Breakout

by Paul Herron

  We’re all going to die here tonight.

  It’s a gut feeling. Intuition. I don’t know if it will be the inmates or the hurricane that will kill everyone, but one way or another, I don’t think any of the people trapped in this prison will be alive this time tomorrow.

  I’m not getting out of here. I’m not visiting Amy’s grave. I’m not getting a chance to say good-bye. It was stupid to even think it would go down like that. I can see that now.

  One way or another, I’m going to die tonight. We all are.

  And you know what? If that’s the case, fine. The only thing I care about is getting the bastards who killed my wife.

  Which means I need to get to the Glasshouse. No matter what. Not for protection. Let Sawyer tell herself that if it helps. I need to get there to kill Wright and Tully. Before the hurricane kills us all. Before I get shot. Before a wall falls on me or I get struck by lightning. I want them dead at my hands. Not the storm. I’m going to be the one who kills them, and they’re going to look me in the eyes as I do it. There’s no being careful now. It’s all about getting to Northside. Getting through anyone who tries to stop me.

  I feel a surge of relief at the realization, something that surprises me. There’s no fear. No existential dread. I’m going to die tonight. Yes. But not before I’ve accomplished my goal. There is a feeling of uncomplicated happiness at the thought. I’ve never had my life defined so simply, and for some reason it fills me with a joy I haven’t felt in years. I’m sure my shrink would have a field day with that, but I couldn’t give a shit. I feel energized. Free.

  My eyes fall on the bag of guns Ramirez was carrying. I already have my own. I can’t carry two bags and defend myself at the same time.

  There are doors on either side of the corridor. I try the first. An office. I move to the second and find a small closet filled with cleaning supplies. Bleach and tile cleaner, mops and towels.

  I drag Ramirez’s bag into the room and heave it up onto one of the shelves. I don’t want to just leave it lying out in the open. This way I can come back for it if I need to.

  I exit the storeroom, closing the door behind me. I pause, hand still on the door handle. Someone’s coming. I can hear voices, hurried splashing as men run through the water. Shit. Maybe Ramirez didn’t get all of Preacher’s men. Maybe the survivors went for reinforcements.

  I wade in the opposite direction. Get back to the gym, hand my bag of guns over, collect Sawyer and Felix, and get to the Glasshouse.

  Survive. Then kill. Then die. In that order.

  I stop suddenly. The keys! Sawyer’s keys are still in Ramirez’s pocket.

  I shrug the bag of guns off my back, letting them fall into the water, and run to Ramirez’s body. It’s still slumped against the wall at an awkward angle. One hand floats in the water, bobbing around in the waves as if testing the temperature.

  I fumble in his closest pocket. Empty. I try to slide my hand down between the body and the wall, but I can’t get to the other pocket. I heave on Ramirez’s orange overalls, pulling him over to the side.

  He slumps over with a heavy splash. I feel around in his pocket. The keys are there. I pull them out, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Something yanks hard on the Ruger slung over my shoulder. I’m pulled off my feet, falling backward. Something lands on my chest, pushing me down beneath the water. I force my eyes open, see a shadowy shape above me. Then another, off to my side. I struggle, but I can’t shift the weight. Fingers scrabble for my throat, nails dig painfully into my skin.

  I shove my hand into my pocket, trying to pull out the M9. It gets snagged in the material. I struggle to get it free as the fingers tighten around my throat.

  I pull the handgun out of my pocket and fire upward through the water, the slugs thudding into my attacker’s chest.

  The weight drops backward, falling across my legs. I break the surface, drawing a deep breath and pointing the M9 quickly around the corridor.

  Deserted. The second figure is gone.

  I shove the deadweight off my legs and stand up. I pocket the gun, then swing the rifle around from my back, pointing it toward the end of the hallway. I wait for a few seconds, breathing heavily, but no one else appears.

  I take one calming breath before realizing I’ve dropped the keys.

