911: The Complete Series

by Grace Hamilton

  Sara took a deep breath, steeled herself, and reached up to stroke her earring. Solon’s eyes flicked up as Sara’s fingers fell away. “I’m sorry, sir, our papers is back at the house. We can go back and get them for you if you want?”

  But Solon had moved on from that offer; he leaned in and pulled Sara by the top of her left arm closer to his hard, gray eyes. That’s when the fighters started singing hymns in the Christian Center. Solon’s head snapped up.

  “Sergeant McCreary, take seven men and check the church. I think we got us some Church members here. Show time.”

  McCreary turned out to be a stocky thug with florid cheeks that ran with shiny sweat. Round John Lennons magnified his fish eyes to twice life-size, and his chin spectacularly failed to give any definition to his face. He brought the men to attention, told half of them to take up defensive positions around the trucks, and marched with the other seven troops toward the center. Pushing one soldier toward the door as point man, they entered the building with their guns raised and alert. Within three seconds, all seven men were inside the church.

  The singing stopped. Sara waited for the gunfire that would indicate her plan had fritzed.

  Nothing came. Sara breathed again.

  She piped up, trying to shrug away from Solon’s grip. “Hey, you’re hurting me!”

  Solon waved the M9A1 under her nose. “Oh, little lady, I think that’s the least of your worries. I know what that earring means. I know exactly what you are. Now you know, and I know, the Church of Humanity is verboten now. Even just wearing one of its symbols can get you locked up in a deep dark hole for a very long time.”

  “This?” Sarah asked in the most innocent voice she could manage. “My daddy found it when he was last in Terre Haute, sir, I swear. I swear! Just lying on the ground, sir.”

  If Solon really was as good as Sara suspected he was, she knew exactly what the next order would be. And Solon knew she knew, and Sara let her face show that she knew that Solon knew she knew, too.

  “If it means nothing to you,” he said slowly and deliberately, “why don’t you just take it out of your ear and hand it over?”

  For her as a fully committed member of the Church of Humanity, removing the earring should have been somewhat of a humiliation. Since the fall of the Church, Sara figured Solon and his like had been charged with rounding up as many Church members as they could find. She’d gambled on at least one of the officers knowing the lay of the land, too, and the singing from the Christian Center had brought all the threads together.

  Solon put the Beretta in her face.

  “Take it out.”

  Sara’s eyes flicked to the entrance to the center, hoping that the next phase was about to begin. Although she’d guessed right about Solon’s operational efficiency, she couldn’t be sure of his level of cruelty. He might just shoot her face off for the hell of it, earring or not.

  “Sir?” McCreary was calling from the entrance to the center. “Lieutenant Solon?” A moment of disappointment crossed Solon’s face, showing he’d rather not be distracted from making this young woman make a mess in her underwear.

  Solon lowered his gun a fraction, and the troops in defensive positions around the truck visibly relaxed. They eyed McCreary across the acre of parking lot, watching as he led his small platoon of soldiers out of the center. “Just one of those wind-up record players, Lieutenant; musta just started playing on its own.”

  Solon nodded and turned his head back to Sara. He was about to speak when the first thought that he might be in danger showed itself across his face.

  Sara could see exactly what had made Solon afraid, too; in fact, her plan had counted on it.

  McCreary was unarmed.

  The soldier behind McCreary fired one round from a SIG Sauer P226 through the back of his neck and the 9x19 mm Parabellum slug blew McCreary’s jaw clean off the front of his face. McCreary’s body dropped like a felled tree and hit the floor in a twitching mess of blood and bone as Sara and Brian broke hard toward the bushes that hid their weapons.

  The soldier Sara had just noted was Ava, fully dressed in an Advance Combat Uniform with an Advance Combat Helmet and Improved Outer Tactical Vest. Sara could see a splash of blood still wet on Ava’s right arm.

  But she knew it wasn’t Ava’s blood.

