I take one calming breath before realizing I’ve dropped the keys.
I check the floor, searching beneath the water. They’re nowhere to be found. I move my attacker’s body, checking to see if he’s lying on them. Nothing.
The second figure. He must have grabbed the keys while I was fighting this guy.
Which means he has access to the armory.
Fuck. I wasn’t even planning on giving Castillo the guns, but to arm a bunch of psychopaths like Preacher and his followers? That’s just going to make it all but impossible to survive long enough to get Wright and Tully.
I grab the bag of guns, sling it over my back, and retrace my steps toward the armory. I pause before the final turn into the corridor. I can hear excited voices, arguments.
I’m too late.
I duck my head briefly around the corner, then pull back. No one in the passage. I look again. The armory door is standing open. The keys are in the lock.
Maybe I can just lock them all in. That would be the simplest thing all around. Get them out of the way, grab the keys, and head back to the gym.
I bring the Ruger up to my shoulder and turn into the passage. I move slowly through the water, trying not to make a sound. The door draws closer. I only have eyes for the keys. Fifteen feet.
Ten.
Five.
I can hear Preacher’s men talking about the guns, about who they’re going to kill first. Which unit they’re going to storm. It sounds like Henry was right. The General Population units are all held by different cliques, barricaded and locked down.
I lower the rifle and reach out, grabbing hold of the keys. I’m just about to put my shoulder against the door to ram it shut and lock it when a skinny guy exits the armory, a bundle of shotguns cradled in his arms.
He freezes, staring at me with wide eyes.
Shit. Plan B. I quickly slip the keys out of the lock, back up a step and raise my rifle again.
“I don’t want to shoot you,” I say. “Just stay cool, okay?”
The guy’s eyes shift to the left.
Goddammit.
He drops the shotguns and dives back into the armory, shouting as he does so.
Wonderful.
I shove the keys into my pocket and back up along the corridor, rifle raised to my shoulder. I fire a quick burst, hoping to keep them out of the passage.
I can hear them arguing. I lower the gun slightly, pointing it at waist height. The arguing stops, then the first guy appears exactly where I’m aiming—low. Smart guy.
Not smart enough.
I fire, hitting him in the forehead. He jerks back and slams into the water.
No one else comes. I keep moving, backing up as fast as I can. When I reach the end of the corridor, I turn and sprint, not bothering to keep quiet now. Splashing, wading through the water, just trying to get to the next T-junction to put some walls between myself and Preacher’s men.
I can hear them coming, shouting, calling out for backup. My neck tingles as I run, waiting for the bullets to hit.
I sprint around the corner, slipping in the water and ramming up against the wall. As I do so, gunshots ring out and bullets pepper the wall above me, exactly at head height. I shove myself to my feet and keep running, trying doors as I pass. Most are locked, but after a few attempts I find one that opens to my touch.
Bullets cut the door frame to splinters as I duck inside. It’s an office. I scramble forward, diving behind a large wooden desk. The water is easily two and a half feet deep now. I stay low, peering through the central gap in the desk, watching the door.
A moment later, a pair of orange-clad legs appear. I fire. There’s a spray of blood and my attacker drops to the water with a scream of pain.
Our eyes meet through the gap. The guy has just enough time to form the word “no” before I shoot him in the head.
I wait a few moments, but no one else follows. I stand up warily, edge around the desk. I pull my attacker inside the room and push the door almost closed. Then I stand there and listen.
I can hear shouting and gunfire in the distance. Nothing close, though. Sounds like Preacher and his men have found someone else to chase down.
What the hell have I unleashed? Inmates trapped inside a prison, armed with rifles, shotguns, and handguns? And the armory still sits wide open, an invitation for anyone to go and arm themselves. It’s going to be a bloodbath.
Hell, it already is.
Fourteen2:50 a.m.
Two and a half hours to go.
Two and a half hours before the eye of the hurricane hits the prison. Two and a half hours to find our way through the prison units, somehow getting past inmates, gangs, rapists, murderers, and psychos.
I’m doing my best to avoid any contact. I have a goal now. Stay alive long enough to get to the Glasshouse. After that? Fuck it. I don’t really want to be responsible for killing inmates who are scared, paranoid, or just plain crazy. Add to that the fact that I’m carrying a bag full of guns on my back, which makes me as much a target for attention as a young boy on his knees praying does to a Catholic priest. Best for everyone if I stay out of sight.
So I hop between offices and bathrooms, storage closets and prayer rooms, temporary sleeping quarters for the COs and shower rooms for when they work double shifts. Pausing to let inmates move past my hiding spots and running when I think I have a clear stretch.
I fail twice. Both times turning a corner to find myself face-to-face with groups of inmates. First time it’s
