Lights Out (24 page)

“How did they get here in the first place?” Ribisi asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“These vampires--if that’s what we’ve decided to call them--how did they get inside Burnham? Who was first? It had to be something from outside, but how did it get in? We need to know that, or else it’s just gonna start up again no matter how many of these motherfuckers we take out.”

“He has a point,” Sweeny said.

Darren nodded. “We’ll have to look for both, then. We have to find them all, find out how they got in, and destroy everything. We have to be thorough.”

“Shit,” Diggs whispered. Where we gonna get that time?”

“So what do we do?” Morrow asked.

Darren ran his fingers over the schematic. “We have spread out, take the whole prison. Administration, cafeteria, everything.”

“You think Ron will let us do that?”

“I don’t know. If he’s smart, he’ll get everybody out. I’m just not sure, though. We might need to give him a push.”

“We’ll do it,” Sweeny said.

“How?”

“It’s been what, ten minutes? Five more, and I’ll send a good chunk of our boys toward the offices, yelling up a storm. If the warden and his people don’t run, we’ll herd them outside.”

“They might have SORT ready,” Morrow said.

“Fuck it. No guts, no glory.”

“Fine,” Darren said. “Nobody gets hurt, though. Absolutely nobody.”

The Aryan shot him a grin. “Aw, Father. Don’t you want it took look good?”

“I want to find those things and destroy them. I don’t want more people to get hurt because of it.”

“Well, aren’t you dreaming the impossible fuckin’ dream?”

“Don’t you have skinheads to round up?” Morrow asked.

Sweeny shot the guard a sneer. “Right.” He turned on his heel and stalked away. Diggs gave him the finger.

“I hope this doesn’t bite us on our asses,” Morrow muttered.

Darren patted him on the shoulder. “Look on the bright side, Ray. We might all be dead before it does.”

“We’ll need demands,” Ribisi said.

“Might buy us some time, at any rate. What did you have in mind?”

Diggs chuckled. “Get us the fuck out of here, man.”

“Fuck you,” Ribisi said. “Something realistic, asshole.”

“No,” Darren said. “No, that’s perfect. I asked for that myself this morning. You don’t want to be set free; you want to be moved to a safer facility in light of the recent murders. Ray, how many prisoners do we have in Burnham right now?”

The guard ticked it off in his head. “We’re at capacity, maybe a little over. I’d say around 1,600 or so.”

“And how would they transfer them? By bus?”

“I don’t see any other way.”

“And that would take forever to organize, let alone pull off. It should give us plenty of time. We’ll fill in Sweeny when he gets back. When it’s time, the four of you will have to deliver the demands.”

“Good,” Marquez said. “Timms will believe a united front.”

“We can hope.”

“What if they agree?”

“Fuck it,” Diggs chimed in. “I’ll be on the first ride outta this bitch!”

“Fine. And what about you, Father? Us repeating your demands. Don’t you think the warden will catch on?”

“He can’t fire me. I’m appointed.”

“No, but he can charge you.”

Albright nodded. If the warden realized he was in on this, the consequences would be dire. Not only would he go to prison, he’d be excommunicated. It would destroy his life. If he could save lives, though, it would all be worth it. He kept that thought tucked away in the back of his mind. He was doing this to save lives.

“What else?” Morrow asked.

“We need weapons,” Ribisi answered.

“You’re not getting weapons.”

“And what the fuck are we supposed to fight these things with, our dicks?”

“Yo, my boy Tree stomped one’s fuckin’ head off last night!”

“Tree did that?” Morrow asked. “We found the body this morning.”

“Fuck yeah! Man’s a fuckin’ monster his own self.”

“I don’t care,” Ribisi said. “I’m not gonna be able to stomp one of those motherfuckers.”

“Stakes,” Marquez said. He caught the look the others gave him. “Wooden stakes. If these things are vampires, we have to drive stakes through their hearts.”

“And it they’re not?”

“I got a feeling it’ll work anyway.”

“So we send some people to the machine shop,” Morrow said. “Have them scrounge up all the wood they can and get to work.”

“And I want water,” Darren said. “Have some people bring me all the water they can collect. I’ll bless it, see if it works.”

The others nodded.

