Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Morton was fifty shades of red under his helmet. All the time spent training for emergencies, screening for those who could stay calm, procedures and protocols—all out the window within minutes of electricity failing.

  He took two deep breaths. “Did you try to stop that White Sheet from getting out of his cell?”

  Santos hesitated. His panic was subsiding enough to realize he’d deserted his post. “Both those Sheets were out of the cell in a flash, man. They ran down and just started unlocking every cell—well, the cells of their tribe. There was like ten of them out in a flash,” he said quietly, apologetically.

  “You ran?”

  Santos nodded slowly. “I made for the gate room…these guys let me in.” He jerked his thumb to the man and woman standing behind him. The two were staring at the floor, feeling the shame of the other Eels in full tactical gear staring at them.

  Morton hesitated. A very significant portion of him wanted to use the baton in his hand, to strike down the three cowards where they stood. He decided against it, if only to preserve the dwindling charge his weapon had left. He tried to make the best out of the situation.

  “You got one minute to suit up. You’re going with us.”

  “Dude, you gotta be crazy. No way I’m going with you, I’ll quit this stupid job before I set one foot—”

  Morton had had enough and brought his baton across on Santos’ arm. The current discharged through Santos’ skin and pulsed into his nervous system. Santos let out a surprised yelp as his body flew across the hall and into the wall. Every Eel stood and stared at him, unconscious and twitching in the dim light.

  Morton turned to the two still standing. No explanation or warning was needed. “Tell me what you saw. Any intel we can use to get the rest out.”

  The female guard stammered. “Uh, well, Sarge, we got out through the officers’ hall. We were just running…the first door we came to after I got my keys out…”

  “Come on! Spit it out!” Morton yelled.

  “We thought we heard footsteps behind us, I hurried and got the master key in, got it open just in time, too…”

  “And?”

  “Well, we sorta left the keys in the door. We were just dead sprinting down here. Santos said he had a key hidden for the maintenance tunnel…”

  “So he was lying about not knowing how the keys worked?” Morton cut in.

  The woman was holding back tears. Her companion was in shock at the events and the sight of Santos laying on the floor at the hands of Morton. “Sarge, I really didn’t even know the guy…Santos, I mean.”

  “Don’t worry about him, he’s not dead. Remember your training, he’s just out cold for a little bit. Maybe a concussion.” Morton turned to McCoy standing right behind him. A question came to mind and he turned back to the two frightened guards. “If the master key was in the door, why didn’t they follow you down here?”

  “Santos slid some kind of metal through the door. We heard them pounding, trying to get in. The noise was just…” The male guard had now lost his composure and was sobbing uncontrollably.

  Morton fought down bile. He sincerely wanted to hit this man, too. Usually he was so protective of his people…what had changed? They’d never faced anything like this, either. Would he have done anything different?

  He took one more look at Santos, now stirring. “Pound on the door back there,” he pointed behind the group. “They’ll let you in. Tell Lieutenant Watson what happened. Tell him to hold Santos under guard until I get back.” They both nodded and stooped to pick Santos up under the arms. He thought he saw the woman whisper something in Santos’ ear, but couldn’t be sure. He considered sending one of the Eels he trusted back with them, but he needed every steady hand out here. Hopkins was likely dead, but finding these three alive gave him hope there might still be others hiding. He hoped he wouldn’t be so hard on them as he had been on Santos.

  One by one each Eel slid silently out the maintenance tunnel doorway into the main hallway. Morton was the first out, moving about thirty yards towards the administration office. He pressed up as close to the wall as a 170-pound man in body armor could. In the newly-remodeled floor plan, there were no recessed doors in any hallway, no place to conceal yourself in the shadows. Until this exact moment in his thirty years as a correctional officer, Morton had thought that was a great idea.

  Twenty Eels lined up behind him, evenly spaced and eyes forward except for the back two. On the other side the same lineup formed. With a small wave of his left hand they began moving forward. Each Eel put his or her hand on the backside in front of them, keeping their spacing in the darkened corridor.

