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

That was me. You took my wife from me, so I took yours from you.” He frowns. “I don’t like that phrasing. Makes them sound like property. Something we own. But we both know that’s not how it was.” He watches me for a moment. “I get what you’re feeling. It’s like it’s just happened, right? You’re hurting all over again. But this time, you’ve got the guilt too. Because it’s all your fault. Your wife’s death. Your kid’s death. It’s all on you, Constantine.”

I feel my body go cold. My whole world drops away from me, like I’ve fallen over the edge of a cliff. I shake my head, not wanting to believe it.

“See? That right there. That’s the look I wanted to see,” says Kincaid in satisfaction. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. Why I wanted us to be alone for this.”

I let out a scream of fury and pain and launch myself at him.

He tries to swing the gun around, but I grab it, throw myself against him. I slam my forehead into his face, feel the crunch of breaking cartilage, then bring my knee up into his stomach. His breath explodes outward and I yank the Ruger from his grasp. I stumble back, swing it around so it’s pointing at him.

Our eyes lock. Kincaid straightens up. There’s something in his eyes. Resignation. Acceptance.

Hope?

“Do it, then,” he says.

I hesitate, confused.

“Do it!” he shouts.

I pull the trigger.

The click echoes through the chamber.

A look of disappointment flashes across Kincaid’s face. I stare dumbly at the gun, then stagger back and slump against the pillar, sliding into the water again.

Kincaid sighs, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a revolver. I’m assuming it’s the same one he forced Sawyer and Felix to play Russian roulette with. He checks the chamber, turns it slowly, then carefully closes it again.

“When I found out my wife was gone…” He shakes his head. “No words can describe it. Everything you say is a cliché, right? It doesn’t feel real. It feels like a movie. But it’s true. I still thought she was going to walk through the door, come visiting day.” He sighs. “But she never did. And when that finally sinks in, when all the denial is gone, when you’re sitting there feeling like your insides have been scooped out, you realize what loneliness really is. That utter emptiness of the soul. You know what I’m saying? There was a part of me that was entwined with her. Our history, our memories. Our love. And she took it with her when she died. You become less of a person. A ghost.”

Kincaid looks around the chamber, then smiles sadly at me. There are tears in his eyes as he holds the revolver up in the air. “One bullet left. I don’t think I’ll waste it on you, Jack. I think I’d like you to suffer a bit longer with what I’ve told you.” He thumbs back the firing hammer. “But you know what? If tonight has taught me anything, it’s that I just don’t care anymore. About anything.”

And with that, he puts the revolver under his chin and pulls the trigger.

I shout out in shock as the gunshot booms around the chamber and Kincaid falls back into the water.

I sit for what feels like forever, my eyes fixed on his body. After a while, I notice that the water is rising. It’s up past my stomach now, pouring in through the roof. There’s been no maintenance in these flood chambers. Leo said they weren’t even completed. This place is going to fill up. Just like Ravenhill. Just like the Glasshouse.

I push myself painfully to my feet and turn to face the door that Sawyer and the other inmates went through. I take a step toward it, but then stop. Why go that way? Do I want to spend the rest of my life in prison?

Do I even want to live anymore? Maybe I should follow Kincaid’s example. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of telling me what he’d done. He wanted me to hurt. Once he’d done that…

I pick up a flashlight someone dropped, limp over to Felix. I squat down, put a hand on his chest.

“See you ’round, buddy.”

I straighten up and study the chamber. I find what I’m looking for and head toward the far side. There’s a series of round tunnels cut into the wall. They must be how the water exits the flood chambers.

Which means they connect to the ocean.

I step into the closest one and shine the flashlight around. The tunnel is concrete, gray and rough, unfinished.

I start walking. I walk until the pain is too much. Then I rest against the curved wall until I find the energy to push on again. My clothes stick to the bullet wound, forming a makeshift bandage. I’m not sure how much blood I’ve lost. A lot. Enough that I don’t think I’m going to make it.

I don’t care anymore. I don’t deserve to live. All this was my fault. Everything. I killed Amy. I killed our daughter. It’s all on me. If I die, I die. If I don’t… well, I have a lot to make up for, a lot of guilt to pay off.

I’m not sure how long I keep walking. How many minutes or hours pass as I stagger through the pain and the haze of delirium.

I finally reach a door in the tunnel. No, not a door. A round metal gate that sits flush with the tunnel walls. I can’t see how to open it. I feel around for some kind of switch or lever before I finally stop.

What am I even doing? The hurricane is still raging. What’s the point?

I chuckle to myself, slump down in the water. The tunnel is filling up. The water is up to my ribs.

Not much longer now.

I close my eyes.

Epilogue

Four months after the hurricane, Keira Sawyer sits at a table on Venice Beach, sipping