Breakout

by Paul Herron

  I can’t keep this up. I drop my guard and grab him around the body, pinning his arms to his side. I lash out with my head, slamming it into his face. Then I bring my knee up into his stomach. I feel the explosion of breath against my neck and shove him away. He stumbles into the wall, his face contorted in pain as he tries to catch a breath.

  My arm is killing me. The makeshift bandage has come loose and the wounds are bleeding freely again.

  The building suddenly starts to shake, the walls trembling. The remaining books fall off the shelf, splashing into the water. I stagger, steadying myself against the desk.

  I glance out the window, and what I see makes my stomach lurch with fear. The eye has almost passed completely over us. The hurricane wall is only a few hundred feet away.

  I dive toward where I think I dropped my Ruger. My fingers curl around it and I heft it up from the water, rolling over to fire at Kincaid. But he’s already moving, disappearing through the door. I fire along the wall until the magazine is empty, then push myself up and stagger out into the passage.

  Nothing. He’s gone. I want to go after him, but I don’t have time. The shaking is growing more violent. It feels like an earthquake. The gun is out of ammo. Useless now. I drop it into the water and wade back along the corridor, turning into the passage Sawyer and Felix took.

  It leads into a staff changing room. All the lockers have been forced open, the contents floating around. Civilian clothes, textbooks, novels, plastic lunch containers.

  The exit is on the opposite side of the room. Felix and Sawyer have left the door wedged slightly open.

  I take a deep breath, yank on it, and step out into the open air.

  Twenty-Three

  6:30 a.m.

  I feel the sweat prickling instantly on my skin. The humidity and heat out here is like nothing I’ve ever experienced, a suffocating, heavy dampness that crawls down my throat and makes it difficult to breathe.

  The wall of the hurricane surrounds me. To my left, west, the wall looks to be about ten miles away. But I can see it easily, a solid wall of writhing gray-black clouds that climb into the sky. Lightning flashes within the wall, a constant flickering, pulsing glow that illuminates the coiling clouds from within.

  I turn to my right with a sense of rising dread. The wall of the hurricane to the east is almost upon me, about four hundred yards away and crawling across the landscape. It’s as if the clouds are alive, reaching out with writhing, probing tendrils, mini cyclones that dance and skitter across the water, pulling waterspouts back into the cloud wall.

  I can already see loose debris being sucked up into the hurricane. Fencing, broken telegraph poles, metal signs, all pulled into the heaving mass. It’s alive, a monster devouring and chewing up everything that comes into its path.

  I look up. The sky directly above me is blue. To the right, streamers of sunlight burst up past the top of the hurricane wall, limning the topmost clouds with burnished gold. It’s an oddly beautiful moment, serenity within the violence.

  But when I drop my gaze, everything is destruction. The entire area is flooded, sitting under about four feet of water. And if the water is four feet deep up here at the top of the hill, that means Miami is completely underwater. There can’t be anything left. Houses totally submerged. Hospitals, shops, everything, just… gone. There can’t be anything left of Florida. It must all be underwater.

  This is a disaster that will change maps, and we’re not going to escape the devastation. The hurricane has already half destroyed the prison. I have no doubt it’s going to complete the job.

  I’d briefly entertained the idea of escaping after I killed Tully and Wright. But I can see now what a stupid, childish thought that was. Where would I go? As soon as the eye passes over us, the 200 mph winds will return. If I’m not in the tunnel with everyone else, I’ll be crushed, drowned, ripped apart, or any one of a hundred other grisly deaths.

  I have to move. The wind is warm and clammy against my face, like sticky fingers stroking my skin. I wade forward through the water, pushing debris aside as I go. The wall of the hurricane is a solid mass a few hundred yards to my right, while the Glasshouse is a few hundred yards ahead. I can actually see the hurricane creeping forward, moving at a fast walking pace. I don’t know if I can reach the prison before it does.

