Breakout

by Paul Herron

  “The second one.”

  “You sure? I mean, don’t let me stop you. If it’s your thing…”

  I sigh and head toward the door. We move faster, driven by Sawyer’s words. She’s right. We have to get out of here.

  The corridor beyond leads to another octagonal unit. We don’t pause in this one, heading straight through and into a staff reception area with a long counter along the far wall holding monitors and tower cases. Behind the counter is a staff bulletin board, flyers for various events happening in town, a few personal ads from COs looking for roommates or selling items.

  The door behind the counter leads deeper into the wing, heading in the direction we need to go. We wade through the water and into the passage. It stretches ahead to a T-junction. Empty. Silent.

  Maybe Preacher didn’t come back here after all. All the crap we’ve seen could have been done earlier in the day, when the cells were first opened.

  We reach the T-junction. I’m trying to imagine the layout of the prison in my head, wondering which way gets us closer to Northside. I’m thinking right. Left will just take us toward the inmate corridor, and that’s all blocked off.

  We turn right, moving past closed doors. We keep going, heading closer and closer to the opposite end of the unit, closer and closer to getting out of here, to getting to the Glasshouse.

  I feel my spirits rising. We might just make it in time. It’s going to be tight, but—

  We turn into the next passage and freeze. Up ahead is a slow-moving line of inmates. They’re walking away from us in single file, murmuring something as they go. They’re all armed. Shotguns and rifles mostly, but a few have M9 Berettas.

  They turn the corner to the left and vanish from sight. We move slowly through the water and pause at the turn. The inmates are heading away from us, so we leave them to do their thing. It just means we have to be more careful. Quieter.

  We wait in the corridor for about thirty seconds, just to be sure. Then we turn right—

  —and come face-to-face with ten of Preacher’s followers, all of them armed, their weapons trained directly on us.

  I turn around and see the same thing. The group we thought had disappeared along the corridor is standing there with their guns pointed at us.

  I turn back, my stomach sinking. One of the inmates smiles at me, and his smile is tinged with madness. It’s too wide, too gleeful, and it definitely doesn’t reach his eyes. In fact, all their eyes have a blank, empty look to them. Almost as if they’re not actually seeing us, but are focused on something else happening in the far distance.

  The inmate giggles, then tries to stop himself. His mouth twitches as he speaks, the corners trying to stretch themselves into a Joker-like rictus. “If you would be so kind as to drop your weapons, we will escort you to your judgment. Preacher is going to be so happy with us. Amen and hallelujah. Praise be on me.”

  The inmates all respond simultaneously. “Amen and hallelujah.”

  We’ve got no choice except to go along with them. They lead us along the passage—heading in the direction we wanted to go—and through a set of double swing doors into what appears to be Preacher’s church.

  It definitely wasn’t a church to start off with. It was a cafeteria. But Preacher has done his best to change that. All the tables have been ripped out and lined up along the walls. They hold wooden crucifixes they must have gathered from the prayer rooms throughout the prison. Crosses fashioned from twisted cutlery.

  And one Bible.

  Only one, though, because they’ve used the rest as decoration. The walls are covered with pages ripped from the holy book. Roof to floor—or at least roof to floodwater—and corner to corner. I’m not a hundred percent sure how Preacher got them to stick, but judging by the dark staining seeping through some of the pages, I’d say it was blood.

  Preacher himself is at the far end of the cafeteria, standing behind a makeshift pulpit constructed from two of the tables piled one on top of the other. Hanging on the wall above and behind him is a cross made from two long pieces of wood. The vertical piece is at least ten feet long and the horizontal one about six feet.

  I have no idea where he got the wood, but that’s not important. What is important is the inmate who has been nailed to the cross. It looks like they used nine-inch nails, ten or so for each wrist and foot. The nail heads stick about five inches out of the poor bastard’s skin like needles in a pincushion. A crown fashioned from barbed wire has been forced onto his head, the blood from the puncture wounds completely covering his features.

