Stone Cold Fear | Book 1 | Powerless

by Fawkes, K. M.

  Pete wanted to beat the man until he could no longer raise his hands or feet to punch and kick. Unfortunately, there were armed men in his path.

  Marie got to her feet, looking fierce, and Clyde called for silence. No doubt he had tired of sharing the limelight. When silence didn’t come quickly enough, he fired his Glock into the air.

  Please don’t let Harry be up there, Pete thought.

  “Bring her over here,” Clyde said. “Clearly you boys are having trouble controlling your baser natures.”

  A couple of inmates hauled Marie over to Clyde’s makeshift podium, leaving behind a couple others who were none too pleased to have had their plaything taken away.

  Good. If they’re fighting among themselves, they won’t be paying attention.

  Clyde told Marie to climb onto the first table and stand there and look pretty. The symbolism was obvious—he was staking a claim. Pete remembered his promise to kill her if they couldn’t manage to get out of there, and sent her another silent guarantee.

  Clyde was gloating, resting his hands on his thighs while striking what he must have thought was a regal pose. Marie’s face shifted between fear and fury.

  “What’s your plan, David?” Pete said. “When the show is over, and me and Andersen are dead, then what?”

  When it became clear Clyde wasn’t going to answer, Pete decided to push. “Have you told the inmates what’s happening outside? Or have they bought into your take-hostages-and-negotiate-with-the-authorities bullshit?”

  “What does he mean, boss?” one of the convicts shouted, and then the chorus was taken up by several more. “What’s going on outside?”

  His expression souring, Clyde looked like he wished he’d killed Pete. Then he reformed his features back into their habitual “I’m the only one who gets the joke” mask.

  “Why are you listening to him?” Clyde asked the room at large. “Haven’t you had enough lies fed to you by the people in charge?”

  “He doesn’t want to answer,” Pete said. “Because if you know the truth, you might just tell him to get fucked.”

  Mutters and side conversations created a low buzz in the room.

  “Okay, soldier boy. What’s going on outside?”

  Clyde looked for the speaker, probably so he could blow his head off, but whoever it was had been was clever and remained concealed from view. Since Clyde couldn’t find him, he leveled the weapon at Pete.

  “Wait,” someone called. “We want to hear what he has to say.”

  These words and similar came from all sides of the gathering, and Pete was glad to see Clyde’s shoulders droop. He turned and whispered something to the man on his left, who looked more alert than he had before.

  “Fine,” Clyde said. “Since you’re all dying to know, I’ll tell you. The world as we know it has come to an end. Everything electronic is fried. Your phones. Your cars. Your computers and TVs. Your girlfriends’ vibrators.”

  Clyde thought he was funny, but the low murmur at his words soon transformed into the angry buzz of a disturbed hornet’s nest.

  “It’s okay.” Clyde held his hands up. “Calm yourselves. I knew this was coming and I made provisions.”

  “You heard him,” the man on Clyde’s left said. “He’s made plans. Guy’s a genius. Our best chance is with him.”

  His lieutenant’s eloquence left Clyde looking like a man who needed to take a dump. But if Clyde lost control of the situation, Pete was doomed as well. That guy wasn’t going to take it well if someone else showed him up.

  Pete needed to make sure Clyde at least thought he was keeping the upper hand, here.

  “So?” he shouted to make sure he was heard. “Are you going to get this show on the road, or what?”

  There was laughter all around, and unless Clyde was prepared to slaughter his new followers wholesale, he was going to have to take the hit to his ego. It looked like a bitter pill to swallow, and Pete was glad. He took a chance and scanned the surroundings, looking for signs of Harry, Jeff, or his own men.

  Hell, at this point, he’d even be glad to see Andersen’s guards.

  “Since you’re in such an almighty hurry,” Clyde finally said, “we shall do just that.” He stared at Pete for a moment, looking puzzled, then cleared his throat, sat up straighter, and thumped his foot on the table several times. “Welcome, all, to the combined trial of Robert Andersen and Peter Marshall. One of them, the man you’ve all come to know and hate, and the other, a symbol of everything that is wrong with our country.”

