Singularity (27 page)

“Why?”

“Because you’re cunning, you have drive, and you’re definitely a scrapper. You handled three of my best employees with ease, not to mention our friend Mr.
Fairbend
. I wanted to thank you for that too, Henry was becoming a problem. First he antagonized Alvarez in the cell, which began all of this, and then when your partner was acquired, he couldn’t even get away quietly. Luckily, Officer Bundy was nearby yesterday morning and heard the shots. He managed to dispose of
Fairbend’s
body before you were able to inspect it further. In all actuality, my preference before you was
Everett
. Since he had such an extreme allergic reaction to the water, he was a natural choice for a human lieutenant. He’s a lot like you in many ways—smart, strong, good moral fiber. Although, I’m disappointed that he thought I didn’t know who his brother was—I knew the moment he applied for the transfer here.”

Sullivan shook his head. “What did you do with Barry?”

“He’s in her service now. He’s doing his part in assuring the doorway opens as planned.”

“You’re lying. He’d never agree to this,” Sullivan said, his voice
rising
a notch.

Andrews only smiled. “You’d be surprised, Sullivan. Like I said, you don’t understand her power. Just think of it, Sullivan, you would be one of the first to embrace the revolution, you’d have your heart’s desire in the new world. People would worship you as a god, you’d never have to fear death, and you’d have your wife back.”

Sullivan lowered his head so that his chin nearly touched his chest. He stayed that way for a moment, but when he raised his eyes level with the older man across the desk, there was no fear in them. His breathing was deep and even, and his heart beat slowly, in time with his words when he spoke.

“My wife was mentally ill. When I met her, she was medicated for manic-depressive tendencies. I fell in love with her knowing that it might be a hard life, a life full of pain, and I never looked back. I didn’t look back when she drank so much that she did this to me with a broken wineglass,” he said, motioning to the old scar above his eye. “I didn’t look back when she tried to slit her wrists and, when I
intervened,
she spilled part of my intestine into open air. I didn’t look back when she finally jumped from our twentieth-floor-apartment balcony and landed headfirst on the street below.” Sullivan gritted his teeth as tears shimmered at the corners of his vision. “My wife is finally at peace in a place where her mind cannot hurt her anymore. So forgive me for not being tempted by your offers. You have nothing that I want, and I’m not afraid of you or whatever you have hiding down in the dark.”

The warden’s eyebrows creased together and he grimaced as if in pain. Sullivan readied himself. This was the end, he could feel it. He’d been given his shot at riding along, and he’d missed the train, on purpose. He listened for the sound of movement behind him, in case the killing shot would come from one of the guards, and watched Andrews intently, to see what the man’s next move would be.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Sullivan,” Andrews said. “Truly, I am. I had high hopes for you, but as they say, the show must go on.” Andrews pulled open a drawer and drew out Barry’s handgun, cocked it. Lightning arced from west to east in the sky and
strobed
in the office with vibrant pulsations. Everything slowed, jumping a few seconds in time with each beat of Sullivan’s heart. The eye of the barrel stared at him as it rose to meet his gaze. Andrews squinted down the sights at Sullivan and applied pressure to the trigger. Sullivan’s muscles tensed as he breathed
in,
held it.

Sullivan dropped sideways to the floor and heard the gun go off. The roar of the gunshot faded and Andrews howled in anger. At the same time, the door to the office exploded inward, and Sullivan twisted on the floor to see who had entered.

Everett
stood in the doorway, his hands clutching a riot shotgun. The guard next to the door spun as
Everett
leveled the shotgun and fired a load of buckshot into the man’s chest. Blood and matter flew across the room, as if sprayed from a hose. The sound was muffled, the blast deadened by the body before it. Sullivan heard Andrews fire again, and watched
Everett
twitch as if energized by electric current. Sullivan crawled backward toward the wall, and caught sight of Hunt retreating as he drew his pistol even with
Everett
’s head. Sullivan kicked the chair beside him in Hunt’s direction, and the young guard flinched. His shot strayed and tore a runner of cloth from
Everett
’s shoulder, along with a spray of blood.
Everett
staggered in the doorway but managed to bring the shotgun up and blast one of Hunt’s legs. Sullivan saw muscle and bone rip free of the guard’s pants leg as the joint in his knee folded the wrong way, sending him to the floor with a cry.

Movement caught Sullivan’s eye as Andrews rounded the desk, pointing the handgun down at the floor like an exterminator hunting for a pest. Sullivan rolled behind the small table that sat between the chairs, as the warden fired. A line of acid traced a path across his forearm, and he looked down to see blood seeping from a shallow trench in his flesh. He heard a grunt of pain from the doorway, and listened as
Everett
collapsed while racking a fresh shell into the chamber.

Andrews loped for the door, and Hunt sat up, numbly staring at his ruined leg and the spreading lake of blood on the floor around him.
Everett
fired again, and Sullivan saw Hunt’s face obliterate and his body go languid, the last twitches of life escaping in shivers through his frame. Another gunshot resounded in the room, and Sullivan propped himself up just in time to see Andrews disappear through the doorway, his tall frame hunched as he ran.

Sullivan bolted to his feet and nearly slipped in Hunt’s blood. He sidled into view of the lobby and snatched
Everett
’s shotgun from the floor. He scanned what he could see of the lobby and his stomach lurched as a clicking sound met his ears.
Andrews is going into the holding area,
he thought, but kept the gun trained on the door, just in case, as he knelt beside
Everett
.

The guard’s face was ashen. His lips were becoming blue where they weren’t covered in blood from the inside of his mouth. His eyes were open and focused on Sullivan as he came near. Sullivan searched the guard’s body for a wound, and finally spotted an entry hole a few inches right of his breastbone. Blood bubbled from the spot with each of
Everett
’s forced breaths. He was also holding the right side of his abdomen, which shone with wet intestine when Sullivan pulled his hand aside to examine it.

