by G. R. Carter
“Fall back!” he said, louder and more forcefully than he intended. “Get everyone back to the maintenance tunnel. When we come back, it’s with real firepower, not these freakin’ things,” he said as he tossed his baton to the floor. “Double-time, let’s go!”
As the men filed out of the office, he reached down and grabbed the .45 lying on the floor. He checked the magazine, reloaded and stuck it in the pocket of his tactical suit. He rifled through the warden’s drawers and found another .38 revolver stashed in a false bottom. Lewis had mentioned it once, though he never said how he knew. He kept that pistol in his hand as he walked down the hallway and towards the front door. There were a half a dozen Eels fighting with about that many inmates as he calmly stepped through the broken glass.
He walked up to the first inmate locked in a standing wrestling match with an Eel, he held the pistol up and pulled the trigger, sending part of the man’s brains out the other side of his head and onto the inmate behind him. The splattered man didn’t have time to consider what had happened before Morton put a bullet into him next. Every piece of gray clothing he could see, he shot at. When the revolver was empty, he dropped it and grabbed the .45. By now the remaining inmates were running back towards the interior of the prison. Morton aimed and fired at their backs, dropping at least one more before the big gun clicked empty.
A strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He didn’t bother to see who it was, he just kept watching down the corridor, waiting for the mob to appear.
He didn’t care, he’d fight them all. One at a time or all two thousand. He was going to kill all of them for what they’d done to his men—every last one.
*****
Before tonight, Morton hadn’t thought he could ever equal the depths of depression he'd reached at the death of his wife and son. He was smart enough to know his body chemistry was still reacting to the massive adrenaline dump it had used to save him in the warden’s office. The sight of his people brutally raped and murdered wrenched every feeling of hope out of his body. He’d fought panic as he and the surviving Eels fought their way back down the darkened maintenance tunnel, man on man with any weapon come to hand, or simply with fists when nothing else was available.
And now, after they’d reached the door to safety—the one leading into the loading dock, armory and holding pen—no one was home. This must be what rock bottom really was.
Morton told his men to keep pounding on the heavy steel door. He kept one ear listening for the slide of metal on metal as the three-inch bar was removed from the other side. But the only sound was his men pounding and yelling for help.
Not here, not now, not after all this.
The last batch of the pursuing inmates lay in a heap at their feet. Morton kept staring down the tunnel, waiting for signs of another rush of Syn-crazed maniacs. His eyes were playing tricks on him, making him see movement.
No. If I panic, we’re all done for. Maybe he should have taken them out the front door, walked right out of the prison and into the night. He knew the trick to getting those blast-proof doors open. But of all the things he was sure of in this world, Lieutenant Watson on the other side of that door waiting to let him back in…that would have been one of those sure bets.
Think, man. Come on, think.
He thought again about the front doors, regretting not walking out. Then it hit him. In his panic he’d forgotten about the fire exit at the other end of the maintenance tunnel. In the anticipation of getting up to the main level he hadn’t noticed it, and in the terror of getting away he’d run right past it. Now he pictured it in his mind. It was one of the weak spots in security here at the prison, a weak spot he’d fought to have removed during the remodel. Safety code had trumped his objections. The architects and inspectors both laughed at the idea of inmates making it this far through all the other obstacles to escape. For once in his life, he was glad to be overruled.
“Listen up!” Morton shouted. The two Eels closest to the door continued to pound and yell. “Hey!” he yelled, and their colleagues shoved the two, chastising them for not listening when the Sarge spoke.
Their eyes were bright in the quickly-dimming emergency lights. They were combat veterans now, scared like he was, but they weren’t terrified. Part of that was confidence in their Sergeant, faith he’d have a plan to save their asses.
“I’ve got no idea why that door is locked. All of you probably can figure it’s not good. So we need options. I’ve got just one right now,” Morton said, stern as he could muster. “There’s a fire door around the corner, down at the end of the hallway.”
“The one next to the stairs leading back up?” someone asked.
