Breakout, Paul Herron [chrome ebook reader .txt] 📗

He’d want a chance, however small it might be.

He hesitates one last second, then thinks, fuck it, and uses the mouse to open all the cell doors in the prison. Then he opens the doors and sally ports leading between the various units. Obviously he doesn’t unlock the outside doors. He doesn’t want anyone actually escaping. But at least this way the inmates might survive any flooding until help gets to them.

Last thing he does is open the gate, then he sprints back to the bus. He’s done the right thing, surely? The inmates in A Wing would definitely have drowned if he’d left them in their cells. That whole wing sits close to the bottom of the hill, and the prison is already starting to flood.

Yeah, he did the right thing.

About five minutes after the kid heads inside, the depot gate slides open.

As soon as it does so, the shrieking begins.

When Montoya was a kid, he used to stay at his grandma’s house. She had a fireplace she never used, but when the storms came rolling in, the wind would howl and whistle down the chimney, the noise impossible to block out. This noise is the same, only magnified by a thousand—a hundred thousand.

The wind whistles through the slowly widening gap. It hammers the gate, slamming it back and forth in its guide rails. Rain and debris surge into the hangar, slapping into the windshield of the bus.

Something hits hard and cracks the glass. A few of the guards cry out. Everyone grabs hold of the seats. Louis comes barreling back onto the bus, his face pale, eyes wide with fear.

“Keys?” snaps Montoya.

Louis looks confused; then a look of alarm crosses his face.

Jesus Christ, the idiot has lost your keys.

“You want me to go—”

“Just sit the fuck down and shut up.” The keys aren’t important anymore. Staying alive is all that matters.

As the gate opens wider, the depth and pitch of the wailing wind changes, shifting from a shrill whistle to a scream, then to a long-drawn-out thunderous roar.

The bus shudders and rocks as the gate finally trundles to a stop. Hicks just sits there, staring through the windshield, his fingers curling and uncurling around the wheel, his knuckles white.

“Hicks.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares straight ahead.

“Hicks!”

He jerks and turns panicked eyes to Montoya.

“We move, we drive away from the hurricane. We sit here, the hurricane comes to us. Got it?”

Hicks licks his lips, then nods. He revs the engine and the bus edges slowly forward, heading out into an afternoon that is as dark as night.

As soon as they leave the hangar, the wind slams into the side of the bus, lifting it up onto two wheels. This time everyone cries out, Montoya included. He falls back against the doors, the back of his head slamming painfully into the glass.

This is it, he thinks. The bus is going to flip. We’re all going to die.

But then the wind eases slightly and the vehicle slowly heaves back down onto all four wheels. Hicks has frozen again, his knuckles white as he clenches the wheel.

“Move,” says Montoya. “Get up.”

Hicks blinks up at him. “What?”

“You’re a liability. I’ll drive.”

“But… you’re not authorized. I could lose my job.”

“Get out of the fucking seat, Hicks!” shouts Evans, appearing suddenly from behind Montoya and grabbing Hicks by the shirt. Hicks scrambles to his feet and Evans yanks him back toward the passenger seats.

Montoya takes his place, buckling the safety belt over his fat stomach and checking the controls. It’s been a while since he drove a bus, but nothing much has changed. He’s got this.

He puts his foot down and the vehicle surges forward. No time for pussyfooting around now. He wants out of this dump, to get on the road and head north as fast as they can.

He accelerates down the hill, speeding toward the prison gates. The Glasshouse is somewhere on their left, but he can’t even see the lights. It feels like he’s driving in a slowly constricting tunnel. He can’t see anything. Just sheets of rain illuminated by the bus headlights.

The perimeter gate looms suddenly out of the darkness. Montoya slams on the brakes. The bus skids, slewing sideways through the mud before finally rocking to a stop, side-on to the gates. The headlights shine directly on the gatehouse.

If it wasn’t for the electrified fence, he would have just driven through. But he can’t risk it. He doesn’t know if it’s still live. He needs to open the gates properly.

He glances over his shoulder. No one is looking at him. Everyone is staring down, avoiding his gaze. They know what he’s going to ask.

“Evans?” he says hopefully.

Evans looks up, but shakes his head.

Cowards. Fine. He’ll do it himself. He undoes the buckle and pulls the lever to open the doors. He’s instantly drenched, rain surging in and soaking him through, shoving him back with a wet slap.

He staggers outside. The wind punches him as soon as he sets foot on the asphalt. Once, twice, over and over, pummeling him from all sides. He slips and falls to his knees. The wind slams against his back and tries to lay him out flat, but he manages to push himself to his feet and stagger toward the gatehouse. The rain feels like shards of metal against his skin. The roar of the wind deafens him to everything.

Montoya pulls open the door and falls inside. He grabs hold of the desk and pulls himself up. He takes a few deep breaths, then fumbles in his pocket for his keycard and holds it in front of the scanner, unlocking the computer. He scrolls to the front gate controls and clicks on Unlock.

He peers through the window, but can’t see if the gates are opening. He staggers outside, making his way back to the bus. Someone is waiting just inside to open the doors, and he staggers up the steps and drops into the cracked leather seat.

He takes a few steadying breaths, rubs the water