“You want to try moving a fifty-five-gallon geyser filled with water, be my guest.”
I turn to Leo. “I hope you’re right about these tunnels. You’re going to have a lot of pissed-off convicts if it’s all just your imagination.”
“If it’s just my imagination, pissed-off convicts will be the least of our worries. And relax, I’m old, not senile.”
“But you always just sat in the cafeteria on your own, muttering about getting out of here,” says Felix. “Everyone thought you were a bit… out of it.”
“Because I didn’t want to talk to you idiots? I think that makes me intelligent, not senile.”
More inmates are arriving in the corridor, nervous, wary, in response to Felix’s call. Their arrival is making me worried. I keep peering at faces—most of them frightened and freaked out because of the damage the hurricane is doing—to see if any of them has an agenda. Preacher and Kincaid are still MIA, and I’m uncomfortable not knowing where they are.
The building rumbles again. Dust sifts down from above, settling in a fine film across the water. And even though there’s a steady flow rushing through the door and down the steps into the basement, it doesn’t seem to be lowering the water level at all.
A commotion from the far end of the corridor distracts me. Felix and I wade forward to see what’s going on. In the low light I can see four men approaching. One is holding a shotgun, one an M9, and two have Ruger rifles. They’ve obviously been to the armory. Felix takes out a Beretta he’d tucked into his boxers.
“Where’d you get that?”
“It was a donation. From one of our new arrivals.”
“You got another one?”
“Sorry, man. Was hard enough to get this one.”
I stop in front of the four men. “Hold up.”
They stop walking. I squint in the dim light. I think these guys are Preacher’s men. Yeah, they’ve got the cross tattoos on their necks.
“We don’t want trouble,” says one of them. “We just want to get to the tunnels.”
“Not with those guns you’re not,” says Felix. “No offense, but I don’t trust you freaks with guns of any kind. Anyone who follows Preacher is crazier than a fifth-generation inbred from Alabama.”
The four men glance at each other uncertainly. One of them steps forward, slightly raising his shotgun. It’s still pointed away from us, but he’s brought it up to hip height. “We’re not giving up our weapons.”
“Then you’re not coming with us,” I say. “Nobody knows how long we’re going to be stuck in those tunnels. We don’t want anyone getting funny ideas. Maybe deciding to settle a few grudges to pass the time.”
“We’re not with Preacher anymore.”
“I couldn’t give a shit. You were with him. So that means I don’t trust you.”
“Maybe we’ll just use the tunnels ourselves,” growls the man. “Leave you all here to swim.”
“You can tr—”
A gunshot explodes right by my ear. The guy who was speaking stumbles back into his friend’s arms, blood pulsing from a bullet wound in his neck.
I turn to find Felix standing there with his gun still leveled.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
“Anyone else want to argue?” he says, ignoring me. “I got more bullets.”
“That was right by my ear.”
Some of the prisoners who were helping shift the fallen ceiling move closer, eager to see where things are going. I can see this turning into another bloodbath if we’re not careful.
I step forward. “Look, you say you’re not with Preacher anymore. Prove it. Otherwise you’re not coming down there with us. End of story.”
The three men glance uneasily at the other inmates. They’re trying to see if I have them on my side, if I speak for everyone. No one argues, something I’m actually pretty surprised about. It looks like they’ve got my back.
“I won’t ask again,” says Felix. “I’m serious as fuck. I will shoot all three of you where you stand.”
The guy in the middle sighs and holds out his Beretta, grip toward me. I wade forward and take it, then feel around beneath the water for the shotgun the dead guy dropped. I find it, straighten up and look at the others. They reluctantly hand over their Rugers. I sling one over my back and hand the Beretta to Sawyer, who has crept up to watch with the others.
“You know how to use it?” I ask.
“Don’t be even more of an asshole than you already are. You think we’re not given training before we turn up here?”
“All right. Jesus. Calm yourself.”
We wade back to the door to find Leo watching us nervously. “Hey… you sure about all this?” He indicates the inmates with a tilt of his head.
I know what he’s thinking. Are these guys really going to be able to forget their tattoos and gang signs, the man-made loyalties forged over the years and decades?
But I’m not feeling any fear on that front. I don’t see murderers or robbers or drug dealers right now. I see people who want to survive. I feel a strange moment of… pride? Is that right? Maybe not pride. But a connection. A connection with a group of people I have nothing in common with besides the fact we’re all human. Half of them would have killed me as quick as look at me an hour or so ago, but right now, all we want to do is get out of this alive. Our real enemy is the hurricane, and it’s not going to have any mercy. It doesn’t care what colors you wear, what leader you swear loyalty to.
Jesus Christ. What’s happened to me? I’ve become a pussy.
Or… maybe not that bad. I was a cop once. Maybe I’m just remembering what that felt like. Maybe Sawyer was right when she said there was still some part of me that cared.
And then a sudden silence falls across the prison. The roaring of the wind stops, the constant hammering against the walls of the prison fades away.
We
