Breakout

by Paul Herron

  In the floor toward the middle of the shed is an inspection pit with chains hanging from the ceiling, just in case any engine work has to be done on the prison vehicles. Henry said it was left over from the time this place was the base for the army engineers, when they were still trying to get that canal project off the ground.

  I never really understood how the shed was allowed to exist. It’s still part of the prison complex, with the same thick brick walls and locked exterior doors to keep everyone inside—although the doors are wide enough to drive a bus through if needed. But there are so many dangerous objects here that I was constantly amazed Henry and I were even allowed to enter.

  I suppose it’s like the prison barbershop. Only the most trusted inmates are allowed to work there. I only got in because I kept mostly to myself the first year of my sentence. I didn’t talk to many people until Henry struck up a conversation with me one time in the cafeteria. Henry was another ex-cop, except he was inside for going on a vigilante spree when he busted down the door of a pedo ring. He got me the job as his assistant.

  I look around uneasily, realizing with an abrupt skip in my heart that I’ll never see Henry again. This was the old guy’s home. Everything in this place reflected who he was.

  And now he’s dead. Just like that. Because of a split-second decision made by fucking Ramirez. It feels like I’m intruding. I’ve never been here alone. Never been here without Henry prattling on about circuit boards or soldering technique.

  Sawyer looks over at me. “You okay?”

  I nod, turning my attention to Henry’s office. It stands against the shed wall, a small roofed-over cabin about the same size as an RV. We wade through the water and climb the steps. A wooden bench runs around three walls of the office, the surface covered with loose wiring, toolboxes that have already been ransacked, old radios, an ancient lamp, and a clear plastic television set. There’s a Playboy calendar from 1983 on the wall. I once asked Henry why he didn’t get a new one. He just shrugged and said it was a good year.

  I take a moment to look around. The old guy’s presence is everywhere. This was his space. He told me he didn’t even mind that he was in prison. He said he’d spend his time the same if he was on the outside, and at least in here he got food and a roof over his head.

  The workbench to the far right is where he was building his ham radio. It’s not much to look at. It’s made up of a base transceiver Henry had pulled out of one of the old prison buses, to which he’d jury-rigged a handheld microphone using cables and wiring from old radios.

  There’s a kid’s toy sitting on top of the radio, a little Winnie-the-Pooh figure.

  I’ve never seen it before. I reach out to touch it, but pull my fingers back before I do.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Henry must have hidden this whenever I came in,” I say softly.

  Sawyer frowns. “A kid’s toy?”

  My eyes are fixed on the figure. “I… told him a story once. About how Amy and I were going to decorate the baby’s room with all this stuff. The Hundred Acre Wood. All the characters, you know? They were my favorite stories as a kid.”

  I slump onto a stool, still staring at the toy. I feel tears in my eyes, a sharp pain in my chest. The memories rush back. Buying the little hardcover books in preparation. Way too early, but we couldn’t wait. Little onesies with Tigger and Piglet on them. Looking for wallpaper, blankets.

  “We’d been trying for a while,” I say. My voice sounds distant, far away. “For a baby. Then one morning I wake up to find her staring at me. It was four in the morning.”

  “Again with the staring? She liked to look at you, huh?”

  “Yeah, she did. I never understood why. Never got used to it, either.” I smile sadly. “So I wake up to her staring at me, this huge grin on her face. And then she flicks the pregnancy test at me. I swear to God, I think I got some of her pee on my face.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, she throws it at me and starts bouncing around on the bed, screaming. Neighbors called the cops. They sent a car around. I had to smooth that over, and all the while I’m sort of just… stunned. Me, a dad.”

  “But you were happy, right?”

  “I was… in shock. You always hear people say how their lives change when they find out, or when the baby actually comes. A whole new life opens up for you, one you’ve never really trained for. It’s like those old choose-your-own-adventure books.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you want to remain happy, solvent, and child-free, use a condom and turn to page thirty-four. If you want to be broke, worry all the time, and have your sex life reduced to quickies in a locked bathroom, do not use a condom and turn to page one hundred.”