  I check the floor, searching beneath the water. They’re nowhere to be found. I move my attacker’s body, checking to see if he’s lying on them. Nothing.

  The second figure. He must have grabbed the keys while I was fighting this guy.

  Which means he has access to the armory.

  Fuck. I wasn’t even planning on giving Castillo the guns, but to arm a bunch of psychopaths like Preacher and his followers? That’s just going to make it all but impossible to survive long enough to get Wright and Tully.

  I grab the bag of guns, sling it over my back, and retrace my steps toward the armory. I pause before the final turn into the corridor. I can hear excited voices, arguments.

  I’m too late.

  I duck my head briefly around the corner, then pull back. No one in the passage. I look again. The armory door is standing open. The keys are in the lock.

  Maybe I can just lock them all in. That would be the simplest thing all around. Get them out of the way, grab the keys, and head back to the gym.

  I bring the Ruger up to my shoulder and turn into the passage. I move slowly through the water, trying not to make a sound. The door draws closer. I only have eyes for the keys. Fifteen feet.

  Ten.

  Five.

  I can hear Preacher’s men talking about the guns, about who they’re going to kill first. Which unit they’re going to storm. It sounds like Henry was right. The General Population units are all held by different cliques, barricaded and locked down.

  I lower the rifle and reach out, grabbing hold of the keys. I’m just about to put my shoulder against the door to ram it shut and lock it when a skinny guy exits the armory, a bundle of shotguns cradled in his arms.

  He freezes, staring at me with wide eyes.

  Shit. Plan B. I quickly slip the keys out of the lock, back up a step and raise my rifle again.

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” I say. “Just stay cool, okay?”

  The guy’s eyes shift to the left.

  Goddammit.

  He drops the shotguns and dives back into the armory, shouting as he does so.

  Wonderful.

  I shove the keys into my pocket and back up along the corridor, rifle raised to my shoulder. I fire a quick burst, hoping to keep them out of the passage.

  I can hear them arguing. I lower the gun slightly, pointing it at waist height. The arguing stops, then the first guy appears exactly where I’m aiming—low. Smart guy.

  Not smart enough.

  I fire, hitting him in the forehead. He jerks back and slams into the water.

  No one else comes. I keep moving, backing up as fast as I can. When I reach the end of the corridor, I turn and sprint, not bothering to keep quiet now. Splashing, wading through the water, just trying to get to the next T-junction to put some walls between myself and Preacher’s men.

  I can hear them coming, shouting, calling out for backup. My neck tingles as I run, waiting for the bullets to hit.

  I sprint around the corner, slipping in the water and ramming up against the wall. As I do so, gunshots ring out and bullets pepper the wall above me, exactly at head height. I shove myself to my feet and keep running, trying doors as I pass. Most are locked, but after a few attempts I find one that opens to my touch.

  Bullets cut the door frame to splinters as I duck inside. It’s an office. I scramble forward, diving behind a large wooden desk. The water is easily two and a half feet deep now. I stay low, peering through the central gap in the desk, watching the door.

  A moment later, a pair of orange-clad legs appear. I fire. There’s a spray of blood and my attacker drops to the water with a scream of pain.

  Our eyes meet through the gap.
The guy has just enough time to form the word “no” before I shoot him in the head.

  I wait a few moments, but no one else follows. I stand up warily, edge around the desk. I pull my attacker inside the room and push the door almost closed. Then I stand there and listen.

  I can hear shouting and gunfire in the distance. Nothing close, though. Sounds like Preacher and his men have found someone else to chase down.

  What the hell have I unleashed? Inmates trapped inside a prison, armed with rifles, shotguns, and handguns? And the armory still sits wide open, an invitation for anyone to go and arm themselves. It’s going to be a bloodbath.

  Hell, it already is.

  Fourteen

  2:50 a.m.

  Two and a half hours to go.

  Two and a half hours before the eye of the hurricane hits the prison. Two and a half hours to find our way through the prison units, somehow getting past inmates, gangs, rapists, murderers, and psychos.

