by Joe Hart
“What are you doing?” Everett said as he shut the door behind them. The guard’s eyes were wide and his hands trembled as he nervously ran them up and down the front of his uniform.
“He was going to stand here the whole time. He could’ve locked us in in a second if a call came through on his radio,” Sullivan said after laying the orderly on his side.
“That was a sucker punch. Not really fair but necessary. He deserves it, though. That bastard eats my mashed potatoes every time I get them. It’s like clockwork.”
Sullivan and Everett turned their attention to the man on the bed. His eyes were running up and down the prone orderly’s form, and something along the lines of a smile played at the corners of his wet mouth.
Sullivan walked to the edge of the bed and squatted in front of the man, blocking his view of the orderly on the floor. “Your name is Jason, isn’t it?”
The man licked his lips a few times, and then leaned in so close, Sullivan almost retreated, but he managed to hold his ground. “Yes, Jason Godring at your service, and I knew you’d be back to see me, or you wouldn’t, which would mean you’d died.”
Sullivan could smell Jason’s stale breath, but it was an afterthought. Something else struck a chord deep within his mind. “Your last name is Godring? Are you related to Oliver Godring?”
A wide smile spread across Jason’s face. “He was my father.”
Sullivan blinked. “Your father? The man who helped build Singleton and New Haven?”
Jason nodded. “Oh, he built more than that. So much more than that.”
“What do you mean?” Sullivan asked. Everett moved closer, and stood just behind Sullivan, his head turning every so often to glance at the orderly on the floor.
“His work was secrets. Full of them. But he told me sometimes when I was little. He told me if I was naughty. He wasn’t supposed to, but he did. He put me here when he died, put it in his will so I wouldn’t tell.” Jason’s eyes gained a glassy sheen as he spoke and lost their hold on the room around him.
“What secrets? Secrets from whom?” Sullivan asked.
“From everyone. He worked for the government. He did experiments for them. After the Manhattan Project, after the bombs, he worked on the beam. It was his favorite. More favorite than me.”
Sullivan looked over his shoulder at Everett, who returned his gaze with an upraised eyebrow. Sullivan turned his attention back to Jason, who now rocked back and forth, his arms still bear-hugging his knees.
“Jason, why did you tell me not to drink the water yesterday?” Sullivan asked.
Jason stopped rocking and looked directly at Sullivan. “It contaminated the water. It makes you dream the dream.”
“What did? What contaminated the water?” Sullivan asked, and saw Everett move closer in his peripheral vision.
“She did. My father said she was beautiful. He said she was going to make a different world for us, change everything. He told me if I wasn’t good that he’d feed me to her.”
The radio on the orderly’s hip squawked, and all three men jerked at the sound. There was a rip of static, and then a woman’s voice leaked from the small walkie-talkie.
“John, are you on three? Charlie and Jake aren’t responding.”
The orderly on the floor moaned, and the arm he wasn’t lying on flailed weakly before dropping back to the linoleum.
“We have to get out of here,” Everett said, pulling at Sullivan’s shoulder. Sullivan shrugged him off and turned back to Jason.
“Jason, what’s happening at Singleton? Do you know? There’s something inside the people there.”
Jason shook his head and scooted away so that his shoulders pressed up against the wall. “Don’t know, but she does. She knows everything.”
The woman’s voice came from the radio again, more urgent this time, demanding that the orderly respond.
“Sullivan, we have to go now!” Everett said.
“Jason, where do we find her?” Sullivan asked, sliding close to the older man on the bed.
Jason looked down at the bedspread, his mouth working silently. Finally he brought his gaze back up to Sullivan’s face. “She’s underneath, in the dark.”
The orderly on the floor groaned and planted a hand beside his body. Sullivan stood and followed Everett to the door, but before leaving the room, he turned back to Jason, studying the shell of a man, seeing only the young boy who remained inside.
“Thank you, Jason,” Sullivan said. He didn’t wait for him to respond.
The corridor was still empty as Sullivan and Everett ran to the door that accessed the stairs. As Everett swiped his key across the reader, the elevator hummed, nearing their floor. Both men slid through the door, onto the dimly lit landing, and held their breath. Several sets of feet approached and then receded as they passed the door by. Sullivan let out the breath he was holding as they began to descend the stairs, their shoes barely touching the treads.
The hallway they’d entered by was vacant, and after a few seconds, the fresh air of the night hit them both square in the face as they stepped outside. The rain still fell in mist form, and no moon was visible through the blanket of clouds above. Neither man spoke as they fled from the building’s back entry, and just to be safe, Sullivan led Everett back into the woods and began to curve toward the access road to the right. When they were sure no one pursued them through the trees, they both slowed their pace and fell in alongside each other. The leaves and branches around them dripped and nodded as they passed.
Everett looked over at Sullivan and finally broke the relative silence. “What the fuck was the purpose of that? That guy’s a raving lunatic.”
“He’s the son of the man who built both these facilities. Oliver Godring is the source of all this, I know it.”
“He could have been lying, for all we know. He might’ve said he’s Elvis’s illegitimate child if we’d asked,” Everett said, pawing at a low-hanging branch.
