Executioner's Lament

by Justin Rishel

  There were five rows of photos on the screen. Some of the photos were actually videos, moving around in their tiny squares. Each row was dedicated to one person. She scrolled to the left and right on each row; every possible angle and lighting change was captured. There could be no mistaking the people they were looking for.

  “You will find these five people and kill them,” Sarazin said with a blank face, his tone matter of fact. He might have been ordering a new espresso machine for his office. “All five of them must be dead before you return. Is that clear?”

  Jacira and the others nodded their consent. She looked at the targets. Two she expected—Martin Aubrey and the woman working with him. A name appeared above her row of photos—Malina Maddox. How did Sarazin find out who she was? It was a testament to his resources and skills that he uncovered her identity before Jacira could.

  The other three people on the kill list were a surprise. Two of them were Members of the Order, the last was an Apprentice Member. Jacira knew two of them well.

  One thing was certain: they’d be killing Tappers and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  “Okay,” Balthazar said. “Do you know where they are?”

  “Probably on the twenty-fourth floor. Rudolfo’s ward,” Jacira said, surprising herself as she did. She shrugged, “If he hasn’t been reassigned.”

  Sarazin nodded at Jacira in confirmation. “Four of them will be there. Jocelyn will be on the thirtieth floor.”

  “Let’s go.” Balthazar made for the elevator.

  “Wait.” Sarazin held a hand up, then looked down through the glass floor into the prison. “You’ll know when it’s time. And you’ll need this.” He held up a small white disk about the size of a quarter. “A gift from Member Principal Jacobi. It’ll get you past the security barriers.”

  Jacira took the key fob from Sarazin. “Why would the emergency security barriers be activated?”

  Sarazin smiled. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Nicholas Fox reached through the hole in the steel lattice. Holding the mirror tight, he stretched his arm as far as it would go through the jagged gap that ran along the edge of a support flange. The sharp, cold metal poked him through his shirt, pressing into his skin. Inwardly, he thanked a god he didn’t believe in that he was skinny.

  His hand was in space, inside the Great Atrium. If he dropped the mirror, he’d be screwed. He didn’t have time to go back for another one. He must do it now.

  Fox twisted his arm so the mirror faced straight up. Careful to catch the sun just right, he angled the mirror and searched the upper levels until he saw the faint white square of reflected light. Moving the mirror side to side and angling it back and forth, he watched the white square wink in and out of existence.

  He repeated the flashing signal five times, ensuring every level above him could see it plainly. After the fifth flash, he stopped, counted to sixty in his head, then did it all over again. Five flashes.

  With his heart pumping and his arm protesting with pain, he pulled the mirror back in from the hole. He pressed his face against the steel cage and craned his neck upward, panting to catch his breath.

  Two dozen stories above him, someone lowered a white rag down through a gap in the cage. It remained there for a full ten seconds, then they pulled it back in. His signal had been received.

  He pulled away from the cage. His bald head cool from sweat. His breathing slowed. He felt an awkward calm overcome him. There was no stopping it now. Once it started, he’d hole up somewhere safe and wait for the carnage to die down.

  Then, he’d get out of this shithole.

  A sound from high above. Was it a scream? It came from too high up, he couldn’t be sure. More screaming. Coming closer. Coming fast.

  Fox leapt back to the cage and pressed his face against it once more. The screaming was right on him, virtually on top of him. He was just in time to see the pale blue blur of a guard fly past him, down through the Great Atrium.

  Shouts erupted around Fox.

  “Did you see that shit?”

  “It’s starting! Let’s go.”

  More shouts. More screams. Another body flew down through the air, a prisoner this time; some old grudge got hashed out in the commencing chaos. Doppler was in full effect as the crying man sped past Fox.

  He heard the riot start like a growl, then become a roar.

  The Keep came to life.

  * * *

  Jacira and her fellow assassins had a front row seat for the mayhem. It started quietly and soon blossomed into rage personified.

  They watched through the glass floor as bodies flew down the Great Atrium like confetti, one after the other. Others lay slumped and bloodied against the catwalk’s protective fencing. Prisoners ran in frenzies along the catwalk and the corridors.