“Yo,” Diggs said. “This is well and fuckin’ good, but we need to find these muthafuckas. I don’t wanna wait around ‘til they wake up.”

“So we do that. Everybody without something else to do tears this place apart from top to bottom. We don’t stop until we find them. Is that good?”

A series of nods.

“Okay. Let’s get it done. Everybody be careful, okay?”

“Sure,” Morrow agreed.

“God bless us.”

***

“Okay, get Shelly and the medical staff out. We’ll be right behind you.”

The officer nodded. He turned and relayed the message to three other member of the SORT team, all dressed in their riot gear and carrying bulletproof shields. Ron heard him tell Shelly and the nurses, “This way please,” and then they pushed out the door.

“What are we looking at?” he asked the security manager, a former SORT officer who still went by Brass and nothing else.

“We’re looking at a Grade A bucket of hot fuck, warden. We got every inmate out there roaming the halls like they’re cutting study hall.”

“What about the SORT team?”

Brass shook his head. “Organized Response is good. They’re damn good, but you’re looking at fifty men against almost 2000. We need something a lot bigger, or we need to have caught this a whole lot sooner. Right now, it’s like trying to stomp out The Great Chicago Fire.”

“Dammit.”

“You’re telling me. You want to hear the smart play, warden? You need to get the fuck out of here and worry about how to get this place back from outside.”

As if in answer, a second officer stuck his head in the door. His face was expressionless, his voice clipped.

“We’ve got prisoners entering administration. We need to go.”

Brass looked a question at Timms. Ron answered with a nod.

“Let’s go,” Brass said.

Ron felt his stomach twist. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Don’t ask me. We should just haul ass out of here.”

Instead, Timms walked to his desk. He removed his suit coat and draped it over the back of his chair, ran his fingers over the fabric.

“I bought this suit on the day I found out I was going to be warden. It’s my favorite suit, and I wear it every chance I get. It’s going to be right there when I get back, or there will be hell to pay.”

He saw Brass nod, but by then he was already moving past the officer and out the door.

***

Maggot lay curled in a tight ball on top of his bunk. Benning had thrown both of their mattresses over the balcony, so he tried his best to find comfort on the cold, hard springs. It did not do much good, especially when his cellmate kept slapping him in the head every few minutes. The man had even peed on him once, the hot stream splattering across Maggot’s neck and shoulder. He had managed to ignore it, but now he was cold because of the moisture.

“Up, Maggot!” Benning shouted. He punctuated the command by kicking the bunk. Maggot bounced on the springs, his shoulder falling through, and the skinhead celebrated with a crazed cheer and started kicking the bunk repeatedly.

Maggot whimpered. He began to slide through the bedsprings in a series of starts and stops. He felt Benning stop his attack on the bunk long enough to throw a punch or two at his head and midsection. Maggot let out a sharp grunt of pain and then he fell through the bunk to the floor below.

Benning dragged him out into the middle of the floor.

“Up, Maggot!”

“No.”

The protest earned him a kick in the ribs.

“I said get up, you miserable piece of shit.”

He moaned and pushed himself onto all fours. Pain sizzled through his body, and he thought his arms and legs might collapse under his thin weight. He fought to keep the tears at bay, and he was more than a little shocked when he succeeded.

“That’s good, Maggot. You’re doing real nice. Tell me, you even have a clue what’s going on out there?”

“They are going to fight the killing things.”

The skinhead laughed, a terrible sound. “You don’t have to worry about that, little faggot. The only killing thing you need to be afraid of is right in front of you. You’re mine. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Maggot looked away, afraid Benning might see the truth in his eyes. In reality, he was community property, free to be beaten, fucked, or berated by anybody who had half a mind to do so. Almost everybody took their turn, and when they were done they always told him he belonged to them now.

“So what are we going to do here?” Benning asked as he unbuttoned his pants. “I got an idea for us, and I think it’s a good one. I’d run it by you, but in the end it don’t matter what you think either way. We play this my way, or I slit your goddamn throat. Real simple, Maggot.”

He shook his head, already shutting down his mind so he could get this over with. He looked straight ahead—somehow staring past Benning’s erect cock--and he never saw his cellmate smile.

“Get to work, Maggot.”