  “Come on. You didn’t really think that, did you?”

  I smile. “Not really, no. But when you find out, your whole world changes. Just like that. Expands into all these new possibilities. Babies, diapers, schools, college… It takes you on a different path.”

  “A good path.”

  “Sure. A good path. But… different.”

  “You… don’t sound sure you wanted a baby.”

  “I definitely did. But listen, I won’t lie. It scared the shit out of me. When I found out, it made me realize just what a total fuckup I was.”

  “You’re not a fuckup. You served. You were a cop.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I think it’s what every dad feels. You wonder if you’re going to repeat the same mistakes your parents made, the ones that messed you up as a kid. You wonder if you’re going to be good enough to look up to. Everything you’ve done in your life up to that point becomes meaningless, because suddenly you’ve created this innocent soul who’s coming into this absolutely fucked-up piece-of-shit world and you realize it’s on you to protect them. Suddenly there’s this terrifying need… this awareness… that you have to step up. You have to become the man you always see in crappy movies or read about in books.”

  “No one’s like that. No one’s perfect. You shouldn’t put that much pressure on yourself.”

  I’m silent for a moment; then I shrug. “Didn’t matter in the end, did it? Novak, Wright, and Tully saw to that.”

  There’s a sudden booming from somewhere outside. We both freeze, listening as something slams onto the roof. Metal scrapes on metal, rising above the noise of the rain and wind, sounding like fingernails on a blackboard.

  Enough with the wallowing. I grab the Winnie-the-Pooh figure and stick it in a drawer, then turn my attention to the makeshift radio, fiddling with switches and turning dials.

  “It doesn’t look like much,” says Sawyer doubtfully.

  “Henry said it’s as good as the ones you buy in the shops. He said you can bounce the signal off the rain, weather systems, that kind of thing.”

  “What’s its range?”

  “Hundreds of miles. At least.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “You know how to use it?” Sawyer asks.

  “Not really.”

  “You ever see him use it?”

  “He hadn’t used it yet. Don’t think it’s much different to a police radio, though.”

  I push the power button.

  Nothing happens.

  “Is it plugged in?”

  I lean over the back of the desk. There’s a trail of red and black wires sprouting from the back of the radio. Most loop around and plug straight back into another part of the transceiver, but there are two insulated cables that don’t. One slips down behind the workbench, while another has been nailed up the wall in a neat straight line, disappearing through the roof.

  I push back the chair and get down on my knees. The wire that goes behind the workbench disappears into a junction box. The junction box itself has a thick wire that snakes out through a hole in the wooden wall of the cabin.

  I straighten up, try the desk lamp. It doesn’t turn on. Neither does the desk fan when I try it.

  “And no
w?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  I exit the cabin and move around the side of it, where the cable exits through the wall. It’s attached to a small generator raised on a metal trolley. Trust Henry to fix his own power source. I remember him requesting the generator when we had all those blackouts last year.

  I yank on the rip cord. It grumbles and dies, like a geriatric lawn mower. I pull it a few more times until the generator finally kicks in, spluttering and chugging, the loud noise echoing in the large space.

  I return to the cabin. The lights on the front of the radio are on. A hissing sound can be heard coming from the speaker. Sawyer already has the transmitter in hand. She pushes on the button.

  “Anyone there?”

  She releases the button. Static. I skip to the next saved frequency. Again, nothing but static. Same for every other frequency Henry has taken the time to store in the radio.

  “Shit. Guess it really does need the antenna.”

  I exit the cabin again and peer into the small gap between the makeshift office and the shed wall. There, spooled neatly and resting on a hook on the side of the cabin, is what looks like about fifty yards of insulated copper wire.

