A New World: Awakening

by O'Brien, John

  “That they are and we’re carrying their bill,” I reply.

  Greg is not someone I would not want to mess with. With his large, muscular frame, he looks like he could rip your arms out of their sockets without much effort. His dark eyes, mimicking his dark skin, narrow and he nods before turning back to the room below.

  The snap of a whip and the man’s scream echoes for what seems an eternity. Just below the threshold of the man’s scream comes the woman’s. She is begging the man to stop. Which man she is yelling at is left to guess. She’s just screaming, “Stop. Please stop.” It makes me sick inside but I feel a cold determination settle. The man’s scream falls silent.

  “I’ll submit. I submit. Just please stop,” the woman cries out through her tears.

  “You’ll submit alright,” the speaking man says with a smirk. I hear a few chuckles from the larger group. The men behind the one speaking eye the crowd with narrowed eyes. They must be his bodyguards or something. They appear to be looking for any dissension within the crowd.

  The whip flies through the air again and snaps against the man’s back. There is no resulting scream this time except from the woman. The man’s legs give out and his body slumps further. The two holding him are now supporting his entire weight. They lower him to the floor with the woman wailing non-stop. She thrashes against those holding her wanting to reach her husband.

  “Take him back to his room. You may share the woman,” the preacher says stepping off the boxes and walks across the room to a door to our left.

  The entourage of ten men follows in his wake. Two men pick up the man lying on the floor and drag him in the opposite direction. They carry him through a door at the far end. The woman is dragged screaming and thrashing through the side doors the preacher exited. The crowd breaks up and heads into those same doors. The room empties and falls silent. The only evidence that anything took place is small patches of red on the waxed wooden floor where the man was held.

  “Again, I say that was majorly fucked up. This place is all kinds of fucked up,” Greg whispers through clenched teeth.

  “Agreed. Let’s go get those people out of here,” I say.

  “What are you thinking?” Greg asks as we continue lying on the grating looking out over the now empty room.

  “Well, they dragged that poor soul through those doors taking him back to his room,” I say nodding at the doors to the right. “The others left through the ones on the left so I’m guessing they keep their rooms separate from the prisoners.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that as well. That is with the exception of that woman,” Greg comments.

  “So we get those we can to a safe place and see,” I say.

  The two men who dragged the either dead or unconscious man emerge from the doors and cross the room. They are casually carrying their carbines and their murmured conversation drifts upward from the room. They disappear through the left hand doors.

  “Shall we,” I say after they leave the room below in silence once again.

  “Lead on,” Greg replies.

  We crawl backward, close the door, and don our goggles. Stepping over the body once again on our way down the stairs, we emerge into the hall. At the double steel doors leading into the humongous room, the hallway branches left and right. We silently step to the corner and peer around. Another security door sits twenty feet down the hall to the right. A similar door sits in the hall on the other side. I move down the hall to the right with Greg keeping an eye on the door behind. A darkened hall stretches away before arcing to the left and vanishing out of sight.

  I swipe the card to open the door and we are swiftly through. The corridor is empty without any doors leading off. We creep quietly down the pitch black stretch, seen only in a green glow. We follow the arc around to where it ends with another security door. Light shines through the inset window. I’m not worried about cameras in the darkened areas of the building. They have to be up and running in the lit areas as part of the security system though. Whether they are being watched is something altogether different. The one good and bad thing about having thick walls and so many security doors is sound doesn’t carry far.

  At the door, I look quickly inside. I can’t see much due to the restrictive nature of the small window but it appears to be another hall. This must be the hall between the wing buildings and where they dragged the poor bastard. The actual building with the cells, radiating outward like tentacles, must be to the right. If the prisoners are being held there, then I assume there are also guards with them. Even though the cell doors, where I again assume they are being held, must be locked, they would also post guards. That only makes sense.

  The images of the scene in the large room flash through my mind. I feel a deep, cold anger settle. I cannot fathom the reason people can be so cruel when the rules are lifted. Vengeance is mine saith the Lord, the line trickles through my head. Not today. Today it walks on two legs and will be delivered by a messenger of steel, I think nodding at Greg as we get ready to enter the lit hall.

  I ease the door open after hearing the click and seeing the green light. Peeking quickly in both directions with the mirror, I withdraw it and ease the door closed.

  “Hallway with a security door at either end. There’s a camera mounted above the door on the right. We’ll have to move fast. There is most likely a small room with other security doors that allow only one to be open at a time. There may be a security station set up off that room that overlooks a larger congregation area,” I say.

  “How do you know that?” Greg asks.

  “We had to study prison systems in detail as a lot of other types of secure buildings are set up in a similar fashion. A prison is one of the most secure facilities around. Well, there are those that are more secure, a lot more, but the premise is the same,” I answer.

  “We’ll move quickly down the hall, have a swift look in the window to see what we see, open the door, and move inside. Once inside, we’re trapped until that door closes, assuming it is set up that way. You help it along its way. It may be pneumatic so there may not be much you can do. If shit happens, we move back here and into the main building to find a place to lay low,” I continue.