  I’m doing my best to avoid any contact. I have a goal now. Stay alive long enough to get to the Glasshouse. After that? Fuck it. I don’t really want to be responsible for killing inmates who are scared, paranoid, or just plain crazy. Add to that the fact that I’m carrying a bag full of guns on my back, which makes me as much a target for attention as a young boy on his knees praying does to a Catholic priest. Best for everyone if I stay out of sight.

  So I hop between offices and bathrooms, storage closets and prayer rooms, temporary sleeping quarters for the COs and shower rooms for when they work double shifts. Pausing to let inmates move past my hiding spots and running when I think I have a clear stretch.

  I fail twice. Both times turning a corner to find myself face-to-face with groups of inmates. First time it’s three guys, the second time a group of six.

  But they don’t attack. They just eye me warily as we move past each other on opposite sides of the corridor. That’s when I realize the mood in the prison has shifted. It’s gone from “every man for himself and let’s settle old scores and kill anyone we feel like” to “shit, this is bad, maybe we should be focusing on surviving.” Fat lot of good it will do them.

  I make it back to the gym without shooting anyone else, something I take as a personal victory. I’m already responsible for too much of the mayhem going on around here. Preacher’s guys now have total access to the armory. They’ll definitely kill other inmates. Preacher and his crazy-ass brimstone-and- hellfire judgments. Plus, it’s guaranteed they’re going to lose some of the weapons. So guns will fall into other prisoners’ hands, which means all-out war is going to kick off, even if some of the inmates would rather focus on finding shelter. It’s inevitable.

  I shift the heavy weight of the bag on my back. My muscles ache from carrying it all this way. The water is now up to my knees and still rising. I’m not sure if it means the flooding outside is the same level as in here, or if the water is higher outside and is just taking a while to find its way inside. Either option is terrifying. The walls and windows of the prison—safety glass or not—will only withstand so much pressure. I don’t know what’s worse. The walls holding and the prison slowly filling up with water, or the walls coming down and everyone being crushed or ripped apart by the hurricane.

  I can’t really think about that right now. I have more immediate problems. I can’t give Castillo the guns. That was never my intention. It’s just… wrong. Insane. Plus, there’s absolutely no guarantee he won’t just shoot us straight away. Fact is, I bet that’s exactly what he plans to do.

  I have to think smart here. I have to plan ahead.

  I retreat up the corridor and take refuge in a closet that holds towels and antibacterial spray.

  I dump the bag on a shelf, unzip it, and eject all the magazines out of the M9s. I then take out all the bullets, laying them out in piles. It takes me about ten minutes; then I move on to the shotguns. Once I’m done, I have huge piles of 9mm bullets and shotgun cartridges, and lots of guns with no ammunition in them.

  I place Sawyer’s keys on a high shelf. Castillo’s bound to ask for them back. This way he can search me all he wants, but I’ll just say that Preacher’s men got them.

  I pack the guns back in the bag. I make sure the Beretta stuck in the elastic of my underwear is secure at my back, then head to the gym.

  I’m halfway there when I hear sounds behind me. The close echo of splashing water, raised voices. I pause, head tilted, but the sounds fade away. Whoever made them is going in another direction. I wonder if it’s Preacher and his men. Did they follow me? Or Kincaid, even?

  What difference does it make? Everyone’s an enemy in here. I start walking again and arrive at the door leading into the gym. I try to push it open, but it’s blocked from the other side. I kick it a couple of times and wait.

  The door opens a crack. Silas peers out, gives me a cold look. He leans forward, checking both ways along the corridor, then frowns at me. I know what he’s thinking. Ramirez.

  I show him the canvas bag. “You gonna let me in, or am I dropping these in the water?”

  He pulls the door open against the floodwater and steps aside. I enter the gym. There’s no sign of Felix or Sawyer. About half the Kings are standing around, leaning against the gym machines or lounging up against the walls.