Morton nodded crisply. “That’s right. We’re going out that door, to the yard outside. Then we’ll circle back around and come in through the loading docks. Any questions?”
“No question, Sarge. But I ain’t going back down that hallway.” Morton couldn’t see who said it, but he could see a couple of heads nodding slightly in agreement. Even with the fading emergency light, the trail of bodies, some still moving, could be seen littering the floor. The Eels had struggled for every inch to make it to this point. Now he needed them to retrace their steps.
“Sarge, we got some wounded guys who shouldn’t move,” McCoy said to him calmly. Morton looked at three Eels sitting propped up against the wall. Each suffered from serious wounds, complicated by having been dragged to relative safety by their comrades for hundreds of feet. “Maybe a few of the guys should stay back here and look after them while we go get the doors opened.”
Morton nodded. “Good thinking.” He mustered his command voice again. “Okay, I want eight with me, the rest can stay here and look after our wounded. Besides, chances are as soon as I leave Watson will finally get off the can and come open the door for us.” Nervous chuckles and smiles brightened the mood for a moment.
Morton pulled his tactical suit tight, then grabbed a helmet from one of the wounded men; he’d left the remains of his in the warden’s office. The scratches and bruises on his face showed he’d been fighting without one ever since. “Two sticks, each of you,” he said to the ones who volunteered to go with him. “Good helmets? Okay, check your suits.” Each man checked another’s, then they all checked Morton’s.
“Anyone got any juice left? Suit or baton?”
The lack of response confirmed what he had assumed.
“Okay, follow me,” Morton said, then began a quick-time walk. He would have preferred to jog—really, to sprint—but he needed to keep his breathing steady. He was careful to keep part of his vision on the floor, wary of tripping over any bodies.
A hand reached up from a fallen shape to grab his leg. He shattered its radius with a backhand swing of his baton. The impact made his wrist burst with pain; likely he had a crack in there of his own, or at least torn tendons. The ache sharpened his mind, though.
He reached the corner of the hallway and raised his hand in a fist. Everyone stopped as he peered around the corner to get a view of their destination.
Just barely lit, he saw “EXIT” about fifty yards away. He breathed a sigh of relief at his chance to get out of this 7th circle of Hell.
Movement.
Morton stopped in his tracks and stepped back to the corner. One of his men ran into his back, fully in motion and unable to stop. Morton stumbled around the corner, trying to regain his balance. He kept his feet, but the commotion caught the attention of whatever was at the end of that corridor.
A low scream sent shivers down Morton’s back. The noise sounded inhuman, full of rage and hatred. The movement became a shape in the shadows. Morton stood his ground, struggling with self-preservation’s demand that he run for his life. He let his own wrath quicken in his gut.
“Form up!” he demanded. Two Eels joined him at each shoulder, one took up position directly behind him. Each gripped their batons tightly.
A guttural cry came out of Morton’s throat before he even realized it. Every emot
ion he’d been fighting channeled into one. He began to run after the echoes of his scream, closing ground with the impossibly large shape in front of him. He raised his right baton and swung with every ounce of hatred he possessed. There was sharp crack as the stick made contact. Then Morton was flying backwards, struck by a hammer blow to his chest. He hit the concrete floor with a thud. There should have been pain, but he felt nothing but rage. He jumped back to his feet and lunged again, this time with a blow aimed at the giant’s face. His target moved at the last moment, distracted by slamming an Eel into the exposed pipes running shoulder-high along the corridor. Morton’s blow missed the inmate’s face by an inch, instead smashing into the back of his head.
Blood spurted out as the scalp split. The baton was cracked now, something that wasn’t supposed to happen according the manufacturers. The surface became serrated, allowing Morton’s backstroke to remove chunks of skin from the huge cheek as it sliced across.
The spider webbed inmate screamed and lashed out, striking the armor plates of Morton’s tactical suit. The composite could deflect sharpened weapons, but forceful blows still caused damage to the soft tissues underneath. The shockwave through his body staggered him. He fought for breath from beneath freshly-cracked ribs.
