Breakout

by Paul Herron

  “Hey, man, who the fuck are you?” calls one of them.

  “Keep moving,” growls Ramirez.

  “That’s the cop!” shouts another of the voices. “Hey, come back here, little piggy. I’m talkin’ to you!”

  We sprint around the corner—

  —and skid to a stop.

  There are another ten inmates standing in front of us. They are a mixture of races—black, white, and Latino—but they all have one thing in common: a small crucifix tattoo on their necks. The man in the middle—a black guy, around fifty, bald, with a neat gray beard—is wearing a chaplain’s uniform. A black shirt with the white collar and everything.

  He steps forward with a disarming smile. “And what do we have here?” he says. “Visitors?” He glances at the inmates behind him. “What did I say, my people? I said ask the Lord and He will provide.”

  There’s a noise behind us. I look back and see the Bloods sprint around the corner. They pull up short when they see what’s going on, then immediately turn and run back the way they came.

  Ramirez and I exchange worried looks. That can’t be good.

  “Ignore them,” says the guy dressed up as a chaplain. “They are unbelievers. They fear me because I am armed with righteousness and holy vengeance.”

  “Amen,” say the inmates behind him.

  “Amen indeed. For is today not Judgment Day? Is today not the day when it will be determined whether you lived a life of righteousness or wickedness?”

  The guys behind him all nod and murmur in agreement.

  “And does it not say in Corinthians, ‘Judge nothing before the appointed time; wait until the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of the heart. At that time each will receive their praise from God!’”

  “Amen!” shout the inmates behind him.

  I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

  “And I must expose the darkness in the heart,” he says, raising his voice with every word until he’s shouting. “For am I not the Preacher?”

  Fuck…

  “Shit,” mutters Ramirez.

  This is the psycho serial killer who’s supposed to be locked up in ACU. The one who tortured young couples in the murder room beneath his church and ate their remains.

  “I see by the looks on your faces that you’ve heard of me,” says Preacher. “This is good. It will save time. Now, will you submit to my judgment?”

  “Not really a believer in an imaginary man in the clouds,” I say.

  “God doesn’t give a flying fuck whether you believe or not, my child. And you should watch your tone, for it says in Matthew 12:36 that ‘everyone will have to give account on the day of judgment for every empty word they have spoken.’”

  “So we’re being judged for empty words?” I say. “Like lies and shit?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And how’s that going for you?” I ask.

  “The fuck are you doing?” mutters Ramirez.

  I ignore him.

  “My words are not empty. But even if they were, I am exempt,” says Preacher. “For I am His instrument. All must confess to me. Lying will only bring pain. ‘For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil.’”

  “Right. And who exactly are you to judge? Didn’t you spend your spare time carving up young kids and eating them?”

  “I was doing God’s will. ‘For He has set a day when He will judge the world with justice by the man He has appointed.’ Acts 17:31. I am that man. I am the tool of His righteous fury.”

  “Good for you. Everyone needs a hobby.”

  I sense a blur of movement in my peripheral vision. Then I see Ramirez’s cleaver spinning through the air, heading straight for Preacher’s face.

  Preacher ducks to the side. The machete hits one of his followers right in the forehead, burying itself deep in his skull.

  All eyes are on him as he hits the water.

  There’s a splashing sound behind me. I turn and see Ramirez sprinting away up the corridor.

  Fuck.

  I follow him, but he has a head start, and like I said before, he’s fast for such a big guy. I sprint along the corridor, turn into another passage, then duck into the next. I’ve already lost sight of Ramirez. I can hear the sounds of pursuit close behind me, Preacher and his followers coming to… do whatever it is they do. Carve us up. Crucify us. Eat us. Sodomize our corpses. Whatever it is that priests enjoy doing on their days off.

  I try the first door I pass. Locked. I try the next. It opens into a small staff break room. I duck inside and quickly close the door, listening while the running footsteps approach and then move on past. I breathe a sigh of relief, leaning my forehead against the door.

  Think. What’s the plan?

