She lifted her shotgun. Waited for the perfect moment. Then fired her plastic bullet right into the bag at their feet.
Its contents erupted upward like a silent fireworks display, ropy streamers of wet orange goo shooting upward with incredible speed. It splattered across the oncoming half-deads, splashing across their legs and chests and faces and then hardening instantaneously, snarling around them in a mass of slimy tendrils that dried in the air as Caxton watched.
The half-deads weren’t even aware of the sticky foam exploding around them at first. They kept coming, legs lifting for the next stride, arms swinging to menace the waiting prisoners— and then froze in place. The hardening foam held them fast, barely able to move, their limbs trapped, their ravaged faces covered in the ropy mess. What little range of motion they had was spent trying to pull the sticky tendrils off their bodies, with little or no success.
Caxton had been surprised to see the foam pack in the guard post. She knew that the air-activated aqueous foam had been designed originally for use in prisons, as a way to immobilize rioting inmates and keep them from attacking the guards. She also knew that after a few live tests it had been all but banned from prison use, because it had a bad habit of covering its victims’ noses and mouths in solid gunk, making it impossible for them to breathe. The potential lawsuits had convinced the Bureau of Prisons to look elsewhere in its constant search for the next great compliance weapon.
Half-deads didn’t need to breathe. Even if they did, Caxton couldn’t care less. They couldn’t hurt her anymore, or take her captive, and that was what mattered.
“Oh my God,” Gert said, snorting with laughter. “Did you see the look on that guy’s face when—”
Caxton grabbed her celly’s arm. “Move,” she said. “There might be more on the way, and I only had one of those.”
Together the two women ran around the side of the stuck mass of half-deads. The creatures cried out in misery and a few, whose arms hadn’t been completely pinned by the foam, tried to reach for them or stab at them, but they couldn’t follow as Caxton and Gert made their escape from the SHU.
Now Caxton just had to figure out what she was going to do next.
21.
Just after midnight they brought the first batch of blood to Malvern in plastic bags, the kind hospitals used to store whole blood for transfusions. The prison had a full medical ward, and the necessary supplies were all in stores. A half-dead in a CO uniform pushed a wheeled cart into the warden’s office and unloaded the blood onto what had become Malvern’s desk. Six bags of it, each of them swollen to capacity. Clara knew this would be the first batch of many.
Malvern grabbed one up at random and pressed it to her mouth. She was able to shred the bag and suck the blood out without spilling a drop on her tattered nightdress. When it was gone she sighed, a strangely human sound. She closed her one eye. There were holes in the eyelid through which Clara could see that Malvern’s eye had rolled back into her head. As she watched, the holes shrank, the skin there healing visibly.
It wouldn’t be long, she knew, until Malvern was whole and healthy again, at full strength and more than a match even for Laura. Of course, that strength wouldn’t last—Malvern would start rotting away again almost immediately. But there was more blood where this came from, so much more.
And meanwhile the outside world had no idea she was here. No idea that the prison had been turned into one enormous blood drive. No idea that every prisoner in the facility was at enormous risk.
Clara had watched the first few donations. Hungry women had shoved their arms through the bars of their cells, more than willing to make a small sacrifice if it meant they didn’t have to go to sleep on an empty stomach. There had been far more volunteers than there were half-deads to take the blood. Nobody had refused—they knew what would happen if they did. The half-deads had moved down the dorm one cell after the other, moving quickly, stabbing needles into arms almost at random. The work clearly delighted them. They had not bothered to replace their needles between donations, or even to clean them off. Clara had protested—she knew little about phlebotomy, but she knew you could get any number of things from a dirty needle. How many of the prisoners had been IV drug users on the outside? How many of them had hepatitis? Or HIV, for that matter? Or who knew what else?
Her pleas had fallen, of course, on deaf ears. Neither the warden nor Malvern seemed to think that the spread of blood-borne illness was a significant problem. Which told Clara something. It told her they didn’t expect the prisoners to live long enough to get sick.
There had been few volunteers for option three. Maybe Malvern and the warden expected that to change. Or maybe they just knew that the prison was a short-term solution to Malvern’s long-term need for blood. Maybe they understood they couldn’t get away with this forever, and that meant they must have a contingency plan for what happened when SWAT teams stormed the prison, as they eventually must.
Clara wondered if she, herself, would live long enough to find out what the contingency plan was.
While she was considering that particular dark thought, a half-dead came into the office and rushed over to Malvern. He whispered in her ear and she smiled.
The warden looked up from her BlackBerry and raised one eyebrow.
“There’s been an escape,” Malvern said, her eye twinkling. She reached for another blood bag.
“Care to share with me?” the warden asked. “It is still, technically, my prison. It sounds like the kind of thing I ought to be aware of.”
“It is a small thing, I assure ye. I sent a company of my slaves to your Special Housing Unit, there to recover the famous killer, Laura Caxton. They failed at this, and she has escaped.”
“What?” the warden asked, jumping up.
Clara’s heart lifted in her chest. Only to fall back again when she heard what Malvern said next.