“Hey!”

The single word, loud and angry, brought him back to the world. He blinked his eyes and backed away from his cellmate, losing his balance and falling on his ass.

“Hey, fuck you!” he heard Benning say. In the next instant, the skinhead cried out in pain and toppled forward, holding a hand to the back of his neck.

Maggot lay motionless for a long moment before he realized Benning was unconscious. Slowly, he looked to the door of his cell.

“Hey there, buddy. Looks like I pulled you for a search partner.”

He felt the tears come, stinging at his eyes like salt, and he cried so hard the sounds of his sobs managed to block out Officer Nicholas’ laughter.

Three

“Show him to me. I wanna see the asshole right now.”

Garcia nods, all casual and smooth, and then turns and exits the room. Marquez follows him, looking cool as ice except for his hands. Those are squeezed into fists so tight the knuckles pop white. He feels the tension in his hands, the pain of constriction, and it feels good. It takes his mind off the six-fucking-alarm headache pounding away at his brain. His head always hurts when he gets mad, but he learned control a long time ago. It takes a lot to make him blow his cool. That cabron Tito sure managed to pull it off, though.

Omar enters the dark room, and he can already hear Tito breathing in a far corner. The sound is pathetic, all fast and loud and terrified. The boy’s got nothing in the way of cajones, and everybody knows it. Tito knew it too, and that’s why he’s in this goddamn mess.

The lights come on, and Marquez gets a good look at Tito. The cockiness is gone--that “I rule the world” smirk disappeared from the bastard’s face. It feels like he’s seeing Tito for the first time, and he wonders why he never went ahead and vented the boy before. Would have saved a whole truckload of trouble. The kid just looks sad. His hair sticks up in a strange sweep from the sweat and grease. His eyes bug out wide and wild, and snot and blood run from his nose over the silver duct tape that covers his lying shithole of a mouth. The eyes tell Marquez all he needs to know, how Tito is fucking terrified to suddenly be thrust into an adult world. The kid’s own fault really, he wanted to prove he was a man, now he gets to pay the freight. Marquez watches Tito struggle, but he knows it’s useless. The boy’s wrists are bound behind the chair with more tape, and still more straps his ankles to the wooden legs. The little puta ain’t going anywhere.

Marquez grins, and for an instant his headache is gone.

“Buenos Noches, amigo,” he says through the smile, and Tito actually flinches at the words as if they were a weapon. “Don’t get too jumpy on me now,” he tells the sniveling pup. “We got a long way to go, you and me. I want to be sure you can handle the whole trip.”

Tito pleads with his eyes--a pathetic sight.

“You know why I brought you here, right? You can just nod or shake your head. I don’t really give a fuck.”

The boy shakes his head. His hair whips back and forth, broken from its terror-induced style.

Marquez sighs, then punches Tito right in his broken nose. The kid squeals with pain, even as Garcia hands Marquez a towel to clean his hands.

“You want to lie to me, you motherfucker? You think you can bend me over and fuck me? Is that what you’re thinking, Tito? Tell me you don’t know why you’re here. You know
good and fuckin’ right
why you’re here!” He wraps the towel around the kid’s throat and wrenches it back, choking him. The guy’s arms and legs go crazy, straining against their binds. His torso jerks away from the chair and slams back down again, over and over, as he tries desperately to suck in what little air he can. Marquez yanks on the towel again, and the entire chair tips over. Tito lands on his back and there’s a sharp, audible sound as both of his arms break against the concrete floor. The kid starts fighting to scream, but Marquez is dragging him across the floor by the towel, and there’s just no air.

“Bastard! Puta fuck! I’ll rip your goddamn throat out when I’m done!”

The chair shudders and finally falls apart, and Tito’s face is turning a deep red, heading for purple. Marquez growls deep in his throat, his entire body shaking with rage, and it’s only the desire to see the little fuck suffer more that makes him drop the towel.

Tito lies on his back, trying to arch onto his neck in order to release the pressure on his snapped arms. He collapses, and a short scream filters through the duct tape, followed by a terrible whimper of agony. Tears stream down his face, and snot bubbles out of his nose in great big globs, smearing his chin. It makes strange noises as he tries to breathe.