  “I’m right behind you,” Greg comments. I would take out the lights with my suppressed 9mm but the lights are inset into the ceiling with wire mesh glass. They are designed to not be broken. I would also take out the camera but it is surrounded in a thick Plexiglas shield. Again, it’s designed not to be broken easily.

  “Here’s to hoping fat, dumb, and happy is supposed to be watching the cameras,” I say swiping the card.

  We are in the hall in a flash moving rapidly to the door on the right. Crouching and stealth are fairly moot at this point. I thought about just walking up nonchalantly like we were part of the group, but with a group this small, they would most likely know each other and the ruse wouldn’t work. I’ve actually done that in the past with some degree of success but there’s a time and place for it. This isn’t one of them.

  My heart is racing along with my feet. We are now in the light and most likely being caught on camera. Speed is of the essence. The reaction will most likely be slow if we are seen on a monitor. Chances are the operator will go through a small moment of “What the fuck?” Trained ones will react instantly but these people are far from being trained. I would have worked a different tactic altogether if we were infiltrating a secure building with trained security. Back then, I also had different tools to work with. These are a bunch of Yahoos who think they own the world. They are lax in their security but it only takes one lapse on my part and even they will react.

  I shoulder my M-4 and withdraw my handgun quickly peeking in the window while Greg crouches at the card swipe. It affirms what I envisioned from experience and from Jim’s descriptions. A small room with large wire mesh windows waits on the other side. Two security doors lead out of the room, one to the left and one to the right. The one to the left leads to a room that looks similar to the console ro
om on the upper catwalks of the large room. I can’t see all of it from my angle. A large room filled with tables and chairs is beyond the small room on the other side of the door. Four stories of catwalks surround the room with security doors leading to the four wings that radiate out from this building to the actual cells. The room is dimly lit including the guard post to the left and I don’t spot any guards. Time is of the essence. I nod at Greg.

  He swipes his card and I hear the now familiar metallic click of the magnetized locks releasing. I sweep the door outward only enough to crouch through and settle by the door to the left. Light from the hall fills the small room. The bottom of the window in the door leading to the guard post is above my head. I have my handgun pointed upward towards the window. The round won’t go through the glass but if someone opens the door, their life will be measured in nano-seconds. The light from the hall dims as the door swings slowly closed. My heart is pounding in my chest. I hate being exposed like this. My body tingles from the sheer volume of adrenaline pouring through it.

  Time moves slowly and it seems like it is taking the door way too long to close. If someone is in the room, they surely would have seen us on the cameras and have noticed the increase in light. I lift my signal mirror to one corner of the window, exposing only enough of the mirror to see inside. A man is sitting inside with his feet propped up on one of the consoles and reading a book. He glances over at the window briefly before returning to his book. While I didn’t get my fat wish, I certainly received my wish for dumb and happy. A rifle leans against a counter nearby and a handgun is holstered at his side.

  The door behind us clicks as the door shuts and the magnetic lock engages, shading the room in the dim light from the room. I watch as the man looks over to the door. He removes his feet from the console and sets his book down. Still looking at the window with a quizzical expression, he rises from his chair.

  “Now,” I say nodding at the door swipe.

  Greg runs the card through. The door clicks and I push inward with my shoulder; my hand still holding the mirror. I rise as I push sweeping my Beretta past the opening door. I stop as the barrel aligns with his face, which registers shock. I fire at almost point blank range. Blood flies out from his head as my round hits on the side of his nose shattering it and the sinus cavity which lies behind. My barrel aligns quickly again and I send a second round, on the heels of the first, into his already demolished face. The round penetrates just below the inside portion of his eye.

  The back of his head explodes outward with pieces of flesh and brain coating the side window. He flies backward hitting the counter below the window and the ruined back of his head smacks against the glass. He slumps and rolls to the ground. The window is smeared with chunks which slowly slide downward; some of the larger pieces falling off to the counter. Blood streams down the glass in rivulets. The room fills with the smells of gunpowder and blood.

  I crouch back down quickly looking around the room. Greg is squatting by the open door looking outward. Nothing moves. I move back into the small room and allow the door to close. We open the other door, wedging it to keep it that way, and enter the room proper. It has the appearance of where meals are taken and free time spent. A bank of phones line one of the walls. The doors leading to the upper wings are dark but light shines from two of the doors across from us on the ground floor. Makes sense they would keep them on the ground floor, I think.

  Our lasers streak through the room as we search for any other guards. The room is empty. Walking around the perimeter, hidden in the shadows to a degree, Greg and I approach the first lit window. We passed by one darkened window but found it vacant. It could be that they are all empty but the odds are that the ones with the light are where the current prisoners are housed.