  I can just make out Felix and Sawyer moving toward the Glasshouse building, wading as the crow flies, since the fences and walls have all been pulled down. I follow them as quickly as I can, but the depth of the water makes speed impossible. My feet keep getting tangled in debris. Wires, cables, cloth, tree branches and roots. And if I’m not getting tangled up, I’m smacking my feet into concrete, rubble, unseen detritus that has been plucked up in the hurricane and dropped in my way.

  Felix and Sawyer disappear from view as they approach the front doors of the Glasshouse, but then reappear again as they make their way around the side of the building, heading toward the loading bay where the bus took us earlier. Before they vanish from sight, I see them pause and look back. I wave my hands in the air to indicate I’m on my way. They wave back and then head for the relative safety of the building.

  The wind picks up. I can hear it, a whistling, howling echo, close but somehow sounding like it’s coming from far away. A waterspout leaps up directly in front of the Glasshouse doors. It hovers in the air, leaning in toward the hurricane. A cyclone branches out from the wall, stretching toward the waterspout. When the two touch, the spout explodes into movement, dancing and skittering across the water, throwing branches and debris into the air in a triumphant display before finally being sucked into the hurricane wall.

  It’s too close. I’m not going to make it.

  I’m going to let Amy down again.

  I push my aching, burning legs on, jumping and wading, doing anything I can to try to speed up my progress.

  I make it to where the perimeter fence used to stand. The Glasshouse is directly in front of me now. A hundred feet away. But the storm is closing in fast from the right. I can feel the sheer power of the wind. The water surges all around, whitecaps rising, waves blowing past me.

  I’m being pushed off course. I have to angle into the wind to keep on track, but it’s slowing me down. My hair whips around my head, wet prison fatigues billowing against my body. Debris flies through the air. Broken wood, stones, bricks even, thrown out of the hurricane wall like missiles.

  The eerie silence that accompanied the eye of the storm is gone. The wind howls and shrieks, whistles in my ears and roars like a demon. The light drops suddenly, like someone has flicked a switch. I shield my eyes and look up. The blue sky has vanished, shifted way over to my left. Roiling gray clouds toss and writhe above me, the wall of the hurricane folding into them and starting to drop down toward me like a collapsing wave.

  I try to move faster, but for every step I make, I’m pushed two steps to the left.

  There’s a huge downed tree about fifteen feet ahead. I remember that tree, an enormous sycamore that cast shade over the grass outside one of the rec yards. Now it lies half submerged in the water, pointing toward the Glasshouse.

  I bend low and aim straight for it. The wind grows stronger, louder, screaming in my ears, slicing water into my face so hard it feels like glass shards.

  The tree doesn’t seem like it’s drawing any closer. I keep my feet firmly on the ground as I try to reach it. The wind picks up even more. I’m shoved upright, almost thrown over onto my back. I drop into the water, knowing that if I’m tossed even a few feet back, I’ll never make it to the Glasshouse.

  I keep my whole body except my head submerged, pulling myself along the ground, clutching at rocks and grass, anything I can grab hold of.

  The hurricane wall is about thirty feet away. The door into the Glasshouse is fifty feet to my left. I almost scream in frustration. There’s just no way I can get ahead of the wall. Not at this pace.

  My fingers curl around the roots of the tree. I grip them tight, yank myself fo
rward, pulling myself arm over arm until I’m able to grab the trunk. I use it as a windbreak and keep moving, dragging myself up to the branches. By now I’ve covered ten feet. I glance at the hurricane wall. It’s twenty-five feet away.

  The water level drops as I climb the last bit of the hill toward the Glasshouse. I keep going until the water sits below my thighs, then my knees.

  And that’s when I can run.

  I put everything I have into that final sprint. The wind tries to fight me, tries to shove me away. It’s like a huge hand trying to throw me back into the water.

