Breakout

by Paul Herron

  Others see it too. Panicked screams break out. Shouts, swearing, people fighting to get to the top of the passage, trying to get away from the windows.

  I look around for Sawyer, see her about six feet away. I barge my way through the inmates, grabbing hold of her and half dragging, half pushing her toward the door.

  “Get out of the fucking way!” I shout. “Move!

  We reach the front of the crowd and shove the door open. At least it wasn’t locked. The surge behind us almost gets us both trampled. We manage to dodge to the side as the inmates cascade through the door into the reception area like sand through a funnel.

  The water in here is only up to my ankles. There are gasps and cries all around as people trip or are pushed to the floor. Some of the inmates rush toward the huge desk against the far wall, climbing on top of it in fear that the water will keep rising.

  I wait by the heavy door while the others spill through. I peer through a window in the corridor and watch the wave coming. There are still inmates struggling toward Admin. There’s no way they’re going to make it.

  The storm surge hits, slamming into Ravenhill.

  The whole building shakes. The lights flicker, dim, switch off, then struggle back to life again. I can hear the groaning of tortured stone, the distant crashing of something collapsing.

  The inmates still in the corridor stand frozen. They’re all hoping it will pass over, wash over them like the tide washing over rocks at the beach.

  But it doesn’t. One of the windows in the passage cracks, splinters, then bursts inward. Leaks spring up all along the walls. Water pours in through the rapidly expanding holes, rising to fill the corridor.

  The inmates scramble over each other to get to the door. They’re not going to make it. The water is rising too fast. As I watch, part of the wall by the bottom door collapses. Water and wind surge in. Another section of wall crumbles away. The wind screams through the now exposed passage. A few stragglers are immediately plucked up and sucked into the boiling clouds.

  There’s no choice. We have to close the door. I try to push it shut, but a fierce gust of wind slams straight into it and sends us all flying back to land on our asses in the water.

  The scream of the wind and the storm is deafening. Lightning flashes. I can hear distant explosions. Collapsing metal, grinding concrete.

  The lights flicker one last time and go out, plunging the reception area—and, I assume, the entire prison—into darkness.

  I get up and pull myself to the door. Others join me and we try to shove it closed against the wind. I’m looking straight into the storm. Straight outside. The entire A Wing is totally destroyed. Just… gone.

  The inmates who made it through before the hurricane flattened the corridor push themselves to their feet and put their weight against the door. We push against the wind until we finally manage to shove it closed.

  The screaming wind drops slightly in volume. Sawyer hands me the keys, one of them already selected. I ram it home and turn it in the lock. I can hear ragged breathing behind me, the splashing of water.

  Someone farther into the reception says, “Fuck…” in an awed voice.

  I lean my head back against the door. All that stands between us and the hurricane is about three inches of metal. I really don’t think it’s going to be enough.

  I doubt this place will hold for three hours, let alone five.

  Ten

  Saturday, August 28

  12:30 a.m.

  The prison generators kick in. The lights flicker to reluctant life, but none of them are at full strength. They cast a thin, watery glow that fails to chase away the darkness. The generators are at least thirty years old and the last time they were serviced was about eighteen months ago. I know that because Henry and I were the ones who did it. The prison was too cheap to hire actual contractors.

  There’s a heavy silence inside the reception as we all listen to the raging of the hurricane. It overpowers everything, a constant booming and crashing, waves of rain slamming against thick windows, random objects pummeling into the roof—I figure road signs, trees, fences, parts of houses, anything that can be plucked from the ground.

  And now we have to deal with the storm surges. I’m not sure how they work. If that even was a storm surge. Maybe it was just floodwater pushed into a wave by the wind? I have no idea if they’re going to keep coming. The whole building is vibrating and creaking under the strain.

  Some of the inmates are already leaving, moving deeper into the prison to get away from the crowds. Probably a smart move. Others are still distracted, staring through windows at the hurricane outside. But as soon as they realize they’re not about to die, old grudges are going to be settled.

  “Gotta admit, I’m not feeling a hundred percent safe hanging around in here,” says Sawyer.

  Jesus. Sawyer…

  I glance around the room. No one is paying any attention to us—to her. But it won’t be long before they remember she’s here. Probably best for me to hide my face too. Cops, ex or not, aren’t well liked in prison.

  We move around the wall, staying in the shadows, sticking to the outskirts of the crowd. I keep my eyes on the inmates, trying to block Sawyer from view with my body.

  I catch a glimpse of Castillo. He’s talking to two huge men: Silas, and another guy who looks like he’s around six-five, a solid mix of bulk and muscle.

  They stop talking and turn to look at the door we all just came through. Then they start scanning the inmates, searching for something.

  Searching for someone…

  Shit…

  I speed up my pace, heading for the closest door. Sawyer keeps up and we exit the reception area into a short hallway that ends at a T-junction about fifteen feet ahead.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “Somewhere to hole up. We need to plan our way forward.” And hide, in case Castillo is after Sawyer.