  Clyde gave his audience a chance to react, which they did, yelling, cheering, and shouting, then he gestured for silence. “You two men will be tried by a jury of your peers.”

  “These men aren’t my peers,” Pete said—a statement which, as he’d hoped it would, stirred up the convicts.

  When Clyde tried to quiet them down, they were too rowdy, and he resorted to firing the gun again. He was fuming, and maybe only moments away from shooting another one of his followers in the head.

  Andersen turned so he could look at Pete with his remaining eye, which was bloodshot and full of pain, but also full of respect. Pete nodded to acknowledge the compliment.

  Clyde managed to rein himself in, but only by gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to whiten the knuckles of his free hand. “Let me hear the charges for Robert Andersen.”

  “Torture.”

  “Withholding food.”

  “Shock collars.”

  “Murder.”

  The accusations flew, repeated by more than one man in the room.

  Clyde allowed the pandemonium to run its course, then raised his hand for silence. “As I understand it, Warden Andersen arranged for the men to fight one another. To the death.”

  Marie paled and glared a hot spear of hate at Andersen.

  The convicts cheered some more, and when the volume receded, Clyde said, “As for Peter Marshall, he struck a bound and unarmed man.”

  The crowd booed.

  “Namely me,” Clyde said. “And besides, I promised to kill him and I am a man of my word.”

  More cheering.

  “Since we’re in Warden Andersen’s fine facility, I think it’s only fitting he gets a taste of his own medicine. A fight to the death.”

  The convicts’ jubilation became an uproar, and their shouts were nearly deafening. They pressed forward, and Pete would swear that he and Clyde thought, Oh, shit, at the same moment. If the men surged through the makeshift ring, they’d crush Pete and Andersen, and then they’d knock Clyde from his ridiculous throne.

  Clyde fired into the air. Pow. Pow. Pow. When that didn’t have the desired effect, he fired over their heads, barely missing them. That got their attention and they settled down.

  “Okay,” Clyde said. “Take it easy. I, for one, would like to see this fight.”

  Pete understood he’d been chosen only because Clyde was certain he was physically and mentally capable of killing Andersen. It could have been any of his men, but Clyde believed Pete would deliver the outcome the convicts desired.

  How Pete died after that didn’t matter, at least not to Clyde. He’d probably let the mob tear him apart, after he made sure he himself was out of harm’s way.

  He didn’t have time for any further thoughts, because Clyde spoke again.

  “Let the games begin.”

  Chapter 18

  Pete wondered what would happen if he and Andersen simply stood there, refusing to take part in Clyde’s production, but he didn’t wonder for long because Andersen came at him with a roar, caught him around the waist, and rammed him into the wall of the fight ring, which jangled and shook.

  Why’s he even fighting?

  The crowd thundered. One of the convicts reached over and shoved Pete back into the ring. Sobbing with effort, Andersen moved in close and threw a clumsy punch. Pete half-heartedly slugged him in the stomach, and the warden bent over, gasping like he’d been hit by a prize fighter.

  The convicts were deran
ged with glee, making so much noise it was disorienting.

  Andersen, already weak from the loss of his eye and whatever wounds Pete couldn’t see, could barely stand. Suddenly, Pete understood the man’s motivation. Pete was Andersen’s only chance for a quick death.

  If he didn’t die in the ring, Clyde and his merry band of inmates would come up with something much worse.

  Sickened, Pete could barely bring himself to participate. Maybe if he was up against someone who had something to lose, it would have been a fair fight. But Andersen’s fate was sealed. As was his own, he supposed.

  Still, there was the chance his men would arrive before everything went entirely to hell, so he carried on with the performance, grappling with Andersen and even allowing the man to connect on a few of his punches. They continued to circle one another, throwing punches and trading insults like the stupid gladiators they’d become.