  The rest of Preacher’s disciples all sit on the cafeteria chairs, formed into lines like traditional church pews. He looks at us with a huge smile when we’re led into the room. A few of the inmates keep us covered with their guns, prodding us so we move toward Preacher, while the rest fill up the seats at the back of the room. The followers don’t even look at us. Their attention is focused wholly on Preacher, their faces rapt in worship.

  “A full house!” says Preacher. “How fortunate I am to have such a loyal ministry.”

  The guy behind me tries to shove me to my knees in front of Preacher’s makeshift pulpit. I resist, but then something slams into the back of my legs and I drop into the water. Sawyer and Felix are forced down as well.

  Preacher looks down on us. “I was thinking of delivering a sermon on family today. About the importance of faith in keeping those fucked-up children from straying. I mean, I did what I could, you understand? I tried to teach them the Way back in Mississippi. But the agents of evil put a stop to that. They prevented me from doing the work of God Almighty!”

  The congregation, if you could call it that, all start shouting.

  “Shame!”

  “Agents of Satan!”

  “Unbelievers!”

  “Heathens!”

  Preacher holds his hands out for silence. “But seeing as we have guests awaiting judgment, I will postpone the sermon.” He stares down at us. “‘Do not marvel at this; for an hour is coming, in which all who are in the tombs will hear His voice, and will come forth; those who did the good deeds to a resurrection of life, those who committed the evil deeds to a resurrection of judgment. I can do nothing on my own initiative; as I hear, I judge; and my judgment is just, because I do not seek my own will, but the will of Him who sent me.’”

  “Amen! Hallelujah!” shout the inmates.

  Preacher stares intently at each of us in turn. “This hurricane is sent to us by God to cleanse the world of wickedness. You understand that, yes? For does it not say in Psalm 135:7, ‘He causes the vapors to ascend from the ends of the earth; He makes lightning for the rain; He brings the wind out of His treasuries.’ This is God’s judgment on the wicked, and I am His sword.”

  He straightens up, filled with self-importance. He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can get another word out, Sawyer speaks.

  “James 1:20: ‘Human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.’”

  Everyone looks at her in surprise. None more so than Preacher himself. He stares at her a long time, confusion, then irritation, then anger twisting his features. “Are you… are you actually daring to judge me?” he shouts.

  “‘Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the lap of fools.’ Ecclesiastes 7:9,” says Sawyer.

  Preacher’s eyes widen. He leans on the pulpit and screams, spittle flying from his mouth. “‘But I will warn you whom to fear: fear the One who, after He has killed, has authority to cast into hell; yes, I tell you, fear Him!’ You do not lecture me in verse, you arrogant bitch! How dare you?”

  Sawyer just stares at him, a mild look on her face. “You’re scared. I can see that.”

  “Scared? I hold no fear in my heart. Except for the souls of those I have yet to judge!”

  She nods, as if this confirms her thoughts. “‘There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made per
fect in love.’ 1 John 4:18.”

  “I never claimed to be perfect,” Preacher snaps. “I only claimed to do His bidding. ‘All who sin apart from the law will also perish apart from the law.’ Romans 2:12.” He stares at Sawyer challengingly.

  I throw a confused look at Felix, but he just shrugs. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, and neither does he.

  “Ezekiel 33:11,” says Sawyer. “‘Say to them, “As I live!” declares the Lord God, “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that the wicked turn from his way and live.”’”

  Preacher leans over the pulpit. His eyes are almost black as he glares down at her. “‘Know then in your heart that as a man disciplines his son, so the Lord your God disciplines you.’”

  Sawyer smiles. “‘Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image.’”

  Jesus. Where is all this coming from? Are they reading these things from somewhere?

