“They're not here!” James shouted out as Larry remained standing over their sole surviving prisoner.
The man was smaller than his dead compatriots, just under five feet. He wore a dark jacket with a skull cap pulled down past his ears. His long, stubble-ridden face flinched as Larry pressed the hot barrel against his cheek.
“Where'd they take them?”
The man gasped, trying to form the words, but shock had clearly taken over. There were two vehicles: the wagon and the Dodge Challenger James had gotten from the man in town. It didn't take long for James to figure out what had happened, and the prisoner confirmed it.
“We got a flat,” the prisoner said, trembling. “The girls. They're in the other car.”
“Oh yeah?” Larry said, his eyes intense with anger. He jabbed the rifle into the whimpering man's back. “You ready to die?”
James hurried over to intervene. “Come on, Larry. This isn’t helping.”
“I was only following orders,” the man shouted from the ground.
Larry kicked him in the side. “What did you say?”
James moved in front of Larry as the man screamed in pain. “Let's go.”
Larry aimed his rifle down at the man, undeterred. “What?” he said to James. “And leave him to go tell his friends that we're coming?”
The man covered his head with both hands, pleading. “I'm not going back there, I promise. You'll never see me again! It's a cult. They run the prison now.”
James tilted his head downward, curious. “What's this about a cult?”
Larry pressed the barrel of his rifle against the sweaty inmate's head and looked at James. “I'm sorry. He's a liability.”
“I'll tell you everything you need to know,” the man said in a shaking voice, close to tears.
“We need info, Larry,” James said.
But Larry seemed far from backing down. “You degenerate scumbags destroyed my cabin, and then you kidnapped my wife. Every one of you is going to have to pay.” His finger caressed the trigger, showing no signs of mercy.
James lunged forward and grabbed the rifle as fast as he could, yanking it from Larry's grip, just before he could fire his shot. He then backed away, holding the rifle close as Larry looked up at him with astonished fury.
“You're letting emotions cloud your judgment,” James began.
But Larry only seemed angrier. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Not a bloodthirsty killer!” James said with anger.
Another tense silence followed as Larry glanced down, his face contorted. “You're concerned about this lump of shit?” The man had crawled ahead a few feet and Larry delivered a second swift kick to his side.
“He knows things,” James said calmly. “You want to go into this thing blind?”
Larry stared back at James and then extended his hand. “Give me my rifle back. I won't shoot him. Promise.”
James stood back for a moment, hesitant. He examined the four dead men lying nearby on the road in pools of blood. There seemed to be no going back from any of it. He wondered where they would be if they had just gone in the Army trucks to the evacuation camps. At least he and Marla would be together.
Perhaps the evacuation of St. Louis had been a precaution. The city could still be standing strong. Either way, James felt as though they'd be better off there but tried not to regret the decision he had forced on his wife. “What can you tell us about the prison?” he asked the frightened inmate, kneeling next to him. He then reached down and helped the man up, asking his name.
“Doyle,” he said with a cough, holding his side.
Larry stormed off, uninterested in anything the inmate had to say. Instead, he circled the station wagon and looked for any survivors. He stopped at the driver's side and pulled the man outside, tossing his body onto the road. He then checked the ignition and grabbed the keys.
“What can you tell us about the prison, Doyle?” James asked.
Doyle nodded and brushed back his shaggy, graying hair. “They took those girls to see Julian. Julian... he runs the prison now.”
“And who is Julian?” James asked, filled with anxiety.
“Crazy son of a bitch who took over after the riot. Word is, he orchestrated the whole thing. Was planning it for years.” The inmate paused to catch his breath. “Once the power went out, they basically took over.”
Larry soon returned and leaned against the hatchback of the wagon, listening. “What'd they do with the guards? All the staff?”
Doyle turned his head, startled. “A lot of them were killed during the riot. The rest were taken hostage or prisoner. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“Who the hell's Julian?” Larry asked.
“Some leader of the prison gang who instigated the riot,” James said, answering. He then looked at Doyle. “How do we get in?”
Doyle thought to himself as he nervously looked from Larry to James and back. “You've got to look like an inmate first. You get seen in any other clothes, they'll kill you.”
James examined the dead inmates on the ground with their bloody prisoner uniforms under their jackets. “I'm assuming we can't just walk through the front gate either.”
Doyle shook his head. His eyes suddenly lit up as though an idea had just entered his mind. “I have something that can help you.” He dug into his jacket pockets as they waited impatiently and presented a folded paper. “Here. Take it.”
James cautiously took the paper and unfolded it, seeing a sketched layout of what looked like the entire prison.
“Before the riot, this layout map was being passed around to organize everything,” he explained. The rooms, levels, and ward were all identified, sprawled across the entire page.
Doyle leaned closer and pointed in the center of the map as James tried his best to examine it in the dark. The prison complex had ten wards, from A through J. “The place is surrounded by fence and concertina wire, so good luck getting in,” he continued. “But there is a spot behind the east wing you might be able to sneak in through.” His finger traced along the map to an area in the corner. “This is the loading dock here. Minimally guarded and protected. Might be your best bet.”