  I see Felix and Sawyer waiting at the metal doors to the loading bay, watching with wide eyes as I draw closer. I also see the looks they throw over my shoulder and I know the hurricane wall is closing in. There’s a terrific crashing sound, and a second later, a massive tree branch hits the water directly in front of me, almost crushing my head. I leap over it and keep going, putting everything I have, everything I’ve ever had, into that last burst of speed.

  I make it with barely a second to spare.

  I leap forward and splash to the ground. As Sawyer and Felix drag the shed doors closed, I roll onto my back, gasping for breath, staring up at the corrugated roof as it billows and rolls like waves on the ocean.

  I feel hands dragging me up, hear Felix shouting at me. I struggle to my feet, following them through the door and finally—finally—into the Glasshouse itself.

  I slam the door shut behind me and slump against it.

  We made it.

  We fucking made it.

  “Jesus Christ!” shouts Felix. “I mean… did you see that? I absolutely cannot believe what we just did.”

  I feel a tremor of excitement rush through my body. It’s tangible, contagious, like a jolt of adrenaline to the heart. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Ever since I walked down those stairs and found Amy lying in the living room.

  I straighten up, pull out my gun, and eject the magazine. Five bullets left. Plenty. I ram it back in place, stick it in my waistband, and start walking.

  “Constantine?” says Felix. “Where you going?”

  I turn back. “Where do you think? To find Wright and Tully.”

  Sawyer looks at me with disappointment. I’ve just confirmed her fears.

  “What about the door?” says Felix.

  “You guys can do it. I’ll find you later.” I start walking again.

  “Jack!” shouts Sawyer.

  “I’m doing it, Sawyer. You always knew I would.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Jack.”

  I can hear a shift in the tone of her voice. Something there I haven’t heard before.

  I turn around to find her pointing her gun at me.

  “I need you alive, Jack. I can’t let you out of my sight.”

  Twenty-Four

  6:40 a.m.

  I stare at Sawyer in confusion. “What are you talking about? Need me alive for what? What difference does it make? I’ll take Wright and Tully out. I’ll even open the cells for you. Help you be the Good Samaritan and get the inmates down to the tunnels.”

  “No. I need to keep my eyes on you.”

  Felix tenses as if getting ready to move for her gun, but I hold out a hand to stop him.

  “Let her talk.” I shift my attention back to Sawyer. “Why? Why do you need to keep your eyes on me?”

  “Kincaid.”

  “What about him?”

  “You framed him.”

  She knows about that? Did I tell her? I don’t think so. Did Felix tell her? I glance over at him, but he gives a subtle shake of his head.

  “He deserved it.”

  “I’m not saying he didn’t.” Sawyer takes a shaky breath. “My little brother was running in his gang at the time. He was just a kid. Twenty-two. Pulled in by Kincaid’s lieutenants. I was trying to get him out. He was finally talking to me. He was ready to come live with me. Ready to get clean. Then you turned up. My brother got taken down with Kincaid. He’s serving ten years because of you.”

  Felix whistles.

  My memory drifts back to that night. The kid in the dining room. He looked a bit like Sawyer. He wanted to leave. Wanted out.

  And I didn’t let him.

  “Sawyer… I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

  “I don’t want your apologies. I want you to help me fix it.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I want your confession. On record. That you framed Kincaid.”

  I look at her with dawning realization, then shake my head slowly. “Was this your plan all along? Is that why you came to work here? To get to me? Is that why you came in during a fucking hurricane?”

  “I thought it might be my last chance.”

  “And how exactly do you want me to confess? Got something to record me? No? What about pen and paper?” I pat my prison scrubs. “I seem to have left my journal in my cell.”

  “Jack,” says Felix softly. “Ease up, man.”

  “No. I want to know.” I take a step toward Sawyer. “What the fuck is your plan, Sawyer?”

  “I don’t know!” she shouts. “Jesus! I’ve been planning this for a year now. Training, moving here, applying for a job. I thought it was all working out; then this fucking hurricane hit… I panicked, okay? I had to come in to work. It could have been my last chance. I didn’t plan on hanging around here, believe me. I’m not insane. But when I was left behind, I thought… why not just go through with it? I saw you being taken to the infirmary this morning. I thought I’d… I don’t know, get you out of here before the hurricane hit. Thought I’d get you before a judge or something, get him to hear your confession.”

