Henry appears by my side. “Jesus…” he whispers. We both enter the corridor, staring in shock at what Ramirez has done.
One of the wounded pushes himself up and tries to limp away. Ramirez shoots him in the back, then ejects the clip and rams a fresh one home, turning to me with a huge grin on his face.
“You see that?” he says, slightly out of breath. “Man, they just burst. Like pumpkins or something.”
Henry steps forward. “Are you fucking insane?” he shouts. “You can’t just—”
Ramirez shoots him in the chest.
Henry’s small body flies back about three feet and hits the water. I turn, rush toward him, but I know it’s too late. His sightless eyes stare up at the ceiling.
“Call me a fucking gorilla,” mutters Ramirez.
My mind blanks out. I drag my gaze away from Henry, straighten up—
—and shoot Ramirez.
I do it almost casually, firing as I lift the gun to aim. The bullets hit him in the stomach and stitch a jagged line up his chest and sideways along his neck and into the wall.
He doesn’t even have time to look shocked. He tilts slowly sideways, his face hitting the wall with a wet slap. He slides downward and lands in an awkward heap in the water.
I stare at him for a long moment.
I didn’t plan that. It was instinct. But as I stare at the bodies floating in the floodwater, it makes me realize something.
We’re all going to die here tonight.
It’s a gut feeling. Intuition. I don’t know if it will be the inmates or the hurricane that will kill everyone, but one way or another, I don’t think any of the people trapped in this prison will be alive this time tomorrow.
I’m not getting out of here. I’m not visiting Amy’s grave. I’m not getting a chance to say good-bye. It was stupid to even think it would go down like that. I can see that now.
One way or another, I’m going to die tonight. We all are.
And you know what? If that’s the case, fine. The only thing I care about is getting the bastards who killed my wife.
Which means I need to get to the Glasshouse. No matter what. Not for protection. Let Sawyer tell herself that if it helps. I need to get there to kill Wright and Tully. Before the hurricane kills us all. Before I get shot. Before a wall falls on me or I get struck by lightning. I want them dead at my hands. Not the storm. I’m going to be the one who kills them, and they’re going to look me in the eyes as I do it. There’s no being careful now. It’s all about getting to Northside. Getting through anyone who tries to stop me.
I feel a surge of relief at the realization, something that surprises me. There’s no fear. No existential dread. I’m going to die tonight. Yes. But not before I’ve accomplished my goal. There is a feeling of uncomplicated happiness at the thought. I’ve never had my life defined so simply, and for some reason it fills me with a joy I haven’t felt in years. I’m sure my shrink would have a field day with that, but I couldn’t give a shit. I feel energized. Free.
My eyes fall on the bag of guns Ramirez was carrying. I already have my own. I can’t carry two bags and defend myself at the same time.
There are doors on either side of the corridor. I try the first. An office. I move to the second and find a small closet filled with cleaning supplies. Bleach and tile cleaner, mops and towels.
I drag Ramirez’s bag into the room and heave it up onto one of the shelves. I don’t want to just leave it lying out in the open. This way I can come back for it if I need to.
I exit the storeroom, closing the door behind me. I pause, hand still on the door handle. Someone’s coming. I can hear voices, hurried splashing as men run through the water. Shit. Maybe Ramirez didn’t get all of Preacher’s men. Maybe the survivors went for reinforcements.
I wade in the opposite direction. Get back to the gym, hand my bag of guns over, collect Sawyer and Felix, and get to the Glasshouse.
Survive. Then kill. Then die. In that order.
I stop suddenly. The keys! Sawyer’s keys are still in Ramirez’s pocket.
I shrug the bag of guns off my back, letting them fall into the water, and run to Ramirez’s body. It’s still slumped against the wall at an awkward angle. One hand floats in the water, bobbing around in the waves as if testing the temperature.
I fumble in his closest pocket. Empty. I try to slide my hand down between the body and the wall, but I can’t get to the other pocket. I heave on Ramirez’s orange overalls, pulling him over to the side.
He slumps over with a heavy splash. I feel around in his pocket. The keys are there. I pull them out, breathing a sigh of relief.
Something yanks hard on the Ruger slung over my shoulder. I’m pulled off my feet, falling backward. Something lands on my chest, pushing me down beneath the water. I force my eyes open, see a shadowy shape above me. Then another, off to my side. I struggle, but I can’t shift the weight. Fingers scrabble for my throat, nails dig painfully into my skin.
I shove my hand into my pocket, trying to pull out the M9. It gets snagged in the material. I struggle to get it free as the fingers tighten around my throat.
I pull the handgun out of my pocket and fire upward through the water, the slugs thudding into my attacker’s chest.
The weight drops backward, falling across my legs. I break the surface, drawing a deep breath and pointing the M9 quickly around the corridor.
Deserted. The second figure is gone.
I shove the deadweight off my legs and stand up. I pocket the gun, then swing the rifle