  I squint up at the ceiling. There’s a small trapdoor directly above the cabin that leads into the hidden roof space. That’s where Henry wanted me to attach the wire that would act as an antenna. I sigh. Nothing else to do. I grab the spool of wire and toss it up onto the cabin roof.

  There’s an old extendable ladder leaning against the wall behind the tractor. I carry it over, lean it up against the cabin, then climb onto the roof. I pull the ladder up, then place it against the wall of the shed, bracing the base against the lip of the cabin roof. It isn’t much to anchor it, but it’s all I have. I loop the wire over my shoulder, then grab hold of the ladder and give it a shake.

  “What the hell are you doing?” shouts Sawyer.

  “Trying to get the radio to work! Just hold tight!”

  I climb up slowly, tensing with every shift in weight and creak of metal. The ladder itself is one of those that bends in the middle to fold into a manageable size. But the joints have long ago rusted, meaning it’s extended all the time. That isn’t to say the rusted hinges will hold my weight. It could collapse beneath me at any moment.

  I think I hear a noise from somewhere down below. I pause, stare over my shoulder to the door leading into the shed. I can’t see anything. I wait another few seconds, then carry on climbing until I reach the trapdoor in the ceiling.

  I push it open, peering up into the darkness, then pull myself up into the roof space and straighten up, careful to stand on the struts. I reach up and feel for the metal framework of the roof, just like above the gym. The frame isn’t there to hold the roof up, but rather to stop anyone trying to escape. If I want an antenna, I’m not going to get anything much better than this. A metal framework that travels the length and breadth of the entire shed.

  The heavy chains that are used to support the weight of engines in the inspection pit travel up into the ceiling space, bolted directly to the support framework. I bite the insulation off the end of the copper wire, stripping it down and peeling away about two feet. Then I move slowly over to the chain and wind the copper up through the links as far as I can reach.

  I head back to the trapdoor and kneel down. I’m about to call out to Sawyer to ask if it’s working when I see two figures moving through the repair shed.

  It’s Veitch and Cassidy. The last of Kincaid’s men.

  Note to self: listen to your gut next time.

  I need to do something. Fast. They’re going to investigate the cabin. Either that or Sawyer is going to come out to see what I’m doing. Veitch and Cassidy are both holding metal piping they’ve ripped from somewhere. No guns, though, which is good. I wonder what happened to them. Did the Bloods steal them when they stormed Unit 4? If so, I offer up a silent thank-you to Dexter and his crazy-ass followers.

  I lower myself gingerly onto the ladder, carefully placing my weight on the first rung, wincing at the creaking sound it makes. I glance over my shoulder. Veitch and Cassidy are looking through a toolbox on the other side of the shed. I start to climb down, willing myself to be as light as possible.

  I feel the ladder shift slightly on the roof of the cabin.

  I freeze and look around again. One leg of the ladder has slipped over the lip of the roof.

  Veitch is still nosing around in the toolbox. He takes out a heavy wrench that has been missed by the other looters and hefts the weight in his hand. Cassidy, however, is wading toward the cabin, a frown on his face.

  I lick my lips nervously. Don’t look up. Whatever you do, don’t look up.

  Then two things happen at once. Sawyer shouts from inside the cabin: “Constantine. I think it’s working!”

  And the ladder slides over the cabin roof.

  I drop straight down with the ladder, hitting the roof hard and rolling to the side. I wince and push myself painfully to my feet.

  And lock eyes with Cassidy.

  Then I hear the clump of footsteps from below as Sawyer approaches the door.

  Fuck it.

  I leap from the top of the cabin, aiming directly for Cassidy. To his credit, he actually manages to stay upright when I hit him. He staggers back slightly as I collide with him, but it’s me who ends up flat on my ass in the water.

  I scramble to my feet and lash out, hitting Cassidy in the chin with my good arm. He stumbles back, falling against the tractor. I follow up with a kick to his stomach. His breath explodes from his lungs and he drops to his knees, wheezing erratically.

