by Joe Hart
Sullivan ran.
He charged back through the sopping vegetation, insanely thankful for the feeling of semidry ground beneath his feet. Water flew from his soaked pants legs and a squishing sound that would have been comical any other time came from his shoes. Whatever was behind him launched itself out of the water, and he heard it sink into the spongy earth. It’s heavy, he thought as he pelted through bushes and over logs. He could see the fence coming up and he knew he would never have time to climb and make it over without the thing behind him plucking him off it like a ripe fruit from a low-hanging branch. Instead, he turned right, slapping leaves out of his way as he heard the crack of what sounded like a small tree breaking behind him. His legs pumped and he nearly fell as he swung up and over a downed tree. His hands brushed the ground and he kept going. The fence scrolled past to his left and he followed it as closely as he could, the clearing around it giving him a rough path to run on.
A deep resonance vibrated, first through his chest, then flowed down into his feet. It was like being hit by the bass in front of an immense speaker. It felt as if his organs were shaking loose from their moorings, and his hurried breath caught in his chest as his lungs constricted with the force. Thunder seemed to answer the sound, and rolled out ahead of him in the sky, as a few drops of rain found his streaking form through the gaps in the canopy.
An errant stick flew up with his passage and hit him in the face, and pain spread out from his left cheek into his eye socket. He barely registered it as the vibration came again. The urge to turn and see how close the thing was nearly overpowered him, but he managed to continue on. A pine bough scratched the top of his head, leaving hot furrows, while the fence jagged right and then continued on in a straight line. Faintly he registered a glimpse of a building through the trees to his left: New Haven. He was getting closer to Singleton. Something cut the air a few inches behind his head and he ducked instinctively. His hand strayed to his gun again, and he pulled it this time, his finger looping through the trigger guard.
An opening in the trees ahead drew his attention and he pushed his burning legs harder, knowing that reaching it might be his only chance. His mind tried to fathom what could be chasing him, but he batted the thoughts away. It was large and it wanted to hurt him, that was all he needed to know. Instead, he tried to calculate how many shots he had left. Twelve in the magazine, one in the chamber. He’d fired twice earlier that day and one round still sat in his pocket. That left ten shots available. He heard the hissing of the thing behind him drawing in air, and felt newly horrified at how close it sounded. He would have to make a stand.
Sullivan exploded into the clearing, and in a single movement he spun and slid to a stop, landing low on his stomach. He pushed his arms out before him, thrusting the barrel of the handgun toward whatever chased him.
The path behind him was empty.
He lay prone on the ground, moisture soaking the front of his shirt and pants, his breath forced in and out of him by lungs starved for oxygen. Rivulets of sweat and blood from the gouges on his scalp crept into his eyes and he tried to blink them away, unable to tear his gaze from the forest around him. Leaves snapped with the impact of each raindrop, creating a flurry of movement everywhere. He listened past the pounding of his blood and his labored breathing. Nothing moved.
Scrambling to his feet, he holstered his gun and grabbed the chainlink with both hands. His muscles burned as he pulled himself up in a furious pace until he reached the top. Without pausing, he swung a leg over and felt the wire bite into his skin, but the sensation was secondary to the sound coming from the nearby foliage. The thing was moving closer through the woods, branches breaking and leaves scraping against its body. Sullivan risked one glance as he threw himself over the top of the fence and saw jagged edges of black scales emerge into the clearing.
Pain, sharp and clear, bloomed in his right shoulder as he let go of the wire and fell to the other side of the fence. The impact was incredible and spangles of light exploded across his vision. He rolled and somehow found his feet. Fearing the thing was coming over the fence behind him, he turned and threw two quick shots in the general area where he’d crossed. He caught the impression of something dark and angular reaching up toward the razor wire, and then he was running again.
The forest blurred by in different shades of green and brown. The ground slipped beneath his feet and he stumbled as thunder spoke above him again, spurring him onward. Suddenly he was in the open and the storage shed and sunken boat were to his left. The sky was a deep, inky black and the clouds were jagged. Like the thing behind you, the voice in his head echoed.
Sullivan ran past the shed and toward the hunched form of the prison, the fear of hearing the fence collapsing in the woods driving him onward.
Chapter 9
He chased her again.
She laughed and looked back over her shoulder, dodging through the thick upright posts of the playground. She danced in and out of the moonbeams tunneling down from the sky. The sand was cool under his feet and the breeze kissed his skin. He laughed too, trying to catch up to her nimble form so that he could grab hold of her and pull her down on top of him. He wanted to feel her close and relish the touch of her lips on his skin. He wanted to pull the dress from her body and love her here in the sand beneath the moon, but he’d have to catch her first.
Her laughter echoed to him from beneath a darkened slide, and as he drew closer he could see a dim light there. Did she have a candle? He peered beneath the overhang where so many children whooped and cried out with joy in the daylight hours, but this was night and it was their time. So many possibilities lay beneath the slide with her in the sand and he wanted her more than anything ever before.
He saw her face come into view and she reached out to him, to draw him close. Her mouth parted, asking for a kiss, and her eyes closed. He pulled her toward him, breathed her in.
