Ambushed a military convoy. I can't believe it. Brutal bastards.
Stripped of his own pistol, there was little he could do but wait.
The convoy arrived at the Audrain County Correctional Center at the crack of dawn. The gray overcast sky concealed the merest hint of sunlight. The increasing coldness in the air indicated a possible front, but there was no weather report to go by. The gates opened, and the vehicles drove inside to the cheers of several inmates on the ground. James took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Fear could be a paralyzing trait if he let it. But what chance did he think he had? He could very well end up fighting for his life in their makeshift ring. Brant had promised as much.
The vehicles stopped in a line at the entrance building, engines throttling. An extended bus loop circled the lot, most likely for prisoner drop-off. But they just pulled to the front and parked. Doors opened, and inmates stepped outside to stretch. James waited until their engine shut off and pushed open his own door. A gun was pointed at his face before he even stepped onto the pavement.
“You stay close, got it?” the steely-eyed inmate warned.
James carefully got out with his hands up and turned to face him when told to do so. Brant soon came around the vehicle, brandishing his long knife with pride.
“Well, here we are. Back again, right?” he said with a smile.
James looked at the building complex. He’d never expected to be back here again, not after what they went through to get away. The men clearly relished taking over the building as their own. He was told to move forward and did so as Brant led the way. They entered the building through its looming double doors and the sign that hung above. Inside, the concrete floor and faded white walls looked as grim as the situation. They passed a vast cage with endless shelving units arranged alphabetically.
Outside the cage were tables, old computers, and different measured markings on the ground where arriving prisoners stood to be in-processed. James felt like one of those prisoners. He didn't know what his sentence would be, nor did he know when he'd see the outside walls of the prison again. All he knew was that he had to get thinking. He didn’t want to end up under the tarp like those other men had.
Several of the inmates sang aloud in their own cadences as they carried stolen goods and cases of beer from the Humvees to the storage room. James noticed blood on the walls and floors, long dried and a part of the décor, like paint. He passed a pair of bloody handprints that gave him chills. They walked through the processing room and into a vast lobby, turned upside down with chairs and tables flipped and a mass of loose papers covering the ground.
Inmates went off in all directions to different rooms as James followed Brant, with only one underling behind him, rifle pointed at his back. Traveling through various occupied and unoccupied areas, they soon reached a darkened administrative room where daylight was beginning to show through grimy caged windows. A staircase to their right looked immediately recognizable. Brant asked James as much as they ascended its stairs.
“Feels like you were just here, doesn't it?” he asked.
“Yep,” James said.
They came to the top of the stairs and a hallway with a long stretch of offices on both sides. James paused, fearing that his time was short. A quick jab of a rifle barrel to his back got him moving.
Brant turned his head slightly, waving James forward as though there was no time to spare. James forced himself to follow despite his instinct to flee. Past the offices, they came to the next room with an L-shaped hallway. The room far ahead was where they had freed Marla and Carol. And now here he was. They turned left and continued toward the warden's office. Brant stopped at the door and knocked.
“Enter!” a voice shouted from inside.
At last, James thought. I get to meet this crazy asshole.
Brant spun around and gave a gesture to halt. “Let me check in with the man first. You wait right here.” He opened the door and slipped inside, closing it behind him. James waited, the unseen inmate behind him with his finger on the trigger.
“So...” he began, “what kind of leader is Julian, after all?” He turned his head slightly to see the man.
“He knows his shit,” Devin began, his eyes not leaving James.
“Knows about what?” James asked.
“How society will fall, and how we'll become its new benefactors.”
“Only until the power comes back on, I imagine,” James said, turning away.
The door opened, and Brant stepped outside with a solemn expression. He gently closed the door and turned around. “Julian is very upset at the outcome. We'll need to give him a minute. He stepped closer and slapped James on the shoulder.
“Though he is glad that we have one prisoner. My, the plans he has for you...”
“Bring him in!” a voice shouted from behind the door.
“It's time,” Brant said. “Right this way.” He opened the door once again and led James inside. The door shut behind him and he was face to face with Julian, waiting inside. The room was illuminated by rows of candles on every conceivable surface. Curtains were drawn on all windows, blocking the coming daylight.
The leader sat behind a large desk in front of James, concealed in shadow. Brant hurried to the corner and poured himself a drink from the liquor bar, tossing off his gloves with a sigh. He held up the half-empty bottle in the candlelight, displaying it to James.
“You want a drink?”
James shook his head as Brant laughed.
“Don't tease our guest,” the man at the desk said, hands folded in front of him. He then leaned forward, exposing his thin, sunken face and long, wispy gray hair. He brought a hand down on both sides of his bushy mustache. There was a long scar along his right cheek. He stared at James with cold, unblinking eyes. He wore what appeared to be a white dress shirt with the collar open. The desk was cluttered with photographs, papers, and notebooks stacked to the side near a burning lantern.
“Mr. Monroe, if I may,” James began.