Larry flicked his Zippo lighter and held it near the page, illuminating the map.
James passed the map off to Larry and turned to Doyle with a question. “Where in the prison are they taking our wives?”
Doyle looked up with uncertainty. “I don't know for sure. Same place they take the other hostages. Cell block B maybe. But, I've never met Julian. I'm just doing what I can to survive.”
Larry folded the map inside his pocket and approached the wagon, leaving them behind. Whatever their plan, it wasn't quite formed yet. James paced the road and walked past the stiffening bodies and brass shells lying around them.
“Anything else you can tell us that might help?” James asked Doyle.
“It’s a dangerous place,” Doyle said. “They'll kill you, or worse yet... make you fight.”
“No shit,” Larry said, walking back over.
“I'm serious,” Doyle said. “Sometimes they make hostages fight for entertainment. Just the other day we had two guards fight to the death. The winner was promised release, but he died after the fight.”
“Well... we just want our wives back,” Larry said.
“That's true,” James said, pulling the shirt off one of the dead inmates lying on the road.
Larry grabbed Doyle by the collar and pulled him over. “How'd you bastards find my cabin? Were you looking for us? Or were you looking for James in particular?”
James suddenly looked up, concerned by what the answer might reveal about his culpability.
Doyle thought to himself, hesitant to answer.
“Come on,” Larry said, patting him on the shoulder. “Think, damn it.”
Doyle watched as James pulled the rest of the uniform off the dead convict and then looked at Larry. “There was a scout team looking for places to scavenge. I guess they j
ust happened to find your cabin.”
“Bullshit,” Larry said almost immediately. James wondered if Doyle was skirting the truth as a favor to James for saving his life.
“We saw the car,” Doyle answered, growing nervous under Larry’s scrutiny. “Followed the tracks up the hill and found the cabin later. Brant said--”
“Who's Brant?” Larry asked abruptly.
“He works for Julian,” Doyle said. “Brant wanted to wait until nighttime to surprise you.”
Larry studied him with narrowed eyes. He then took a deep breath and raised his rifle at Doyle's head. “Start running, and if I catch you going near the prison, I'll put a bullet right through your conniving little brain.”
Doyle spun around and ran off before Larry or James could say another word. He soon disappeared into the darkness, heading away from the prison. Prison uniform in hand, James walked to the station wagon, changing his clothes. “Might want to pick out a uniform for yourself,” James said, pulling off his jacket.
He placed the baggy gray short-sleeved inmate shirt over his own, ultimately picking the clothes with the least blood on it. Larry approached the dead driver slumped in the road and began undressing him. James figured they could pass as prisoners for a time, but success would also depend on how tight-knit the inmates were. A week in the wilderness and James was beginning to look a bit grizzly himself. That could help.
He and Larry had been at each other's throats since that evening. James could understand his anger and frustration. Larry's entire plan of hunkering down and living off the grid had been irrevocably changed. He just might never forgive James. Even if they saved Marla and Carol, unscathed, they would probably go their separate ways. For now, they had to work together. A rocky partnership lay ahead; a rift so deep they didn't know if they'd ever repair it. Yet, under the night sky and in the silence of their rural surroundings, anything might be possible.
4
The Breach
The Dodge Challenger flew down the rural two-lane road with the Audrain County Correctional Center ahead in the distance. Marla and Carol were squeezed into the back seat with handcuffs around their wrists like prisoners. They stayed close to each other, trying to keep it together as the car shook and rattled, carrying them away from the men they loved. The leader of the gang, Brant, sat in the back with them, close to Marla. Another man drove, and a third one sat up front as well.
The rest of the gang had been left with the station wagon after its tire blew out halfway back to the prison. Marla and Carol hadn't said a word since being taken. The shock of it all hadn't worn off yet. They were having dinner one minute, and the next, everything in their lives had drastically changed. Marla was trying to piece it together in her mind.
Who were these men, and where were they taking her and Carol?
The car sped down the road at top speed. Marla gripped Carol's arm, fearing a crash at any moment. The two men up front were engaged in conversation, but Brant mainly kept to himself, smoking a cigarette. There were no doors in the back seat. The red vinyl seats squeaked with their movements. Both front windows were cracked open as wind blasted inside, screeching. With Brant looming over them nearby, Marla wanted to question him, but she could barely bring herself to look at him.
“Larry...” Carol said softly, on the verge of breaking down.
“They're alive. I know it,” Marla said.
Brant overheard, flicked the last of his cigarette out the window, and shifted closer, his eyes sweeping from one to the other, engaging with them for the first time since they had been forced into the Challenger. “Don't worry, we just roughed them up a little.”
Marla looked through the windshield and saw several buildings grouped together, contained within a massive fence. She couldn't see any lights beyond their own but was certain they were drawing closer to the prison. What else could it be? She slowly turned her head toward Brant, whose mere presence made her feel ill. “What do you want from us?”
