Blood Cell
by
Shaun Tennant
Copyright © 2011 by Shaun Tennant
Description:
Josh Farewell is a three-time escapee who boasts that no prison can hold him. Once he's locked inside C-Pod at Pittman Penitentiary, surrounded by murderers and gangs, he soon realizes that his skills will be put to the test. After the inmates take over the pod in a brutal riot, they realize too late that they are not alone in C-Pod. Something is hunting the inmates. Something hungry for blood.
Length:
73,348 words or roughly 289 paperback pages.
Cover Design © 2015 Shaun Tennant
Images in cover:
Ruslan Ivantsov/Bigstock.com
Maridav/Bigstock.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
A Month Ago:
Leo Jimenez was not the type of man who was often seen smiling. He didn’t smile when he won a bet, or when men followed his orders. He didn’t crack a grin when he saw his enemies arrested on the news. But he’d smile for days after he killed a man. On Tuesday, he was smiling a lot. He smiled when he saw the morning news report, and the article above the fold in the local paper. He was particularly happy with this kill not only because of the sheer number of people that were dead, but also because Leo was now so powerful that he could kill with a phone call. He had killed seven of his enemies and never even had to get out of his hot tub. That was worth a smile. It was worth a shit-eating grin.
He read the paper with his morning coffee, which he drank with the mug tilted slightly to the left because of a deep scar that crossed his lips on the right side. With the scar on his face and his obvious Latino heritage, Leo assumed quite correctly that people called him Scarface behind his back. He was proud of that fact, proud to look like a gangster. With his scar and his well-practiced crazy-eyed stare, Leo could scare the shit out of anyone just by entering the room. And he often did. Nonetheless, he was a self-conscious man who demanded respect, as anyone referencing a certain De Palma movie in his presence was bound to discover.
Leo was the de facto leader of a gang called the Eighteenth. The name had been around long before Leo, and really didn’t apply since the gang had long since left Eighteenth Street behind. Gang members died, the name remained. A year earlier, the gang’s real leader, Santos Vega, was locked up for beating up the dealer who sold ecstasy to his little brother. After a decade getting away with crime, the cops busted him for actually doing the right thing. Santos was in Pittman, maximum security, and Leo took over while he was gone. At first, Leo was a proxy, taking orders every week in a visit or a phone call. But six months before Leo sat down and smiled, he stopped visiting. And three months later he changed his phone number. Santos was going to be gone for a long time, and the boys answered to Leo anyway. It was best that Santos be forgotten so the gang wouldn’t be tied down by old ways of thinking. In fact, they were so loyal to Leo that he could tell them to go to war with the Dirtbags and they would actually go.
And so it was that on this Tuesday, Leo was drinking his coffee and reading about how a gang war had left seven members of the Dirtbags dead. Leo’s captain, J.D., had already told him the story, but it was nice to read about in the paper. It was nice to see that the police had leads, but had not taken action yet. Which meant that in reality, they had no leads. Because J.D. had been good enough to kill all the Dirtbags and leave no evidence behind. None of his boys had been shot, none were dead. They wore gloves and they left the guns behind for the cops so nobody would get caught with a murder weapon.
With the Dirtbags reminded that they belonged outside of the city, Leo was now the uncontested king. So he smiled. Nothing could touch him.
On Thursday, a woman came forward with the fact that she had seen a gang of Latino street thugs go into that apartment where the murders happened. She was asked to flip through some photographs.
On Friday, J.D. Castro was arrested for murder. So was everyone else who happened to be in his house at the time, among them a kid called Franc. Franc didn’t like the idea of prison very much. A night in jail showed him he didn’t like the reality either.
On Saturday, Leonardo Jimenez was booked for an impressive number of charges, including conspiracy to commit murder and membership in a gang. He was the big fish. The detectives had made a deal to let Franc go, despite the fact that Franc had actually killed one of those Dirtbags, in exchange for testimony against Leo, who was fifty miles away from where the murders happened.
