Hell and Gone

His cell stank of urine because he repeatedly wet himself, having lost all bladder control. He twitched, and his hair stuck up in odd tufts here and there, stiff as dreads.

Hardie slid a key into the back of Horsehead’s mask, but nothing happened. Horsehead cursed in Italian, then tried to take the keys from Hardie. “Hang on, let me try another one.”

“Do you want to stay here?” Eve asked, pointing to the floor of his cell. “Or do you want to join us?” Pointing to the outside.

Horsehead nodded and pointed.

Yeah, he was down with the jailbreak.

Hardie tried another key, but nothing.

“We don’t have time for this,” Cameron said. “The mask stays on for now. We’ll figure it out later.”

Eve extended her hand. Horsehead, trembling, allowed himself to be pulled to a standing position. He swayed, as if intoxicated, and would have fallen back down to the floor if Cameron hadn’t grabbed him and thrown one of his beefy arms over his shoulder.

“All right, let’s go,” Archie said.

“Wait,” Eve said. “What about Prisoner Zero? We can’t just leave him.”

“Well, we can’t bloody well carry him,” Archie said. “We’ve already got two walking wounded.” Then, with glance at Hardie, “No offense.”

Hardie wanted to tell him to bloody well suck it. But Archie was right.

“We’ll have to come back for him. Victor told me that X-Ray and Yankee are in there with him. If he was telling the truth.”

“Where’s Whiskey?” Eve asked.

“No idea.”

Eve nodded. “Okay, she’s gotta be in here somewhere. So let’s sweep the outer ring, room by room, incapacitate the bastards, and take control of the prison. Lock them up in those cells.”

“And then find a way out of this hellhole,” Archie said.

“Where did you leave fuckface?” Cameron asked.

Hardie led them to the elevator room. No one was there except a still-unconscious—or faking—Ashley/Victor. Cameron knelt down beside him, touched his fingers to the guard’s wrist, then to his jugular, nodded to himself. There was a sadness to his movements, as if Victor were a longtime family dog who had suddenly turned and bitten the baby. Such a creature needed to be put down, but you did not relish the task.

“Stupid wanker,” muttered Cameron as he launched his fist into his former partner’s face. The punch was a single jackhammer blow—a white-hot blast of kinetic energy, expertly focused. If Victor had been faking, he wasn’t anymore. Cameron quickly stripped his former partner of his brown uniform.

“What are you doing?” Hardie asked.

“Camouflaging myself,” Cameron said. “I take the lead, maybe the outfit fools ’em. Buy us a second or two of time.”

The door to the break room was locked, but Hardie still had the keys from Victor’s chain.

“Let me,” Cameron said, holding out his hand.

Hardie hesitated, but knew it was right to hand them off. His left hand was still unreliable. Last thing he needed was to drop the damned keys.

The ragtag strike force gathered by the door: Cameron in the lead, Archie behind him, followed by Eve and Hardie, and, bringing up the rear, on his hands and knees now because he couldn’t support his own body weight— Horsehead.

Hardie nudged Eve. “What about him?”

“We’ll come back for him.”

The odds: not great. What, three and a half tired, beaten prisoners versus three guards with weapons? Eve had a pen, and Hardie had his cane. That was it. Hardie even felt vaguely guilty about hanging on to it. The one true weapon should be put into the hands of the most able-bodied prisoner. In this case, Archie.

“You want this?” Hardie asked, showing him the cane.

But the man shook his head and showed them his balled-up fists. “These are all I need.”

Cameron slid a key into the door, nothing. Tried another. Nothing. The third time, however, was the charm: a beep sounded, and the door clacked open. Cameron slipped inside the room, and—

“YEAGGGHHHHH!”

A horrible, inhuman scream as an insane amount of voltage ripped through his body.

The guards had been waiting for them.

That was because the Prisonmaster had informed Yankee and X-Ray that a jailbreak was in progress, that Victor had betrayed them, had given his former partner his keys and the uniform. He told Yankee, in English:

“This is the most dire threat we’ve ever faced, Yankee, and I’m counting on you to set things right.”

He told X-Ray, in German:

“This is the most dire threat we’ve ever faced, X-Ray, and I’m counting on you to set things right.”

He also told Yankee:

“You can trust X-Ray for the time being, but keep an eye on him. You’re the only one I know I can trust. I’m counting on you to uncover the betrayers.”

He told X-Ray, in German:

“You can trust Yankee for the time being, but keep an eye on him. You’re the only one I know I can trust. I’m counting on you.”

“But you need not fear,” the Prisonmaster told both of them. “Because in the end, after the rebellion is quashed, there will be extra prisoners in the cells, and new wardens will surely be sent down to live among you— good men and women who will help you restore order at long last.”

The Prisonmaster knew the power of hope, and, more important, how to exploit it. He’d been doing it for decades now.

Archie pushed Cameron’s twitching body aside and went in, swinging his fists as though they were studded metal balls attached to leather bands. Cameron’s keys went clattering to the cement floor.

Hardie thought: Someone pick up the keys.

Over near the door Archie traded chops and kicks with his archnemesis, X-Ray. Hardie dove past them, through the doorway and straight into the fray, aiming for those keys. An elbow slammed into his chest right away. Then another fist whipped across Hardie’s face. Somebody kicked the keys. They shot across the floor through the open doorway and into the corner room—where food and clothes were delivered. Without those keys, they were fucked. Might as well kneel down and take their beatings just to get them over with.

Scrambling across the floor, his right leg screaming at him, threatening to cease all movement, Hardie crawled through the doorway, then reached out and wrapped his right hand around the keys. A second later a boot came down on that hand, trapping and crushing it at the same time.

Instinctively, Hardie tried to yank his hand free. It wouldn’t move. The pain was unreal. Hardie thought he could feel veins bursting within the flesh sac of the thing that used to be his right hand, which was being crushed by the rubber sole of a boot from above and the sharp keys from below.

Hardie balled up his left hand into a fist and struck out, at crotch level, with all his strength. His fist struck its target. The boot released his hand. The boot turned out to belong to Whiskey.

And although she did not possess the pair of testicles that Hardie had imagined, the punch had its intended effect. Whiskey dropped to her knees, clutching at her private parts.

Yep, I’ve still got it, Hardie thought. Hitting women like a pro.

Hardie checked his hand. It still could open, but his palm was cut and punctured with key marks. There was a blur of motion to his left. Hardie looked up at the exact moment a fist smashed into the side of his head. Whiskey. She threw another punch, a sloppy but powerful left jab, muttered something profane in her own language, and followed up with a right hook that slammed Hardie back into the wall.

He also dropped the keys, and Whiskey swept them aside with a kick of her boot.

She looked like she was about to use the heel of her hand to drive a piece of his nose cartilage up into his brain when she stopped. Something crackled in her ear.

At that moment the Prisonmaster was shouting: