Breakout

by Paul Herron

  You stare at him. He doesn’t say anything. He knows what you’re thinking, is aware that the slightest move from him could push you either way.

  You check your watch. It’s 3 p.m. Four hours till the meet-up. You don’t want to risk leaving him like this. He could get loose. Could warn Tully and the others.

  You check his room, find some sleeping pills. Strong ones. One of them would knock a healthy adult out. You crush seven and put them into water. You do it in front of Finch, let him see what you’re doing.

  “You’re going to drink this,” you say. He starts to shake his head. “You either drink this or I kill you. Either way, I need you out of action for a while. Your call.”

  He hesitates, then nods.

  You lift the glass to his mouth and he gulps it down. You wait around forty minutes before the drugs kick in. You thought they’d work a lot faster, but heavy users are used to the hard stuff. You just hope you’ve given him enough.

  His eyes close and his head slumps forward. You slap him, but he doesn’t budge.

  You check your watch. Four o’clock. Three hours left.

  Time to set up the ambush.

  And here I am, lying at the top of the hill, watching the lumberyard through the scope on my rifle.

  Waiting.

  I turn my watch around so the clock face is on the underside of my wrist. A habit from the war. You don’t want any reflections giving away your position. Plus, it makes it easier to check the time when you’re lying in wait.

  It’s seven o’clock. They should be here any minute now.

  In fact…

  I can see lights approaching, a spectral white glow that looks like it’s floating through the trees. Then I hear the engine of a pickup truck badly in need of a tune-up.

  I stretch my neck from side to side, loosening my muscles, then put my eye back to the scope. I breathe in—one, two, three, pause—then out—one, two, three. In—then out. Slowing my breathing, moving into the zone.

  The truck finally heaves and skids into view, bouncing and shuddering over the dirt track, its ancient suspension barely able to keep it in a straight line.

  For a moment, I think they’re going to do the job for me. My own car is parked lengthwise across the road right in front of the lumber mill, exactly where I want them to stop. But they don’t even slow down as they approach.

  I track the pickup truck through the scope, focusing on the driver. It’s Tully. He’s got his head turned to the side as if he’s talking, but he glances back through the windshield and slams on the brakes just in time.

  The truck locks up and skids across the dirt, starting to turn side-on.

  I take the opportunity. I shift my aim, slowly, moving with the truck.

  Crack!

  One bullet takes out the rear tire. I shift aim again, steady my hand…

  Crack!

  Another bullet takes out the front tire. The truck’s still skidding, still spinning. They must have heard the shots, felt the tires blow out. I don’t move the scope to see their faces. I wait as the car spins fully around, presenting its opposite side to me.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Two more shots. Two more tires. I couldn’t have planned it any better.

  The truck slews to a stop in a cloud of dirt about five feet from my own car. I keep my eye to the scope, waiting.

  The door on the passenger side opens. Someone steps out—Wright. He tries to run. I squeeze the trigger, hear the sharp crack of the rifle. A fraction of a second later, a tiny cloud of dark mist explodes from his knee and he drops to the ground.

  Now they’ll be panicking. I wonder what they’re going to do. I’ve made a wager with myself. Odds-on they try to run, even if they don’t know where the shooter is.

  I’m right. Tully scrambles from the truck, trying to sprint into the trees. I track him for a long moment with the sight, letting him feel some hope—then I shoot his kneecap out from behind and he goes down.

  Novak starts the truck up. He’s going to try to escape with four blown-out tires.

  I shift my aim to the lumber shed, shoot the propane tanks. I raise my eye from the scope, see the fireballs roll up into the sky, followed by a thundering explosion that shakes the ground.

  The vibrations continue as the huge pile of tree trunks roll and bounce down the hill, falling and sliding into the road, blocking Novak’s escape route.

  He doesn’t stop. Does he think he’s going to drive over the tree trunks? Idiot. I know he’s not going to get past them, but I open up on the front of the truck, firing bursts into the radiator, the engine block. The truck skids and slides as he veers wildly. I keep firing. A moment later, the truck coughs and dies, smoke curling up into the air.

