face. I said nothing, and did nothing. I stood frozen.
When a few inmates began walking toward the older officer at the door, I knew I needed to direct them, so I raised my hand, gave them the stop signal, and asked them to stay against the wall. Fortunately, they listened. My mind was racing, and my heart was thrumming.
I didn’t know exactly what was going on outside those doors, and I didn’t know why these inmates wanted to move toward the doors. There were no other exits. The only exits were blocked by the rumbling noises of chaos—sounds of violence.
Only moments later, the older officer was pulled into the crowd of inmates as the inmates were bursting through the door. Now, only one correctional officer was standing in the chow hall, and it was me.
Inmates flooded in, and my gaze froze when I met the wild eyes of an inmate. Adrenaline flexed all of his muscles. He had a metal bar in his hands and was ready to continue the chaos. Violence raged in his eyes.
We continued eye contact as we both assessed each other. Is he after staff or inmates? I thought manically in my head. He must’ve read my thoughts because, as if answering my question, he was the first to look away. I knew then that he was after other inmates.
My eyes flickered to the older officer entering the chow hall and running toward the next double doors. He was screaming for me to run. That’s when I noticed the white clouds of smoke thickening the air. Plumes overpowering my senses.
I forced my limbs to move, heavy with the effort and ran towards the doors that the older officer just exited. When I got to the double doors, I paused before entering the hall. Looking back, I saw the inmates’ hands filled, shirts off, and rumbling in every space.
The kitchen workers that were once against the walls were now fighting. I opened the doors to a wall of smoke. It was thick and suffocating. I heard the older officer yelling at me, but I could not see him. My heart beat heavily against my chest. I had to run through the unknown.
I took a deep breath, uttered a quick prayer, and ran.
When I reached a clear patch where I could see the closed gate into the next corridor, I knew that was where I needed to go because safety was on the other side of that gate. Many other correctional officers were on the side of safety, screaming for me to run to them.
Running as fast as I could with adrenaline flowing through my veins, I slipped. I steadied myself before I fell into the puddle under my now slick boots but continued to run. The floor was soaked with orange and red liquid substances; pepper spray, and inmate blood.
I slammed into the closed gate. “Open the fucking gate!” I repeatedly shrieked, with panic apparent in my voice. The older officer was beside me, looking back into the never-ending plume of smoke to ensure the fight was not following us. The officers on the other side of the gate were radioing central control to open it.
It seemed like an eternity as the officers chaotically and desperately pleaded for help. I repeated my command to get the gate open, with each one more desperate than the next.
Finally, the gate opened, and I didn’t wait. I started to squeeze my body through the opening to get to the side of safety. The hands of many officers were reaching out to me, dragging me as I was shoving my torso through the tiniest opening. Finally, I was safe.
An officer grabbed me by the hand and escorted me away from the chaos, asking me if I was okay and checking for any injuries. I muttered yes. They checked the older officer as well. We exited through a door just a few steps away that led us outside. When I knew I was safe, I finally felt the adrenaline trembling through my body. Looking down at myself, I noticed that my clothing and every uncovered body part were drenched in an orange liquid. It was burning. I stood and breathed.