“He’s not lying. You heard him, his father had him locked up there after he died because of something he knew. I doubt if he was even crazy when he was committed, although he’s definitely affected now.”
“That’s an understatement,” Everett said.
“Look,” Sullivan said, stopping and grasping the guard’s arm. “If you want to find your brother, this is all we have to go on. That’s how you solve things like this, you take what you have and go with it.”
“What do we have? The say-so of a paranoid schizophrenic about some ‘she’ that’s polluting the water? And what do you want to do with this information?”
“I think we should go back into the prison, find Andrews if he’s still alive, and then search the solitary level.”
“Search it? For what?” Everett asked, his voice bordering on incredulity.
“For something underneath it.”
Everett’s face was hidden mostly in shadow, but Sullivan could imagine the anger that graced it. After a moment, the guard shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
“Am I? Do you want to find your brother or not?”
“Of course I do!” Everett roared, taking a step forward.
“Then listen to me,” Sullivan said. “You saw your co-workers leading the physicist into solitary.”
“Thought I saw,” Everett corrected Sullivan in a lower voice.
“If there is one place in the prison that might have a hidden entry, it would be the lowest level.” Sullivan heard Everett sigh and saw his shoulders slump a little. “And if there’s a place underneath the prison, that’s where your brother would be. It’s where Barry would be too.”
The wind came up and tossed the tops of the trees violently. Sullivan waited, and when the wind died, Everett spoke.
“Okay, so what’s your plan?”
“We need more weapons,” Sullivan said, walking again.
“There’s a little armory closet on the first floor. I have a key for it.”
“Good. Maybe you can get the guns while I get Andrew
s,” Sullivan said, as they stepped out of the woods onto the road.
They walked side by side on the muddied gravel. It was over a minute before Everett spoke again; this time his voice was softer. “Sullivan, I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you and your partner when you got here. I guess I just didn’t want any interference from the outside messing up my search for Alex. I lost faith in investigators after they told me that he’d turn up and just to wait it out.” He paused, turning his head toward Sullivan. “Your partner seemed like a decent man.”
Sullivan nodded. “He was—is.” Don’t you give up on him now. Not now. You bring him home to his wife and kids.
Sullivan realized a moment later that Everett wasn’t beside him, and turned to look at the guard. Everett’s eyes were locked on something ahead of them, and Sullivan spun to look in that direction.
The gate had just come into view. It was still open.
“Fuck,” Everett said, drawing even with Sullivan. “That’s not good at all.”
“Why, does that mean someone just came through?”
“No, it closes on its own after ten seconds. It only stays open if you lock it at the keypad or from the surveillance room.”
“So unless someone’s here right now, I’m guessing they locked it from inside the prison,” Sullivan said eyeing the surrounding woods.
“Looks that way.”
Sullivan reached up and rubbed the scar over his eye, massaging the skin and muscle near the temple. “Then I guess they’re expecting us,” he said at last. “Let’s not disappoint them.”
Chapter 11
The cafeteria was still and dark when they stepped inside the emergency exit they’d fled through hours before. Both men shook water from their hair, as the rain had begun to fall in earnest again. When they’d rounded the far side of the prison, Sullivan glimpsed the sandbags succumbing to the flood, water rolling over the barricaded edge in wide swaths. He guessed they had very little time before the water would be knocking on the prison’s front doors.
Sullivan reached instinctively to his side where his weapon normally rode, and found only empty air. Remembering the guard’s handgun at his back, he grasped the handle and drew it. Everett stood beside him, his pistol pointed at the floor.
“Ready?” Sullivan whispered.
“Ready,” Everett replied.
The two men hurried across the expanse of the room, the light tapping of their footsteps the only sound. The hallway to the main holding area was empty and quiet also, and as they passed the infirmary door, Sullivan couldn’t help looking at it. He almost expected it to fly open and Amanda to be standing there, her head wreathed in twisting shapes. The door to the holding area stood ajar, and both men slowed, sidling up to the entry. Sullivan risked a glance into the enormous space and drew back. Everett stared at him from across the hall.
“It’s empty,” Sullivan said in a low voice.
Everett frowned. “Empty?”
“As far as I could tell,” Sullivan said. He listened to the humming silence, nudged the door, and stepped out into the open.
He was right. The entire holding area was devoid of life. Only the emergency lights burned in the darkness, but they were bright enough to see that no one was there. No guards stood at the desk or beside any of the security doors and none walked the grids overlooking the floor. Most disturbingly, the cells were also empty. Each and every inmate had vanished, leaving only open doors that stared like dead eyes into the walkway.
Everett cursed quietly and held his gun at arm’s length, swinging it into the darkest corners. “Where’d they all go?” Everett asked, still incrementally turning to study the surroundings.
“I don’t know,” Sullivan said.
“Did they start the evacuation?”
“We would have seen them outside. Let’s go, this isn’t right,” Sullivan said, moving toward the security door. His keycard scanned successfully and the lock released with a click. Sullivan peered into the lobby. The main desk was empty, the computer screen upon its surface dark. He stepped into the lobby and Everett followed, letting the door ease shut behind them. The warden’s door was closed, but a little light leaked out from beneath it.
