I’ll get out, I told myself. Rose’ll get me out. Two months, maybe three. I just need courage. I just have to survive.
That’s what I told myself.
But I was way wrong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Desperate Measures
Dinnertime.
The cafeteria was a big room with green cinder-block walls and a metal ceiling. There were long shiny metal tables with benches bolted to the floor on either side. The prisoners moved in a line past the service counter. A gray line of gray men. Staff servers scooped some kind of meat onto our plates. Some kind of vegetables and potatoes too. Guards stood against the wall and watched us, sharp-eyed.
I thought back to the cafeteria in my high school. I thought about clowning around there with Josh and Miler and Rick. I thought about the first time I talked to Beth, how she wrote her phone number on my arm. It was only a little more than a year ago. It might as well have been a lifetime.
I carried my tray to a spot near the wall and sat down. I had to eat and keep watch at the same time. If someone was going to try to kill me again, this would be a good place to do it, guards or no.
So I ate and I watched. It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a relaxing meal. There were no relaxing meals in Abingdon.
After a couple of minutes had gone by, I noticed something strange. No one else was sitting down at my table. The benches around me were empty, as if the other prisoners were avoiding me. That made my adrenaline start flowing. It wasn’t normal. It meant something was going on. Something was about to happen.
What did happen took me by surprise. My table started to fill up—and all the prisoners who were sitting down around me were guys I had seen out in the exercise yard around the weights. They were the guys with swastika tattoos—the ones who had come to my rescue when I’d been attacked. Suddenly, they were on every side of me. My hand, lifting my spoon from the tray to my mouth, froze and hovered in midair.
“Go on eating,” said the man to my right.
I knew him. Everybody in Abingdon knew him. His name was Joe Chubb. His nickname was Blade. He was the guy who’d knocked out the wolf-faced man when he tried to kill me in the yard. He was the leader of the swastika boys. Not a nice guy. He was in here for murder. He’d beaten a man to death in a bar, just punched him in the head until he stopped breathing. It was easy to picture him doing something like that too. He was a scary-looking dude, no question. Tall and wide with dirt-brown hair and a face that looked like someone had banged it out of a rock with a hammer. His skin was full of ridges and scars. Some of them were acne scars. Some of them were put there with weapons of one kind or another. He wore a close, pointed beard that gave him a devilish appearance. But the scariest thing about him was the look in his eyes. It was kind of a distant, dreamy look but not in a good way. He seemed to be dreaming something violent and evil. It seemed like that was a good dream for him, like he was enjoying it and maybe when he woke up, he’d try to make his dreams come true.
He spoke in a low murmur, a guttural purr. It made me think of a cat torturing a mouse to death and having a fine old time at it.
“Listen,” he said. “We’re on the move. We could use you.”
I just sort of blinked at him. I didn’t understand what he meant.
“We’re getting out of here,” he went on, under his breath.
“Out?” I said.
“Keep your voice down, punk.”
Then I understood. They were planning an escape.
“Are you crazy?” I started to say. And then I dropped my voice to a whisper and said it again: “Are you crazy? That’s impossible. You’ll be killed.”
Blade shook his head. He smiled another dreamy smile. “Nothing’s impossible, punk. It’s all set. Right after Christmas.”
I took a quick glance around to see if the guards were watching us. They stood with their backs against the wall, scanning the room, but none of them seemed to be paying particular attention to me and Blade.
I pretended to go on eating. “What do you want with me?” I asked him out of the side of my mouth.
“We could use you,” he said again.
“Why?”
“I can’t explain that now. This isn’t the time or place. Just tell me: Are you in or out?”
I didn’t know what to say. Why would a guy like Blade come to me? I just sat there, staring stupidly.
“In or out,” Blade said again, more urgently this time. “Which is it, punk?”
Finally, I managed to shake my head. “I’ve got an appeal on. My lawyer says I could be free in a couple of months . . .”
“Listen, brainless, you don’t have a couple of months,” Blade purred with an ugly-sounding laugh. “Your Islamist buddies haven’t changed their plans. I have that solid. They still mean to put a shiv in you. You stick around and the only way you’ll get out of here is in a box.”
I glanced at him. He wasn’t kidding. I believed him too. Blade was the sort of guy who knew things, heard things. All the information in the prison seemed to make its way to him eventually. If he said the Islamists were going to try to kill me again, it was pretty certain he was right. It made sense. With Prince on the loose, every Islamo-fascist in the prison would be looking to take a shot at me and earn his favor.
“We won’t be around to protect you this time,” Blade told me. “One way or another, we’ll be gone.”
I nodded. I understood. But what difference did it make? Obviously there was no way I was getting myself involved in a prison break—especially not with this gang of Nazi nutbags. I would just have to try to stay alive in here the best I could until Rose got me out.
“Good luck,” I said to Blade.
“Your funeral,” he answered curtly.
Then he and his friends all got up at once. I was alone again at the long table.
I sat there, staring down at my tray. I felt strange and unfocused, as if I were underwater. What was I supposed to do now? I wondered. Now that I knew there was going to be an escape? Should I tell someone? Should I warn the authorities? Or should I just keep my mouth shut?