Cops like to gloat when they catch gang leaders like Leo. They liked sitting Leo down in the interrogation room, at the end of a long steel table, to tell him just how fucked he was. Detective White was the one who had put the cuffs on Leo. He was the one who came into Leo’s home. The other one, Detective Colson, had guarded the back door. They stood at the other end of that big rectangular table and bragged about their big arrest. Like their detective skills had anything to with that old lady coming forward. All the other cops, the uniforms who had surrounded Leo’s house like it was a donut shop, were coming in and out of the viewing room on the other side of the glass. The cops even left the lights on in there, so Leo could see them watching him through the glass. The motherfuckers laughed.
They brought him that runny shit they call coffee in police stations, served in a Styrofoam cup. It was hot, so he sipped it.
“Hey White, look at poor Jimenez drinking out the side of his mouth.” Fucking Colson laughed.
White looked Leo in the eye and spoke in baby talk: “Aww, poor wittle Scaw-face can’t dwink through his scaw?”
It was really their own fault for not cuffing him to the chair. He was already looking at fifteen or twenty years, so at that point killing a cop did nothing but give him a better reputation to take into the pen. Leo waited for detective White to step over to the side of the table, then Leo leapt up, put his head down like a linebacker, and charged. He took the detective down in one good motion, then slammed his fists on opposite sides of the cop’s neck. The chain between his handcuffs hammered the cop’s windpipe, which might have been enough.
By then, the other detective had time to react and came around to the side of the table to pull Leo off of his partner. Leo saw him coming, and pushed himself upward as fast as he could, driving the back of his head into Detective Colson’s jaw. The blow was enough to faze him, allowing Leo to take the sidearm from Colson’s belt. He put two shots into Detective White’s face and threw the gun away. By the time the cops from the viewing room had come around to draw down on him, Leo was unarmed and they couldn’t get away with shooting him.
He looked to Colson, while still kneeling on his dead partner, and asked “Can’t poor wittle White take a buwwet in his brain?”
*****
A Century Ago:
Port Arthur, Manchuria.
Fedor Mikhailovich Ivanov was a prison
er of war. He was one of the hundreds of Russian soldiers stationed at Port Arthur on the Pacific coast when the Japanese declared war. They had battled with the Japanese for almost a year, first winning the naval war and defending their port, before finally losing. The commander had surrendered the port and most of the men escaped. Fedor was among those who had not escaped, and now he was locked in a cell in the brig with a dozen other Russians. He was into his second week as a prisoner. He had been fed three times. He was surprised he was not dead yet.
Fedor doubted he would ever be free. He had heard that the war was very unpopular back in Russia, and that the Russian navy was losing just as badly elsewhere as they had here. So Fedor was stuck in this cell with the Japanese guard in his grey uniform on the other side of the bars, staring at him all day long. The Japanese had decided to pile the twelve Russians into a single cell, so that it would only require one guard to watch them. They were the only prisoners in this section of the brig, but Fedor was certain that there must be many more men locked up elsewhere in the fort.
The guard didn’t speak any Russian. “You want to go get me some dinner, you son of a whore?” Fedor asked. The other men in the cell laughed, but the guard did not respond. He never responded. These Japanese were so damned quiet all the time.
Down the corridor, a door opened and one of the Japanese called out. The guard nodded, and headed off toward the voice. Fedor heard them talking but could not understand the language. After a quick exchange, the door was closed again. The guard never came back.
Fedor walked to the bars. He pressed his face against them and tried to peer down the corridor to see if the guard was still there. He couldn’t see to the end. It was too dark. Some of the other men got up too. Alexi, one of the youngest of them, stood next to Fedor.
“What new game is this?” Alexi asked.
“We shall soon find out,” said Fedor.