==
“Sullivan, stop.”
The words forced his eyes open. Sullivan blinked and looked around the room. He was in the infirmary again, and Amanda stood over him. She was leaning away, and it was only then that he realized his hand was on the back of her neck, pulling her closer.
He released his grip and let his arm fall back to his side. Pain murmured in his shoulder, but it was dull and inconsequential. What mattered was Rachel. She needed him and he had to go to her. He tried to sit up on the bed and Amanda’s hand pressed him back flat.
“You need to rest a bit more,” she said.
He blinked and nodded, the fog beginning to lift from his mind. Rachel was dead. He was in the prison. Barry was missing. Something had chased him.
Sullivan sat bolt upright, and when Amanda reached to push him back, he slapped her hand away.
“There’s something out there, some kind of animal in the woods. We need to leave. It’s gonna get in here!” Sullivan said, swinging his feet to the floor. The room oozed around him and the floor canted sickeningly. He reached out and gripped the edge of the bed, until his vision steadied and he was able to bring the doctor’s face into focus again. Her pretty features were drawn down in dismay, and it was only then he realized he’d swatted at her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning back on the bed. “What the hell happened to me?”
Amanda’s expression relaxed, but she remained a few steps away. “The guard at the front desk heard you run into the lobby doors. When he went out to check, you were unconscious beneath the awning. They brought you here and you’ve been out for several hours.”
Sullivan put a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. A day’s worth of stubble scratched his palm and he suddenly wished he could shower and shave. He wanted to cut away everything that had accumulated on him in the last day. He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. He wanted something normal and mundane, something that would make sense.
“Look, I know this is going to sound crazy, but there’s something in the woods, some sort of predator. It chased me back to the prison and hit me on
the shoulder.” As he spoke, he recalled the attack and the lancing pain in his arm as he’d crested the fence. He searched his right shoulder and felt a thick bandage that covered the entire muscle there. He realized he was shirtless again, and saw a new white T-shirt hanging from the back of a chair a few yards away. He worked his arm in little circles, testing to see how badly injured he was.
“A predator? Like a bear?” Amanda asked.
“Yeah … no … I’m not sure. I really didn’t get a good look at it.” Sullivan closed his eyes and watched the dancing darkness behind his eyelids for a moment as he searched his memory. “It was bigger than a bear and its skin was strange.”
“Strange? Strange how?”
Sullivan looked at Amanda, searching her face for disbelief but only finding concern, which was somehow more troubling. “I’m not seeing things,” he managed finally, but it was just above a whisper. He shook his head as a short bout of dizziness overcame him. “What did you give me?”
“Just a low-grade sedative. It helped calm you while I cleaned the cuts on your legs and back.” Amanda paused and motioned toward his shoulder. “That one was quite deep and needed a few sets of stitches.”
Sullivan hung his head to his chest, and then sat back onto the bed, his shoulder throbbing dully with the exertion. “Do you have any more orange juice?” he asked.
Amanda laughed a little and went to the fridge. She returned holding another bottle of Tropicana and handed it to him. Sullivan gulped it down greedily and passed her the empty container. He could feel the beginnings of stability coming back to him, and wagered standing again. The floor remained solid beneath his feet, so he crossed to a chair, where his shoes rested between its legs.
As he tied the damp laces tight around his feet, he glanced up. Amanda was still watching him, her expression unreadable. He supposed she thought he was crazy. He’d been here twice in the last twelve hours, both times incoherent or unconscious, and now he’d physically lashed out at her while she’d only been trying to help.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a little distraught about Agent Stevens. There haven’t been any developments, have there?”
Amanda shook her head. “I’m afraid not, and the phones are still down. Warden Andrews said at noon that we would most likely be evacuating to New Haven by tomorrow if the rain doesn’t clear up, and it doesn’t look like it will.” She motioned to the high windows, which were stained dark by the clouds outside. Water ran in crooked trails across their surfaces, and for a moment Sullivan had the image of the building around them crying in the storm’s embrace.
“I think I need to speak with him, if you’ll let me go.” Sullivan managed a halfhearted smile, and was relieved when Amanda returned it.
“Just don’t go climbing any more fences, okay?” she said, turning from him as lightning slit the sky beyond the windows once again.
==
“Come in,” a tired voice behind the door said before the echo of Sullivan’s knocks faded from the lobby. He twisted the knob and stepped into Andrews’s office for the second time that day. The warden sat behind the desk, his hands splayed out before him on its top. The older man’s eyes were shadowed from beneath by the deepest bags Sullivan had ever seen. Andrews’s hair was also disarrayed, giving Sullivan the impression it had been only seconds since the warden had run his hands through it.
“Sullivan, come in. Sit down.”
Sullivan made his way to the chair and grimaced as he settled into it, the cuts and scratches on his legs and back making themselves heard over the soft glow of the fading sedative.
Andrews noticed his expression and sat forward. “Are you okay, son?”
Sullivan dipped his head once. “A little worse for wear but still moving.” Now that the painkillers were leaving his system, Sullivan felt the shock and fear of the morning return to him: the flight for his life through the forest, his desperate climb over the fence and back into the grounds he’d tried to escape.