  Felix shakes his head. “You know how crazy that sounds?”

  “I know, Felix! Jesus Christ. What else was I supposed to do? Just sit around here and die?”

  “And what made you think I’d even do what you wanted?” I ask.

  Sawyer hesitates. Her hand drops slightly. “I… don’t know. Like I said, I wasn’t thinking straight…”

  I wait for her to glance away, then grab the gun from her, turn it around and point it in her face. I step back, gun still leveled. “I’m sorry about your brother, okay? I really am. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “You think that makes me feel any better?”

  “No. No, I don’t think it does. All the same, I am sorry.”

  Her shoulders sag. “So you’re going to go kill them now?”

  “Always said I was.”

  Felix steps forward. “Jack. We need to open that door. Get everyone to the storm tunnels.”

  “The fuck you care, Felix? You hate everyone.”

  “It’s… different now,” he says, looking almost embarrassed.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re all just trying to survive. Look at what we’ve been through tonight. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  I hesitate. Felix almost gets through to me, mainly because he’s repeating the same thoughts I’ve been having over the past hour or two.

  But then I get a flash of Amy lying on the living-room floor, her head smashed in, the two men responsible only a few hundred feet from where I’m standing.

  I’ve been waiting too long for this. Amy has been waiting too long.

  I tighten my grip on the gun. “I have to do it. I’m sorry. You two can open the door. You don’t need me.”

  I turn and start walking, leaving them behind, heading deeper into the Glasshouse.

  I follow the exact same route we took this morning. The rotting magazines that were piled up in the rooms now float across the surface of the floodwater. Old TV Guides from the eighties. A few Playboys from the seventies. Omni magazines. Gossip rags with stars of bygone years staring up at the ceiling with rotting faces and mold-smeared eyes.

  At least the lights—those that were working this morning—are still on. Whatever generator powers this place is industrial in design.

  I enter the laundry. The wash
ing machines are now half submerged. The sheets, black with mold, float and bob across the room, looking like an oil slick coating the water. I exit into the corridor covered in old white tiles. I remember that the ones underfoot are orange-brown, like they were lifted from a Spanish villa.

  The metal gate that Evans unlocked still stands open. I step through, following the winding corridors lit with hanging bulbs that cast a jaundiced glow over the water. It feels more like a morgue now than anything else. Which is kind of fitting, seeing as we’re all probably going to die here.

  Unless I just let the prisoners out and go back to help Sawyer and Felix with the door.

  No. I can’t. I have to do this. I didn’t protect Amy. Didn’t protect our child.

  I owe them…

  There’s a high-pitched wailing coming from somewhere up ahead. It grows louder as I approach the reception area of the prison, the one that looks like it belongs in an old hotel.

  The walls have been breached. The noise is the wind howling through holes in the bricks. Rain surges through the gaps like water from a hose, flicking into the room in windswept sheets.

  The entire building shakes suddenly, almost throwing me off my feet. I start to run. This whole place is about to come down. If it does, fine, but I want Wright and Tully first. They have to die by my hand.

  I sprint through the corridors, barely remembering where I’m going. I know I’m heading in the right direction, though, because I can hear the inmates shouting for help, a cacophony of voices raised in panic and fear.

  I finally burst through the door and into the Rotunda.

  I remember being impressed by it this morning, the colossal circular tower containing tier after tier of cells. But now, as I wade through the floodwater, staring up at the ruptured roof a hundred feet above, rain pouring down into the cylindrical prison, I think it looks more like a zoo.

  The inmates are all hanging on the cell doors, pulling, pushing, slamming themselves against the metal in an attempt to get free. When they see me, the shouts rise in volume until they’re all screaming and begging to be let out.