Breakout

by Paul Herron

  Even as he says this, the lights flicker and dim. In the distance the sound of a terrific rumbling crash sets the ground vibrating beneath my feet.

  “You see?” says Felix over the intercom. “You feel that? Now get your ass to Mars—or in our case to the basement. Probably the same thing in the end. No air, dying slowly from asphyxiation, but you know how it is. A snowball’s chance in hell is still a chance.”

  There’s a click and then silence.

  Sawyer and I exchange weary glances; then Sawyer heaves herself up off the seat.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  Twenty

  5:20 a.m.

  Sawyer and I eventually arrive back at the basement to find a long line of inmates helping Felix and Leo clear the rubble from the corridor leading to the basement.

  Felix grins when he sees us approaching through the flickering lights.

  “Hey, man, you’re still not dead.”

  “Nope. Sorry.” I squint along the dim corridor. “Looks like you got some help.”

  “Yeah. Who’d’ve thought? The specter of approaching death is actually enough to get people to put aside their grudges and work together.”

  He’s right about putting aside grudges. I see Bloods, Crips, Woods, Ñetas… All the gangs who were trying, often successfully, to kill each other only a couple of hours ago are now working together in an assembly line to shift the fallen rubble from the basement passage. It’s not a total surprise. Inmates were already giving up fighting to look for shelter or protection after we left the gym. By now everyone must be realizing that things aren’t looking too promising for the Ravenhill Correctional Facility.

  Sawyer peers through the doorway. “How’s it going?”

  “Nearly through,” says Leo, wiping sweat from his brow. “Looks like the whole roof caved in. Pipes and shit came down too.”

  “And a geyser,” says Felix. “Thing was still full of water. Had to borrow a gun from one of our fellow inmates to shoot it a couple times, let the water out.”

  “Because what we need right now is more water around our feet,” I say.

  “You want to try moving a fifty-five-gallon geyser filled with water, be my guest.”

  I turn to Leo. “I hope you’re right about these tunnels. You’re going to have a lot of pissed-off convicts if it’s all just your imagination.”

  “If it’s just my imagination, pissed-off convicts will be the least of our worries. And relax, I’m old, not senile.”

  “But you always just sat in the cafeteria on your own, muttering about getting out of here,” says Felix. “Everyone thought you were a bit… out of it.”

  “Because I didn’t want to talk to you idiots? I think that makes me intelligent, not senile.”

  More inmates are arriving in the corridor, nervous, wary, in response to Felix’s call. Their arrival is making me worried. I keep peering at faces—most of them frightened and freaked out because of the damage the hurricane is doing—to see if any of them has an agenda. Preacher and Kincaid are still MIA, and I’m uncomfortable not knowing where they are.

  The building rumbles again. Dust sifts down from above, settling in a fine film across the water. And even though there’s a steady flow rushing through the door and down the steps into the basement, it doesn’t seem to be lowering the water level at all.

  A commotion from the far end of the corridor distracts me. Felix and I wade forward to see what’s going on. In the low light I can see four men approaching. One is holding a shotgun, one an M9, and two have Ruger rifles. They’ve obviously been to the armory. Felix takes out a Beretta he’d tucked into his boxers.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “It was a donation. From one of our new arrivals.”

  “You got another one?”

  “Sorry, man. Was hard enough to get this one.”

  I stop in front of the four men. “Hold up.”

  They stop walking. I squint in the dim light. I think these guys are Preacher’s men. Yeah, they’ve got the cross tattoos on their necks.

  “We don’t want trouble,” says one of them. “We just want to get to the tunnels.”

  “Not with those guns you’re not,” says Felix. “No offense, but I don’t trust you freaks with guns of any kind. Anyone who follows Preacher is crazier than a fifth-generation inbred from Alabama.”

  The four men glance at each other uncertainly. One of them steps forward, slightly raising his shotgun. It’s still pointed away from us, but he’s brought it up to hip height. “We’re not giving up our weapons.”