The inmate stomped forward to finish him off, teeth flashing like nightmarish white fangs, but two Eels were on him. One had a chokehold on him from behind; a comical scene with the guard’s combat style boots nearly a foot off of the ground. The other looked like he was playing the drums, swinging both of his batons at the inmate’s knee. Cracking and grinding mixed with screams of pain as the giant finally buckled and went down.
But he wasn’t finished yet. He writhed around on the ground, trying to get the chokehold off. Morton saw his chance. As the inmate rolled over to put his weight on the Eel at his back, Morton raised his baton to strike. Only then did he recognize the beast he’d tackled in the warden’s office. He’d sent the full electrical discharge of his suit into the man when he struck. That blow should have put him in the infirmary for days; instead the nightmare was back, hurting more of his men.
Without thinking, Morton brought the baton down on the giant’s face. Pieces of teeth mixed with blood spatter. Again the baton came down. And again, and again. Morton saw nothing through his eyes, only the vision of dead guards. Again the baton came down on what remained of a human face.
Finally a strong hand grabbed his arm. “Sarge, it’s done,” a voice said. When Morton tried to strike again: “Sarge! Come on! Now’s our chance.”
Morton was nearly hyperventilating when he looked at McCoy. “Come on, Sarge,” the young Eel said. “There’s probably more right behind this one. I climbed up and barricaded the door, but let’s not take any chances, okay?”
Morton nodded and huffed for breath at the same time. His body was at a breaking point, exhausted from the struggle and stress—and the cumulative effects of nights of too much liquor and too little sleep.
He couldn’t go on. His knees buckled, all he wanted to do was lay down. Way too old for this. There was a reason why new recruits were young. Morton should be behind the glass, supervising and handing out advice for the young bucks to ignore.
She was back again; his wife’s face filled his mind. His son stood next to her, a strong and powerful young warrior, once again whole. He felt their hands lifting him up, recharging his spirit.
His mind was made up, he could go on just a little longer. His men needed him, they were counting on him to make this right. It hadn’t been his fault, this whole mess, but it had happened on his watch. That made it almost as bad.
He straightened himself up, pulled off his helmet and wiped away a cold sweat. He tried to spit away crusted blood, but no saliva came this time. “You okay, McCoy?” he asked through a parched mouth.
The young man nodded and smiled. “Yeah, Sarge, I’m good.”
Morton took as deep a breath as his throbbing ribcage would allow. He put back on his helmet and picked up what was left of his baton. “All right, then. Let’s go get some fresh air.”
Ridgeview Hunting Lodge
Afternoon of the Fifth Day
Sy Bradshaw sat at the end of the Ridgeview Lodge’s long gravel driveway. He couldn’t see the main residence or the outbuildings from here, obscured as they were by the bend in the lane and the treeline it disappeared behind. The yellowish glow rising above the treetops told him where home lie; he could have walked to it from here with his eyes closed.
He turned back to the township road that met the lane at a T. You had to be a local or lost to get here without GPS…and since the solar storms had begun, a few years back, even the fancy map systems couldn't truly be relied on.
The steady exhaust rumble of a diesel tractor grew louder. Two bright white lights pointed down between the ditches, one beam directly down, illuminating the tires and the heavy metal chassis. He could hear voices echoing over the engine, not clear enough to determine the words, but loud enough to recognize the unique sounds of excited people.
The tractor pulled up to where Sy sat on his old Honda four-wheeler. He had a shotgun in his lap and a lantern in his hand.
“Hello!” the tractor driver yelled. “Heard there was big party going on at the Bradshaw place. Thought we might crash it, if that’s alright.” Nervous laughter came from the flatbed hay wagon attached to the back of the tractor. At least a dozen men, women, and children were bundled up and huddled against the cool night air. The glowing rivers of light up above joined with the artificial light of the tractor, allowing Sy to see faces in decent detail. The kids were thrilled with the big adventure, the parents looked more concerned behind fake smiles.