  “‘And that servant who knew his master’s will, but did not get ready or act according to his will, will receive a severe beating!’” Preacher is screaming the words and he slams his hands down on the makeshift pulpit. It shakes and trembles, almost collapsing under the blow. He points a shaking finger at Sawyer. “If you say one more word, I’ll cut your fucking throat myself. Understand?”

  Sawyer sighs as if in disappointment. “‘But now you must also rid yourselves of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips.’”

  Preacher’s congregation is muttering to one another, exchanging uneasy glances. Preacher notices too, because he points at Sawyer again. “Shoot her. She’s the devil in disguise. She’s in league with Lucifer.”

  The inmate standing behind us raises his gun. I tense up, ready to throw myself at him. I know it will end up getting us all killed, but what difference does that make now? The eye of the hurricane will pass over in five, maybe ten minutes. We’re already dead.

  “Wait!” says Sawyer. “I’m just trying to prove myself to you.”

  Preacher holds up a hand and the guy lowers his rifle. “Explain.”

  “I understand what you’re doing. Why you’re doing it. I want to help. I want to stand by your side as we cleanse the world. I can preach to the guilty, try to get them to see the error of their ways. If they don’t, then you will deliver them to judgment.”

  Preacher pauses. He narrows his eyes, leaning forward to get a better look at Sawyer. I have no idea what her plan is, but goddammit, she’s got the psycho thinking.

  She stands up slowly, hands raised outward to Preacher. “‘And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.’”

  Preacher’s tongue flicks out like a snake’s and he moistens his lips. “Matthew 25:46.” His voice is husky. I realize this is like foreplay to him. He’s getting off on it.

  Sawyer nods. “Exactly. I want to prove myself to you. Please. Let me stand by your side. We can judge these two together.”

  Preacher’s eyes flicker toward us, then back to Sawyer. She’s looking at him with such an innocent, guileless expression that I almost believe her.

  Finally he nods. “Come, then, child. Stand by me as my wife. For God is a righteous judge, but He rewards those who are loyal.”

  Sawyer moves slowly around the pulpit. There’s some kind of step that Preacher has raised himself on. He holds out a hand to her and she climbs up to stand by his side, looking down on the rest of us.

  She reaches over to touch something on the pulpit. “May I?” she asks.

  He nods. “You may.”

  She lifts up the Bible. It’s a big hardcover version. Without even pausing, she twists to one side, away from Preacher, then swings herself back around with all the force she can gather and slams the edge of the book into his throat.

  His eyes go wide and he staggers back. His throat is crushed. He can’t draw breath. Cries of shock go up from behind us. I surge to my feet, headbutt the guy behind me in the nose, and yank his weapon away. I fire at the inmates sitting in the back, the ones who led us in here. They’re already rising, their own guns coming up to point at us.

  Gunshots explode to my right and the disciples go down before they can open fire. I glance over to see that Felix has grabbed a Beretta from someone and is shooting at anyone else holding a weapon.

  I turn back to see what’s happening with Preacher. Sawyer moves quickly to the side as he staggers back, gagging for breath. His face is ashen. He bumps into the huge crucifix and it shifts in its brackets. He grabs hold of it, trying to steady himself, but all he succeeds in doing is pulling it off the wall. It falls and hits him in the back.

  He goes down and doesn’t move. I throw a quick look at the horrified congregants to make sure they’re not doing anything stupid, then move around the pulpit to look.

  I can see why he’s not getting up. The five inches of nails that were sticking out of the guy’s right wrist are now buried in the back of Preacher’s skull.

  I grab Sawyer and we move back around the pulpit, joining Felix, who’s still covering the inmates. Most of them are crying, wailing at Preacher’s death. We move along the aisle, Sawyer pausing to grab a Beretta from one of them, and duck through the door.

  No way to lock it. We’ll have to run.

  We move as fast as we can through the floodwater. No one follows us. Guess they’re too broken up about their holy prophet being killed by a crucifix.

  We keep going for a couple more minutes, then turn a corner to find the exit to ACU right in front of us. I unlock the door. We slip through and I lock it behind us again.