“It was no more than I expected of her. She has at her advantage resources and craft others cannot match. No lock nor prison gate could hold her long. No half-dead is fair sport for her. I knew she would escape. I planned for her to escape, all this time. ’Tis why we needed her,” she said, and jabbed one bony finger in Clara’s direction. “Be not afraid.”
The warden looked largely unconvinced. “I’ve heard of Caxton. I’ve read about what she’s capable of. You’re sure this is under control?”
Malvern reached for another bag of blood. Her shoulders looked remarkably less bony than they had before. They were almost round. “Lady Fortuna makes sport of any who would claim such,” Malvern said.
“Sometimes,” the warden said, “I wish you would just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’
Malvern smiled. And drank down more blood.
A little later the candidates for option three were brought in, one at a time. Clara was gagged so she couldn’t warn them what they were getting themselves into. There were four of them, and they were allowed to sit down on the sofa and given a drink of water. They were tough-looking women, all of them. Two were black, one was a Latina, and one was white, but they all had the same cold eyes that kept moving around the room, taking everything in. They didn’t smile, or thank the half-deads who brought their drinks. They didn’t talk among themselves.
“Forbin,” the warden said, and one of the black women looked up. The warden consulted her BlackBerry and said, “You’re in for murder, is that right?”
“You know it is,” Forbin said. She glanced over at Malvern and licked her lips. “I killed my husband because he was beating me.”
The warden frowned. “It says here that your defense attorney couldn’t present any evidence to back up that claim. The prosecution said you had an argument with him over some money. You wanted to buy some drugs and he wouldn’t give you the money, so you stabbed him. Seventy-one times.” The warden shrugged. “I don’t honestly care. You’re in for twenty-five to life and so far you’ve been a less-than-model prisoner. You’ve stabbed two other inmates since you were inside.”
&nb
sp; “Always in self-defense,” Forbin protested.
“Let’s see. You have some family back in the world. An uncle. We’re looking for people without a lot of ties or relationships.”
“He used to rape me, when I was a kid. Then I got too old for him.” Clara’s eyes went wide. Forbin couldn’t be much more than twenty-five. “I ain’t expecting much from him now. There’s nothing out there for me. I’ll be old like you if I ever get out. I can’t get a job with a felony on my jacket, and as soon as I hit the streets I’m gonna start thinking about getting high again. You got something better to offer, I’ll take it.”
Malvern leaned forward across the desk. “You can’t imagine the dark secrets I offer, child. Will ye swear fealty to me tonight?”
“You want my bond? You want respect, yeah? I can give you that.”
“Then come closer. Do not speak. What passes between us is called the Silent Rite, and words would only sully it.” Malvern rose from her seat and bid Forbin to kneel before her. She took Forbin’s face in her thin hands and stared deeply into her eyes. For a moment there was no sound at all in the warden’s office. It felt like the air had congealed and gone bad.
Malvern was passing on her curse. This was option three. If the prisoners chose it, they didn’t have to donate blood. Instead they could take their own lives—and tomorrow night, they could rise again, as vampires. As part of Malvern’s new brood.
When the rite was finished Forbin was weeping. Malvern opened a drawer of the desk and took out a small glass bottle with a rubber dropper. It was full of straw-colored liquid Clara couldn’t identify, but she was pretty sure she knew what it was.
Behind Forbin the office door opened quietly and a pair of half-deads came in carrying a simple pine box. A coffin. Forbin didn’t even look at it. She just opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue.
The curse itself wasn’t enough to make someone a vampire. They also had to die by their own hand. The curse helped with that—it got inside your soul, made you want to die, to be reborn. You could fight it off if your will was strong enough, or if you had enough to live for. Forbin didn’t even try.
The liquid in the bottle must have been some kind of very strong, very fast-acting poison. Malvern leaned forward and handed the dropper to Forbin. The prisoner put the drops on her tongue, put the dropper back on the desk, then sat back on her heels and closed her eyes.
After a minute or two, she started to twitch. Her arm jumped at her side. Her head rocked on her neck. The twitching got worse and graduated to full-blown convulsions—but only for a few seconds. Then Forbin’s face turned purple with congested blood and she fell backward. The two half-deads caught her easily and laid her out in the coffin. Then they pushed the lid onto the coffin and carried it away again, with Forbin inside.
It could be that easy.
The other three women sitting on the couch watched it all without a word. Their eyes took it all in, measuring, evaluating. They were clearly working out in their heads whether it was worth it or not to follow the same path.
The warden cleared her throat. “Hauser,” she said, and the white woman stood up and came to kneel before Malvern. She had a tattoo running down the side of her neck that read 100% PURE. Clara had worked in law enforcement long enough to know what that meant. Hauser was a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, most likely the girlfriend or sister of one of the white supremacist gang.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, looking straight at Malvern. “Let’s get on with it.”
The warden looked at her handheld. “Two different counts of vehicular homicide—that’s pretty suspicious. You ran down an eight-year-old black boy with your van, and got a light sentence because you claimed you merely lost control of the vehicle. Then when you did it again, less than a year later, the judge decided that you either desperately needed to tune up your brakes, or that maybe there was something more to the case than met the eye.”