  Ditch Ramirez? No. I can’t. I can’t leave Sawyer and Felix with Castillo. He’ll kill them both.

  Okay. First things first. A weapon. I head across the tiny room and yank open the drawers. All the cutlery is gone. I open the fridge. I don’t know what I was expecting to see in there. Maybe a knife stuck in a jar of mayo or something. But it’s empty.

  Wait…

  Ramirez’s meat cleaver. It could still be there.

  I open the door a crack. It’s clear. I leave the staff room behind and run back to where we encountered Preacher. The body’s still lying in the water, the cleaver stuck in the guy’s skull. I yank it out, then move in the direction of the armory, hoping that Ramirez will find his way there and we can get this over with.

  I’m almost there when I hear the shouting coming from up ahead. I round a corner to find four guys hanging off Ramirez. Literally hanging off him. One has his arms around the big man’s neck, trying his best to cut off his air supply. Two more hang on his arms, and the other one is on the floor, trying to yank Ramirez’s leg out from under him. It’s like watching kids trying to tackle the Incredible Hulk.

  There’s no sign of Preacher or his followers. These are Crips attacking Ramirez. I can see by the tattoos. One has 211 inked onto his shoulder. Another has the numbers 3 18 9 16. They spell out the word “Crip” in that stupid alphabet-number code you used as a kid.

  The Crips hear me coming. The guy holding on to Ramirez’s leg stands up, wiping water from his face. He comes right at me, arms wide as if ready to take me into a bear hug.

  It’s a stupid stance to take. It leaves him completely open. I’ve kept the cleaver behind my back, but as soon as the guy comes within reach, I lash out, cutting his hand off at the wrist.

  We both stare at the stump in a split second of surprise. I didn’t think the cleaver was anywhere near as sharp as that. Blood gushes into the water and the guy starts screaming,

  The other three are distracted by his wailing. Ramirez shakes the two guys off his arms and then slams up against the wall, crushing the guy on his back between his body and the concrete.

  The guy releases Ramirez’s neck and he spins around and wraps his huge hands around the Crip’s throat, squeezing until I hear the crack of breaking vertebrae.

  The other two Crips overcome their shock and launch themselves at him. I run toward them. I swing the cleaver and hit the closest in the spine. He screams and arches backward. I keep hold of the handle and yank the blade free. The guy drops face-first into the water, paralyzed and drowning.

  Ramirez punches the final Crip in the throat. The guy drops into the water with a crushed larynx, gurgling and gasping for breath.

  Ramirez turns to me. His chest is heaving. His face is covered in blood and sweat, his eyes dark like a shark’s. He holds a hand out.

  I’m not arguing with that. I pass him the cleaver.

  At the exact same moment, Preacher and his congregation of psychotics appear in the corridor behind us.

  “This way!” I shout.

  Ramirez follows me as I sprint toward the armory, Preacher and his men hot on our tail.

  Ramirez might be fast, but I’m
definitely quicker when we take off at the same time. I skid into the corridor where the armory is located. There are lots of doors here, but most of them stand open. Only one remains closed, and it looks heavy, made from metal.

  As I reach it, I glance back and see Preacher’s guys closing on Ramirez. I fumble with the keys. Jesus. Why the fuck are there so many? I try the first one. It doesn’t fit. Ramirez shouts behind me. I risk a glance to my right, see Preacher’s men attempting to beat him down with metal poles and… is that a crucifix? They’re beating him with a fucking crucifix.

  Ramirez, for his part, is flailing around with the cleaver. He hits one of his attackers in the chest. The guy drops backward into the water, blood spreading out around him. Ramirez then whirls around and slices the cleaver against another of his attackers, shearing away a thick chunk of skin from his arm. The man screams and falls back, stumbling against the wall. Ramirez roars with laughter.

  “Come on, then! Get on your knees and pray to me, bitches!”

  I try the next key. Nothing. Same with the next, and the next.

  The next key, though. The next key opens it. Fucking finally! I yank open the heavy door and dart inside.