  The helmets they wore muffled most sound even with the protected hearing tubes cut into the bottom, but screams pierced the darkness, loud enough to be heard clearly. Morton didn’t waver; he knew the crew would sense any indecision. The noise got louder as they approached the glass-enclosed offices. Morton looked towards the two-story grand entrance, surveying the doors to check for breach. There appeared to be none. Either the inmates couldn’t get out, or were having too much fun inside to bother trying to leave.

  Another scream shook him, this time from inside the office area. The door had been shattered, the administrative and reception area weren’t riot-proofed—a little known casualty of cost-cutting forced at the last minute by capital overruns in the rest of the facility.

  He raised a fist to stop both columns, mimicked by each Eel in succession. Morton felt a small rush of pride. This time only a small nudge hit his back instead of an undisciplined push. They’d been paying attention.

  He pointed over to the lead Eel in the other column, signaled them to take a knee, then turned and pointed to the five directly behind him. He waved a chopping motion, then turned and crouch-walked toward the shattered door.

  Instinctively he toggled a switch to fully charge the baton in his right hand. What he really longed for was a nice heavy Desert Eagle .45 with enough punch to knock a full-grown man backwards. He’d thought about bringing one of the twelve that were in the armory. But his Eels hadn’t trained with firearms in a situation like this, and most of the Rapid Response Team was out of action. All he could do was come out of this door with just a stick in his hand.

  Shattered glass crunched under his boot. He feared the crackling would give him away, but the party inside was loud enough no one seemed to notice. He paused for a moment to survey the office interior. It was dark, of course, darker than the maintenance tunnel had been. The skylights above the main entrance let some neon green light shine in from up above, but there was a wall of shadows refusing to let it penetrate further than first set of half-wall cubicles past the reception desk.

  A yellowish glow came from down the hall, towards the warden’s personal quarters. He spent a moment trying to remember every detail of the doorways and offices in that corridor. The screams started again and he decided he’d planned enough. He stepped carefully through the opening and moved towards the first open door past the front desk.

  He peered around the corner slowly. Nothing appeared. He moved to the next, another empty space. He turned to the first Eel in line behind him and pointed towards both empty rooms. The man's helmet nodded in understanding and he moved quickly into the interior of each room, then came back and shook his head. No one was hiding there.

  They repeated the same procedure at the next set of doors. Morton kept his eyes on the warden’s office all the while. Light and sound escaped through the door that was slightly ajar, just enough to block his view.

  His pulse pounded in his ears. He had to remind himself to breathe deeply. He shifted his baton in his hand, trying to loosen up fingers cramped from white-knuckling the grip. He turned to his crew with a nod. They returned the gesture.

  He stood and raised his boot, then turned slightly and kicked outward with all his might. The metal door gave way easily at the force of his foot and in one motion he took a step forward. Before he could clear the opening, whatever was behind t
he door sent it springing back at almost the same speed. The door's full force hit Morton in the shoulder, costing him his balance. He went careening to the floor, stopped only by the arm he put out to break his fall. He felt a pop in his wrist as his weight bore down followed by a bolt of pain.

  He cursed his luck until the room went bright as day followed by an ear-piercing bang. He felt something fall on top of him, heavy and limp. The sounds of violence broke out all around him. Pops and cracks as solid objects broke, screams of pain and of surprise.

  He used all his might to try to get out from underneath whatever held him down. In front of him were bare feet sticking out from under an inmate’s jump suit. The feet were shoulder-width apart, up on toes and balls, pushing back hard on something. Morton pulled his baton arm free and touched the skin. He heard a yelp and the foot slid away with unnatural speed, followed closely by a thud and gasp. He was suddenly face-to-face with a spider-web tattoo wrapping around eyes and a nose. He looked closely: the eyes were closed tight, but twitching and the lips were quivering—out cold.