After another minute, the door opened and closed again. Footsteps echoed down the hallway; someone was walking slowly, taking heavy steps to announce that they were approaching. Fedor and his comrades leaned on the bars, trying to see the newcomer. The man who approached them was, surprisingly, a white man. He wore a black suit, not a military uniform. He wore his black hair long, draped over his shoulders. He was pale, with skin like the ivory of piano keys. This man was almost certainly royalty. Perhaps the war was over, and Fedor would be able to go home.
“Is the war over?” Alexi asked, “Are you here to set us free?” The young man stuck his arm through the bars, reaching out for the nobleman. The man came up to the cell bars and clutched Alexi’s hand. Fedor saw that this stranger had small, soft hands. Definitely an aristocrat. He held Alexi’s hand between his, giving them a comforting rub.
“The war is not over,” said the stranger, “but I have come to set you free.” The man’s Russian was good, but not natural. He was a foreigner, perhaps an Englishman. On top of the accent, the man spoke with a wet sound to his voice. Fedor had only heard sounds like that in people who wore wooden teeth. Fedor couldn’t see the man’s teeth, but assumed his assessment was the right one.
“What do you mean?” asked Fedor.
“Your country is losing this war, this territory is now Japanese.” The stranger spoke to Fedor, but continued to hold Alexi’s hand. Fedor still could not place the accent, but then Fedor Mikhailovich was no statesman or world traveller.
“You speak Russian very well,” Fedor said, “for an Englishman.”
“Thank you, but I am no Englishman.” The stranger looked at Fedor harshly, surprised by Fedor’s boldness. The man had grey eyes, and his stare did not waver. Fedor had grown up in the northern plains, and those eyes brought back memories of a timberwolf staring at one of Fedor’s father’s sheep. It made him uncomfortable. He decided to lighten the mood with a joke.
“Well then, you must be Rasputin, the mystic who councils the Tsar? Tell me, did you hypnotize the guards into letting us go?”
“Rasputin has a beard.” The stranger still looked Fedor in the eyes. He had not yet blinked. The stranger forced the corners of his thin, wide mouth to curl up, but his eyes did not smile.
Alexi spoke up. “If you are not here because the war is over and you are not a hypnotist, then who are you? Who can convince the Japanese to just let us go?”
The stranger shifted that piercing gaze to Alexi. “I did not say that I would let you go. I said I would set you free. You will all be meeting God tonight.” Several of the men took steps back away from The bars, as if all of them had simultaneously realized that something terrible was about to happen. Fedor stood his ground. He might have been a prisoner, but he was still a soldier of the Russian Empire. He was no coward.
Alexi jerked his arm, trying to pull away from the stranger. “Please sir, I would like my hand back.”
The stranger smiled, baring his teeth for the first time. Fedor and Alexi were the only ones close enough to see that every single tooth ended in a sharp point. “I am sorry,” said the stranger, “but I’ll be keeping it.”
And with that, the stranger shifted his weight back and gave a mighty jerk on Alexi’s arm. Alexi slammed against the bars, and screamed in agony as the stranger ripped his arm off at the shoulder. Alexi collapsed to the floor of the cell, where Fedor rushed to help him. Alexi stared through the bars in horror, tears staining his cheeks. Fedor looked over as well, in time to see the stranger peel the sleeve off of Alexi’s arm, before raising it over his head, and ringing it like a wet towel. Alexi’s blood poured from the ragged end of the arm, and the stranger opened his mouth to catch it. The blood poured in rough, twisting squirts that coated much of the man’s face in crimson. After ringing out all the blood that would flow, the man tossed the arm aside and turned back to the cell. Face bloody, baring his teeth, staring with those frighteningly precise eyes, the stranger breathed hard through his nose. Fedor realized this man didn’t just look like a timberwolf, he was one.
The stranger reached into the pocket of his expensive wool suit, and what he pulled out made the men around Fedor scream. Alexi passed out when he saw it, which was a blessing. Several of the men started to pray. The item dangled from the stranger’s finger as he stepped up to the cell door, glinting in the light: a small iron key. The wolf was coming in.
