The eye of the storm has arrived.
It takes us another ten minutes to clear a path. Leo already has the basement door open, and is holding on to the frame as water surges past his legs, almost pushing him off his feet. I join him as he peers down into the darkness.
“No lights?” I ask.
“I think they’re downstairs.”
“You think?”
He shrugs. “As far as I can remember. Last time I was down there was a good fifty years ago.”
I try to see down the stairs. It’s pitch-black. All I can hear is the water coursing down the steps like a waterfall.
“How many you think are back there?” asks Leo.
“More than a hundred.”
“Christ. This place housed eight hundred people.”
I shrug. “We made the announcement. Maybe more will come.”
“Felix was right, though. We can’t hold the doors open for them. Once we’re down in the tunnels, we have to close everything off. End of story.”
“Fair enough.” I nod at the stairs leading down into the darkness. “You okay with this? You need a hand?”
“I’m nearly eighty years old. The fuck do you think?”
I smile. “I’ll go first. If you fall, grab onto me. Don’t suppose you have a flashlight?”
“Sure. Right here on my utility belt. Next to my cell phone and batarang.”
“Right.”
I move through the door, feeling for the first step. The water surges past my ankles, almost yanking me off my feet. I grope around on the wall until I find the rail.
“Guardrail,” I say over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m old, not blind and stupid.”
“Jesus, Leo. Why did you even say you needed a hand? You want to lead?”
“Nah, you’re good.”
“Shut the fuck up, then.”
I slowly descend the stairs. I can hear the others following. Voices calling out—loud, raised, trying to hide fear behind bravado and forced jokes.
“Yo, man. Who’s got my cane?”
“Where the fuck’s my Seeing Eye dog?”
“This place is darker than your mama’s soul.”
“Nah, brother. It’s blacker than the line outside KFC when they giving out free chicken wings.”
“Who the fuck said that? You can’t say that, man.”
“I’m black!”
“I don’t give a fuck. So am I. You don’t say that shit.”
I count twenty steps before I arrive at the bottom. The water comes up to my thighs.
“Keep moving forward,” says Leo. “Should be a door ahead. You got those keys?”
“Yeah.”
I wade through the water, hand outstretched, until I hit up against a thick metal door. I run my fingers over the handle and keyhole, trying to get a feel for the type of lock it is. I think it’s the same as all the others. I breathe out softly, a sigh of relief. I was worried that the lock would be old, that maybe no one came down here, so the locks wouldn’t be updated.
I try the key I used for the unit doors first. It doesn’t fit. I take out the key ring and try the rest of the keys, one after another. It takes a while, but the lock finally clicks and turns. I drop the keys back into my pocket and test the door. It opens toward me.
“Need a few people to give me a hand here,” I call out.
I wait for the inmates at the front of the line to edge forward. I can hear worried breathing, nervous whispering. We’re all operating blind.
I push down the handle, feel other hands grab it, and we all brace our feet as best we can and pull against the floodwater.
It takes a few tries before we can even budge the door enough for the water to start pouring through the gap. We heave slowly, pulling it gradually open, the water streaming, then gushing past our legs and into whatever lies beyond. The water level drops lower and lower until it’s just a calf-deep stream cascading from the prison above us and down the stairs.
“Should be a light switch to your right,” says Leo.
I move through the door, bumping up against inmates who either twitch and pull away or stand their ground as I try to pass.
“Get the fuck outta my way. Let me find the switch.”
I finally make it past the inmates and feel around on the wall. I find the switch, an old-fashioned one that sticks out from a round panel. I flick it up, and strip lights surge to life above me, humming and flickering as they switch on, illuminating everything in a sickly yellow tinge.
Another passageway reveals itself. I can’t see the floor, but the walls are covered in old white tiles. Most of them are cracked. When I put my hand out to touch them, I can feel water trickling through the cracks. A worrying sign.
A few of the tiles have fallen off the walls completely, but I’m not sure if that’s just because they’re old or because of the hurricane. Closed doors line the passage. I try one and it opens to reveal a storeroom, mildew-covered boxes piled up against the far wall, the cardboard soaking up the water that now pours into the room.
“Just old storerooms,” says Leo. “Keep moving. End of the corridor.”
I throw a quick look back toward the stairs. Sawyer is right behind Leo, with Felix following her, then the line of inmates packed into the stairs and up into the prison.
I move through the flickering light to the end of the corridor. The door at the end is locked too. I use the keys to reveal another dark space beyond. I flick the switch and more strip lights flutter weakly to life. These ones are a lot older, covered in dust. Some aren’t working at all, while some give off a muted green-tinged glow that illuminates a large room that looks like an old bomb shelter. Heavy-duty metal shelving holds crates with the U.S. Army insignia stamped on them in faded paint.
There are desks around the remaining two walls. They’re covered with yellowing paper, in-boxes coated in dust, desk lamps with green shades, and metal filing cabinets.