  I wait. A part of me wants to open up on them, spray the whole area with bullets, rip them to shreds. But another part of me, the part that died in the living room that day, wins out. They need to suffer for what they did. No quick deaths.

  Novak finally makes his move. The door swings open and he slides out. He’s on the opposite side of the truck, so I can’t get a clean shot.

  I glance at the ammo rail. About fifty rounds left. I wait, but Novak stays where he is. He’s panicked, doesn’t know where to go, has no idea where I am.

  Okay. Let me take it to him. I stand up with the rifle, the ammo belt dangling to my knees. I make my way down the slope. I keep the rifle raised, ready to shoot. I know the path is free of obstacles. I cleared it myself, walked up and down a few times to get the feel of it. I don’t need to look where I’m going.

  I reach level ground and he still hasn’t moved. I pause, then lower myself to the dirt, the rifle to my side. I peer beneath the truck. He’s still there.

  I leave the rifle on the ground, take out the Glock. (Not the one I’m going to finish them with. A second gun.) Wright is moaning in pain, writhing on the ground where he fell. I know the exact moment he becomes aware of me approaching. His moaning stops.

  I ratchet the slide on the gun. The sound might as well be a gunshot, because it focuses all attention on me. I wait till Tully looks over his shoulder. I can even see Novak peering around the side of the truck. I carry on toward Wright. He turns, flops over on his belly like a landed fish. He manages to push himself to his feet, one leg dragging behind him as he tries to limp away. I pause a few feet from him, wait for him to look over his shoulder—

  —and I shoot his other kneecap out.

  He drops, screaming. I walk forward, grab his shirt, pull him over so he’s lying on his back.

  “What do you want?” he shouts.

  My voice is flat. Dead. The way I feel inside. “Five weeks ago, you broke into my house. You killed my wife. She was pregnant. The fuck you think I want?”

  Wright’s eyes widen. “That… that was a mistake! I swear! We were just looking for some cash, that’s all. Your wife… she walked in on us. We panicked…”

  He stops talking.

  There’s a noise. We both hear it.

  It’s a car.

  No, cars. Approaching fast.

  I turn toward the dirt road and see blue and red lights flashing in the distance, brightening the darkness between the trees.

  Cops?

  Why the hell are the cops here?

  How…?

  Wright tries to crawl away. I stamp down on his leg, desperately trying to think. Wright screams as two cars burst through the trees and skid to a stop on the other side of the fallen logs.

  The doors fly open. I grab the other Glock from my jeans, the one with the special bullets, and point it at Wright, ready to shoot him in the head.

  “Constantine!”

  I freeze, look back to see Mason, my partner, skirting around the edge of the logs.

  “Constantine, don’t you dare!” she shouts.

  “These are the fuckers who killed Amy!”

  “I don’t give a shit!”

  Other cops have exited the cars. They stand behind their open doors, guns leveled at
me. Mason glances back, raises her hands in the air.

  “Just wait! Let me talk to him.”

  “There’s nothing to say!” I call out.

  “Constantine, please. You can still walk away from this.”

  I look down at Wright. Across at Tully. I laugh out loud, barely managing to stop myself when I hear the tinge of hysteria in my voice.

  “Jack. Please…”

  I look at Mason. Her face is twisted with grief. We’ve known each other for ten years. I’m her kid’s godfather.

  “Don’t…” she starts to say.

  Novak makes a run for it. He bolts from behind the pickup truck and runs toward the police cars. I act instinctively. I swivel and shoot.

  The bullet hits him in the back of the neck. Mason cries out as he collapses.

  I barely have time to register this before I feel a huge jolt of pain in my arm. I stagger back, the gun falling from my fingers. Mason stands there, gun leveled at me, her eyes wide with shock, as if she can’t believe what she’s done.

  The police are all shouting, but I can hardly hear over the rushing in my ears.