  He struggled back up, confused and trying to get his bearings. Another flash and bang brought his attention to behind the desk. An Eel was wrestling with a huge inmate and both had their hands gripped around a large pistol. The gun was pointed at the ceiling when it went off again. The flash blinded Morton for a moment but he lunged at the inmate, once more a linebacker like he had been in high school. He put his shoulder down and drove through the big inmate's abdomen, carrying his full weight. He felt the man’s body convulse as the electrical charge of the armored suit flowed from its flexible plastic skin into human flesh. As one they went to the floor, nearly knocking Morton’s breath out from the thrashing arms and legs.

  He ignored the pain and rose back to fighting position. His visor was cracked and fogging, and he flung it off, anxious to get out from the claustrophobia of it. His chest heaved as he struggled for breath. An inmate had an Eel off the ground in a chokehold from behind. Terror filled the guard's eyes - Morton could see now it was young Herscher - wide open and bugging out against bright red skin. Morton swung his baton with all his might. The inmate yelled as it struck, but he didn’t loosen the grip.

  With the baton now fully discharged, Morton took a reverse grip on it and lunged at the inmate, jamming the end into the man’s eye. This time the grip loosened. The choking Herscher fell to the ground unconscious. Morton brought the baton up and then back down, stabbing the stick at the inmate’s head. The sickening vibrations of cracking orbital bones reverberated up the stick and into Morton’s arm.

  Inexplicably, the inmate still stood. His face was covered with blood; in the midst of the red, his mouth opened wide, revealing bright white teeth sharpened to fangs. His single good eye was wide with hatred and focused on Morton.

  Morton felt icy fingers reach for his neck as suddenly wished he’d kept his helmet on. He had his own hands around the inmate’s neck, slipping in the blood, desperately searching for grip. Both men had about the same reach, both were pumping adrenaline into every fiber of muscle. Morton felt his own hatred bubble up inside. Hatred at losing his son, despair for losing his wife, frustration of a life spun out of control.

  He slipped his hands off the inmate’s neck and grabbed hold of his thick shoulders. In one motion he pulled at the gray jumpsuit with all his might towards him and brought his knee up to the inmate’s groin. The satisfying gasp and screech of pain gave him the chance to slam his forehead into the man’s face, smashing the cartilage of his nose. Morton had a moment of triumph until he realized his opponent still stood. The thrashing got worse until the inmate froze…

  He staggered backward, reaching at his back frantically with both hands. As he turned, Morton could see the rough wooden handle of a shiv sticking out of his back. Just over the gray-clad shoulder, one of his Eels, looking terrified and in shock, locked eyes with Morton. A brief moment of relief evaporated when the inmate finally managed to grab the knife and pull it out of his flesh. Blood gushed out and soaked the polyester material. Morton watched in frozen horror as the inmate brought the knife over his shoulder and plunged it into the neck of the Eel who had saved Morton.

  “NOOO!” Morton screamed. He grabbed the inmate around the neck from behind. There was no struggle this time as Morton put all of his weight and strength into a twist under the inmate’s chin. A snap came, then another pop as he twisted and yanked. He realized he was still screaming when McCoy and two other Eels he’d left behind in the hallway entered the room.

  The overwhelming urge to vomit and pass out washed over Morton. The flood of adrenaline was already receding; his body tried to regulate its chemistry before he slipped into shock or worse. Tears filled his eyes. His muscles screamed in agony.

  “Sarge, we need to regroup. There’s a big group of inmates coming. They’re going to take a run at us.”

  Morton could hear the words but didn’t comprehend at first. He was coming down off the killing rage. Morton realized the dead inmate remained in his headlock. He let go, panting and down on both knees.

  “What? McCoy, what… Where is everybody?” Morton stammered.