  When he was close enough, Pete glanced up at where Marie was standing. She looked like she might faint. Clyde, however, appeared to be losing interest, which wouldn’t be good for anyone.

  And then two things happened.

  First, smoke began pouring in from several of the vents in the ceiling.

  Harry, Pete thought, and pounced on the opportunity presented by the distraction. He shoved Andersen out of his way and charged toward Clyde. He’d just made it to the side of the ring closest to Clyde when a sound began, growing louder and more ominous by the moment until it subsumed the convicts’ cheering, as well as the rattle of gunfire.

  Pete didn’t hesitate. He didn’t care if that sound heralded the beginning of Armageddon; he wasn’t going to stop. He owed it to Hernandez, Sing, Hayes, Zabinski, Lark, and Olowe—and all the others he’d lost but couldn’t yet name.

  Clyde’s bodyguards were distracted by the smoke and the all-encompassing sound. They had no idea Pete was coming for their boss. Clyde mouthed a word—one Pete worked on deciphering as he flew up a pair of beds that had been joined together to form part of the fight ring.

  Avalanche, he realized, intent only on ensuring Clyde died—and soon.

  Clyde finally noticed Pete coming for him, and his eyes went wide. Marie jumped down from the table just as Pete’s men spilled into the room from one side, Jeff Blackwell’s and the prison guards from another.

  Pete leaped, meaning to propel himself up to the second table, to David Clyde’s ridiculous throne, but the walls forming the fight ring weren’t stable and as he thrust with his legs, that portion shifted. Instead of landing on the table where Clyde’s chair rested, Pete hit the table with his chest.

  It sent Clyde plummeting backward, but Pete fell, too—except he, at least, was face-forward. Smoke was still pouring in through the vents, and soon, it would be hard to see or to breathe.

  Harry may have miscalculated.

  The table struck the floor and Pete’s chest struck its edge. It felt like he’d just been kicked by a draft horse. Impossible as it seemed, the incredible and smothering sound of the avalanche, if that’s what it was, was still growing in volume, and now the walls and floors were vibrating with it.

  Clyde landed and hit his head on the floor, which knocked every ounce of smug out of him. Flat on his black, his eyes slewed around, looking for something—or someone. His lieutenant.

  Pete saw the inmate running away at the same time as Clyde did and rejoiced, enjoying Clyde’s dismay. Then he reached Clyde and took hold of his throat. He paused for only a moment, and then he started squeezing.

  Clyde bucked and kicked, trying to break free. He was wiry, and stronger than Pete expected. He also fought like his life depended on it, because it did. He threw a well-placed elbow right into Pete’s stomach and Pete almost let go. But he repositioned himself behind Clyde and wrapped his legs around Clyde’s thighs and one arm across Clyde’s throat.

  Then, with his free hand, he wrenched Clyde’s head violently to the side. He didn’t hear the man’s neck break over whatever commotion Mother Nature was throwing their way, but he felt it.

  A moment later a gigantic force hit the building, blowing in the windows and preventing what little daylight there’d been from entering. Snow exploded into the room, mixing with the smoke and nearly extinguishing the emergency lighting. Bullets kicked up shards of the cement floor, pelting Pete in the face, and he rolled to one side, trying to get a bead on who was doing the shooting.

  But too much of his view was blocked by the fight ring.

  He guessed that his men and Jeff’s inmates were inadvertently driving the convicts toward him. He caught a glimpse of one inmate shooting another. Good guy or bad, Pete had no idea. Pieces of the ceiling began to fall and he covered his head with his arms. It would be a cruel twist of fate to have finally killed Clyde only to wind up buried alive inside Mueller Maximum Security. Maybe the old girl meant to live up to her namesake: Muerte.

  Men were being knocked down everywhere he looked, struck by bullets or falling debris. There, a prison guard. There, a convict. Another guard. And another. Pete couldn’t be certain, but it seemed like the bad guys were winning.

  Suddenly Ryan appeared from around the curve of the fight ring and made eye contact with Pete. He reached for a handgun he had in his pocket, drew it out, and got ready to toss it Pete’s way.