Man oh man, it can be hard to know what to do sometimes, what’s right, what’s wrong. It can be easy in theory, sitting around thinking about it, but hard in fact, in life. There could be no mistake about one thing: Blade and his guys were killers, every one of them. Those swastikas tattooed on their arms and foreheads: They weren’t some accident or some fashion statement or something. They weren’t like some kid wearing a picture of Che Guevara on his T-shirt because he doesn’t understand Che was a stone Communist killer or some girl wearing a Soviet hammer and sickle for a belt buckle because she doesn’t know the Soviets murdered a hundred million people. That’s just ignorance, just dopiness.
But when these guys put swastikas into their flesh, they meant it. They wanted to express all the hate that symbol holds, all the evil and murderous meanness. If they got out of this place, they’d be doing the same sort of violence and murder that got them in here to begin with.
So I couldn’t let them escape, could I? I had to turn them in. I had to. Didn’t I? I couldn’t just let them break out and get free to hurt people again.
But then . . .
Well, they had saved my life, hadn’t they? I knew they only did it because they were racist lunatics. Basically, if a black guy wanted to kill me, they were going to protect me on general principles, just to prove they were bosses of the yard. But the fact remained, I’d be dead if it weren’t for them. The idea of ratting them out to the Abingdon guards—who were almost as bad as the prisoners—didn’t feel right. It felt dirty.
And, okay, just being honest, there was something else too. A rat in Abingdon is a dead man. If anyone ever found out I’d gone to the authorities—and they definitely would find out, they definitely would—the word would spread fast. Every single prisoner in this place would want me dead then. Some of them would come after me even after I got out of prison. They’d come after my family, after the people I l
oved. I’d never be able to rest.
So that was the situation: I had to stop these guys from breaking out, but if I ratted on them, I’d have a target on my back for the rest of my life. That’s the thing, the crazy, brain-rattling thing about a place like Abingdon. When you’re in a world of evil, all your logic gets turned upside down. What’s right feels wrong; what’s wrong feels like your only choice.
I tried to think what Sensei Mike would do, what he’d tell me to do. He was a war hero, after all. He had a piece of titanium in his leg from the time he held off an attack by a hundred Taliban almost single-handedly in Afghanistan. He wouldn’t be afraid of Blade or the guards or anyone who might come for him.
I knew he’d want me to try to stop this escape—but how?
A buzzer sounded. Dinnertime was over.
I got up off my bench. My head was throbbing like my brain was overloaded. I moved to the garbage cans, emptied my tray, and set it on the stack.
I looked around. I saw the swastika boys gathered in one corner of the room, murmuring to one another, eyeing me with suspicion. I saw some of the Islamist gang looking at me from another corner, waiting for their chance.
I couldn’t join one and I couldn’t hide from the other. It was as if the stone walls of this prison were closing in on me from every side.
I took a step toward the cafeteria door . . . and suddenly, the room went white. A terrible pain shot through me.
The next few minutes changed everything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Great Death
In an instant, the cafeteria was gone. The prison was gone. The present was gone and I was in the past again.
I was in the woods. I was running. Trees rushed by me on every side. It was night. It was pitch-black, but somehow I could see. The trees and vines and bushes— all the tangled shapes of the forest—appeared a ghostly green against the darkness. I understood: I was wearing military-style night-vision goggles.
I looked down for a second as I ran. I saw I was holding a machine gun. An AK-47, compact and deadly. I kept running. I knew I had to run even though I didn’t know why. What was I running away from? What was I running toward? I didn’t know.
Slowly I began to comprehend. The idea just seemed to form in my mind. I was outside the secret Homelander compound in the woods. I was being hunted, hunted like a deer by Orton and some of the others. I had that double sense again of being in two times at once: I felt as if I knew what was going to happen next. I couldn’t know because it hadn’t happened yet, and yet I did.
What I knew was this: Someone was about to shoot me.
Almost the same second the knowledge came to me, it happened.
As if out of nowhere, Orton stepped from the trees. He lifted his AK, pointed it straight at my chest. For a second, I saw his face through the night-vision goggles, bizarre and green. I saw his goggles bugging out of his face like an insect’s eyes. I saw his mouth gaping in a savage smile of pleasure and triumph.
Questions flashed through my mind: How had he gotten around in front of me? Why was he trying to kill me? Weren’t we on the same side?
There was no time to figure out the answers. I had to move. Now.
Just as Orton stepped into view, I came down on my right foot. I pushed off hard to the side at the same moment he opened fire.
I heard the cough of the AK. I felt the bullets pepper my side. The impact spun me around in midair. I tumbled downward and smacked into the earth with a bone-jarring thud. As I landed on my shoulder, I somehow managed to keep rolling, twisting—somersaulting, finally, off the forest path and into the low bushes. I heard the AK rattle death yet again. I felt the bullets whistling above my head off to the right.
Then, before Orton could pull the trigger one more time, I sprang up fast onto my knees and fired back.