Sullivan grimaced and looked into
Everett
’s eyes.

“It’s okay,”
Everett
said
,
all power behind the words lost in the wheezing of his filling lungs. “It’s okay. Just get him.”

“We’re
gonna
get you help,” Sullivan said, cradling the guard’s head with his hand. He knew the words were in vain. There was no help here, or on the way, for all he knew. The words were automatic, a thin comfort to an already dying man.

“Alex,”
Everett
said, his eyes beginning to look beyond Sullivan. “Alex.”

“He’s all right,” Sullivan said, not knowing if
Everett
was seeing something that lay outside of the walls of the prison or merely asking for his brother. “He’s just fine,
Everett
. You did
good
. Thank you.”

Everett
nodded and a thick gurgle came from his mouth as he tried to draw in another breath. His spine arched as the oxygen refused to come, and then his muscles were like water. His body relaxed and blood ran over the rim of his lips. His eyes closed halfway and stopped.

Sullivan swallowed and glanced up at the silent lobby as he wiped blood off
Everett
’s chin. He stood and pulled a cushion from the nearby overturned chair, and propped
Everett
’s head off the floor. He looked at the dead man, a gambit of emotions careening through him, most of all guilt. He had convinced
Everett
to come back inside. Sullivan squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. There was no time for this; he’d suffer for it later, but now he had to move.

He found a dozen shotgun shells in
Everett
’s pants pocket and transferred them to his own. Without another look back at the ruined office, with its quiet occupants, he stepped out of the door and into the lobby.

Water splashed around his feet as he moved. Looking to his left, he saw its source. The flood was at the door and flowed beneath it with ease. Nearly an inch of water coated the floor of the lobby, and it spread like mercury in all directions. Sullivan sloshed through it, his feet going from damp to completely
soaked
in an instant.

The security door opened smoothly, and Sullivan stayed behind the safety of the doorjamb, waiting for a shot to rip through the open space. None came. Tentatively he poked the barrel of the shotgun into the next room, and then followed it in a low crouch. He swung the weapon toward the open hallway on his right,
then
scooted around the guard desk, ensuring that no one hid behind its bulk. He listened to the silence of the holding area; the only other sounds were his quiet breathing and the renewed vigor of the storm outside.

In short bursts of movement, he crossed the holding area, pausing within the entry of a vacant cell every few yards. He expected gunfire at any moment, and when none came each time he moved, it only heightened his sense of unease. A dark shape in the middle of the floor stopped his progress. Barry’s gun lay abandoned, its barrel pointing back the way he’d come. Without hesitation, he scooped the 1911 off the floor and tucked it in the waistband at his back. At last he came to the end of the cellblock, where the building expanded into a T-shape. He risked a glance around the corner, and saw the guard at the bottom of the stairway below him taking aim.

Sullivan pulled his face back as the bullet sawed through the corner of the cinderblock he hid behind. Chips of paint, concrete, and mortar stung his cheek. He blinked the dust from his eyes and listened. After a moment of indecision, he let out a choked cough and dropped the shotgun. The weapon clattered to the floor, falling into view of the stairway. Sullivan reached behind his back and drew the handgun from his waistband without a sound. A few seconds later, he heard boots coming up the steel stairway, their echoes drawing closer with each step.

Sullivan swung around the corner and sighted down the handgun’s barrel at the guard who was just stepping onto the landing. He had a heartbeat to register the wide eyes of the guard, and then the gun recoiled twice in his hands. The other man issued a strangled yell as the bullets tore through his chest, and he plummeted backward down the stairway. The sickening crunch of bones breaking on steel met Sullivan’s ears as he watched the body’s descent. The guard came to rest face-down on the second landing, his arms groping for purchase on anything within reach, as blood spread out from beneath his chest. Gradually his flailing weakened, and then ceased altogether.

Sullivan tucked the now-heated handgun behind his back once more, picked up the shotgun, and made his way down the stairs. At the corner of the landing, he stepped into view of the lower level, the twelve-gauge held before him. Nothing moved below. The lower level was still and dimly lit. All of the doors to the solitary cells were closed, and only smooth concrete lined the opposite side of the corridor.

Sullivan paused only to nudge the dead guard with his foot before pelting down the stairs. With a glance through the glass porthole of each solitary cell, he proceeded down the line until Alvarez’s death scene came into view. Blood and gore still coated the walls, but the colors had dried to a monochrome of blacks and grays. Bright speckles of bone shards stood out like stars in a night sky. Sullivan walked to the end of the hallway and stopped at the back wall. He turned in a circle, listening to the low hum of the emergency lights, and studied the walls. He made his way back up the row of cells, until he stood at the foot of the stairs. Turning, he scanned the seamless enclosure again.
Nothing.

Looking down, he noticed a discolored path on the floor. He knelt and realized what he was looking at. The darkened area down the center of the hall was marks, dirt, and prints from hundreds of shoes treading the same spot.
A single-file line.
Sullivan stood and followed the path all the way to the far wall, where the footprints terminated in its corner. He looked up and stared at the wall. Licking the palm of his hand, he began to pass it across the concrete, an inch from its surface. He moved to his left, to where the wall met the adjoining surface of Alvarez’s cell.

The moisture on his palm cooled.

He pushed his face closer to the corner and breathed deeply. An odor that reminded him of a bag of mushrooms that had sat too long in the fridge met his nose, a musty, half-rotten smell, and something else.
Something tangy and pungent.
He’d never smelled anything like it in his life, but couldn’t deny the sinking feeling it gave him in the base of his stomach. The odor inspired fear.