Andrews appraised him for a moment, the older man’s eyes roaming over him in an inspection that went further than his physical state. “I’m told your injuries are a result of climbing the perimeter fence.”
Sullivan licked his lips, deciding what direction to take with the warden. He liked the man, but knew he could lie sufficiently enough to fool him. He was sure no one had seen him disappear into the woods or return from them a while later. “Yes, they are,” he said, deciding the truth wasn’t his only option but currently the best one. But he didn’t feel the need to tell the warden which way he was climbing when he sustained the injuries.
“And I suppose you thought you were going to slog your way out of here?” The older man’s eyebrows rose expectantly.
Sullivan nodded again. “Yeah, I thought I could make it out, try to get some help since the phones were down.”
“I’m not trying to sound admonishing, but that was dumber than dumb.”
Sullivan sighed and placed a hand to his forehead, blocking the older man out completely. “Sir, I don’t think I need to remind you that we have a murdered man, an injury to one of my forensic specialists, and my missing friend, and on top of that you’ve accused him of destroying our only contact with the outside world. Forgive me, but I thought at the time it was my only choice.”
Andrews remained motionless behind the desk, and Sullivan began to think he wasn’t going to respond when the warden exhaled and pursed his lips. “You’re right, son. I’m sorry. If I were in your shoes, I would’ve done the same damn thing. I just feel like a wheel spinning in mud, working hard but not going anywhere.”
“And Agent Stevens hasn’t been found?”
Andrews continued to frown. “No. As of now, we’ve swept the entire compound, along with New Haven. There’s been no sign of him.”
An internal war raged within Sullivan, but finally his judgment of the man on the other side of the desk won out over instincts. He scooted forward on the chair’s edge. “Sir, I have something disturbing to tell you, something I think you should be aware of, but first I need to ask you a question.”
Andrews nodded and motioned with his hand. “Go ahead, can’t get much worse than it is.”
“Who brought you Agent Stevens’s gun this morning?” Sullivan asked.
“Officer Bundy, why?”
A hovering puzzle piece sank into place within Sullivan’s mind. “Sir, I think one or more of your staff is responsible for Agent Stevens’s disappearance.”
The warden couldn’t have looked more surprised if Sullivan had suggested they simply carry the prison to higher ground. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because Agent Stevens carries a forty-five-caliber handgun. The rounds that were shot through the hull of the boat were smaller. Not by much, but a little.”
The room fell silent except for the patter of rain upon the windows behind the warden’s desk. Andrews leaned back into his chair as if he’d been struck. Sullivan supposed, in some ways, he had.
“I’m guessing the holes were closer to the caliber my officers carry?”
Sullivan breathed in. “Yes, sir. And may I ask why everyone here is armed? I was under the impression that most prisons were basically weapon free.”
“It’s one of the reasons we don’t have as many problems here. I mandated that all of my officers must be armed at all times. It’s been implemental in keeping order and respect,” Andrews said waving away the question. His eyes darkened again as he studied Sullivan. “You’re sure of the caliber? You do recall that you told me you’d shot a man this morning who was pronounced dead last night?”
Sullivan’s gaze hardened. “Did you actually see Fairbend’s body, sir?”
Andrews blinked. “Well, no, but Amanda—”
“Is Amanda someone you truly trust?” Sullivan said, cutting the older man off.
“Yes, she is. If she told me that Fairbend was dead, it was because she believed it. Really, the more rational explanation would be that you hallucinated seeing
Henry at all.”
“I did not hallucinate shooting that man!” Sullivan said, finally losing control of his voice. His breath was hot and he longed to stand, to move and release the anger he felt rolling off him in waves.
Andrews watched him for a moment and then nodded. “I believe you, son. It’s just everything that’s happened. I’m at a loss.”
Sullivan felt his jaw unclench. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of the other man’s apology.
Andrews stood and walked to a cabinet above the coffeemaker, near the door. He pulled a bottle of amber liquid from within, along with two glasses, as he glanced over his shoulder at Sullivan. “Like a drink, Sullivan?”
“I think I would.”
Andrews poured the glasses almost full, and then handed one to Sullivan on his way back to the desk. Before he sat, he gestured at the far wall. “You see that man there, the first picture on the left?”
Sullivan turned his attention to the wall and squinted at the black-and-white eight-by-ten that hung beside several others containing color, which gradually got clearer and more defined as the row went on. The picture the warden indicated was of a handsome man in his mid-forties. The man’s nose was knife-like and the eyes above it were equally sharp. They stared out of the photograph like the man had been studying the inner workings of the camera at the time of the picture.
“His name was Oliver Godring. He was the founder and first warden of this prison. He was a visionary. He drew up the plans for Singleton and New Haven in narrow times. He came up with the idea of establishing a penitentiary and a mental facility in proximity to one another to save funds. The state was tight back then, tighter than it is now, if you can believe it. They needed more space for inmates and psychiatric patients at the time, but didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Godring came up with the solution by using the natural landscape as a barrier, keeping the facilities close enough to share resources. Brilliant man.”