  McCoy looked like he was about to vomit, too, an action Morton no doubt would have followed. The young man looked like he was trying to be brave as he said, “They’re gathered outside the office. Sarge. The prisoners heard the gunshots and the fighting. A couple have already come down to see what’s going on. Looks like we’re going to have trouble, quick.”

  Trouble. Morton couldn’t imagine any trouble worse than what he was surrounded by right now.

  The scene was hellish chaos. He counted five inmates down on the ground, some in various stages of undress. One was staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide open but empty. Pieces of everything were laying on the floor. The smell of blood and feces and sweat and unwashed bodies assaulted every nerve.

  There was an Eel lying near the door with a red spot seeping ever larger on his chest. He'd taken the bullet meant for Morton when he entered the room. The other Eel who’d died in his stead still clutched at the homemade knife protruding from his neck. The blood he tried to stop had long since left him, already coagulating on the floor below. Another man leaned against the wall, holding an arm turned at an impossible angle.

  Vomit finally defeated his will when his eyes scanned the conference table at the back of the huge office. He retched and retched, not caring that his men were watching. He spat on the floor, spat in the face of one of the dead inmates, then smeared the wetness off his mouth with his armored arm. He stood and looked back to the carnage.

  There was a man—he could only assume that’s what he had been, from the high and tight haircut—bent over the table. He hands were bound with a rope, which then ran the length of the table to the other end where it disappeared underneath. Those ties were the only thing still holding him in place. His clothes were gone and blood streamed down his legs. A ragged circle was cut into his back. Two knife handles stuck out from the skin. At his feet lay another naked man with most of his extremities removed by what was apparently a very dull blade.

  Morton had never witnessed anything like this, not even when he was forced to view pictures from the New Mexico riots of the 1970s in cadet training school. This couldn’t have been done by human beings, not even the ones locked up here. But his eyes were witness to it: he’d seen Hell itself.

  He thought it was just two until he noticed a bare foot sticking out from underneath the chopped-up body, much smaller, with nails painted a very feminine shade of pink. He didn’t let himself go back behind the table to see what had happened to her. There were already too many images in his mind he’d never be able to forget.

  “They’re ours,” he finally choked out through the bile at the back of his throat.

  McCoy didn’t say anything at first. He was having trouble keeping his own composure. “Yeah, I recognize Dean. The other ones…” Morton waved off the rest of McCoy’s list. He didn’t need to hear it. He’d pieced to
gether who it probably was.

  “Sarge,” McCoy was more urgent this time, “Sarge, we need a plan ASAP. We’ve got a big batch of hostiles headed his way.”

  Morton waged an unholy civil war in his mind. He’d lost two dead, one mortally wounded already. The others who’d come with him had completely discharged their suits and batons. They’d fought like mad dogs and all they had to show for it were at least three dead hostages and five inmates down. His force was already seriously reduced and he hadn’t even made it to the area where most of the inmates were. But how could he leave his missing guards behind with those animals? If there were even a tiny ray of hope they were still alive, huddled and hiding in a closet somewhere, knowing the Sarge would come and get them no matter what the cost…

  The cost. He looked down at the young man with the knife in his neck. He had a baby at home, just a few months old. Morton could remember that from the interview a year or so ago. The wife had been pregnant, didn’t want to leave her family and go to the city to find work. He’d been a good Eel, a loyal union man since the day he joined. Even the sharks seemed to respect him. If Morton had been in his shoes, he’d have probably snuck home to be with his family when the electricity shut off, but the guy was loyal to the union – and desperate to keep the job.

  “Who am I kidding? I would probably would have stayed here, too,” Morton mumbled to himself.

  “What’s that, Sarge?” McCoy asked.

  Morton brought himself back to reality. The odds said that the rest of the guards still inside the prison were dead. All he’d be doing now is getting more husbands and fathers killed trying to rescue dead bodies. He’d add this this decision to the day's list of regrets, he knew that.

  But he was going to be haunted by all of this, no matter what. Better to keep some alive to hate him for it.