  I throw a look over my shoulder to see Sawyer standing in the doorway, taking a hesitant step toward us.

  “Go!” I shout. “Use the radio.”

  “Watch out!” she screams.

  I whirl around to find Veitch swinging the heavy wrench at me. I duck away, tripping over Cassidy’s sprawled legs. Veitch keeps coming. He brings the wrench down. I roll away just in time and he smashes it into Cassidy’s shins instead.

  Cassidy screams. I scramble to my feet, splashing through the water, and dart behind the tractor. Veitch comes after me. I look around desperately for something to use as a weapon. There’s nothing close. My foot slams up against something beneath the water. I trip, manage to right myself against the tractor, and turn just as Veitch is aiming the wrench for my head. I grab his hand. I’m face-to-face with the guy. My gritted teeth are only inches away from his face. We stagger backward, locked together, Veitch trying to pull away, me trying my hardest to hold on.

  We bump up against one of the workbenches. I have my back against it, Veitch using my weight to try to force me off balance.

  I crane my head around and see it’s the bench where Henry had been sharpening the mower blades from the tractor. The long, curved blade just sits there, the newly sharpened edges winking in the light.

  Veitch’s face is right in front of me. I can smell the guy’s bad breath. See the black staining between his teeth from too much smoking.

  I push back, forcing him to strain even harder against my weight.

  Then I spin aside and shove him as hard as I can, slamming his head downward.

  He hits the mower blade face-first. Blood sprays upward in a wet spurt and his whole body stiffens. Then he sags against the workbench, blood pooling into the grooves of the blade.

  I turn. Cassidy is on his feet, moving toward me as fast as his injured leg will allow.

  My face hardens. I’m sick of this shit now. Sick of all of it.

  I run at him.

  His eyes widen in surprise as he sees me coming, but neither of us slows as we head toward each other.

  Cassidy arrives next to one of the pulley chains used to lift the engine blocks. I grab one side of the chain, leap in the air and swing around him, then drop down to the ground and whip the chain around his neck, looping it twice. Then I grab the other side of the chain and haul hard on it, yanking it down and lift
ing him into the air.

  He drops his metal pipe, fingers scrabbling at the chain around his neck. I keep pulling until he is halfway to the ceiling, his stupid thick face turning blue, eyes bulging in their sockets.

  His legs spasm. His body rocks and arches wildly, swinging from side to side. He pisses his pants as his struggles become weaker and weaker before finally stopping.

  I leave him dangling there and wearily climb the three steps into the office. Sawyer throws a terrified look in my direction, but she relaxes when she sees it’s me and turns back to the radio.

  “Please pass it on,” she says. “I bet there are over a hundred of us here. Maybe a lot more.”

  She releases the mic and a burst of static comes from the speaker, followed a moment later by a male voice. “Roger that. We’ll make sure someone gets to you as soon as the hurricane passes.”

  “Thank you…” Her voice almost cracks as she says it. She drops the mic on the workbench and sits back in the chair, glancing up at me as she does so.

  “I talked to four different people. They said they’d pass on word.”

  Before I can answer, the sound of a throat being cleared issues from the internal PA system of the prison.

  “Hello? This thing on?”

  It’s Felix’s voice.

  “Yeah, so… we kinda got a sort of tunnel system going on beneath this dump that might actually be waterproof. No promises, ’cause it’s Leo who says it’s there and you all know what he’s like…”

  There’s the sound of scuffling; then another voice speaks. Leo.

  “There are tunnels leading into a floodwater drainage system beneath the prison. My advice is to make your way to the office corridor in the Transitional Care Unit.”

  More scuffling sounds. Then Felix speaks again.

  “We’re not hanging around for any of you, though. Just get your fucking asses to the basement door. If you’re not there, we’re not waiting. I’m serious. We’re going down to the tunnels and sealing them off, because as soon as the eye of the hurricane passes, this prison is going down.”