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

corridor is empty. Nowhere to go. I run ahead and peer around the corner. Nobody there, but I can hear the voices approaching from around the next turn.

There are doors in the corridor I’m looking into. I gesture for Ramirez to follow me and run for a door about ten feet away. I hear his raspy breath behind me, hear the voices and footsteps approaching up ahead.

I grab the door handle and turn.

Locked.

“Oh, fucking excellent,” says Ramirez.

We sprint back the way we came.

“Hey!”

I keep running, but throw a quick look over my shoulder. I see about five black guys with their scrubs cut off at the waist and one of their prison uniform legs rolled up. I catch a quick glimpse of the letters MOB tattooed on a few of them. Another has a picture of a dog paw. These guys are the Bloods, and they do not get on with the Latin Kings.

“Hey, man, who the fuck are you?” calls one of them.

“Keep moving,” growls Ramirez.

“That’s the cop!” shouts another of the voices. “Hey, come back here, little piggy. I’m talkin’ to you!”

We sprint around the corner—

—and skid to a stop.

There are another ten inmates standing in front of us. They are a mixture of races—black, white, and Latino—but they all have one thing in common: a small crucifix tattoo on their necks. The man in the middle—a black guy, around fifty, bald, with a neat gray beard—is wearing a chaplain’s uniform. A black shirt with the white collar and everything.

He steps forward with a disarming smile. “And what do we have here?” he says. “Visitors?” He glances at the inmates behind him. “What did I say, my people? I said ask the Lord and He will provide.”

There’s a noise behind us. I look back and see the Bloods sprint around the corner. They pull up short when they see what’s going on, then immediately turn and run back the way they came.

Ramirez and I exchange worried looks. That can’t be good.

“Ignore them,” says the guy dressed up as a chaplain. “They are unbelievers. They fear me because I am armed with righteousness and holy vengeance.”

“Amen,” say the inmates behind him.

“Amen indeed. For is today not Judgment Day? Is today not the day when it will be determined whether you lived a life of righteousness or wickedness?”

The guys behind him all nod and murmur in agreement.

“And does it not say in Corinthians, ‘Judge nothing before the appointed time; wait until the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of the heart. At that time each will receive their praise from God!’”

“Amen!” shout the inmates behind him.

I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

“And I must expose the darkness in the heart,” he says, raising his voice with every word until he’s shouting. “For am I not the Preacher?”

Fuck…

“Shit,” mutters Ramirez.

This is the psycho serial killer who’s supposed to be locked up in ACU. The one who tortured young couples in the murder room beneath his church and ate their remains.

“I see by the looks on your faces that you’ve heard of me,” says Preacher. “This is good. It will save time. Now, will you submit to my judgment?”

“Not really a believer in an imaginary man in the clouds,” I say.

“God doesn’t give a flying fuck whether you believe or not, my child. And you should watch your tone, for it says in Matthew 12:36 that ‘everyone will have to give account on the day of judgment for every empty word they have spoken.’”

“So we’re being judged for empty words?” I say. “Like lies and shit?”

“Indeed.”

“And how’s that going for you?” I ask.

“The fuck are you doing?” mutters Ramirez.

I ignore him.

“My words are not empty. But even if they were, I am exempt,” says Preacher. “For I am His instrument. All must confess to me. Lying will only bring pain. ‘For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil.’”

“Right. And who exactly are you to judge? Didn’t you spend your spare time carving up young kids and eating them?”

“I was doing God’s will. ‘For He has set a day when He will judge the world with justice by the man He has appointed.’ Acts 17:31. I am that man. I am the tool of His righteous fury.”

“Good for you. Everyone needs a hobby.”

I sense a blur of movement in my peripheral vision. Then I see Ramirez’s cleaver spinning through the air, heading straight for Preacher’s face.

Preacher ducks to the side. The machete hits one of his followers right in the forehead, burying itself deep in his skull.

All eyes are on him as he hits the water.

There’s a splashing sound behind me. I turn and see Ramirez sprinting away up the corridor.

Fuck.

I follow him, but he has a head start, and like I said before, he’s fast for such a big guy. I sprint along the corridor, turn into another passage, then duck into the next. I’ve already lost sight of Ramirez. I can hear the sounds of pursuit close behind me, Preacher and his followers coming to… do whatever it is they do. Carve us up. Crucify us. Eat us. Sodomize our corpses. Whatever it is that priests enjoy doing on their days off.

I try the first door I pass. Locked. I try the next. It opens into a small staff break room. I duck inside and quickly close the door, listening while the running footsteps approach and then move on past. I breathe a sigh of relief, leaning my forehead against the door.

Think. What’s the plan?

Ditch Ramirez? No. I can’t. I can’t leave Sawyer and Felix with Castillo. He’ll kill them both.

Okay. First things first. A weapon. I head across the tiny room and yank open the drawers. All the cutlery is gone. I open the fridge. I don’t know what I was expecting to see in there. Maybe a knife stuck in a jar of mayo or