The Killing Floor Blues (18 page)

I stood up slow, eyeing the guard on the threshold. Red rims lined his baggy eyes, and he walked with a lethargic shuffle in his step.
Somebody’s a little hungover from last night’s festivities
, I thought.
Perfect
.

“Infirmary,” he said. “The doc needs to check you out.”

I knew the routine by now. I presented my wrists and waited patiently while he fumbled with the shackles. My eyes were on his belt. Pepper spray, pistol, key ring. I walked just ahead of him, a little slower than I needed to.

Once we passed the checkpoint gate, my fingers dipped into my pocket. They closed over the marble-sized lump of alchemist’s clay that Emerson had smuggled in for me. One of Bentley’s specialties. I scooped it up and rolled it into my palm, pinning the clay in place with my thumb.

“Let me ask you something.”

“Shut up,” the guard said. “Keep walking.”

“I’m just wondering how you live with yourself, being an accessory to all this.”

We rounded a corner. Just ahead, my eyes followed the pipes running at chest height along the wall, where they bent at a sharp angle and disappeared into the floor. The corrugated metal hatch stood alongside the pipes, about four feet across.

“You scumbags are getting exactly what you deserve.” The guard punctuated his words with a shove, sending me stumbling. “Why
shouldn’t
we make a little money and have some fun while we’re at it?”

“I am so glad you said that,” I told him.

I kindled the clay with a tiny spark of power, the energy lancing from my palm and turning the marble into a smoldering furnace.

“Huh?” he said. “Why?”

I took a deep breath, held it, and hurled the marble to the ground. The clay burst and billowed, gushing a cloud of vomit-green smoke, faster and thicker than the spray from a fire extinguisher. The guard got a big lungful, choking and sputtering behind me as I knelt down and pulled on the hatch ring.

The trapdoor lifted, easy and smooth. Behind me, the guard was a convulsing shadow in the fog. My eyes burned like I’d rubbed them with fresh-cut onions, but I could see well enough to do what came next.

I drove both fists into his gut, grabbed him by the neck, then threw him down through the trapdoor. Head first.

He landed on his stomach, hitting the concrete seven feet down. I jumped in after him, stomping down hard on his spine with both feet, and dropped to one knee. Then I slipped my shackled wrists over his head, the short, stout length of chain between them biting against his neck, and heaved back as hard as I could.

“I’m glad you said that,” I hissed in his ear, “because I feel bad about the last guy I had to kill. You? I
won’t
.”

His feet hammered the ground, his eyes bulging. I heard the faintest crackling sound from his neck. He let out one last, rattling wheeze. Then nothing at all.

My arms shook and my teary eyes burned, but I didn’t have a second to rest. I fished on his belt for the keys, unshackled myself, and scrambled back up the ladder. The smoke had cleared, and the hallway still stood empty. Nobody had seen a thing. I closed the hatch on my way back down and latched it behind me.

The tunnels hummed, lined with fat iron pipes and rattling old access panels. Faint yellow light glowed from bulbs in wire cages, spaced out every twenty feet or so along the cramped walkway. Judging from the cobwebs and the dust, so thick I could taste it in the back of my throat, maintenance crews didn’t come down here often.

I scouted ahead, squinting. I found what I needed in a blot of shadow, halfway between the lights: a tiny nook along the left-hand wall, next to a throbbing metal cabinet dripping with condensation dewdrops. I grabbed the dead guard by the wrists, gritting my teeth as I dragged him down the tunnel. Then came the laborious work of squeezing his body into the nook, folding his arms and legs and shoving with my feet.

It wasn’t the best way of hiding a body, but assuming nobody checked down here, or if they just didn’t look too hard, there was a good chance he’d stay hidden for a few days. Eventually he’d stink up the place and
somebody
would have to notice, but hopefully by then it’d be a moot point.

I found my prize, Emerson’s last gift, sitting on a ledge about fifty feet further down. A cell phone, sealed up safe in a ziplock baggie. I dialed by memory as I prowled the tunnels, looking for exits and trying to get the lay of the land.

“It’s me,” I said fast. “I’m alive. Banged up and then some, but I’m alive.”

“What happened out there?” Bentley asked. “The escape’s been all over the news, and we thought you’d made it out, but you never came home. Then this prison guard contacted me and—”

His voice washed out in a blur of static, then silence. I took the next right and jogged along the tunnel, watching the phone’s screen and waiting until a single reception bar lit up.

“Sorry,” I said once I redialed, “hit a dead zone. I’m down in the prison maintenance tunnels.”

“Can you get out from there?”

I paused, looking up at a short ladder to another hatch just above my head.

“No,” I said. “Not on my own, but I’ve got a plan.”