  We move as fast as we can while trying to stay out of sight of the other inmates. I check the doors as we pass, opening them and peering into the rooms. Most of them are offices filled with desks and computers, others used to store old PCs and broken monitors. None of them are suitable because all the doors are cheap wood and would cave in with one kick.

  I finally find somewhere that will work. I can feel the door is heavy and reinforced even as I push it open.

  “In here,” I say, stepping inside.

  It’s a supply room, about thirty feet long and fifteen wide, separated by five rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Toilet paper, laundry detergent, and hand sanitizer lie scattered across the floor. The inmates have already ransacked the room, taking anything edible or dangerous.

  “Lock the door.”

  Sawyer finds the right key while I do a quick check to make sure there isn’t another entrance.

  It’s clear.

  I sigh and slump down onto an eighteen-pack of toilet paper, leaning my head back against the wall.

  Jesus. I can’t believe it’s only been about an hour since I woke up. My body feels like it’s been run over by a truck.

  Sawyer sits down opposite me. “You okay?”

  I open my eyes, looking at her in surprise. “Me? Yeah,” I lie. “I’m fine. Hundred percent. What about you?”

  She shrugs. “I’ve been better.”

  Understatement of the year. I let my eyes drift closed again. We sit in silence for a few minutes, letting the adrenaline wash through us. I keep seeing flashes of those poor bastards taken out by the storm surge. The panic in their eyes, the fear when they realized they were about to die and there was absolutely nothing they could do to save themselves.

  I shiver and open my eyes. Not a good idea to dwell on that. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What was with you punching out those ceiling tiles?”

  She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Because those me
n would have died otherwise.”

  “Well… sure, but they probably deserve it.”

  “Nobody deserves that.”

  “You don’t know what they’re in here for.”

  “So? Makes no difference to me.”

  “You put yourself in danger, though. And me. We could have died.”

  “But we didn’t. It’s called decency, Constantine. You must remember what that is. Being human?”

  I shrug. “Whatever happens happens. There’s nothing we can do to change it. All we can do is fight to stay alive as long as possible. That’s being human.”

  “You don’t really believe that. You used to be a cop.”

  “Used to. I’m telling you this now: don’t put yourself in danger like that again. Nobody in here is worth saving.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Especially not me.”

  “Come on,” she says. “Are you seriously saying you don’t have anything to live for?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Nothing? No one? No parents? Brothers or sisters?”

  I shake my head. “Just me.”

  “Friends?”

  I think about it. “I suppose Felix is an okay guy. He’s my cellmate.”

  “Jesus. That’s one miserable life you live.”

  “I try my best.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. I do have people to live for. I want—”

  I cut in. “Who?”

  She pauses, her train of thought derailed. “What?”

  “Who do you have to live for? A husband? Kids?”

  “No kids. I’ve got an ex-husband. He’s all right, I guess. But I’ve got family. Friends. People I’m responsible for.”

  I can sense her reluctance to talk. But if she’s going to judge me, I have a right to ask. “Who?”

  She hesitates. “My brother, Mike. He… looks up to me. And… he kind of hates me.”

  I frown. “Which one is it?”

  “Both, I guess. He hasn’t talked to me for a couple of years now.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story. Our mother died when he was ten. I was thirteen. Cancer. Long. Drawn out.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault. That’s on God.”

  “You still believe in God?” I say, surprised. “After seeing your mother suffer like that?”

  Sawyer thinks about it, then shrugs. “Sometimes.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes drifting back through the years. “She refused treatment in the end. She knew it wasn’t going to do any good. Died at home. But it took over a month. Every morning Mike woke up and waited at the foot of my bed—never went on his own. We’d go to our mom’s room and knock. We’d never just walk in. We were too scared of what we’d find. We waited till we heard her call out. Or she’d push her book onto the floor. Something just to tell us she was still alive. Then we’d go in and she’d get us to pray with her.”

  “She still believed?”

  “Right till the end. She was hardcore. Used to read us the Bible as our bedtime story. I could probably recite the whole thing from memory. She always said whatever happened was God’s plan.”

  I snort my disgust. “Fuck that shit. If that kind of thing is God’s plan, then he’s the bad guy.”

  “So I take it you haven’t been saved by our Lord and Savior?” Her tone is light. She’s joking.

  “Nope. I was forced to go to Sunday school when I was a kid. My grandparents took me. The teacher—he was what you would call a traditionalist. Fire and brimstone. Screaming and shouting. Think I was about six at the time. From that moment on, I kind of took offense to people trying to tell me what to do.”

  “And your wife?”

  “What about her?”

  “Was she religious?”

  “She called herself a weekend Christian. But not even that. She went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, maybe on Easter. That’s about it.”

  “You ever go with her? To Midnight Mass?”

  I laugh. “No. She wouldn’t let me. Said I’d burst into flames if I set foot inside the church.”

  Sawyer smiles.

  “So…” I say. “Your mom?”