Sullivan turned to Everett. “You get the guns and come to Andrews’s office. We’ll try to make a plan from there.”
Everett nodded and spun away, disappearing around the corner toward the interrogation rooms. Sullivan hefted his weapon and realized how much he missed his own gun. The pistol didn’t feel comfortable in his hand, but it was all he had.
He took two steps toward the warden’s office, when the door leading to the overnight quarters flew open on the other side of the room. Two guards rushed out, handguns drawn, flashlights shining in his eyes.
“Put it down!” one guard yelled as Sullivan’s muscles tensed. He considered diving and throwing a shot at the two men, but then realized he recognized the guard’s voice.
“Officer Hunt?” Sullivan asked, shielding his eyes.
The guard nearest him lowered his flashlight as well as his weapon. “Agent Shale. Glad we found you, but I need you to drop your gun.”
Sullivan glanced at the other guard and saw that he carried a riot shotgun, its twelve-gauge eye still focused on his chest.
“Okay, here you go,” Sullivan said, kneeling slowly to the ground. He set the gun on the floor and slid it toward the two guards. Hunt bent and retrieved the weapon.
“Warden Andrews needs to speak with you,” the guard with the shotgun said as he lowered its menacing barrel toward the floor. “You have any other weapons?”
“No,” Sullivan said, relief blooming in his chest like a spring flower. Hunt and the other guard looked anxious, and the fact that they wanted him to see Andrews was encouraging. He wished he could’ve caught Everett before he’d gone in search of more artillery.
The two guards walked to Andrews’s door and opened it, letting the yellow light spill out onto the floor. Sullivan stepped past them into the office, his relief growing at the sight of the warden behind his desk.
“Sullivan, come in,” Andrews said, rising tiredly from his seat. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
Sullivan walked up to the desk, as Hunt and the other man entered the room and shut the door. “Sir, there’s something very wrong here. I found out a few more things, but right now we need to gather as many men as we can and search the solitary level.”
Andrews’s eyes were half closed, as if standing were a job in itself. He gradually folded his lanky frame into the chair and stared across the desk at Sullivan. “Are you and your wife divorced, Sullivan?” Andrews finally asked.
The question was like a shot of cold water during a hot shower. It caught him off-guard and made his mind stutter step. “What?” Sullivan asked.
“Your wife,” the warden continued, and now it seemed that the older man was getting comfortable in his chair. “You said you were no longer married. Are you divorced?”
Sullivan licked his lips and felt the scar above his eye tingle. “Sir, what does that have to do—”
“Just answer the question,” Andrews said, as a cold smile that Sullivan would have called benevolent hours ago appeared on the older man’s face. Behind him he heard the safety on one of the guard’s weapons click off. Sullivan felt his guts compress and his scalp tighten.
“No, she’s dead,” Sullivan said.
The warden nodded, the smile lingering on his lips. “Good, I’d hoped so.”
“What did you just say?” Sullivan asked incredulously. He was sure he’d heard the warden wrong.
“Have a seat, son,” Andrews said, gesturing toward one of the chairs across from the desk.
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but—”
“Have a seat or one of the men behind you will put a bullet in the back of your head,” Andrews interrupted.
Sullivan stared at the older man. He felt his jaw wanting to hang open, but kept it shut. He wanted to scream, to curse himself fo
r being so stupid. He wanted to jump the desk and throttle the warden where he rested. Instead, he sat in the chair behind him.
“You don’t seem like a man that fears death, Sullivan. I admire people like that. I’m not one of them. Death has terrified me since the moment I saw my grandfather fall down dead of a heart attack. I was seven at the time. I remember thinking I never wanted to have the look on my face that he did when he was lying there clutching his chest. That fear, the fear of what’s beyond. It scares the hell out of me.” Andrews sat forward and rested his hands on the desktop. His eyes were soft in the low light, pleading almost. “How did your wife die?”
“Fuck you,” Sullivan said through clenched teeth. Somewhere behind him he heard a hammer cock.
“Now, now. We don’t need rudeness invading a polite conversation. I told you how I lost my wife, it’s only courteous that you do the same.”
Sullivan felt his breath beginning to deepen. His heart felt like war drum in his chest, not fast but hard. “She killed herself.”
“Hmm. I’m very sorry to hear that.” Andrews turned his head to study the pictures hanging on the wall. “What would you say if I told you, you could have her back?”
Sullivan stared across the desk at the warden. “I’d say you’re off your fucking rocker, old man.”
Andrews laughed and turned his attention back to Sullivan. “I’d have said the same thing six years ago before I came here, son. You see, a man’s view of the world and reality is so narrow that he sometimes misses things that are just outside his peripheral line of sight. Things that are broader and so beautiful, they’re beyond reckoning.”
Beautiful. Hearing the word chilled Sullivan after the past few days. It no longer held any good connotations.
“Oliver Godring had wide vision. He was a brilliant man in his time, and would have rivaled any mind today. I admire him more than any other human being on the planet.”
“He locked his own son away in a mental ward,” Sullivan spat.
Andrews nodded and licked his lips. “Regrettable, but necessary for his work to continue.”