“Name it,” Bentley said.

“Wednesday night. I need a car. A service van would be better, something with no windows in the back so I can stay out of sight. Thing is, you’ll probably be taking it out through a roadblock; the papers and plates have to be legit.”

“The vehicle shouldn’t be a problem, but that’s well after visiting hours. How do we get inside the prison?”

“You don’t,” I said. “Just get as close as you can and wait for my signal. Trust me, you’ll know when it happens.”

Then I told him the rest of the plan. He was silent for a moment when I finished, contemplating all the angles.

“It
could
work,” he mused. “Dangerous, though.”

“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

He sighed. “Alas, I do not. All right. I’ll make the phone calls.”

As I came to a tunnel junction, craning my neck to look in each direction, a fresh wave of nausea hit me. I squeezed my eyes shut until it passed.

“Do me a favor,” I said, “and have Doc Savoy on standby. I’ve gotten the shit kicked out of me this week, and I have a feeling things are gonna get worse before they get better.”

“Be safe, Daniel. We’ll see you Wednesday night.”

After I hung up, I flipped the phone over, fished out the SIM card, and snapped it in half. If my whole plan went sideways, I didn’t want Lancaster and his thugs tracing anything back to Bentley and Corman’s doorstep. Then I tossed the phone into a dark, dusty shadow under a rattling iron pipe.

Time was running out. With every passing minute, the odds of someone noticing that a guard and one of the Hive B prisoners had gone missing became more and more inevitable. I started carefully poking my head up through access hatches as I passed them, using half-inch glimpses of the world above and my mental map of the prison to navigate.

That was how I ended up back in Hive C, standing in front of Brisco’s card table on the gallery floor. He and his buddies stared at me like they’d seen a ghost.

“Need to talk,” I told him, “the bathrooms on tier three. Right now.”

He spit out the toothpick he’d been chewing.

“The grapevine said you got killed trying to bust outta here,” he said. “Then I heard you were in Ad Seg. Then you were just
gone
.”

“I’m alive and well, and right now I’m just another uniform in the crowd, but if any of these guards look too close and realize who I am, we’re
both
dead men. So please, pretty please, get up and come with me.”

His entourage looked between us, uncertain. Brisco sighed and tossed his cards on the table.

“Play without me,” he told them.

Alone in the bathroom, under the eye of a dead surveillance camera, I took Emerson’s video camera from my pocket.

“Convicts work the prison cafeteria, right? You got juice with any of ’em?”

“With the whites, sure,” he said. “I could get double servings at dinner if I wanted. I just
don’t
. What’s going on, Faust?”

“Hive B. They’re running death matches for rich sickos to gamble on. Warden Lancaster and the guards are all in on it. That’s why nobody ever comes back from Hive B. They’re not on lockdown, Brisco. They’re
dead
.”

Under two days of stubble, Brisco’s cheeks turned pale.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re serious.”

“It gets worse. I’ve seen their ‘shopping list,’ the roster of who they’re gonna grab next.” I looked him dead in the eye. “You’re on it. Two weeks from tonight, they’ll be coming for you.”

He bought it. Brisco put his palms against a grimy sink and leaned in, taking a deep breath.

“We’ve gotta—we’ve gotta
do
something.”

“And we will,” I told him. “I’ve got a plan to blow this whole place wide open, but I need your help. Your influence.”

“Name it, man. Anything you need.
Anything
.”

“First,” I said, holding out the tiny camera. “Hold onto this, and guard it with your life. It’s evidence. I’m going to be captured in…about five minutes, I’m guessing, and I can’t risk them finding it on me. I’ll come get it from you later.”

He took the camera, holding it like a stick of nitroglycerin.

“If you’re gonna be captured, how can you—”

I held up my hand. “Second. I need some things smuggled to me in my cell. Use the food service: have your guys in the cafeteria claim I need a special diet for medical reasons. Dr. Valentino’s on our side; if anyone asks, he’ll back the story up.”

I gave him the list of what I needed. Brisco squinted at me.

“How is
that
gonna help?”

“Didn’t you ever watch
MacGyver
? That guy could make bombs out of paper clips and chewing gum.”

“Yeah, but…
you
aren’t MacGyver.”

I shook my head. “Oh ye of little faith. Just make sure I get everything on that list, and fast. Otherwise I’m a dead man—and you’re next.”

Outside the bathroom door, a klaxon wound up, screaming like a tornado siren.

“
This is a security lockdown
,” boomed a voice over a loudspeaker. “
Return to your cells immediately for counting and inspection. This is a security lockdown
.”

“You better go,” I said. “I think that’s my cue.”