  Her smile fades. “One morning we stood at her door and knocked. She didn’t reply. It was just… silent. We didn’t know what to do.”

  “Where was your dad?”

  “We weren’t sure. We looked for him, but… eventually I just pushed the door open…” She glances away, her face clouding. “I saw my dad first, lying on the bed next to my mom. She was dead. My dad was just… crying. Silently. Her hand was on his cheek. I don’t know if he put it there or if it was her last act. I remember thinking how weird it looked. The pale white of my mom’s dead skin against his face. When he saw us watching, he freaked out. Started screaming and shouting for us to get out. To shut our eyes.”

  “He didn’t want you seeing your mother like that.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But when I got older, I got to thinking he didn’t want us seeing him like that. Showing emotion. First time we’d ever seen him cry. He wasn’t big on hugs and kisses, you know?”

  I nod.

  “After that, it was never the same between us. He would never look us in the eyes. It’s like he was ashamed.”

  “Your dad’s old man, your grandfather. Was he one of those old-school tough guys?”

  “Yeah. Spare the rod, spoil the child. He beat our gran too. I found that out later, at my dad’s funeral. His sister told us. Kind of made me understand my dad a bit better.”

  “He ever hit you?”

  “No. He was never like that.”

  “That’s how it goes. You either become your parents or you push so far away from what they were, you become the total opposite.” I pause. “Most people just become them. It’s easier.”

  Sawyer nods.

  “What about your brother? How did he turn out?”

  She hesitates. “I… had to pretty much raise him myself. Our dad didn’t have a great job, so he couldn’t afford babysitters or anything. I did the best I could, but he fell in with a bad crowd. They got him involved in crime. Delivering parcels on his bike when he was still a kid. Then dealing drugs.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Bellevue. Possession and dealing.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not your fault, though. You did your best, right?”

  “Yeah,” she says softly. “I did my best.”

  We trail off into an awkward silence. Sawyer winces and rolls her shoulder. Then she takes out the sealed wound dressing she picked up in the infirmary.

  “Can you help me with this?” she asks.

  She hands me the dressing and pulls her shirt down over her shoulder to expose a deep cut.

  “Try and pull the lips together and make sure the seal is tight,” she says.

  I open up the packet and take out a square dressing. I peel off the backing, exposing the adhesive around the edges, and carefully place it over her shoulder, making sure it sticks all the way around.

  I have to force myself to smooth the dressing down. It’s the first time I’ve touched a woman’s skin in three years. First time I’ve touched a woman other than Amy in ten. It feels like I’m cheating, which is stupid. How do you cheat on a ghost?

  I crumple up the packaging and drop it into the water. “Done.”

  “Thanks.” She pulls her shirt up again. “We need to plan our route,” she says, taking something out of her pocket. She unfolds it on her lap and I see it’s an evacuation plan—a map of the prison.

  I lean forward, glad to be distracted from thoughts of Amy. I point to the large rectangular block at the bottom of the map. “We’re somewhere in here. The admin building.”

  “Right.” Sawyer points to the very top of the map. “And that’s the Northside staff room. Where we need to get to. I think we should try for the staff corridor.”

  She points to the long corridor traveling up alon
g the right side of the prison map, heading directly to the block at the north end of the prison. I’ve never been to that side. Like she says, it’s staff only.

  “It’s a straight path, see?”

  “Sure, except for the fact that there are eight hundred inmates somewhere between us and the exit. It could be overrun already.”

  “Could be… The other option is the inmate corridor.” She points to the corridor on the left side of the map. It exactly mirrors the staff corridor, with all the prison units, 1 to 4, then Transitional, Mental Health, and Administrative Control all nestled between the two passages.

  “Either one could be blocked.”

  “We won’t know till we check.”

  “I suppose.” She’s right. We need to get to the north end of the prison as fast as possible. Which means we try the direct route first.

  “Okay. Staff corridor it is.”

  We get up. The keys are still hanging in the door. “What’s with those keys?” I ask. “Is there one for every lock in the prison?”

  “Nah. They’re the sheriff’s keys. See?” She shows me the name tag hanging from the key ring. “I think he has universal keys for the storerooms, staff rooms, the doors between the different prison units.” She turns the key in the lock, then pulls it out and clips the ring back onto her belt. “If there was a separate key for every door, this thing would weigh a hundred pounds.”

  She cracks the door slightly. We wait, listening. I can hear noises in the distance. Shouting. Screaming. Laughing. It sounds like an asylum.

  No noises come from the corridor directly outside the storeroom, though. Sawyer opens the door wider and I peer out, checking both ways.

  “Clear.”

  We slip outside and move quickly along the passage, splashing through the ankle-deep water. There’s a lot of noise coming from up ahead. I’m nervous every time we reach the end of a corridor or turn into a new passage. We need to avoid confrontations as much as possible. Sure, Sawyer still has her ax—she looped it down through her belt when we were in the library—but I don’t have any weapons. I don’t rate my chances against knives and metal poles or whatever the hell else the inmates are arming themselves with.