  I turn around. See Tully crawling away. Wright too. He’s already twenty feet from me. I bend over to pick up the Glock.

  Then something hits me in the side and I’m thrown to the ground.

  “Don’t be fucking stupid, Jack,” says Mason, right in my ear.

  I try to throw her off, but she grabs my wounded arm and forces it behind my back. I scream in pain.

  Then more weight falls on me. I feel hands on my head, shoving my face into the dust.

  The last sight I see is the cops heading toward Wright and Tully.

  ADVISORY BULLETIN

  Hurricane Josephine Advisory Number 5

  NWS National Hurricane Center Miami FL

  5 P.M. EDT FRI AUG 27 2021

  DISCUSSION AND OUTLOOK

  During the past several hours Josephine has been steadily gaining in strength. Josephine is on track to make landfall over the Turks and Caicos Islands this afternoon, bringing winds of up to 120 mph (193 km/h). On this track, the center of Josephine will be approaching Miami in 12 hours. The cyclone is forecast to increase from Category 4 to Category 5 by Saturday, August 28.

  WARNINGS

  Evacuation is mandatory. Repeat, evacuation is mandatory.

  $$

  Forecaster Mills

  One

  Friday, August 27

  6:00 a.m.

  Prison is all about breaking your sentence into blocks of time. That’s the only way to survive. A year is too much. Half a year is depressing. Hell, even a month feels eternal.

  A week, though—a week is just about manageable. Least it is if you have something to mark the passing of time. Like family coming to visit. That gives you a countdown. A reason to keep going.

  I don’t have that. Both my parents are dead. No kids, no brothers or sisters. A murdered wife. So… yeah. Not much to look forward to there.

  But you push on. You push on until you can’t anymore. Because that’s life, as my old man used to say. You live, you die. Anything in between is still a steaming pile of shit, but you try to make the most of it. He made the most of it with drugs and hookers. Ended up driving off a hundred-foot-high bridge into a torrential river at three in the morning, coked up to his eyeballs and wearing nothing but his Superman boxer shorts. The hooker who leaped from the car just before it went over the edge said he was screaming about Lydia—my mother—caging him in and stopping him from flying free, that he was going to prove her wrong.

  Spoiler alert: he didn’t.

  But he was right about one thing. You either push on or you check out. I don’t have access to coke, hookers, or a torrential river, so the alternative is either pissing off one of the gangs so they shank me in the shower (hopefully with something nonorganic, if you catch my meaning), or going for one of the guards, try to hurt them bad enough that they use lethal force.

  I think I’d rather push on, thanks very much.

  Felix says it gets easier the longer you’re inside, but I don’t believe much of what Felix says. He’s a habitual liar. Or, as he likes to term it, a “teller of tales.” Plus, I’ve been in here for three years now. How much longer is it going to take?

  I frown as I stare through the tiny scratched window in the door of our cell. Why the hell am I thinking about the passing of time? That’s a bad way to start the day. Just leads to depression.

  Oh yeah. Felix.

  “I mean, the kid was crying again,” says Felix from his bunk. “He’s been here—what? Three weeks now? I told him. I said the only way to survive prison is not to fight it.”

  “That right?” I say absently.

  Our cell is on the upper level of B Block. All I can see out the window is the walkway railing and the cells on the opposite side of the pod. Looks like Stevens has been banging his head against the glass again. His window is smeared with dark crimson.

  “’Course it’s right. Accept you’re here, man. There’s no three-bedroom house in our future. No wife and kids. No puppy. No sneaking off to see your mistress on a Friday afternoon after work—you know, the one who does the things your wife thinks are disgusting. That’s gone. Don’t even think about it. This is your life now. Embrace it. Own that shit.”

  “I thought I had,” I say.

  Had I, though? I wasn’t really sure. It’s hard to know your own mind in prison. Too many thoughts running through your head. Things tend to get distracted, confused.

  “The fuck, man?” snaps Felix. “You not listening to a word I’m saying?”

