Wade finally said, "I'm sorry, sir. I dumped an entire Thermos of coffee in her lap. Thought I distracted her for long enough for Steiger to get farther along. I didn't count on him burying himself like he did. I guess I blew it."
Crane focused a wrathful gaze on Wade. The man seemed to visibly wither under its power, which almost – almost – made Crane smile. All the planning that went into each jail break, all the effort. And now this one was wasted. The code key that Wade had slipped unnoticed into Steiger's cell had been retrieved, and though Crane had used his account privileges to loop video playback from that morning and to destroy any record of the card from the computers, so there was no way it could lead back to him, Hip-Hop, or Wade, still it was a tiresome chore. And now it would have to be repeated at some point.
"Sandy is such a sweet girl," mused Crane aloud. Wisely, neither Wade nor Hip-Hop – Crane loathed the name – spoke up; good dogs knew their places. "She's very useful," he continued, "for providing corroborating stories which lay the blame on something other than the Institute. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Steiger was supposed to escape and did not."
Crane turned to his computer. He brought up one of the cameras from outside. It was getting much darker, the snow creating a curtain of white that all but completely obscured visibility at times. And it was just getting started.
Perfect.
He turned back to the two cowering men. "Steiger is going to escape again. Tonight."
"How?" said Hip-Hop.
Crane sighed. This was the problem attendant to working with dogs: no capability for their own thought. He supposed that was fine, in the long run, since any house could only afford one master. But it was tedious at times. "Arrange it so that Steiger gets one of the guards alone in his cell," he said, his voice oozing patronizing tones. "Arrange it so the guard has enough time alone in there so that Steiger can...convince him to give up his access card and its accompanying code."
"But," said Wade, "Steiger'll kill anyone he gets in his cell."
"Yes," said Crane. A calculated risk, but Hip-Hop had been through this before, and Wade...he could see that Wade even now was realizing he was in too deep to get out. It would be done as Crane required. "Who will it be?"
Wade furrowed his brow, and Crane was sure whatever hamster that ran the wheel that passed for a brain with Wade was probably sprinting for all it was worth. "What about the new guy?" Wade finally said.
Crane smiled, thinking of the way that the new guard had spoken to him when he was entering Dr. Wiseman's office. "Fine," he said. "I don't much care for him."
FROZEN
Rachel drove, thankful that finally the road had straightened out.
She risked a glance in the rear-view mirror. "You okay, baby?"
Still no answer, and she still couldn't stop or even take her eyes off the road for more than a fraction of a second. The road was straight, but still slick and dangerous. It could still kill them.
The storm was much worse now, snow coming down harder than ever. She could barely see through the windshield, and knew in her heart of hearts that at this point even getting within walking distance of Jorge's work would be a miracle.
As if in agreement, the car shuddered for a moment as the wheels hit an ice patch and skidded for a few feet.
The storm was worse.
The snow was heavy.
They were going to die.
"Please, God," she said.
MACHINE
Paul took Hales through the sleeping quarters on the second floor. It was Spartan; military. Two lines of bunks, a footlocker for each, and the obligatory first aid kit. The only thing that differentiated it from an army barracks was the color of the sheets – light blue instead of puke green – and the number of pictures on the wall.
Paul pointed at one of the beds. "You can use that one," he said. "Most of them are going to be empty, so we're pretty open here."
Hales flopped down on his bed, clearly tired, then looked at Paul as if to say, "Sorry, was that okay?"
Paul waved him off. "The roads are probably closed. So you're likely going to be here for the next day or two."
Hales was silent, clearly digesting this information. "My machine picked a helluva week to stop working," he finally said.
Paul handed the man a thick book. "Training manual," he said. "Read it."
"What do you want me to do after?"
Paul stared out the window: since the staff sleeping quarters was on the second floor, there was a small window, covered in bars, that allowed a view of the prison courtyard. The wind was pummeling it with gale force, throwing snow at it with a sound like pellets being hurled at the glass. The storm had finally come, but Paul knew that what they were seeing was just the leading edges of it. Things were going to get much, much worse. Bad enough to freeze a person who was out in the weather for more than a few minutes without proper protection.
"The Loon is like a finely tuned engine," Paul said to Hales. "It'll run forever, under the right conditions. But throw a wrench in the works, and all hell breaks loose."
He turned to Hales to see if the man had gotten his message.
Hales cracked a smile, and Paul couldn't help but like the young man, in spite of the inconvenience his presence was causing. "You want me to just sit tight until you say otherwise?" said Hales.
Paul smiled back. He almost felt as though his face might crack; smiling was not something he did often these days. It felt good. He hoped Hales made it and stuck around. The guards that Paul genuinely liked were Jorge, Mitchell, and Daryll – "the beaner and the bears," Jorge always said with his wiseacre grin – and having another friendly face would be a welcome addition. "That would be a good idea," he replied.
Paul exited the room, calling over his shoulder, "Bathrooms are left of the stairs, next to the staff kitchen. Food's in the kitchen if you want to scrounge around. Our boss may be a bit eccentric, but he keeps the place stocked."