  The inmates wielded blades, spears, chairs, chains, and other makeshift weapons against guards and other inmates.

  Members, Jacira noted, were not immune. This budding riot fueled a new confidence in the inmates. At least one person in a black cassock lay dead on the catwalk ten stories below.

  A moment later, another Tapper fell, or was thrown, from a maintenance platform into the open air; a rope trailed behind. A second later, the body snapped against the noose in mid-air and swung back banging against the metal lattice, bouncing twice before it settled. The Tapper was a woman. She hung like a ragdoll, her body limp. The rope around her neck stretched taut to the its origin five floors above her.

  “I’ll take that as our cue to go,” Jacira said, her eyes still fixed on the hanging Tapper.

  She turned to find Balthazar reaching into his duffel bag on the floor. From it he pulled a three-foot long assault rifle with a snubbed scope mounted on top and two barrels, one for bullets, the other for grenades.

  Jacira bunched her eyebrows at his choice of weapon. He noticed her questioning look.

  “I don’t think there’s any point in trying too hard to be inconspicuous. And,” he slapped the bottom of the magazine and flung back the charging handle, “it’s going to get rough down there. I’m not letting myself get killed by such an uncivilized foe.”

  Suddenly, she felt the same way. At this point, camouflage was a secondary concern. Staying alive was primary and that meant more, better, and deadlier weapons.

  Jacira walked to her own duffel bag and pulled out another pistol still in its holster, several magazines, and another blade. Then she withdrew a black assault rifle similar to Balthazar’s and a vest packed with a dozen magazines. Donning her gear, she watched the redheaded woman remove a small pistol from her bag, which she strapped to her ankle, then a larger one she tucked into her waist band. Finally, the woman threw a satchel over her shoulder along with a black machine pistol.

  Balthazar eyes went wild. With his rifle slung across his wide chest, he said, “Let’s go hunting.”

  “Let things settle. Then, we hunt,” Jacira said.

  Balthazar frowned like a school child sent to his room without dessert. “Fine.”

  * * *

  Malina watched on the monitors as chaos erupted outside. Divided into six windows, the monitor showed live video feeds from different locations in the prison. Probably just this ward, she thought.

  In one window she saw a group of three men savagely kicking and beating someone curled on the floor. In another, an inmate with a knife stood over the bloodied form of another inmate. Others showed inmates fighting guards with fists, clubs, and blades. On another, on the catwalk around the Great Atrium, she saw a body fall through the open air beyond the cage.

  Francesca sat at the workstation next to Malina and began pressing keys. The images on the monitor multiplied to fill the other two. She now saw feeds from eighteen cameras. Francesca toggled each to show different areas of the prison.

  Violence was everywhere, spreading like a dusty wind. Every feed showed some form of it—a fight, a killing, things or people burning. Guards were rounded up on several feeds, tied up an
d bound. They were led by bloodied inmates, like cattle being led to slaughter. Other guards weren’t as lucky—many lay dead or clutched wounds that would soon kill them.

  “Oh, god,” Malina said. Her hands flew to her face, covering her mouth. She felt her eyes grow to the size of saucers. “Oh my god. What the fuck is happening out there?”

  “It’s not just our ward. Look,” Francesca said pointing to six feeds on the far-right monitor, “this is us. And all the rest are from the other floors. It’s everywhere. It’s a …”

  “A riot.” Malina finished her sentence. “And we’re stuck in the middle of it. Goddamnit.” She spun to face Aubrey. Her breath had quickened and she felt like a hook had pierced her stomach and someone was pulling her into the floor. “How the hell are we going to get out of here now?”

  Aubrey just stared at the screen.

  “A riot?” Rudolfo’s voice sounded incredulous.

  “Where is that?” Aubrey pointed to a window showing a part of their ward. It was the group of inmates beating someone on the floor.

  “Just outside. Central corridor.” Francesca pointed toward the door and to the left.

  “That’s a guard.” Aubrey made for the door. “Let’s go.”

  Just as he reached the door, Malina saw the blue uniform, a large red stain spread across its front.