“I’m not sorry, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Malvern grinned wickedly.
“Currently serving life without the possibility of parole, because your offense was judged a hate crime.”
“That’s right. I confessed everything already. I don’t feel the need to do it again,” Hauser said. She turned and stared at the warden. “You want me for this detail or what? I was planning on offing myself anyway looking for a chance. This sounds even better than hanging myself in my cell while seven colored bitches look on and cheer. Let’s get it fucking on.”
Malvern reached down and grabbed the woman’s cheekbones. “You’ll do as I say in all things?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then hush, child, and receive the gift,” Malvern said.
Clara could only stand and watch in horror as the grotesque vignette was repeated again—poison, convulsions, Hauser taken away in a coffin. The other two volunteers went down without any more hesitation than Forbin or Hauser.
In a prison as big as SCI-Marcy how many women would be suicidal? How many were looking at futures without hope, without prospects? These four had volunteered even after seeing Malvern, after seeing what an old and decrepit vampire looked like. They were willing, like the warden, to take the curse even if it meant rotting away forever. It was still better than what they had now. Tomorrow night, Clara knew, there would be more volunteers for option three. When the prisoners saw what brand-new, freshly made vampires looked like—there might be a lot more.
When it was done the warden reached across the desk to pick up the bottle of poison. Malvern snatched it out of her grasp.
“You’re still useful as a mortal,” Malvern explained. “As a human face, should any curious fellows come to the door asking what has happened here.”
The warden nodded, though she didn’t look happy. “Soon,” she said. “You promised me it could happen soon.”
“When faced with eternity in a more perfect form, is not a little time of waiting acceptable? Yes, Augusta. It will come soon enough.”
22.
Laura Caxton was completely lost.
It didn’t surprise her. She’d never seen a map of the prison—prisoners weren’t typically allowed that kind of information. Every time she’d moved around the facility the COs had been there to guide her. She knew in a general way that she was on the western side of the prison. She knew that the main gate was on the eastern side.
There had to be other gates, though. Other ways out.
Her big plan, so far, was to escape. To get out of the prison and find someone in authority and tell them what was going on. If they wanted her to go back and hunt down Malvern, with proper weapons and backup, then fine. If they wanted to return her to custody and take care of the problem themselves, she wouldn’t put up a fight.
The trick, of course, would be breaking out of a maximum-security prison. With no good tools, no guards she could bribe. And in the dark. Malvern had shut off most of the prison’s lights. Maybe she just wanted to conserve electricity—or maybe she knew that Caxton was loose, and wanted to make things difficult for her. Here and there an emergency lighting unit was still blazing away, but Caxton knew those would only last an hour or so before their batteries died. And then she would be trapped in complete darkness, without so much as a window to let in starlight.
“I knew I could count on you, Caxton. I just knew when I saw you, we were going to be buds. I’m your road bitch now, right? The one you get together with even when we’re out of here,” Gert said. “I mean, I guess I have to be, because we’re going to break out together, right? You’re going to need me out there. And I’m going to be so useful to you. This is my big chance. If I can get out now, I’ll still be young enough to have more babies of my own. I knew I could count on you.”
Caxton nodded but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure who was listening. She knew exactly who was watching. There were video cameras everywhere in the prison, watching every corner, every hallway, every reinforced door. She had no doubt they had night-vision capability.
She knew she had to move quickly, that if she lingered too long in one place it would be easy for Malvern to get a squad of half-deads together and send them her way.
So far she’d been lucky. Beyond the door of the SHU had been a long, featureless corridor that led to a hub area, a place where three hallways crossed each other. It was the perfect place to put a guard detail, and in fact the prison’s designers had built a defensive post in the middle of the hub, a guard post with narrow windows and gun ports and thick cinder-block walls. It had been empty when Caxton arrived. Maybe, she thought, Malvern just didn’t have enough half-deads to cover the entire prison.
She’d learned a long time ago that hoping for anything like that, anything that would make her life easier, was a trap. You had to expect the absolute worst, and capitalize on what little bits of luck you found, but never depend on them.
Of the three hallways she could explore, two had been sealed off with barred gates. The gates could be opened remotely or with an actual key. Harelip hadn’t possessed such a key, she knew—she’d searched the dead CO’s body—and the remote controls were, she was certain, heavily guarded. She’d tried the third hallway. There was a big fire door at the end of that one, but it opened easily when she pushed on it.
“This feels bad,” Caxton said, out loud, when she looked at the empty corridor that lay beyond. It was lined with doors, normal doors with doorknobs and everything. No one was guarding that hallway. There weren’t any guard posts watching the place where the hall turned a corner. “There is one door that’s open, and it’s completely unguarded. It feels like a trap.”
“Don’t be such a pussy,” Gert said, pushing past Caxton to head down the darkened hallway. “I thought you were the big tough vampire killer, who never waited for backup, who went into vampire lairs with guns blazing—”
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