  If all had gone to plan inside the center, it would have been from the blood gush of silent throat slitting. The killing of the FEMA soldier from whom she’d removed the uniform. McCreary had been kept alive just long enough to get the rest of the now-disguised cell out of the building, and ready to strike first against Solon and the remainder of his men. Behind Ava, two other cell members took aim and fired their M16s toward Solon while the other fighters concentrated their fire on the F-250s before the soldiers manning the machine guns could get their fingers near a safety catch.

  Both machine gunners fell backwards, bullet holes raking up their bodies from waist to head. They were catapulted backwards and fell headfirst onto the tarmac. Solon had dived for cover as the firing in his direction had started, as had Brian and Sara. But they’d dived to the “Jesus Loves You” sign, because that’s where their MP7s had been hidden beneath a spicebush.

  Sara popped up from behind the sign and fired two short bursts at Solon as he rolled toward the cover of the nearest F-250. The rounds dug up the tarmac and burst clods of earth. Solon was too fast; he thumped against the side of the truck, barrel rolled over the hood, and crashed into the soldier who had just raised his head enough to see if there was anyone he could shoot at.

  Brian was raking the side of the other truck, bursting the tires on the near side with precision. From the corner of her eye, Sara saw Ava and her disguised troops walking quickly forward in a delta attack pattern, firing rounds in a constant barrage. Solon and his men kept their heads down, the five remaining soldiers having no chance yet to return fire.

  Brian darted from behind the sign, crouching low, MP7 loose in one hand by his side. Running parallel to the cell members dressed as soldiers, within four seconds he was swarming over the side of the F-250 and turning the M240 machine gun on its mount to cover the other truck.

  The Ford that Solon and his men were crouching behind exploded outward, all busted glass and torn metal. The whole vehicle vibrated and shivered as the 7.62 mm rounds tore its guts out and ripped the bodywork into shreds. The soldiers behind it dived for the other side of the highway, one rolling and returning fire. Sparks lit up around Brian as M16 rounds rattled his bones. Sara saw Brian’s left arm spin wildly up as if pulled by a sky-bound puppeteer yanking his strings. Blood exploded from his shoulder, but he kept firing.

  The soldier who was shooting at Brian took the brunt of the impacts from the machine gun on his IOTV. This rolled him back on the tarmac, taking his aim off of Brian and causing him to fire uselessly into the air. Brian’s trail of bullets smashed into the soldier’s shins, mincing ACU and flesh together. Blood spat up and the soldier screamed. Ava, now reaching over the hood of the raddled F-250, put two rounds into his face, and the soldier fell back. Dead. Brian slumped down from the M240, holding his shoulder and trying to get to cover.

  Solon appeared next to him, and as Sara watched the lieutenant’s impassive face, he placed his gun against Brian’s temple and ended him without a flicker of emotion.

  She stood up, shouting. Firing blindly at Solon. But the space where Solon had been was now empty.

  Ava and the others had already neutralized the remaining soldiers with maximum prejudice.

  Sara ran to Brian.

  “Goddammit,” she hissed as she looked down at Brian’s lifeless body and sightless eyes. However, she didn’t have time to mourn. Ava joined her, taking off her ACU and staring grimly at Brian.

  “The lieutenant, he’s gone.”

  Ava nodded. She turned to the rest of the cell fighters who were checking and clearing their weapons.

  “Move out,” she said simply. “Bug hunt.”

  7

  �
�Assume the position.”

  Parker got up and obediently walked to the back wall of the cell. He placed his forehead against the cinderblock, opened his feet to shoulder width, and put his hands behind his back. He heard the bolts sliding back on the door and the protesting squeal of the hinges as the door opened.

  If the guard who was entering noticed the one small change that Parker had made to the placement of the bucket, he’d be done, and he knew it.

  Parker waited until he heard the tray touching down on the concrete floor.

  Now or never.