In response, he heard Hales murmur something that chilled Paul, as though it were a harbinger of ill tidings: "I don't think I'm very hungry."
The wind whistled.
The storm.
CROOKED
Wade's eyes grew wide. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He knew he'd have to do something for his money – an extra hundred and fifty grand a year under the table and tax free wasn't piss, so he expected some dirty work. But this. "You want me outside?" he asked again. "Covering the front exit?" He could hear the weather outside, even through The Loon's thick walls, and wasn't happy at his assignment.
"Correct," said Crane, the snotty look on his face digging into Wade like a jab in the ribs.
"Won't the cameras pick me up?" asked Wade. That was a deal-breaker. One-fifty could buy you a lot of play with Wade Shickler, but no amount of money was enough to buy a jail term for aiding and abetting in a breakout attempt.
Crane folded his fingers together and looked at Wade like he was a booger or some turd hanging off his ass. "With the weather as bad as it will be tonight, the external cameras will be useless, Mr. Shickler. You don't have to worry about being seen."
"But the wind will foul any shot with a tranquilizer pistol," said Wade. He knew he was grasping at straws; knew that he was going to end up doing what Crane told him too, but he couldn't help trying, any more than a drowning man would claw for air even at fifty feet below. "I mean," he continued, "it's not like I tried to hit Steiger today; I aimed about forty yards to the side of him, and the stupid wind put me so off course I accidentally bagged the guy."
"I had wondered why you were the one to actually stop Steiger from escaping," said Crane dryly. Then: "In any event, if you are concerned about the accuracy of the pistols, then I suggest you get in the tower and use the high-power trank rifle that is, I believe, there for such eventualities. Hit Steiger as near to the wall as you can, then bring him into the lab."
Wade pointed at Hip-Hop, his voice growing whiny as he said, "Why can't he do it?"
"B
ecause," said Crane with more than a touch of irritation, "he will be arranging the accident in the prison."
Crane turned to Hip-Hop. "I want it done better this time," said the owner of The Loon. "Wade will be on the wall at seven p.m. I expect Steiger to escape by seven fifteen." He turned back to Wade. "Trank him, and bring him back to my lab through the generator shack. Steiger will be found missing a short time later. We will search, but as he is not on the grounds, and was in possession of the unfortunately dead new guard's pass, we shall presume him escaped. Probably dead in the frozen wastes. This shall be a well-organized, perfectly controlled operation. No more errors. Any questions?" he finally asked, his gaze widening to look at both Wade and Hip-Hop. Wade said nothing; neither did Hip-Hop. "Good," said Crane, looking down in a way that Wade knew was a dismissal.
Wade turned to go, followed by Hip-Hop. He was stopped by Crane's voice. "Oh, and Wade," said Crane. Wade turned back around. "It's going to be sixty degrees below out, without wind chill. So wear a coat: I can't afford to take the time to find another crooked security guard."
Wade felt himself grow cold inside, realizing perhaps for the first time how little his life was worth to Crane. "Wouldn't want to inconvenience you," he said as he left. But he said it very quietly.
People were going to die tonight; probably more would follow in the months and years to come. And Wade did not ever want to find himself on that list.
ROADSIDE
The wipers were frozen to the thick sheet of ice that the windshield had transformed into. They no longer lulled Rachel, for they no longer went flip-flop, flip-flop. They were still.
The car sputtered.
"Please, not now," said Rachel. As if in answer, a large gust of wind buffeted the car, rocking it back and forth on its springs. Then the car stuttered again.
Coughed.
Stopped.
Rachel tried turning the car off then on again.
Nothing.
"No, please, no," she was mumbling. "No, no, no...."
"Mommy?" said Becky from the backseat, and even though the car was dead, even though they might – or would probably – freeze, Rachel almost laughed. Because Becky was talking again, and so Rachel knew that her daughter was going to survive this day after all.
But then another gust hit the car, actually feeling like it had moved them, and the laughter died in her throat, replaced by a cold clutching feeling, as if death were seeping into the car and gripping her now with its icy fingers.
"Yes, baby?" she said, but Becky didn't answer her. Rachel opened the front door and hurried around to the trunk. The snow was already building up around the small vehicle. Another ten minutes and it would be up to the windows. Ten more and it would be buried on one side.
An hour, and there would be no trace of the car.
No trace of them.
She started pawing through magazines, pushing aside the spare tire, searching for something. Pinching back panic.
She saw a glow in the snowy wasteland. Far, but hopefully not too far. It was the Crane Institute. What had Jorge called it? The Loon. The place looked like it was less than half a mile off, judging by the light.
Too far, she thought. We'll never make it.
Then she thought, We have to make it.
At last, Rachel found what she was looking for. She picked it up, slammed the trunk closed, then went back into the front seat. She pulled the emergency kit apart. She had been the one to get it, because at heart she was still a tropical mexicana, and this much snow – or any snow – continued to unnerve her. So the emergency kit was something, one of the few things, that she had stood up to Tommy on.
The thought of Tommy brought back sudden images. A gout of blood. A knife in his hand. The sound of the vase crushing his skull.