  Then he took a round in the chest.

  But Ryan kept moving, like his body didn’t know it was dead yet, and he still managed to throw the handgun before he collapsed. It didn’t quite reach Pete, but it was close enough. Pete surged toward it on his hands and knees, picked it up, and shot the inmate who’d killed his friend.

  He came up to his feet, intent on finding Marie and getting her out of there, but something struck him in the head, leaving him dazed and nauseous and barely able to see. At first, with a sickening blast of panic, he thought his eyesight had been damaged. But then he realized it was only blood from a head wound cascading down his face.

  Every time he tried to open his eyes, they stung fiercely, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince them to remain open more than a thin, vision-blurring squint. He wiped at the blood with his hand, but it was flowing too fast to be stopped that way.

  He could see well enough to know that about half the emergency lighting had given up the ghost, now. Were the generators finally out of gas?

  The noise from untold tons of snow moving from one place to another had subsided, and now the sound of gunfire reached his ears. Eyes squeezed nearly closed, he tried to move, but a wave of dizziness overcame him and he went back down to his hands and knees, willing himself to recover.

  Right fucking now, Marshall.

  No matter what he told himself, he couldn’t seem to climb any higher than his hands and knees before vertigo knocked him down again.

  Someone took his hand and helped him to his feet, propping him up by shoving their shoulder under his armpit. He swayed, an unmoored boat in rough seas, but managed to remain standing. They began to move, and though the way his ears were ringing, his head pounding, Pete allowed himself to be led.

  Chapter 19

  Pete flinched awake.

  “It’s okay,” Marie said. “You’re safe.”

  He waved his hand in front of his face, inadvertently bumping her nose.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s that dark.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Some sort of crawlspace under the prison. I noticed it on the blueprints when I was in the control room. Luckily, your set of keys had one that opened the trapdoor to get down here. If I’d left you upstairs, you’d be dead. You were completely out of it.”

  The sound of a single gunshot came from above.

  “I need to get to my men,” Pete said.

  In the darkness, he heard her swallow. “I don’t think any of them made it, Pete,” she said quietly. “The fight shifted, right around the time I saw you get hit in the head. The convicts gained the upper hand.” She choked back a sob. “There was nothing I could do.”

  “God
damn it. God damn this place.”

  “I’m sorry, Pete.”

  He lay without speaking for a while. Everyone Pete knew and cared for was gone. What kind of captain was he, to have gotten all his men slaughtered like that?

  “Did you bring a weapon?” he finally asked.

  “I picked up a Glock. It has three rounds left.”

  “We need to get back up to ground level.”

  “We can make our way to the other side of the prison down here,” she said. “And then, I think we should go to medical. I want to fill a pack with supplies. Plus, my coat and boots are up there. Andersen has a closet in the ridiculous room he called an office. Maybe he has a coat and boots that will fit you.”

  “We’ll have no sense of direction in the dark.”

  “I have one of the flashlights in my pocket. I don’t know how long the batteries will last, but it should get us to where we need to go.”

  Pete waved his hand above him, trying to determine if he could sit up without braining himself on whatever ceiling this space had. There was just enough clearance.

  “Lead the way.”

  Marie turned on the flashlight and shone it into the darkness. He could see pipes running through the space, lining the walls and the ceiling, but little else.

  “We’ll go that way,” she said, pointing. “I’m going to turn the light off while we go, say, eight to ten steps forward, then I’ll turn it on and make sure we’re on track.”

  “Good idea.”

  Marie took the lead, and Pete hung onto her ankle so they wouldn’t become separated. They hadn’t gone more than three crawling strides forward when she shrieked, and Pete jerked upright and hit his head.

  “Oh, God.” Marie turned on the flashlight and shone it around. “Sorry. Something ran across my hand.”

  The blow had set Pete’s head to pounding again, but not loudly enough to block the squeak of rats.

  “I hate rats,” he said. “All the disasters I’ve cleaned up after, they’ve been everywhere.”