  I dump the bag on top of a treadmill as Castillo strolls out of the changing rooms. He glances around.

  “Where’s Ramirez?”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  A heavy silence fills the room. Castillo moves toward me. The others straighten up, readying themselves, watching for his reaction.

  “The hell you mean, he didn’t make it?”

  “We ran into Preacher and his men. You know how crazy that guy is. They chased us. He got hit.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy.”

  Castillo stares at me. I can hear the rest of the Kings muttering.

  “It’s not like I just ran away and ditched him. I took a few of them down. And no offense, but Ramirez was a stupid fuck who thought he lived in a movie. He probably thought bullets would bounce off him or something. They got the keys too. Made it into the armory.”

  Castillo continues to stare at me for a long time, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Then he gestures at one of his guys. “Search him.”

  One of the Kings gives me a pat-down. He shakes his head once he’s done. “Nothing.”

  Castillo scowls and finally turns his attention to the bag. “Is that all you got?”

  “You want to try carrying that thing on your back while getting chased down by psycho Bible-bashers? You’re lucky I brought anything.”

  “No. You’re lucky you brought anything. And I’d seriously reconsider the tone of voice you’re using with me.”

  “Where are Sawyer and Felix?” I ask.

  “In the changing rooms.”

  I nod and start walking.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “I did my part. We’re leaving now.”

  I can see Castillo trying to figure out his next move, can almost hear the thought process in the guy’s head, trying to decide if it’s easier just to kill me now and get it over with. I can already feel the pressure building up inside me. There’s no time for this. I want to be long gone before they check the magazines.

  I leave him to it and head into the changing room. Sawyer is pacing back and forth, rubbing her hands nervously together. Felix lies on one of the benches, arm over his eyes to block out the light.

  “Enjoying your nap?”

  Sawyer smiles in relief when she sees me. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it back.”

  “I’m Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

  Her smile fades into confusion.

  “I’m immortal?”

  Nope. Nothing.

  “Never mind. Let’s go.”

  Sawyer joins me at the door, still looking at me sidelong. I realize I’m probably acting oddly. I feel different. Free. Buoyant.
The realization you’re going to die and the acceptance of that really does change your perspective. She’s wondering why the hell I seem to be in such a good mood. I don’t think I could explain it to her if I wanted to.

  Felix hasn’t budged since I entered the room. “Felix? You coming or you staying here to sleep?”

  He sighs and sits up. “Just conserving my energy.”

  “Is he really letting us go?” asks Sawyer.

  “I got him his guns.”

  Sawyer’s face clouds over. She’s not happy about it.

  “What did you want me to do?” I ask. “Let you both die?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Look—it doesn’t matter. Just trust me, okay? But we have to get out of here. Right now.”

  Felix frowns. “Want to tell us why?”

  “Just follow me and don’t look back.”

  We head into the gym. Felix and his guys are standing around the treadmill, taking out the shotguns and M9s. My stomach clenches up. I hope my face doesn’t look as panicked as I’m feeling.

  Just play it cool. You’re smarter than these guys. They’re not gonna check the magazines.

  I stare at the door. It’s only about ten paces away. I pick up the pace. Silas is still standing there, watching us approach. I slow down, letting Sawyer and Felix pull ahead.

  “Boss?” calls out Silas.

  I look over at Castillo. He has a Beretta in his hand. Jesus. Surely he can feel how light it is?

  He just nods and turns back to the guns. Silas braces himself, starts to pull the door open against the water.

  Then I hear it. The ratcheting click of a magazine being ejected.

  I lunge forward through the water, grab the door and try to heave it open.

  “Go!” I shout.

  Sawyer and Felix give me confused looks, but they dart forward, trying to squeeze through.

  “Stop them!” shouts Castillo.

  I punch Silas in the throat. I may as well have punched a wall of sand for all the good it does. The guy shrugs it off and grabs Felix by the collar, yanking him back. Felix flies backward and lands on his ass in the water.