  “Then you’re not coming with us,” I say. “Nobody knows how long we’re going to be stuck in those tunnels. We don’t want anyone getting funny ideas. Maybe deciding to settle a few grudges to pass the time.”

  “We’re not with Preacher anymore.”

  “I couldn’t give a shit. You were with him. So that means I don’t trust you.”

  “Maybe we’ll just use the tunnels ourselves,” growls the man. “Leave you all here to swim.”

  “You can tr—”

  A gunshot explodes right by my ear. The guy who was speaking stumbles back into his friend’s arms, blood pulsing from a bullet wound in his neck.

  I turn to find Felix standing there with his gun still leveled.

  “Dude, what the fuck?”

  “Anyone else want to argue?” he says, ignoring me. “I got more bullets.”

  “That was right by my ear.”

  Some of the prisoners who were helping shift the fallen ceiling move closer, eager to see where things are going. I can see this turning into another bloodbath if we’re not careful.

  I step forward. “Look, you say you’re not with Preacher anymore. Prove it. Otherwise you’re not coming down there with us. End of story.”

  The three men glance uneasily at the other inmates. They’re trying to see if I have them on my side, if I speak for everyone. No one argues, something I’m actually pretty surprised about. It looks like they’ve got my back.

  “I won’t ask again,” says Felix. “I’m serious as fuck. I will shoot all three of you where you stand.”

  The guy in the middle sighs and holds out his Beretta, grip toward me. I wade forward and take it, then feel around beneath the water for the shotgun the dead guy dropped. I find it, straighten up and look at the others. They reluctantly hand over their Rugers. I sling one over my back and hand the Beretta to Sawyer, who has crept up to watch with the others.

  “You know how to use it?” I ask.

  “Don’t be even more of an asshole than you already are. You think we’re not given training before we turn up here?”

  “All right. Jesus. Calm yourself.”

  We wade back to the door to find Leo watching us nervously. “Hey… you sure about all this?” He indicates the inmates with a tilt of his head.

  I know what he’s thinking. Are these guys really going to be able to forget their tattoos and gang signs, the man-made loyalties forged over the years and decades?

  But I’m not feeling any fear on that front. I don’t see murderers or robbers or drug dealers right now. I see people who want to survive. I feel a strange moment of… pride? Is that right? Maybe not pride. But a connection. A connection with a group of people I have nothing in common with besides the fact we’re all human. Half of them would have killed me as quick as look at me an hour or so ago, but right now, all we want to do is get out of this alive. Our real enemy is the hurricane, and it’s not going to have any mercy. It doesn’t care what colors you wear, what leader you swear loyalty to.

  Jesus Christ. What’s happened to me? I’ve become a pussy.

  Or… maybe not that bad. I was a cop once. Maybe I’m just remembering what that felt like. Maybe Sawyer was right when she said there was still some part of me that cared.

  And then a sudden silence falls across the prison. The roaring of the wind stops, the constant hammering against the walls of the prison fades away.

  We all look at each ot
her in shock. The silence echoes in our ears.

  The eye of the storm has arrived.

  It takes us another ten minutes to clear a path. Leo already has the basement door open, and is holding on to the frame as water surges past his legs, almost pushing him off his feet. I join him as he peers down into the darkness.

  “No lights?” I ask.

  “I think they’re downstairs.”

  “You think?”

  He shrugs. “As far as I can remember. Last time I was down there was a good fifty years ago.”

  I try to see down the stairs. It’s pitch-black. All I can hear is the water coursing down the steps like a waterfall.

  “How many you think are back there?” asks Leo.

  “More than a hundred.”

  “Christ. This place housed eight hundred people.”

  I shrug. “We made the announcement. Maybe more will come.”

  “Felix was right, though. We can’t hold the doors open for them. Once we’re down in the tunnels, we have to close everything off. End of story.”