  I’m greeted by a neat, clean room with three rows of guns mounted along the wall. The top row holds semiautomatic rifles, the second row shotguns, and the bottom row handguns. A locked cabinet covered with thick metal mesh is packed with boxes of ammunition.

  I duck my head out of the room. “Ramirez!”

  I put the key in the inside lock and wait while Ramirez sprints toward me, Preacher’s men close behind. I push the heavy door, timing it so that he’s just able to slide through the gap. Immediately Preacher’s men slam up against the door, arms flailing around inside the room as they try to force it open.

  Ramirez whirls around and swings the cleaver in a frenzied attack. I turn away as hot blood spatters my face.

  The weight against the door lessens briefly and I manage to slam it shut. I quickly turn the key and then stagger back, watching Ramirez warily.

  The guy is covered in blood, his face dripping. He sucks in ragged gasps of air as he stands there, still clutching the cleaver in his hand.

  “You good?” I ask.

  Ramirez turns to take in the rows of guns. “Yeah,” he says. “I am now.”

  I follow his gaze. I have to admit, the sight of the guns is comforting. I’ve been around weapons most of my adult life. First as a cop, then as a soldier, then as a cop again. Seeing them now makes me feel like I’ll finally be able to protect myself properly. Maybe stay alive long enough to get to Wright and Tully. To escape.

  The guns are held in place by a metal rack locked down by a thick chain and padlock. Ramirez makes short work of the padlock with repeated strikes of his cleaver, doing the same for the lock holding the ammo cage shut.

  I take down one of the semiautomatic rifles. A Ruger Mini-14. Not bad. I used them in training. They’re pretty old now, and I much preferred the M4 carbine, or even the M16, but the Mini is okay. Looks like they come with thirty-round magazines.

  I turn my attention to the shotguns: Remington 870 Magnums with magazine extension tubes mounted below the barrel to give you an extra two or three rounds. The handguns are Beretta M9s, guns I’ve used my whole adult life.

  Ramirez yanks open the ammo cage and we start loading bullets into the Ruger magazines. He finds a couple of heavy-duty canvas bags and packs the rifles away, one after another, as we load each magazine to capacity.

  We keep going until he can barely lift the bag, then start loading the second with shotguns, sliding the cartridges in, one after another, before packing them away.

  I keep back a couple of guns, ready to load up around my person. I don’t know if Ramirez will have a problem with it, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I keep a Ruger and shove an M9 in my pocket. It’s not comfortable, but knowing what’s waiting on the other side of the door, comfort is the last thing I need to worry about.

  We’re finally ready. Ramirez lifts the heaviest bag himself and leaves the one crammed with shotguns and M9s to me. I slip the two carry handles over my shoulders, carrying it like a backpack. Then I put the strap of one of the shotguns over my right shoulder, letting the gun rest up against the bag, and pick up the Ruger.

  I can feel the adrenaline surging through my system now. My whole body is buzzing.

  “You ready?” asks Ramirez.

  “Ready.”

  I move to the door and crouch down.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Staying low so you don’t shoot me in the back of the head.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I quietly unlock the door and take the keys out, slipping them into my pocket. Ramirez counts to three using his fingers and then yanks the door open.

  I tense, but there’s nobody waiting on the other side. I wait, breathing slow and calm, every sense straining to pinpoint the enemy. I can feel Ramirez’s hulking form behind me. Can hear his erratic breathing, impatient, hungry for blood.

  I move forward, still squatting. I edge the shotgun out and around the doorway.

  The corridor is empty.

  “Clear,” I say.

  Ramirez knees me in the back. Not too hard, but enough to push me off balance.

  “Keys.”

  I stand up. He’s holding out his hand. I hand them over and he locks the door behind us, dropping the keys into his pocket.

  He brings his Ruger up to his shoulder. “Let’s go kill some Bible-bashers.”

  Thirteen

  2:00 a.m.

  It feels like I’m back in Marjah.