  She darted after Aubrey and saw Rudolfo hand something to Francesca. It was small. A test tube, she guessed, but had no idea how that would be useful in their situation.

  * * *

  Martin Aubrey rushed through the door into the passageway and swung left, running. Ahead, the corner to the central corridor came into view.

  Thudding sounds and cries of pain reached him as he rounded the corner. Three inmates stood over the unmoving body of a prison guard. His light blue uniform now crimson. From his angle, Aubrey could see the guard’s face purple and bloodied, his eyes were just slits through swollen lids.

  The inmates’ legs swung back in short arcs then flew forward to deliver kicks to the guard’s ribs, torso, and head. The guard could barely defend himself.

  The inmates had their backs to Aubrey as he silently jogged toward them. If he could get one down quick, that would even the odds.

  The inmate closest to him produced a ragged looking blade, red from rust, or maybe blood. The man bent, threw his hand back ready to sink the blade into the guard.

  Aubrey was on him. His limbs acted on their own accord from years of hand-to-hand training. He pulled the wrist back and gripped the inmate’s neck with the other hand. He wrenched the man straight upward by the neck, swept the legs, and threw his body weight into the man’s downward trajectory.

  The prisoner’s skull collided with the concrete floor with a hollow thunk. Aubrey spun, blocked a blow coming at him and stepped back once, then twice, blocking another punch.

  His mind and his moves sped up as he fought; muscle memory was a hell of a thing and it all came flooding back. At that moment, he could have been back in either of his uniforms from past lives, camouflaged or blue. The fight had never left him.

  Another block, the inmate was thrown into an awkward, twisted position. Aubrey found his opportunity and punched hard at the man’s exposed throat. The second inmate fell, choking and gasping.

  The third inmate was on him. He was quick, but less skilled than the first two. Aubrey gave a swift kick to the man’s sternum and he toppled.

  Fiery pain shot through Aubrey’s leg. Jumping back, he saw throat punch on the ground holding the knife. Blood dripped from it. Aubrey’s blood.

  He backed up a pace as the man got to his feet. Aubrey steadied himself. The inmate had one hand on his injured throat, the other gripped the blade. He snarled through crooked, dirty teeth. His eyes wolfish.

  A crack. The man’s eyes rolled. He fell.

  Malina stood panting behind where the man once stood. She held a thick table leg in her hands. Still panting, her eyes were like saucers. She stared at the club, the man on the floor, then Aubrey.

  “I thought you weren’t a field agent,” Aubrey said.

  She stood silent.

  “Let’s get him up,” he said, gesturing to the fallen guard. Together they heaved the man up onto shaky legs. Aubrey took one arm over his shoulder and Malina took the other.

  Looking up he saw Francesca and Rudolfo at the corridor’s intersection with the outer passageway.

  “Thanks for your help.” Aubrey didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  “We had issues of our own,” Rudolfo said.

  “They did,” Malina said, looking up at Aubrey from across the guard’s chest. “Some inmate grabbed me, but Francesca did something and the guy dropped.” She paused. “I mean dropped.” She grunted under the guard’s weight. “Then another one came, saw his buddy and ran the other way. Just seeing them scared him away.”

  “Hmm,” Aubrey grunted.

  As they crossed the threshold into the outer passageway, Rudolfo swapped places with Malina. Aubrey angled toward the observation room, but Rudolfo pulled another direction.

  “No,” he said. “To my quarters. It’s more secure.”

  Turning right down the passageway the group stopped dead. In front of them stood a gang of men dressed in white prison uniforms. Aubrey counted at least twelve men. They all brandished some type of weapon—shivs, clubs, or spears. They shouted obscenities and pointed their weapons at Aubrey and the others.

  “Shit,” Aubrey muttered. “Back the way we came. Come on.”

  Turning around, another gang appeared from the other end of the passageway. They numbered as many, maybe one or two more than the other group. More cursing and pointing.

  The gangs ran, converging on Aubrey and the others.

  “Shit,” Aubrey said again. “Down here.” He led the others down the corridor they’d just left. Hefting the guard’s body, he set off at a trot, Rudolfo keeping pace.