“Alright, Mr. Mayfield. Just follow the fire pots up the lane to the lodge. Can't miss the crowd. You can unload there.”
The man waved from the seat of the tractor, and the rest waved from the wagon. As Mayfield slowly made the turn onto the lane, Sy could hear several people shout thanks to him. He simply waved back and nodded his head.
Sy had spent the entire afternoon driving from one farmstead to the next, inviting anyone who wanted to come and stay the night at the lodge. He’d been able to do some workarounds—“redneck engineering,” Kara called it—to coax the generator into running a while. At least long enough to get the kitchen operational and run his electric water pumps to fill every tank he could. He’d only run it for an hour then, but now he had it running again. He intended to shut it off after another hour, preserving precious fuel he wasn’t sure he’d get replenished any time soon.
Mayfield’s tractor picked up a little speed as the wagonload straightened out and smoothed from the gentle rocking of the corner. This was the seventh group so far. When he’d been out making the invitations, he’d had no idea so many would take him up on it. He still was skeptical this was the right move, but Kara had insisted. Usually when his sister had something in her mind, it was best to go along. Not the least reason being she was correct more often than not.
He could picture her now, buzzing around the lodge, making everyone comfortable as possible. She’d had him clear out every shed of movable tools and machinery. Kids would be sleeping in the main residence's upstairs, women on the main level, and men in vehicles or in the sheds; Sy made it clear during his visits that’s the way it was going to be. A few men decided to send their families here and stay to look over their properties. Sy suspected most just wanted to stay in their own beds, but he didn’t blame them either way.
The sounds of night were a serenade, the solar storms a shadow ballet dancing across the stems and stalks of autumn fields. Sy was dozing on the comfortable seat of his four-wheeler, his beat-up old Carhartt a cocoon against the night’s chill. At least an hour had passed since the last load of guests had arrived, maybe longer.
Headlight beams appeared around the corner, bouncing as they passed over Wolf’s Creek Bridge. The unmuffled exhaust of an old grain truck echoed in the night as the driver stomped the accelerator. His foo
t was on it until the last moment, then the brakes squealed, trying to bring the heap to a stop. The back tires were sliding on the gravel when it finally came to a rest a few feet beyond the lodge’s driveway entrance.
Sy didn’t need to read “Tucker and Sons Farm” painted on the side to know who it was. Everyone in the county knew the truck from a thousand trips to the grain elevator. Old Man Tucker stayed seated behind the steering wheel. His window was down and he leaned out to talk to Sy. The truck was still running—not so loud now, but still too much noise for a decent conversation. Tucker turned the truck off and he waved for Sy to come over.
“Awful big hurry there, ain’t ya, Tucker?” Sy called as he dismounted. His bad knee, a memento from his football days, was stiff from sitting so long. The blood started to flow as he made the walk to Tucker’s truck. He climbed up on the running board and looked inside.
“Hey, Dillon,” Sy said to the man in the passenger seat. The youngest Tucker son was just a couple years younger than Sy, and was a former teammate. They’d never been close, but were as familiar as everyone who’d played ball together. He was holding a long-barreled rifle, pointed out the window on the other side. “Rollin’ heavy tonight?”
“Sure am, Sy,” Dillon replied. “Looks like you’re doing the same.”
“Got a couple coyotes the other night. Figured I might get another tonight while waiting on folks to arrive. Surprised to see you all on this side of town.”
“We got trouble, Sy,” Burton Tucker said. The man was dead serious and not in his usual sparring mood. “The prison’s gone dark. Looks like the animals are rioting.”
Sy whistled softly. “Man, of all the places I wouldn’t want to be when the lights go out. Like a nightmare.” He thought about Kara’s ex-husband; that didn’t bother him so much. Whatever happened to him was well deserved. But there were plenty of other folks he knew who worked out there, good people just trying to make a living in a dangerous spot. “I hate it for those guards. Tommy Morton’s dad is one of the higher-ups, isn’t he, Dillon?”