Julian slammed one fist onto the table, startling James. He then glared at him through the haze of cigar smoke evident from the ashtray on the desk. “No. You may not. You killed three of my men in Winslow. We then find the loveliest hostages in those two women, and you sneak in here, kill more of my men, and steal them from us.” He paused and took a deep breath, glaring at James. “Is that about right?”
James nodded as Julian produced a knife, roughly the size of a bayonet, and began carving the surface of the desk with its tip. “This is a post-societal age. All that was before is now gone. We must usher in a new order, and there will be no doubt casualties along the way.”
James said nothing and only listened.
“But you will learn all of this soon enough.” He lowered his knife and then shifted to a somewhat friendlier demeanor. “It is my understanding that you are the only survivor of your group.”
James nodded again. “That's correct.”
Julian motioned for him to sit in the red leather chair in front of his desk.
“And how did they die again?” he asked, immediately after James sat.
“They were shot as we tried to escape here.”
“And where are their bodies?”
James thought to himself, unsure, though he had expected the question.
“About a mile or two from here,” he said. “It was dark, and we were running, and they just couldn't make it anymore. I had to keep going.”
Julian smirked while shaking his head, eyes closed. “Abandoning your friends and your own wife to save your skin? That's cold, man.” He paused, staring James down with his hands folded. “Let's talk about you.”
James glanced around the darkened room. Brant was no longer at the bar in the corner but on a chair, legs kicked up and apparently sleeping.
“What about me?”
“You're a writer?”
“Yes, I'm a fiction novelist, but I have skills in nonfiction biography.”
“Interesting...
” Julian said, fingers interlaced.
“I wanted to make you an offer,” James continued. “I've wanted to write a book about you, and what better time than now?”
Fidgeting now, Julian grabbed his cigar and mashed it further into the ashtray. “Why do you think I need a book written about me?” Julian studied him with apparent suspicion from behind his desk. He brought a hand to his cheek, stroking the stubble.
“Because what you've done out here is quite remarkable, frankly,” James said. “Not that I approve.” Julian frowned. “And besides, I've rarely looked into the eyes of pure evil before.”
Julian stared at him, mouth straight as a line, causing James to wonder if he had been too blunt. Writing the book was a means to stay alive, but escape was the main goal. Just when he thought he had perhaps crossed the line, Julian's mouth curved in a smile.
He slowly rose from his seat, revealing a man of average height and skinny frame. He leaned against the side of the desk, hunched over slightly as his gray hair hung down the sides of his face. He wore black slacks and dress shoes as though he was about to go on a business trip, hardly the attire of a convicted murderer sentenced to life in prison. “I've conducted countless interviews with an abundance of journalists, authors, and writers for decades now. You, of course, want the opportunity to document the First Order's ascent.” He tossed a small notepad from the desk onto James's lap, followed by the pencil. “Ask me any questions that come to mind.”
James opened the notepad. Should he start asking questions or try to negotiate a deal first? He struggled for the right opening question as a plethora of words flooded his mind. Raising his head, he tapped his pencil on the edge of the notepad. “In talking about the New Sanctuary of the First Order, many of your followers claim that you had predicted the chaos that has followed the mass blackouts. Do you know what might have caused the blackouts?”
“The means by which the world fell is not as important as the means it takes in rebuilding it,” Julian quickly said. “What I do know is that it's our time, and we will plunder the known world as we know it to its core. We're the new Vikings, my friend. We take what we want, starting with this prison.” He still hadn’t answered the question.
James cleared his throat. “The emergency broadcasts said it was an electromagnetic pulse, multiple EMPs, responsible for disabling the national power grid. But that's not all. Explosives were also used in major cities all over the country, with untold casualties. We're at war with any number of enemy countries. Does that bother you at all? Do you think you really understand what is going on?” James knew he had said a mouthful, asked too many questions at once, but was curious what Julian's response would reveal about his mental state. Strangely enough, he only nodded, pausing for a long time before continuing.
“You’ll see, Mr. Weller. This area will soon be under our control. We will then expand our reach and we will grow beyond our wildest dreams.”
James jotted into the pad, making note of Julian's confidence as well as his lack of specifics. “Can I ask what your movement teaches its followers? What is the appeal of joining the First Order?”
Julian paced back and forth over a large bloodstain on the rug. “We are a family here, and we don't discriminate. That is reserved for our enemies.”
“And who is that?” James asked.
“Everyone else,” Julian said. He turned and picked up a pair of square framed glasses, cracked on one lens. “These belonged to the Warden Russell. He was a fair man, a decent man, but when push came to shove, he had to go. The same will happen to your friends in the church. We'll be sending them a message very soon.”
James set the pencil and notepad to the side, angered and apprehensive. “If you just kill everyone, how would your movement grow?”
“Who said anything about killing?” Julian said. “They will be conditioned into the light. They will serve the First Order as I have done, and we will spread from there. There will always be resistance, and that will be met quickly and with sheer, brutal force.”