  Parker tensed every muscle in his body and exploded into action. At the guard’s most vulnerable moment, when he was placing the tray on the floor, Parker lifted his leg, placed his foot against the wall, and pushed hard. He propelled himself backwards so that he came crashing into the bent head of the guard before the man had a chance to react. Parker had gambled on his captors being utterly complacent and unprepared for a scummy junkie being able to move this fast. Plus, there’d been enough meal times with him simply obeying orders that anything less had to be a surprise.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Parker collapsed on the guard, elbowing him in the back of the head with a sharp crack. The guard’s face was mushed into the concrete and his nose popped like a tomato. Parker knew he had less than a second now before the guard outside in the corridor came in, assuming they’d followed the usual procedure and were working in pairs.

  Parker had moved the bucket from its place in the corner and put it roughly near where he imagined his right hand would land when he attacked the first guard. He had been just about right. Without looking to the door, Parker rolled, grabbed the handle of the bucket as he came up on one knee, and slung it with all his strength at the second guard who was just now stepping into the cell to see what the fuss was. Parker had known there would be a guard out there. Usually they hung back, leaning against the corridor wall, bored and not expecting trouble. This guard had been no different, and it had given Parker the edge.

  The toxic bucket exploded against the guard’s face and body, showering him with its stinking contents. He looked like someone who’d been entered into the Ice Bucket Challenge without knowledge.

  Parker sprang up, praying that they hadn’t brought a third guard along with them that day, and kicked the uniformed guard in the guts with one savage stab of his foot. The guard, smeared and soaked with human waste, had nothing to hold onto, nor the wherewithal to reach the door posts. He spun backwards like a baby deer on ice and the back of his skull smashed against the opposite wall of the corridor.

  Parker didn’t hesitate. He reached down to the body of the guard on the floor, took the extendable baton from his belt clip, and thwacked it open with a flick of his wrist. He beat the back of the guard’s head with the baton twice to ensure his unconsciousness. Next, Parker took five steps out into the corridor and did the same with the guard he’d kicked out of the cell. Now, sure that the guard was out of the game, he reached down, grabbed him by the ankle, and hauled him back into the cell.

  Parker had no idea how long it might be before the guards would be missed, so he worked quickly. Neither of them wore military garb today—they were dressed in anonymous prison officer uniforms, with chocolate brown shirts, tan pants, and boots. Each had a utility belt holding a Beretta M9A1 in an attached leg holster, two CS gas grenades, a baton, a Taser, and bunches of keys and cuffs. The belt pouch where a tactical radio might have been stored was empty on both men. This was an unexpected boon for Parker. Whatever this facility was, the authorities had been forced to use low-tech equipment to communicate after the EMP Event.

  Parker took both Berettas and placed them to one side. A minute later, the guard with the busted nose was naked and Parker was squeezing into clothes that were a little on the tight side. The other guard’s clothes wouldn’t have closed across Parker’s chest, and anyway, the uniform was stained with shit. Having slipped on boots that were close to his size, Parker moved to the doorway and looked down the corridor both ways. He was equidistant from the end in both directions. Thin sunlight was coming through high, barred windows. It was the first natural light Parker had seen since being locked in this cell, and it put a solid ache of nostalgia for the outside world in his chest. Oh, how he wished he was in his cabin with Sara and Ava. Safe and prepped for whatever shit hit the fan, not running interference with no plan, no leader, and little hope.

  Parker kept watch on the corridor as he put on the utility belt, collapsing the baton that he’d used to poleax the guards. He slipped one Beretta into the leg holster he’d appropriated and tucked the other into his pants at the small of his back. It made the already tight garment more uncomfortable to wear, but he wasn’t leaving the gun behind. His last action before leaving the cell was to cuff both guards behind their backs, and to lock the door behind him. He thought about gagging the two of them, but considering they were out cold and the only extra fabric he had on hand was covered in human excrement, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. They’d be a while waking up, and he’d be gone by then—with any luck.

  The corridor was quiet.

  It felt weird to be out of the cell, and even weirder to be clothed. Parker had gotten used to nudity over the last few weeks, and the clothes restricting his movement with their tightness were distracting him now, when he needed to be most alert to the dangers that being loose in the prison presented. Parker repeated his mantra in his mind.

  Focus.

  Stay alive.

  Find Sara.

  Focus.

  Stay alive.