She looked at the contents of the car emergency kit. Emergency blanket. Road flares. Band-aids, tooth paste. There was even a needle and thread and a little bar of soap. She dumped it all out, and spoke to her daughter, trying to keep her voice even, trying not to betray the terror she was feeling at the prospect of taking her little girl out into the worst storm she had ever seen.
"Okay, honey. We're stuck, but Uncle Jorge's building is nearby. But let's take this stuff just in case, okay?" Becky didn't answer. "Honey?" said Rachel. Then she said, "Would you like to carry this stuff?" Still nothing. She tried another tack. Sighing in mock relief, she said, "Just as well, because carrying this is definitely a big kid thing. No little kids could do it. Not little like you."
"Not little," said Becky.
"Oh, no?" said Rachel in mock surprise. "How will you prove it, princesa?"
Without a word, Becky unlocked her seat belt and leaned forward, grabbing handfuls of the emergency kit's contents and throwing them in her own brightly-colored bag, the bag she had packed when Rachel told her that...
(I killed your father.)
...they were going.
Soon everything was packed. Rachel smiled at Becky, hoping to coax a smile in return. But all the little girl offered was a slight upturn of the corners of her mouth.
Better than nothing.
Rachel grabbed her daughter. Hugged her. Hard, like it was their last hug. She resolved that it would not be. They would make it.
They had to.
Then she got out. The wind blasted the door out of her hands, tearing at her flesh.
She smiled again at her daughter, encouraging, trying to throw off the clinging vestiges of the nightmare they had just left behind.
And hoping that they were not simply embarking on a new one.
VISITOR
Paul entered the staff room in time to see Jacky stretch, put down his employee manual, and wander over to the window. The wind was howling constantly now, a low whine punctuated every so often by a sharp shriek as gusts passed over The Loon. Paul could see the outer wall, but only just barely. In an hour or so, he knew, even that would be impossible, and a few hours after that you would be able to get lost and die within mere feet of the structure.
We're in it now, he thought. No one in or out until this is over.
As if to echo his thoughts, Hales murmured, "That's creepy."
The wind agreed, wailing a staccato burst of sound.
"You get used to it," Paul said, and couldn't help but laugh as Hales whipped around as though he had been tazered, literally grabbing at his chest, a look of surprise so deep Paul had to apologize.
"It's okay," Hales said, leaning and panting for a moment, his shock at hearing Paul behind him so severe that he was out of breath.
Paul waited for him to calm, then handed him what he had brought up from his office. "It's your card. Keep it on you at all times. I programmed your social security number as the code for now. After the storm we'll give you something a bit less obvious, but right now I want you to be able to remember it." Paul paused for a moment as something occurred to him. "You do know your social by heart, right?"
"Yeah," said Jacky.
"Good. That card will get you into every part of The Loon except the generator shack. Don't lose it. Don't give out the code." Paul sobered, the smile he had worn upon seeing Hales' frightened response to his entry fading. "And do not go wandering around alone until you know the ropes. You open the wrong door without announcing yourself and you end up with a dart in your neck and a killer headache...if you're very, very lucky."
The wind whipped up again, as though it were irritated that Paul and the other man were no longer paying attention to it and demanding that the situation be rectified. Paul obliged, looking out the window and watching the snow flail about in manic flurries. Night-time dark out. Everything was either a blur or gone completely.
"Not even four o'clock and it looks like Halloween out there," he said. "It's going to be a long night."
Hales nodded grimly before pocketing his code card. "Thanks," he said.
"Don't mention it." Paul handed him another paper, though still looking out the window. "I got your schedule ready. I'm putti
ng you with Darryl. He's the big guard, kinda looks like he played for the Dallas Cowboys or something."
"Which big guy is he?" asked Hales, clearly confusing Darryl and Mitchell, The Loon's resident strong men.
Paul smiled a bit again. He'd had the same problem when he first came here. "Darryl is the one who looks like he played for the Dallas Cowboys. Mitchell is the one who looks like he eats Dallas Cowboys." Upon seeing Jacky's confusion, he laughed. "Don't worry, the staff will all differentiate to you soon enough. Especially since there's not going to be much to do for the next..." Paul drifted off, squinting through the window. "What the hell is that?" He said suddenly.
A shadowy figure was at the outer gate, barely visible in the maelstrom outside. Paul tensed, thinking irrationally that it must be Steiger again. But no, Steiger was still in his cell; he'd actually just checked on the man before going to program Hales' code card. So who was that? Another breakout attempt?
Then he watched as the very last thing he would have thought possible occurred: the shadowy figure cracked open the door in the outer gate...admitting another person.
"You expecting a visitor?" asked Hales.
PUNISHMENT
Darryl Simons was a Montana boy, through and through. That was why he didn't mind the blizzard that was now raging outside. Montana was as much a part of him as his bones or his blood, so hating it would be like hating himself.
It hadn't always been like that. There had once been a time when Darryl would have given anything to get out of this place. And for a while it had looked like he was on his way. Then a sudden hit by a left tackle who had appeared out of nowhere left Darryl with two popped knees and a burst dream of college football – possibly even a pro career. Darryl had been surprised to find out during his time in the hospital how little it mattered to find out that he would, in fact, be staying in Montana.
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