  “Fair enough.” I nod at the stairs leading down into the darkness. “You okay with this? You need a hand?”

  “I’m nearly eighty years old. The fuck do you think?”

  I smile. “I’ll go first. If you fall, grab onto me. Don’t suppose you have a flashlight?”

  “Sure. Right here on my utility belt. Next to my cell phone and batarang.”

  “Right.”

  I move through the door, feeling for the first step. The water surges past my ankles, almost yanking me off my feet. I grope around on the wall until I find the rail.

  “Guardrail,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Yeah, I’m old, not blind and stupid.”

  “Jesus, Leo. Why did you even say you needed a hand? You want to lead?”

  “Nah, you’re good.”

  “Shut the fuck up, then.”

  I slowly descend the stairs. I can hear the others following. Voices calling out—loud, raised, trying to hide fear behind bravado and forced jokes.

  “Yo, man. Who’s got my cane?”

  “Where the fuck’s my Seeing Eye dog?”

  “This place is darker than your mama’s soul.”

  “Nah, brother. It’s blacker than the line outside KFC when they giving out free chicken wings.”

  “Who the fuck said that? You can’t say that, man.”

  “I’m black!”

  “I don’t give a fuck. So am I. You don’t say that shit.”

  I count twenty steps before I arrive at the bottom. The water comes up to my thighs.

  “Keep moving forward,” says Leo. “Should be a door ahead. You got those keys?”

  “Yeah.”

  I wade through the water, hand outstretched, until I hit up against a thick metal door. I run my fingers over the handle and keyhole, trying to get a feel for the type of lock it is. I think it’s the same as all the others. I breathe out softly, a sigh of relief. I was worried that the lock would be old, that maybe no one came down here, so the locks wouldn’t be updated.

  I try the key I used for the unit doors first. It doesn’t fit. I take out the key ring and try the rest of the keys, one after another. It takes a while, but the lock finally clicks and turns. I drop the keys back into my pocket and test the door. It opens toward me.

  “Need a few people to give me a hand here,” I call out.

  I wait for the inmates at the front of the line to edge forward. I can hear worried breathing, nervous whispering. We’re all operating blind.

  I push down the handle, feel other hands grab it, and we all brace our feet as best we can and pull against the floodwater.

  It takes a few tries before we can even budge the door enough for the water to start pouring through the gap. We heave slowly, pulling it gradually open, the water streaming, then gushing past our legs and into whatever lies beyond. The water level drops lower and lower until it’s just a calf-deep stream cascading from the prison above us and down the stairs.

  “Should be a light switch to your right,” says Leo.

  I move through the door, bumping up against inmates who either twitch and pull away or stand their ground as I try to pass.

  “Get the fuck outta my way. Let me find the switch.”

  I finally make it past the inmates and feel around on the wall. I find the switch, an old-fashioned one that sticks out from a round panel. I flick it up, and strip lights surge to life above me, humming and flickering as they switch on, illuminating everything in a sickly yellow tinge.

  Another passageway reveals itself. I can’t see the floor, but the walls are covered in old white tiles. Most of them are cracked. When I put my hand out to touch them, I can feel water trickling through the cracks. A worrying sign.

  A few of the tiles have fallen off the walls completely, but I’m not sure if that’s just because they’re old or because of the hurricane. Closed doors line the passage. I try one and it opens to reveal a storeroom, mildew-covered boxes piled up against the far wall, the cardboard soaking up the water that now pours into the room.

  “Just old storerooms,” says Leo. “Keep moving. End of the corridor.”

  I throw a quick look back toward the stairs. Sawyer is right behind Leo, with Felix following her, then the line of inmates packed into the stairs and up into the prison.

  I move through the flickering light to the end of the corridor. The door at the end is locked too. I use the keys to reveal another dark space beyond. I flick the switch and more strip lights flutter weakly to life. These ones are a lot older, covered in dust. Some aren’t working at all, while some give off a muted green-tinged glow that illuminates a large room that looks like an old bomb shelter. Heavy-duty metal shelving holds crates with the U.S. Army insignia stamped on them in faded paint.