CHAPTER ONE
A Month Ago
Josh Farewell was bribing a prison guard again. This one was Quentin, who usually guards the door on the east side of the compound, next to the laundry.
“Ten thousand dollars. All you have to do is unlock the door on the far side of the cafeteria tomorrow at lunch.”
“I’m not posted at the cafeteria at lunch.” Quentin was smiling. Like all of them, he thought that this was a joke.
“That’s why you’ll get away with it. Just walk by, flip the lock, keep going. I’ll do the rest.” Josh had been in Santa Maria penitentiary for almost six months, and he was certain that Quentin was the easiest to bribe. But so far, the guard wasn’t cooperating.
“Move it along, Farewell.” Quentin was an older guard, mid-forties, and starting to carry quite the paunch.
“Don’t you want a nest egg? Some retirement money?” Josh lowered his head, purposely looking conspiratorial. It helped set the mood for bribery.
“And just trust you to pay up? Get moving.”
“I paid up in Utah. And New Mexico. You know I make good on my word.”
“And you also got two guards arrested for taking bribes.”
“It’s not my fault they were too dumb to hide it. The point is I paid up. Ten G’s, one second of work. All you have to do is keep the cash hidden away and spend it gradually. Don’t go dumping ten grand into your account the day after a guy escaped from your pod. That’s what the idiot in Utah did, and you sir are no idiot.” Josh could tell that this fish was going to bite.
“And how exactly would you pay?” whether he knew it or not, Quentin had just taken the bait; Josh had only to reel him in.
“Fed-Ex.”<
br />
Quentin looked around, to see if anyone was watching. He was tense, his shoulders scrunching. Finally, he let out a chuckle. “Are you serious?”
The next morning, Josh woke up an hour early to prepare. He took the books off his shelf, then took the wooden shelf off the wall. He slid the wood veneer off the top of the board, revealing the particle board beneath, and the deep pocket he had carved into it. The shelf was about an inch thick, and Josh had scraped the particle board down to the veneer on the other side, leaving a one inch deep, four by six compartment. It held all the items he would need to escape. He carefully placed the items where they would not be visible. A few went into his pockets, others into his waistband. Josh had spent the last six months with his shirt tucked in, just so he wouldn’t look suspicious today. He tucked the shirt over his valuables, slipped back into bed, and waited for the morning guard to come and wake him for an ID check.
Josh spent his morning as he always did, cleaning sheets in the laundry. He went about his day as he would any other, ignoring Quentin, who was looking at him all the time. He waited until the guards shouted for lunch, and it was only as he was leaving that he looked Quentin in the eye and gave him a little nod. Yes, I’m actually leaving.
As he lined up with his lunch tray, Josh made sure to stand behind Jackie Griffin, a nice guy who would do just about anything for bit of cocaine. Holding his tray in one hand, Josh produced a small packet from his sleeve, and used his lunch tray to cover his hand as he gently tucked the packet into Jackie’s pocket. Jackie made no response. They got their food. Josh sat in his typical seat at the absolutely farthest table from the door that he came in through. It was also the absolutely closest table to the one that Quentin was supposed to open. Jackie sat at the other end of the cafeteria.
While Josh ate his final prison-issued macaroni and cheese, Jackie unwrapped his plastic baggie beneath the table. He quickly raised his hands to his nose and breathed in hard, inhaling most of the drug. He took a second sniff, then a third, before the guards noticed him. Once he saw the guard at the end of the row, he jumped up on his table, still holding the plastic package to his face, hoping to inhale it all before they got him. Three guards swooped in to pull him off the table, and everyone else in the room looked over to see what the commotion was. Even the guards over at the far side of the room looked at Jackie, and none of them noticed Josh Farewell slip off his bench and out the door that was only four feet behind him.
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