As prisoners scattered, rushing back to their cells, I took a leisurely stroll down to the gallery floor.

Just ahead, five black-masked riot guards moved in, closing in a semicircle. Tasers and batons at the ready, and one brandishing a Plexiglas shield.

I smiled and showed them my open hands.

“I believe you gentlemen are looking for me,” I said, lacing my fingers behind my neck and sinking to my knees.

As rough, gloved hands wrenched my wrists back, cold shackles locking tight, I felt a moment of strange satisfaction. Sure, the odds were long. My first escape attempt had been a disaster and this one was likely to land me in an unmarked grave, but the situation wasn’t all bad. At least I was able to cross one thing off my bucket list.

You know all those movies where the bad guy gets captured, but it turns out that was the key to his master plan all along?

Not gonna lie. I’d always wanted to do that.

“Where is he?” Lancaster asked. He sat behind his desk, imperious, the office door closed and locked. I couldn’t have jumped him if I wanted to, not with both wrists handcuffed to my chair. And not with Jablonski pacing the carpet behind me, openly carrying his pistol in a too-tight grip.

“Who?”

“O’Neill,” Jablonski snapped.

“I’ll repeat my question. Who?”

“The guard,” Lancaster said, “who was supposed to escort you to the infirmary. An appointment you never arrived for. The guard who
vanished
.”

“Oh,” I said. “You mean the guard who said he’d smuggle me out of here, then weaseled out on the deal.”

Jablonski was on me like a shot, pressing the barrel of his gun to my temple.

“You lyin’ sack! O’Neill is a buddy of mine. He’d never do that!”

I inhaled through gritted teeth, fighting to keep my cool. The muzzle of the gun felt like ice against my skin, trembling in his grip.

“Check the visitor logs,” I said. “My lawyer came to see me a few days ago. Brought me some paperwork.”

“What of it?” Lancaster frowned.

“That was just a cover. He smuggled in cash for me. Twenty grand in large bills, unmarked and nonsequential. Clean as fresh linen sheets.”

The muzzle pressed harder, my head tilted so far to the side that my neck ached. I could feel Jablonski’s finger tightening on the trigger.

“You’re full of shit. You got strip-searched before you landed in Ad Seg. No way you were hiding twenty grand on you.”

“Because it
wasn’t
on me,” I said. “It was hidden in Hive C, in the third-tier bathrooms. You know, where the surveillance camera has been busted for weeks.”

Lancaster looked to Jablonski. “Is that true?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I…I mean…”

“Is. That. True? Is there
another
broken camera on the grid that you haven’t bothered reporting?”

“Yeah.” Jablonski sagged. “Just haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean—”

Lancaster waved his hand, shooing him back. Slowly, reluctantly, the gun barrel fell away from my temple. I straightened up in my chair.

“It was sealed in a plastic bag,” I told Lancaster, “and taped under the water-tank lid on one of the broken toilets. See, the first time I tried to break out of here, I didn’t have time to retrieve it. I told O’Neill about the cash. He talked a good game, then he screwed me.”

“Meaning?”

“He took me to Hive C, on a route that avoided most of the cameras. The
working
ones, anyway. I gave him the money, and he told me to wait there, hiding in plain sight with all the other cons. Said he’d come right back with a spare guard uniform and smuggle me out of the prison. Next thing I know, the alarm’s going off and he’s long gone.”

Jablonski paced, frustrated, trying to break my story.

“But O’Neill didn’t clock out!”

I squinted at him. “Why would he?”

Lancaster looked to Jablonski. “Did you check the employee lot? Is his car still here?”

“I think he carpools with somebody.”

The warden slouched in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

“Find out who, maybe? And pull security footage, see if we can spot a glimpse of him sneaking out.”

“Boss, he’s lying.” The pistol swung in Jablonski’s frustrated grip. “You know he’s—”

Lancaster slammed his fist down on the desk.

“Goddamnit, Jablonski, stop waving that gun around! And use your head. Buddy of yours or not, twenty thousand dollars can induce a man to some ill-advised life choices. Believe you me, I’ve seen that before.” He looked my way. “Now what
are
we gonna do with you?”

I shrugged.

“Well,” I said, “the way I see it, you’ve got two options. You can let Jablonski here put a bullet in my head, or you can…I don’t know, force me to compete in some kind of illegal prison gladiator fight? One way, you get money. The other, you get jack. I know what I’d pick if I was in your shoes.”

Lancaster steepled his fingers, thinking it over. Then he chuckled and wagged his finger at me.

“Y’know, son, you gave us a pretty good show last night. Real David-and-Goliath action. The audience eats that stuff up. Too bad you pussied out at the end.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Killing somebody yourself, with your own two hands, is a little harder than standing back and making somebody else do it at gunpoint. But you wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

The warden’s eyes narrowed.