  A look in each of the doors reveals a long hall with rows of solid steels doors to the left and right down its length. Each door has a very small window and the cinder block walls are painted a drab cream color. At the far end of each, a guard sits in a plastic chair against the wall, each one looking bored and not wanting to be there. One guard is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees staring at the ground while the other leans back with a book. Neither is being attentive to the door or those most likely behind the locked doors. Both have rifles leaning against the wall beside them.

  I stand next to the wall adjacent to the opening of the door. Greg swipes and pulls the door outward on the click of the magnetic release, holding the door with his foot as he focuses on the other lit door. I step into the opening raising my M-4. The first guard lowers his book to look at who is intruding upon their moment. Centering the crosshair on his center mass, I pull the trigger twice feeling two light kicks against my shoulder. The two projectiles streak down the hall, the first tearing through the pages of the book before impacting his chest with a solid thump. The book is torn from his hands and flies through the air.

  The second round arrives on the heels of the first smacking into his neck. The wall behind him turns red with a spray pattern of blood. The guard reaches up with his hand to his ruined throat and launches back in his chair. Jets of blood arc into the air through his fingers with the rhythm of his heart. He slams against the wall, knocking his gun to the ground with a clatter, spins to the side, and falls off his chair hitting the floor. Continuing to grasp his neck with both hands, his feet kick out repeatedly before slowing to an occasional twitch. One last twitch and they become still.

  I race up the hall keeping him covered. A large red puddle forms on the floor beneath his head. I reach the body and kick the rifle away. It skitters across the floor leaving a streak of red behind. The guard’s eyes stare blankly at the ceiling above, any life they might have once had is gone and they’re glazed over.

  The sound of the shots barely echoed down the hall. The solid doors must have kept even the muted gunshots from entering as there are no faces peering out of the windows. I look quickly in each on my way back out finding men lying on double bunks in several of the rooms. I reach Greg’s position aware of our need to be swift. Anyone could come through the entrance at any time or see us through the window if they drew near. They can’t get in with the door wedged but they certainly can raise the alarm. I don’t know the guard’s rotation so we need to make this fast.

  Greg closes the door and we creep to the second door. In the same positions as before, Greg swiftly opens the door and I send two rounds down the hall once again. The guard looks up from his leaning position, his face registering surprise at a figure at the door aiming a carbine at him. His shocked look changes to one of pain as the bullets punch through his shirt, one just to the right of his sternum in the center of his chest and the other into the sternum itself. He is thrown upright and from his chair into the wall. He falls heavily to the floor scooting the chair across the floor away from him. The chair hits one of the security doors and topples over.

  I hear a gurgling wheeze as I approach. His eyes seek mine and lock onto them as I reach and stand over him. Fear is written in his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. He knows he is dying. His eyes plead with mine for a second and then he looks away with resignation. His red plaid shirt puffs as I pump two more rounds into his chest which then falls inward. The wheeze of him struggling to breathe falls silent. I turn and see the face of a woman staring out of the small window of the door that the chair crashed into. I nod at the woman and head back to Greg. We rapidly check the remaining wings without seeing guards or lit rooms.

  “There should be switches in the guard post that will open all of the doors,” I say as we finish with our checks. “I’ll unlock the doors if you’ll gather everyone.”

  “Gotcha,” Greg says.

  I head into the room, having to go through the musical door thing again. Checking on the hall leading to the other building on my way, I find it still clear of others. Within the room is a console and control panel for the doors. The console allows for each door to be opened individually, a wing at a time, or the entirety of the doors. I u
nlock the two wings that have the lit hallways radioing Greg that they are open. I then move to the small room to keep watch on the hall. I open and wedge the door again.

  Greg appears in the room with men in tow and then heads into the second hall, returning shortly with women behind. I wave them over to my position noticing more than a few eyes wandering to the blood smeared window of the control room.

  “I hid the bodies in cells,” Greg says as he comes to stand next me.

  “Let’s drag this other one into a cell before we leave,” I say nodding toward the control room.

  “Is this everyone?” I ask the group knowing there’s at least one women missing.

  One of the women looks around at the others before speaking up. “There are four women missing. The guards take some of us at night,” she says.

  “Fucking great,” I say quietly.

  The man who was beaten just a short while ago is with the men. One of his eyes is swollen completely shut. He is shirtless and his face is smeared with dried blood as if he, or someone else, tried to clean him up.

  “My wife,” he says; the words thick and slurred coming through broken, swollen lips. Tears run down his cheek as he thinks about what she must be going through.

  “We’ll get her,” I reply nodding. “Anyone here know Allie McCafferty?”

  An older gentleman, well, older being relative as he appears to be only slightly older than me, raises his hand. His eyes light up and his face is written with eagerness and anticipation.

  “I have a daughter named Allie McCafferty, sir. Do you know if she’s okay? Is she with you?” He asks excitedly and looks around as if she’ll materialize somewhere.

  “Assuming she’s your daughter, and the odds are that she is, she’s okay. She and others will be waiting for us outside come morning,” I answer.