  Find Sara.

  Soon, any concerns about his tight clothes melted away. The mission was to escape and find his daughter, and everything else was secondary.

  Parker went right, out of habit. There was no visible difference to either end of the corridor, so it was as good a choice as any.

  He walked briskly, but without undue haste, figuring that if there were cameras operational anywhere in the facility, he didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself before he got a chance to try to escape. More aware than he’d been in weeks, he took in every detail, expecting a guard to approach at any moment. The corridor was painted institutional green and it looked like it had seen better days. The damp rising through the concrete floor back in the cell had already told him that he was on the ground floor, suggesting he’d have a greater chance of making it out into the open.

  The corridor ended on a steel-barred, prison-style gate that Parker could see would have been opened and shut electronically in the past. Now, though, since the EMP, the failsafe fallback of locks and keys would be in operation. Beyond the steel gate was a short corridor, this ending in another gate—a prison sally port. He took the bunch of keys from his belt and, after three tries, found the one that would open the gate, which slid aside easily. Parker closed it behind him.

  As Parker moved toward the second gate in the port, he heard the mumbling of voices. It sounded like general conversation, nothing raised or excited. His attack on the guards hadn’t been noticed.

  Yet.

  Parker stepped toward the gate and slipped the correct key into the lock immediately. The mechanism didn’t turn. He tried two more keys. Nada.

  Shit.

  The guards coming into this area of the prison mustn’t have keys to get them out in the event of a prisoner takeover. Basic prison security. Parker mentally kicked himself for not thinking of this possibility already. And then glint of gold caught his eye and he almost laughed. In the corner next to the door was a small golden bell.

  There’s low-tech, and there’s LOW-tech, he thought with some amusement. Okay, if this breakout is going ahead, it’s going to have to go ahead with a small bell being tinkled. Parker shrugged, picked up the bell, and shook it.

  The voices stopped, and Parker heard a door just beyond his sight line opening into the corridor. A woman’s voice was saying: “About time, Carson, we thought you and your boyfriend were smooching in an empty cell!�
� Two male voices laughed at the bad joke. The female corrections officer approached, accompanied by the jangle of a much larger bunch of keys. Parker looked at the nametape on his shirt. He was Carson. The guard lying cuffed in a puddle of human waste was his “boyfriend,” apparently. What an exceptional bunch of professional corrections officers this facility employed. Reminded of his uniform’s tightness, he hunched into himself, standing against the wall; at least Carson had been about the right height.

  The female guard hove into view, head down, still looking at the keys bunched in her chubby fingers. She was short and curly haired, in her mid- to late-fifties and running to fat, with a chest you could hide footballs in. She maneuvered the correct key into the lock and looked up.

  Then, she froze, her eyes wider than windows.

  Parker already had the Berretta pointed at the dead center of her forehead. His finger was on his lips, daring her to make a noise. Parker flicked his eyes to the key in her hand. The guard didn’t need to be told what to do. She turned the key in the lock and the gate slid across the opening. Keeping the gun leveled on the woman’s head, Parker motioned for her to enter the sally port. The voices in the room around the corner hadn’t changed in pitch or tone. Someone was bemoaning the fact that there were no longer any NHL games or TVs to show them on.

  The woman stepped through and Parker grabbed her by the shirt front, bringing the butt of the Berretta down on her temple in a savage arc as he did. She sighed and collapsed onto him. Her weight was barely manageable as he lowered her gently to the floor and, hooking the new set of keys he’d gained to his belt, he bent to secure the guard with her own cuffs. For good measure, he tore one of her shirt sleeves off and tied it into a makeshift gag. Then he stepped into the corridor beyond the port, closing it behind him.

  Parker’s view into the guardroom was partially obscured by the door, which was of similar construction to the one Parker had been living behind. Through the slice of air between the edge of the metal plated door and the frame into which it fitted, he could see a brightly lit room. Clipboards, rule sheets, and rosters were attached to the walls, a desk was butted below a window, and two guards sat shooting the breeze, one with his feet resting casually on a desk.