  The gun feels familiar, reassuring. It even smells comforting. Oil, metal, the faint tinge of gunpowder. I can almost hear the shouts of my unit, moving from burnt-out building to burnt-out building, villages hiding enemies around every corner. Shoot on sight, don’t pause, keep moving. Don’t look. That’s the trick. Don’t stop and look at what you’ve done. Who you shot. Because there are mistakes. There are always mistakes. But that’s war. You can’t stop. You do, you die.

  Ramirez and I move slowly along the corridor outside the armory. I’m to the left, Ramirez to the right. I let my training take over. I’ve not felt this calm since Amy’s death. Move slowly. Long, even strides, swing around the corner, eyes moving with the barrel. An extension of who I am. Slow breathing. Eyes focused.

  Another empty corridor.

  No. I can hear something. I raise my arm, palm out toward Ramirez. He stops walking. I glance sidelong at him, gesture with two fingers toward the next turn in the corridor and start to move. Slowly. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm.

  I can just see Ramirez in my periphery, but I concentrate on the turn up ahead. As I get closer, I crouch down. It’s a simple thing, but people expect you to be at head height. The split second it takes for them to adjust to a new target can be the difference between taking the enemy down and being shot in the face.

  I pause three feet from the turn. I wait. Listening. I hear the sound of slow footsteps moving through the water. One person, trying to stay quiet.

  I move to the wall, then quickly swing around the corner.

  I instantly lower the gun and straighten up from my crouch.

  It’s Henry.

  “Henry? What the fuck are you doing?”

  Ramirez appears around the corner, his gun still raised. I push the barrel down so it’s pointed away from the old man.

  “Where did you get guns?” he asks in amazement.

  “Never mind that. What are you doing here?”

  “Are you following us?” growls Ramirez.

  “No. I’m just trying to find a good place to hole up. Like you said I should.”

  “Fuck this guy,” says Ramirez. “Come on. We need to get back to Castillo.”

  He turns and moves down the corridor, heading back in the direction of the gym.

  “Look, just find a room and stay hidden, okay?” I say, keeping one eye on Ramirez as he
wades toward the end of the corridor.

  “I will. Soon as I find…”

  I’m not listening anymore. I’m staring at Ramirez.

  He’s stopped just before the corridor turns to the left. His head is tilted slightly. Listening.

  Shit.

  I start moving. Henry says something, but I don’t hear it. Ramirez sprints around the corner—

  —and the shooting starts.

  The noise is deafening, the explosive crack of the Ruger rounds echoing back along the corridor. I pause at the corner, then quickly peer into the passage beyond.

  I’m looking into a scene of chaos.

  Most of Preacher’s crew lie dead in the water. There’s blood spatter all across the walls. Smoke drifts through the air, the smell of cordite strong in my nostrils.

  Henry appears by my side. “Jesus…” he whispers. We both enter the corridor, staring in shock at what Ramirez has done.

  One of the wounded pushes himself up and tries to limp away. Ramirez shoots him in the back, then ejects the clip and rams a fresh one home, turning to me with a huge grin on his face.

  “You see that?” he says, slightly out of breath. “Man, they just burst. Like pumpkins or something.”

  Henry steps forward. “Are you fucking insane?” he shouts. “You can’t just—”

  Ramirez shoots him in the chest.

  Henry’s small body flies back about three feet and hits the water. I turn, rush toward him, but I know it’s too late. His sightless eyes stare up at the ceiling.

  “Call me a fucking gorilla,” mutters Ramirez.

  My mind blanks out. I drag my gaze away from Henry, straighten up—

  —and shoot Ramirez.

  I do it almost casually, firing as I lift the gun to aim. The bullets hit him in the stomach and stitch a jagged line up his chest and sideways along his neck and into the wall.

  He doesn’t even have time to look shocked. He tilts slowly sideways, his face hitting the wall with a wet slap. He slides downward and lands in an awkward heap in the water.

  I stare at him for a long moment.

  I didn’t plan that. It was instinct. But as I stare at the bodies floating in the floodwater, it makes me realize something.