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

short hallway that ends at a T-junction about fifteen feet ahead.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Somewhere to hole up. We need to plan our way forward.” And hide, in case Castillo is after Sawyer.

We move as fast as we can while trying to stay out of sight of the other inmates. I check the doors as we pass, opening them and peering into the rooms. Most of them are offices filled with desks and computers, others used to store old PCs and broken monitors. None of them are suitable because all the doors are cheap wood and would cave in with one kick.

I finally find somewhere that will work. I can feel the door is heavy and reinforced even as I push it open.

“In here,” I say, stepping inside.

It’s a supply room, about thirty feet long and fifteen wide, separated by five rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Toilet paper, laundry detergent, and hand sanitizer lie scattered across the floor. The inmates have already ransacked the room, taking anything edible or dangerous.

“Lock the door.”

Sawyer finds the right key while I do a quick check to make sure there isn’t another entrance.

It’s clear.

I sigh and slump down onto an eighteen-pack of toilet paper, leaning my head back against the wall.

Jesus. I can’t believe it’s only been about an hour since I woke up. My body feels like it’s been run over by a truck.

Sawyer sits down opposite me. “You okay?”

I open my eyes, looking at her in surprise. “Me? Yeah,” I lie. “I’m fine. Hundred percent. What about you?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been better.”

Understatement of the year. I let my eyes drift closed again. We sit in silence for a few minutes, letting the adrenaline wash through us. I keep seeing flashes of those poor bastards taken out by the storm surge. The panic in their eyes, the fear when they realized they were about to die and there was absolutely nothing they could do to save themselves.

I shiver and open my eyes. Not a good idea to dwell on that. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“What was with you punching out those ceiling tiles?”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Why’d you do it?”

She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Because those men would have died otherwise.”

“Well… sure, but they probably deserve it.”

“Nobody deserves that.”

“You don’t know what they’re in here for.”

“So? Makes no difference to me.”

“You put yourself in danger, though. And me. We could have died.”

“But we didn’t. It’s called decency, Constantine. You must remember what that is. Being human?”

I shrug. “Whatever happens happens. There’s nothing we can do to change it. All we can do is fight to stay alive as long as possible. That’s being human.”

“You don’t really believe that. You used to be a cop.”

“Used to. I’m telling you this now: don’t put yourself in danger like that again. Nobody in here is worth saving.”

“Not even you?”

“Especially not me.”

“Come on,” she says. “Are you seriously saying you don’t have anything to live for?”

“Not anymore.”

“Nothing? No one? No parents? Brothers or sisters?”

I shake my head. “Just me.”

“Friends?”

I think about it. “I suppose Felix is an okay guy. He’s my cellmate.”

“Jesus. That’s one miserable life you live.”

“I try my best.”

“Well, here’s the thing. I do have people to live for. I want—”

I cut in. “Who?”

She pauses, her train of thought derailed. “What?”

“Who do you have to live for? A husband? Kids?”

“No kids. I’ve got an ex-husband. He’s all right, I guess. But I’ve got family. Friends. People I’m responsible for.”

I can sense her reluctance to talk. But if she’s going to judge me, I have a right to ask. “Who?”

She hesitates. “My brother, Mike. He… looks up to me. And… he kind of hates me.”

I frown. “Which one is it?”

“Both, I guess. He hasn’t talked to me for a couple of years now.”

“Why?”

“Long story. Our mother died when he was ten. I was thirteen. Cancer. Long. Drawn out.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. That’s on God.”

“You still believe in God?” I say, surprised. “After seeing your mother suffer like that?”

Sawyer thinks about it, then shrugs. “Sometimes.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes drifting back through the years. “She refused treatment in the end. She knew it wasn’t going to do any good. Died at home. But it took over a month. Every morning Mike woke up and waited at the foot of my bed—never went on his own. We’d go to our mom’s room and knock. We’d never just walk in. We were too scared of what we’d find. We waited till we heard her call out. Or she’d push her book onto the floor. Something just to tell us she was still alive. Then we’d go in and she’d get us to pray with her.”

“She still believed?”

“Right till the end. She was hardcore. Used to read us the Bible as our bedtime story. I could probably recite the whole thing from memory. She always said whatever happened was God’s plan.”

I snort my disgust. “Fuck that shit. If that kind of thing is God’s plan, then he’s the bad guy.”

“So I take it you haven’t been saved by our Lord and Savior?” Her tone is light. She’s joking.

“Nope. I was forced to go to Sunday school when I was a kid. My grandparents took me. The teacher—he was what you would call a traditionalist. Fire and brimstone. Screaming and shouting. Think I was about six at the time. From that moment on, I kind of took offense to people trying to tell me what to do.”

“And your wife?”

“What about her?”

“Was she religious?”

“She called herself a weekend Christian. But not even that. She went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, maybe on Easter. That’s about it.”

“You ever go with her? To Midnight Mass?”

I laugh. “No. She wouldn’t let me. Said I’d burst into flames if I set foot inside the church.”

Sawyer smiles.

“So…” I say. “Your mom?”

Her smile fades. “One morning we stood at her door and knocked. She didn’t reply. It was just… silent. We didn’t know what to do.”

“Where was your dad?”

“We weren’t sure.