“You might be surprised what I know and what I’ve done,” he said.

I spread my open hands as far as the cuffs would let me and smiled.

“Well, hell, sounds like a challenge in the making! What do you say, Warden? You and me, on the killing floor. Toe to toe. I’ll even let you pick the weapons.”

He snorted. “I don’t think so, son. See, I’ve got this…beast of a man, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, and he’s been cooling his heels in solitary for four months now. He was crazy when he went in, and he doesn’t have a whole lot going on in his noggin anymore, but put a butcher knife in his hands and he turns into a world-class hibachi chef. Your ass is the steak, in case my metaphor ain’t entirely clear.”

“Sounds a little one-sided.”

“Well, that depends on you,” Lancaster said. “Do your time like a good boy and don’t give my men any more trouble, and I’ll send you onto the floor with an oiled-up chainsaw. Piss me off one more time? You get a butter knife.”

“I think we understand each other,” I said.

“Good.” He turned to Jablonski. “Take him back to his cell.
In one piece
, too, no ‘accidents’ along the way. Mr. Faust here is gonna make us some money.”

*     *     *

Back in solitary, I sat on the edge of my bunk. Waiting, hoping Brisco had held up his end of the deal. If he hadn’t, I was good as dead.

I jumped up as my cell door rattled and the bottom slot opened. A plastic tray slid halfway in. I stopped it with the side of my foot.

“Supposed to be a special meal for me,” I called out. “I have allergies.”

Another slot slid open at chest height. Hard eyes, so dark brown they were nearly black, stared in at me.

“Nobody gets special meals in here,” he grunted.

I clenched my hands at my sides. If Brisco couldn’t follow through—

“
Check
,” I said. “Dr. Valentino’s orders. If I eat the wrong food, I’ll be dead of anaphylactic shock by morning. Which means I can’t fight. Which means Warden Lancaster’s gonna lose a bundle of cash, and that’ll be on
your
head.”

The slot slammed shut. I waited, holding my breath.

The first tray pulled back under the door, replaced by a new one—dull orange plastic instead of brown.

I pulled the tray in, hustling to my bunk and resting it on my lap. My meal was a plastic single-serving cup of vanilla yogurt, a hunk of bread a little smaller than a billiard ball, and a carton of milk. I pinched the top of the bread and gave it a gentle pull.

It gave way. The chunk of bread was nothing but a hollow shell of crust, its innards scooped out to make a perfect hiding place. Inside, a small tuft of steel wool and a nine-volt battery were waiting for me. I snatched my treasures and stashed them under the bunk.

Once I’d eaten, I kept the yogurt container too, along with its carefully peeled foil lid. When I passed the empty tray back through the slot, the guard either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

The convicts in Hive B only got one meal a day. Maybe out of petty sadism, probably just to save money. Either way, twenty-four hours with nothing but some yogurt and a crust of bread had my stomach growling. The next day brought the same meal but a different special delivery inside the hollowed-out bread: a razor blade, and two tiny travel-size bottles of baby oil. I stashed the goods and devoured the rest.

The hours dragged on, and on, and on. The light in my cell never turned off, not for an instant, and the only way to tell the time was the delivery of my next meal. I attacked the bread crusts like a rabid dog; after four days, my stomach was tied in knots.

Trying to pass the time with exercise ended fast when a string of energetic sit-ups pummeled me with a blossoming headache and a wave of nausea that sent me running for the stainless-steel toilet. I figured rest had to be good for a concussion. So I rested. I lay on the bunk, and sometimes I stared at the eggshell-white ceiling and sometimes I closed my eyes. When I was exhausted, I slept. When I wasn’t, I hungered.

On the fifth day, like the fourth, a fistful of tiny yellow salt packets from the cafeteria filled the hollow crust. That and a little bundle of twine, like the kind the prisoners in Hive C used to kite messages from cell to cell.

I had everything I needed.

And I only had a few hours left before they’d call me back down to the killing floor.

Now I welcomed the hunger. I let the want, the empty ache, course through my bruised and aching muscles and flood my bone marrow with its bitter pangs. I sat down with the razor blade and the twine, slicing the coarse thread into small, even pieces.

I finished my preparations. Then I took off one shoe, wore it over my hand, and smashed its rubber sole against the light as hard as I could. The wire cage rattled but held fast. Another hit and it started to buckle.

By the sixth hit, the wire was dented and deformed, pressed right up against the square of light. I reached back, turning my face away from the glow, and threw another punch. The light broke with a sound like a china plate shattering on concrete, and plunged my cell into pitch darkness.