  Aubrey cautioned a glance behind him and watched the two gangs collide in a mass of flesh, metal, and wood. It was a blur of violence. Blood blossomed from under the white garments. Weapons swung with sickening, wet thumps against limbs, heads, and tissue. Several fell dead in the initial clash, the rest fought on wildly. Screams, shouts, and shocked yelps reached them over the ruckus of objects piercing and beating bodies.

  “Keep going,” Aubrey shouted, pointing to the catwalk. “They’re not after us. We’ll circle around and double back to Rudolfo’s room.”

  They passed the third and second passageways without further incident. The catwalk around the Great Atrium was in front of them. Stepping from the concrete of the corridor to the metal grating of the catwalk, the immensity of the prison struck Aubrey. Something about this hollow pit at its center gave its size new meaning.

  “This way,” Rudolfo urged, pulling on the guard and leading Aubrey.

  A blur of movement overhead. Aubrey ducked, felt the air move as something flew past his head. Metal on metal clanged near his ear as an object struck the cage. Without Aubrey’s support, Rudolfo and the guard toppled sideways.

  Half crouching, Aubrey turned his head to see a short, dark-skinned inmate gripping the end of a thin handled axe embedded in the cage. The weapon had a smooth shaft like an old broomstick and a rough homemade blade attached to its tip with layers of silver tape. The small man growled as he struggled to free the makeshift axe.

  Aubrey punched at his open groin. He buckled and fell sideways.

  Another inmate came from the same direction, something long and sharp in his hands. He reared back and heaved the spear.

  Aubrey fell to his side and rolled the first inmate over as cover. The man’s body jolted against Aubrey’s arms as the spear impacted the man’s chest.

  Aubrey pushed the body off and got to his feet. The second inmate was out of weapons. He looked at his dying friend, then at Aubrey. He turned and ran back the way he’d come.

  Aubrey put a foot on the dead prisoner’s shoulder, gripped the homemade spear, a
nd wrenched it upward. With a wet sucking sound, it came free.

  Smoke filled Aubrey’s nose. There was a fire somewhere nearby. He smelled something else too, hoping he was wrong.

  “Here, take this.” Aubrey handed the spear to Francesca. He hefted the guard’s body once more with Rudolfo on the other side and they continued down the catwalk toward the next corridor.

  Their footsteps clanged on the metal grating. Under their combined weight, the catwalk flexed and creaked. He wondered how much abuse it could take before it crumbled.

  From high overhead he heard a sharp crack, then another shortly followed by a staccato, higher pitched than the first two sounds. Was it gunfire?

  “Do guards here have guns? Maybe for a quick reaction force or something?” he asked Rudolfo.

  “No. There are no guns here. They have lethal and nonlethal riot gear, but no guns.”

  “Shit,” Aubrey said. “If someone has guns, we’re in serious trouble.”

  Ten feet from the corridor a cloud of black smoke billowed from within it. It stank of burnt meat and plastic, stinging Aubrey’s nostrils. A second later, a fiery form came stumbling out of the corridor.

  The flaming man bounced against the cage with a muffled thud, then fell backwards onto the catwalk. The burning body writhed and twitched. His skin blackened. Patches of white cloth showing through here and there were quickly consumed.

  Aubrey guessed the man must had been doused in an accelerant then set ablaze.

  As Aubrey watched the burning man, Francesca muscled her way past. She stood next to the twitching burning inmate. Holding the spear with both hands she raised it in the air and drove the point into the prisoner’s chest.

  With a final shudder, the body went still.

  Aubrey stared as she extricated the spear, regarding her with a great deal of respect, but mentally questioning whether this was the best situation for an abundance of mercy.

  A crash against the cage made him jump sideways sending Rudolfo and the guard into the inner bulkhead. The three of them twisted into each other and fell. Malina ran to help, pulling on Aubrey’s arm.

  As he was getting up, he caught a look at Rudolfo’s face. It was stone. His eyes were blank, like he’d seen a ghost over Aubrey’s shoulder.