  There are desks around the remaining two walls. They’re covered with yellowing paper, in-boxes coated in dust, desk lamps with green shades, and metal filing cabinets. There’s a huge map on the wall showing the path of the Cross-Florida Barge Canal project.

  “This is the old bridging room between the bosses upstairs and the workers downstairs,” says Leo. He nods to a door on the far wall. It looks normal. Metal, but not like the prison doors upstairs.

  The room is rapidly filling up with inmates, pushing and jostling each other. Those still in the corridor beyond are shouting out, asking why no one is moving.

  The door is unlocked. Leo opens it. I lean in and turn on the lights. They’re not strip lights this time. They’re big, old-fashioned globes hanging from cloth-covered wire insulation, metal lampshades casting wide shadows up to the ceiling. The room is filled with metal bunk beds, all of them without mattresses or pillows.

  “Is this place really an army barracks?” asks Felix, moving past us to sit on one of the beds. The springs squeal in protest and he quickly stands up again.

  “Yeah. Engineers, grunts for the manual labor. Officers. Eventually military prisoners who were put to work digging the tunnels for the storm drains. That’s how I got involved. We didn’t all sleep in here, though. We were kept above ground in Admin. Although it wasn’t Admin back then.”

  We move through the room into another tunnel. This one is about ten feet wide and slopes downward at a steep angle. The same hanging globes light the way, but only about a third of them work. Even that surprises me. You’d think that after so long, none of them would light up. But I guess they built things to last longer back in the day.

  The water is still pouring down behind us from the prison. Some of the inmates are pushed off their feet by the force of it, sliding down the decline, only to be caught by other prisoners and helped back up again. The sounds of the rushing water echo loudly in the confined space.

  The tunnel levels off after we’ve descended—by my estimate—around thirty feet or so. It takes a sharp right and disappears into the distance.

  “This is the last tunnel,” says Leo. “It opens into a room that the Glasshouse tunnels connec
t to as well. From there it’s down fifty feet into the flood drainage system.”

  “That’s pretty deep,” says Felix. He looks around uneasily. “Am I the only one here feeling a bit… claustrophobic? If anything happens down here, we’re never getting out.”

  “Relax. I know what I’m talking about. We just need to get out of these tunnels. Everything beyond that room is sealed off. Watertight.”

  “And if the drainage system is actually open? Won’t it be flooded by now?”

  “It was never finished. We didn’t even link up the flood tanks to the surface. Nothing’s getting in. Trust me.”

  “So what’s your actual escape plan?” I ask. “You’ve been muttering about tunnels for as long as anyone can remember. How did you plan on getting out?”

  “I was going to use the aqueducts that drain the water out into the ocean. Just walk my way to the sea.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Nice and simple. Why complicate it?”

  We keep walking through the tunnel. Sawyer catches up with me and touches my arm.

  “You see this?” She gestures over her shoulder.

  I follow her gaze and am shocked to see that the number of inmates has grown by a lot. There must be at least two hundred now. Sawyer the Samaritan looks happy. I suppose she has a right to. If we pull this off, it will be something to be proud of. That isn’t a feeling I’ve had in a long time. But doing this feels right. It feels good.

  “You see Kincaid anywhere?” asks Felix.

  I shake my head.

  “You not worried about that?”

  “About him not being here? No. I’m pretty fucking ecstatic, actually.”

  “Yeah, but… it’s Kincaid. He’s not just gonna sit this out, is he? He’s not just gonna hang around up there till the roof falls in on him.”

  “We’ve got guns.”

  “So does he.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it.” I walk on, then glance back. “But just keep your eyes open, yeah? Tell me if you see him.”

  “Nah. I was thinking of keeping that to myself.”