  We pause on the other side, staring at each other.

  “Is this it?” asks Felix. “Northside?”

  Sawyer nods. “This is it.”

  We did it. I can hardly believe it. We actually made it through the prison units in one piece.

  “You know where we are?” I ask Sawyer.

  She nods. “Follow me.”

  She leads the way through the corridors, Felix and I on either side.

  “The hell was all that Bible stuff about?” I ask.

  She glances at me. “I told you my mother was religious.”

  “Yeah, but how did you remember it all?”

  “She was really religious. Believe me, if your mother reads you the Bible every night for a bedtime story, it tends to stick in your head.”

  “It was awesome,” says Felix. “It was like watching a tennis match or something. You, him. You, him.” He shakes his head. “Crazy.”

  We turn into a narrow passage with doors to either side. The first opens into a small staff room, the next a bathroom, and the next few lead into offices.

  Sawyer glances over her shoulder, a smile on her face. “It’s just around the—”

  She’s cut off by the sound of gunfire.

  The wall next to my head explodes, sharp fragments cutting into my cheek.

  Sawyer and Felix, about five steps ahead, make it around the corner to the next passage. I throw myself through the closest door into one of the offices, and swing the Ruger around from my back, holding it at the ready.

  “Jack?” shouts Felix.

  “Go!” I shout. “Just leave the door open.”

  “Hey, Jackie-boy!” It’s Kincaid’s voice. “What’s the word?”

  Jesus Christ. Why won’t he just fuck off ? “Nothing much!” I shout.

  I wait.

  “Jack?” Felix’s voice again.

  “Fuck sake, Felix. Go!”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll take care of this asshole.”

  Kincaid laughs. “What a hero,” he says. “How you gonna take care of me, boy?”

  Another burst of gunfire erupts in the hallway. The water explodes into fountains just outside the door.

  “You ever going to leave me alone?” I shout.

  “Don’t think so.”

  There’s another burst
of gunfire. I wait for it to stop, then duck my head quickly through the door and back in again. I see the barrel of a rifle one room down. In the staff kitchen.

  I point my own rifle at the wall inside the office. I aim it toward where I think Kincaid is standing and open fire.

  The bullets rip through the internal walls. I hear a heavy splash in the passage outside the room and instantly dive to the side. Bullets punch through the wall, shredding the shelves and books behind me.

  I fire back, keeping my aim low.

  I take my finger off the trigger. I hold my breath, listening.

  Silence. Did I get him? I push myself to my feet, head for the door. I pause just inside the room. Listening.

  Nothing.

  I peer around the doorway and the butt of Kincaid’s rifle hits me in the temple. I stumble back, falling into the water. Kincaid comes after me, rifle raised to strike again.

  I kick out, sweeping his legs out from under him. I push myself to my feet, fighting off waves of dizziness. I realize I’ve lost my rifle. I look around. Where the hell did I drop it?

  Kincaid launches himself at me, grabbing me around the stomach and sending us both flying backward. I hit the edge of the desk, pain exploding up and down my spine. He forces me back, hand pushing at my chin, then shifts his weight, both hands coming up around my neck. He digs his fingers in. I try to pull away, but he won’t let go. I reach out to grab something from the desk, anything I can use as a weapon. My fingers curl around the desk lamp and I smash it against his head.

  Kincaid grunts and loosens his grip. I bring my knees up and shove him back, then launch myself after him, splashing through the water. He is still on his feet. I lash out and hit him in the jaw. That’s the only punch I land before he raises his fists to protect his face.

  He jabs at me. I block, but he follows it with a lightning-fast uppercut I don’t even see coming. It smashes into my chin. My mouth slams shut, pain and blood blossoming in my mouth as I bite my tongue. Rapid body punches connect with my ribs, my kidneys. I try to keep myself protected, but every time I shift my guard, Kincaid finds an opening and lands another punch.