Brant looked at her, seemingly amused, as a smile crept up his bearded face. “The delight of your company, for starters.” The car gradually slowed as the prison drew nearer. Its sizable parking lot was filled with vehicles. At first glance, nothing looked out of the ordinary. The prison looked operational despite having no lights on outside or inside the complex. “Are you nervous?” he asked.
Carol whipped her head around, glaring at him. “You're nothing but a bunch of pathetic cowards.”
Heads up front turned as Brant leaned into his side of the seat, amused and vaguely impressed. “Careful now. I understand passions are high, but everyone’s not all as thick-skinned as I am.” Marla glanced at Carol with a warning look to watch what she said.
The car veered to the side as they pulled into the prison gates with its unmanned booth. Marla caught a glimpse of several police cars in the parking lot beyond, but it brought her little comfort. They were on their own out here. No one was going to help them. She shuddered to think that she might never see James again, but then dismissed such a thought, which seemed impossible.
Their car idled at the closed gates for a moment before the driver held down the horn. Marla squeezed both Carol's hands. The ride had been terrifying enough, but they had no idea of what awaited them beyond the prison walls. Their imaginations were running wild.
“What's taking these assholes so long?” the driver asked.
“Relax. They're coming,” Brant said. He then turned his head to look out the back windows and down the darkened road they had arrived on. “They had a flat to fix.”
The gates opened, and the car drove in, past a group of curious inmates all watching them closely. There were people everywhere, loitering around, most shadowed in the darkness. Their car suddenly sped forward, and just as quickly skidded to the side as the driver slammed on the brakes. Marla opened her eyes to see that they were parked directly in front of the entrance to the main building, which looked like an administrative headquarters, but with cell blocks on the lower floors.
“Welcome to the house of the First Order,” Brant said with enthusiasm as the car engine shut off.
Marla and Carol looked at each other with concern as the men piled out of the car and pulled the seats down for them to exit. A bandana-wearing inmate stood outside, waiting. “Let's go, grandma.”
“My name is Carol,” she said defiantly as she stepped out.
The driver stared at her with twisted contempt. “I don't give a shit about your name, you old hag. How’d you like a fist in your face—”
Brant then punched the driver in the face without warning. The man stumbled to the side as Brant offered apologies to Carol. “Some of our brothers have to learn their manners.”
Carol said nothing as she hurried past Brant, with Marla close behind. The man remained hunched over, holding the side of his face and spitting blood. Brant yanked the man's bandana off his head and approached Marla and Carol, holding two bandanas in his hand, the second one something he had pulled from his pocket. “You're both going to want to wear these.”
Carol and Marla exchanged curious glances.
“Why?” asked Carol.
Brant walked behind her first. “For your own protection. Now, stay still.” He brought the bandana over her eyes and then tied it tightly around the back of her head. Next came Marla's turn. She stood as the bandana covered her eyes, pressing against them, cutting off vision completely. Brant gently pushed them both forward, leading them toward the entrance building like a police officer escorting two prisoners. On the way, he talked, which was something he suddenly seemed to like doing.
“I'm ten years in a twenty-year sentence,” he said in a chatty tone. “Attempted murder during a robbery.”
“Fascinating,” Carol said in her most dry tone.
Marla held her cuffed hands out for balance, unable to see anything in their path. Brant kept his hand against her back and guided her along. One of her shoelaces was untied, nearly causing her to trip, but Marla stumbled and marched for
ward. That was the least of her problems. The doors opened, and she heard footsteps all around them. The other inmates circled them, shining their flashlights into their blindfolded faces.
“What you got there?” one of the men asked.
“Hostages,” Brant replied. “Now get those lights out of our faces.”
Marla could feel the eyes of the crowd watching them. A hand waved across the top of her hair as boisterous hollering broke out. Brant pushed her along from behind into the increasing chaos. Carol held Marla’s left arm as best she could as they lurched forward together, using each other for guidance and balance. She tried to fathom the turn of events that had led them to the prison. Everything had happened so suddenly and unexpectedly. She was just sitting down to have dinner. James had whispered news of his travels that day. He had found a working vehicle, and they were conspiring to leave the cabin. Their plan had almost fallen into place, only to collapse, when a direct attack upon the cabin changed everything.
She heard the heavy prison doors close behind them as they continued. Raucous cheers echoed throughout the room they walked into. Shifting her eyes downward, she could see a glossy concrete floor. The room smelled of cigarettes and had a clear lack of ventilation. The hollering voices echoed far into the distance, indicating a large room. She wondered if, at that moment, she'd be thrown to the wolves and eaten alive. Brant continued to push them forward, his hand the only guide. Little by little, Marla could see more out of the bottom of her blindfold. The hollers and cheers grew louder the deeper they went into the prison. The men’s voices rattled her.
She felt the heat of nearby flames from burning drums around them, casting shadows of their round shapes on the floor as Brant hurried them along into a hallway as doors closed behind them. Carol suddenly tripped and clutched Marla's arm for balance as she yelped. She nearly brought Marla down in the process as well. They stumbled to the side together and hit a concrete wall.
Hideaway (Book 2): An Emp Thriller Page 3