For a moment, James disregarded his plan and let the mask slip, unable to help himself. He thought of the bodies he saw covered in the courtyard and the endless bloodshed. “Sounds like everyone would just be supporting you, whether they believed in the First Order or not. Isn't that what it's all about? Yourself? Isn't that who you've been serving since your first victim?” He looked up and noticed that Julian was staring down at him, eyes locked with a deadly expression.
“I see that you have some strong feelings about the matter,” he then said, amused.
“Why wouldn't I?” James shot back. “My wife and friends died for nothing.”
Julian stepped forward, intrigued. “And you blame me for that?”
“No,” James said. “No, I don't.” He said nothing more as his mind shifted from thoughts of escape to something else. Julian was clearly not content with just having the prison. Next, the church. The town. More towns. He'd never stop until someone stopped him. James was beginning to realize that person would have to be him.
Julian sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms as if bringing their meeting to a close. “We're going to find you a cell to stay in for the time being. You are, in fact, our prisoner. But you will have a chance to redeem yourself and eventually join us.” He raised a finger and spoke adamantly. “You're not ready yet, but we'll get you there. In time, you will shadow me and document the First Order as we grow.”
James looked around the room for an out or weapon within reach, anything that would end the nightmare and allow him to escape before they locked him in a cell. Brant was standing not too far behind him, armed with a pistol. Julian clearly had a knife as well. He might start carving up James, like the way he’d hacked at his desk. James had to be careful not to get so eager that he got himself killed. One mistake could end things badly, without warning.
He suddenly felt Brant's hand slap down on his left shoulder as Julian ordered him to be taken away. James rose from the seat and left the office under heavy guard. “Don't disappoint me,” Julian said as the door shut.
James was escorted down the hallway by both Brant and Devin and taken to a nearly empty cell block with only a few remaining prison guards locked inside. He was led upstairs to a cell in the corner, where the bars were pulled shut after he went in. The darkened cell had two empty bunks inside, mounted to the wall. There was a toilet and sink but no windows and nothing to look at beyond the blank, concrete walls.
He turned to look outside the cell, surprised to see Brant still standing there beyond the bars. “I give it two days max before you break.”
“Break?” James asked.
Brant rocked his head back, laughing as he walked away, leaving the question unanswered. He sat on the bottom mattress and stared ahead. It was the first time in his life he had been behind bars. With all the unanswered questions in his head, he could barely think straight. The other guards, several of them bruised and beaten, had to know what was going on. He wasn't the only person locked up. He rose from the bed and walked to the heavy gate holding him in. He couldn't see the captured guards from his vantage point, but some daylight was shining in from latticed windows downstairs. As his eyes adjusted, he saw several empty tables placed in the center of the room, standing on a green tile floor. That was strange.
“Hey! Can anyone hear me? Anyone at all?” James waited and listened, not hearing a thing. He called out again when suddenly a timid voice below urged him to keep quiet.
“Don't bother us,” the man's voice said. “Just shut up.”
James gripped the bars, barely able to understand the reaction. He moved back to the bed and sat down. He had escaped the prison one time, and he was sure he could do it again. He just needed an opportunity. He yearned to see Marla again. Just the thought of her face put him at ease, and through it all, he could feel her there with him. James lay on his side, trying to calm his nerves. By willingly allowing himself to be taken prisoner, he had either done something strate
gic or downright stupid. He wasn't sure which. Oddly, within the prison cell, he felt temporarily safe from the dangers that existed all around him.
12
Initiation
James woke to the sound of bars slamming open. He jumped up from the mattress and saw two men standing outside the cell, shadowed in the darkness. Hours had passed, but he wasn't sure how many. He felt groggy and disoriented after countless days of little rest or no rest at all. He turned to the two silhouetted figures outside, asking them what they wanted.
“Mr. Julian would like a word with you.”
“Where is he?” James asked.
“We're going to take you to him,” the other man said. “Hurry up.”
James slowly rose from the bunk with a crick in his neck. With two armed men standing outside his cell, James didn't have much of a choice. He followed them outside the cell as the gate was slammed shut. From the relative darkness of the cell block, he recognized one of the men as Devin, Brant's underling. Everyone seemed subservient to someone, with Julian Monroe at the top.
James was told to start walking as Devin led the way through the corridor and down the stairs. This time, however, they weren't going back to the warden's office. From the bottom floor, they directed him to go left, past the cells and down a long hallway with rooms on both sides. He asked the men if they knew what time it was.
“Night,” Devin said. “You've been out for a while.”
“Where are we going?” James asked as they walked for some way.
“To talk with Mr. Julian,” Devin said.
“Why are we going this way?” James asked.
“Hey, pal,” the other man said. “Shut the fuck up.”
James said nothing more as they eventually stopped at a closed door at the end of the hall. There was a window on the door with blinds covering it and a faint glow of a light source inside. Devin knocked on the glass and was told to enter by a voice from inside, Julian's voice. The door opened, and he was led inside across a white tile floor.
Hideaway (Book 2): An Emp Thriller Page 12