He wasn’t ready for me. He’d obviously lost me in the low brush when I fell and rolled. His second round of gunfire had been aimed in the wrong direction and now he was turned to face the empty woods to my right.
But I knew where he was. I’d heard his gun. I popped up out of my cover with my gun leveled at his center. I didn’t hesitate. I opened fire.
Even in the strange green light of the goggles, I saw the dark stain spread over the front of his fatigues. The smile vanished from his face in a look of shock. He staggered backward, his arms flailing. He sat down on the hard dirt of the forest path.
At that, a whistle blew.
A man stepped out of the surrounding forest, stripping his goggles off his face as he came. I knew him. Waylon. One of the cruelest and most murderous of the Home–landers band. One day soon, Detective Rose was going to shoot him dead. But now here he was, large and very much alive.
I stood up slowly. I stretched, trying to ease the pain in my side where the bullets had smacked into me. I stripped off my goggles, too, as I came forward. I glanced down and there was enough moonlight for me to see the dark red-brown stain that had spread from beneath my arm all the way down to my beltline. It was blood-colored paint, of course. This was a training exercise. The bullets were paint pellets that exploded on impact. They hurt something wicked when they hit you, and I knew I’d be bruised all over tomorrow. But they didn’t break the skin. There were no wounds, no blood.
Waylon reached out and pushed my arm away so he could get a good look at where the pellets had landed. I flinched at the pain.
“Not so bad. Not fatal,” he said gruffly. He had a deep voice with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. He was big and thickly built. He had a large face with sagging folds behind his scruffy black beard. “You live to fight another day,” he said. Then he turned to Orton. “But you,” he said roughly. “You are dead.”
Orton was slowly getting to his feet. I could see his face contorted in pain. He looked down at the stains covering the front of his shirt. The grimace of pain became a grimace of anger.
“This is stupid,” he protested to Waylon. He gestured at me. “Look at him. With those wounds, he would never have been able to jump up that way. I’d have finished him off while he was lying there.”
Waylon took a long stride and stood in front of Orton, looking down at him. “You’re forgetting one thing,” he said. “You cannot possibly say such a thing to me. Do you know why?”
“Why?” said Orton angrily.
“Because you’re dead,” said Waylon.
With that, Waylon hit Orton in the face, shockingly fast, shockingly hard, his open palm smacking loudly against Orton’s cheek . . .
And with that smack, the scene was gone—and the blow seemed to hit me in the face instead of Orton. Confused— and taken completely by surprise—I was sent reeling backward by the impact.
I tried to steady myself, to get my bearings, look around. Everything had suddenly changed. I wasn’t in the woods anymore. I was standing on hard-packed dirt. There were faces on every side of me. Faces twisted, mouths open. People were screaming roughly.
Orton was there. Orton’s furious face was bobbing around in front of me.
We were fighting, he and I. It was another training exercise: self-defense. But it wasn’t like sparring back home in the dojo. In the dojo, Sensei Mike taught his students that even when we sparred against one another, we were teammates. We weren’t trying to hurt one another. We were trying to make each other better. Here, now, in the Homelanders’ training compound, I could tell by the way my face throbbed that Orton was not holding back. He was a trained fighter, just like I was. And he’d hit me full force in the face. He wasn’t trying to make me better at all. He was just trying to bring me down.
The full situation started to come back to me, in that weird double way things did during these memory attacks. Orton hated me. He was used to being the top dog among the Homelander recruits and he was jealous of my success. He meant to punish me for it. He meant to prove he was still the best, even if I got hurt in the process. Even if I got killed in the process.
He closed in on me again. His stare was intense, focu
sed. His features were taut with purpose, his mouth twisted with fury for revenge. I could hear the crowd of men around us cheering for him fiercely. I could see their bared teeth, their gleaming eyes on every side of me.
With no windup, no warning, Orton launched a high crescent kick. The edge of his foot came looping toward the side of my head. I was still dazed from his last punch. I only just managed to duck the blow. His sneaker swung past above me, but he was already using the velocity of the kick to bring himself spinning full around like a top, his hand snapping out in order to send a chop at my neck.
I managed to get an elbow up, fending off the worst of the strike. But I was off-balance. The movement sent me stumbling to the side, tumbling to the ground as the crowd cheered with bloodlust. I rolled onto my back and Orton, still moving, flung himself at me. I lifted my feet and caught him in the belly and somersaulted backward. The throw sent him flying through the air.
I got up as he hit the ground. I saw dust puff up all around him. I heard the breath come out of him with a loud grunt. I rushed to attack him before he could stand, but he was too quick. He rolled to the side and was on his feet before I could reach him.
The crowd moved with us, leaving us just enough space to fight as they pumped their fists at us and cheered.
Orton and I circled each other. He was good, tough, fast. And I could see by that angry gleam in his eye that he didn’t mean to lose to me ever again.
As for me, I was out of breath, dazed from the blow to my face; aching all over. I wasn’t sure I could handle another solid attack.
Fortunately, before Orton could make his next move, Waylon stepped in between us.
HL 04-The Final Hour Page 5