  Jesus. Miss Temperamental over there. You have to be careful with Felix. Normally he’s pretty chill, but the weirdest thing can set him off into a flying rage. I’ve never been on the receiving end of it, but I’ve seen inmates carried to the infirmary who have.

  “I’m listening,” I say. Then I pause. “Just remind me again?”

  “I’m sayin’ we have to accept we’re stuck in here. Look… you seen Leo, right? The old guy? Sits at the back of the cafeteria. Always holdin’ his knife and fork like he’s about to stab them into his head.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know why he’s like that?”

  “Let me take a wild guess. Because he hasn’t accepted he’s here?”

  “Bingo. He’s always thinkin’ about a way out. Always watching, planning. Guy looks eighty years old. Been here his whole life. And he still thinks he’s going to see the outside. Always talking about digging tunnels, sneaking through storm drains. Look what it’s got him. Stomach ulcers and delusions. I told that to the new kid. Pauly.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Started crying again.”

  I glance over my shoulder at Felix. He’s a big guy. Six-three, solid muscle. Black skin and intense eyes. Likes to read cheesy romance novels from the prison library. Each to his own. He’s currently lying on his bunk holding a pink-and-orange book. I can just see the bare chest of some pirate-type guy on the cover.

  “Just so I’m clear. You think not accepting he’s in prison gave Leo stomach ulcers and delusions?”

  “Sure. You gotta go with the flow, man. Live life like a Zen monk. Those motherfuckers don’t stress about nothin’. That’s how prison breaks you. You live with hope, it’s gonna kill you in the end. You gotta realize this is your life from now on. Accept that shit in your soul. Then everything’s hunky-dory.”

  “Nobody says hunky-dory anymore, Felix,” I say, turning back to the door.

  “I do.”

  Fact of the matter is, I actually agree with him. Even though I struggle with time, mainly the boredom of it all, I long ago adjusted to the fact that this is it. That my life is over.

  Not that I care. My life was over before I even got caught.

  But what Felix says about hope is true. Even those with something to live for lose it in the end. Maybe they keep a photograph of their girlfriend on their wall, or drawings from their kids. Birthday cards, something
like that. They start off as symbols of hope. Hope that they still have a life outside, hope that they’re getting out someday. But as the months drag on, despair takes over. You can’t keep hope alive with no payoff. Your mind only lets you lie to yourself for so long before it turns on you.

  Best not to care about anything. Or anybody. Nothing to lose that way.

  “Head count!”

  I lean back as a heavy cranking sound echoes through the pod, followed by the metallic slam of forty-two doors sliding open. I step out of the cell, checking left and right as I do so. Reflex. It’s the perfect time for an attack. Nobody is expecting it.

  It’s safe, though. Just inmates yawning and scratching their balls as they step onto the metal grating, the first part of the daily routine kicking in. The first segment of time in the never-ending spiral toward madness or death—whichever comes first.

  “You were snoring again last night,” says Felix as he joins me on the walkway.

  “I don’t snore.”

  “You fucking do. Like a freight train. Seriously. You need to see a doctor or something, because I am highly likely to suffocate you if you carry on like that.”

  “Whatever,” I say, stifling a yawn. I’m exhausted. Everyone is. The storm that has been pummeling Florida for the past two days sounds like it’s getting stronger, the raging wind a constant howling and shrieking that can be heard through the thick prison walls. It’s putting everyone on edge, keeping everyone up at night.

  I slept in today because of that, but I’m usually up before five. That’s the quietest time in prison. Even the crazies who stay up all the hours screaming and crying tend to drift off after four. It’s my private time. My few moments of relaxation before the routine of prison forces me to break the day down into smaller and smaller chunks.

  This first chunk starts at quarter after six—roll call. Every inmate has to shuffle outside and stand there while the correction officers—COs—count us off with old manual clickers. If anyone sleeps in, or if someone is too slow to make it to head count, the whole process starts all over again, right from number one. And you really don’t want to be the guy who holds up roll call. That means a delayed and rushed breakfast, and some inmates do not appreciate that kind of change to their schedule.