The proverbial light bulb went on. Men like Fredrick Stein were unpredictable and I thought he deserved to be in the secure ward for the super psychos. It was why no one had opened those doors. They wanted chaos, but it was controlled chaos. We had changed everything, or rather, Patterson had since he beat us there when they were let loose. With the circumstances changed, the outcome couldn’t be guaranteed. Everyone was essentially winging it. The lack of contact with the outside was only exacerbating the situation.
Jeff Hunter
Jeff watched the sun move slowly across the window. It was the only sign that time was passing. The square’s crawl across the carpet let him know that it was late afternoon. He’d been holed up here for hours. He didn’t know how much longer it would take for them to find him.
Or if he wanted to be found by any of them. The FBI and US Marshals were going to treat him like part of the mob. The other inmates were liable to kill him. Hell, it was possible that the FBI or US Marshals that found him would kill him. He was convinced his father was behind this whole thing. If one had enough money, they could get away with just about anything and his father had the money.
His only real chance was to escape in the chaos. The problem was that there was too much chaos. Sometime earlier, he had seen a hulking figure go past the office. He had been covered in blood and Jeff instinctively knew that it didn’t belong to the brute.
There had also been explosions. He had heard them, and he had felt them. One seemed to have been particularly close to the office in which he was hiding. The paint on the inside of the door had blistered and peeled. For a few minutes, Jeff had been convinced the metal of the door would melt and he would burn to death. He had been grateful when it hadn’t.
He was unsure what to do with himself. Being cooped up in this strange office with death lurking right outside the door for him wasn’t doing him much good. If he left, he risked being killed.
It was his father’s fault anyway. Jeff wasn’t like a lot of the men in the Fortress. They were all psychopaths. Jeff wasn’t. He had been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. Some childhood trauma had caused a rift in his personality. That rift created Jeff the husband and Jeff the Serial Killer. Perhaps, Jeff the Serial Killer was a psychopath, but he doubted it.
He had not told anyone about the trauma that had caused the rift. He wasn’t sure why. Possibly because he’d been forced to plead guilty and was then hauled away here to serve time with the parasitic part of humanity.
The trauma had been his father’s fault too. Mean old bastard had enjoyed beating his children. He would beat them with a horsewhip until they couldn’t fight back and then rape them. It was his way of exerting his control. Making them feel subhuman. Becoming a serial killer had been a natural transition for Jeff’s rage and loss of control. He could see that as an adult. He’d become a hunter of men and women because he’d been too weak to kill the man that really needed it.
Now, he was the hunted. If he had to guess, it was because his father had found out that Jeff wasn’t spending his days in the Fortress idly watching TV and doing logic problems, like some of the killers. He had found contacts and started making plans. He hadn’t had the guts to kill the bastard when he was on the outside, but he could pay someone to do it, which was exactly what his sister had been arranging the last few weeks. She had met with two contract killers. She wanted the old man dead just as much as Jeff did.
It was a pity Christian hadn’t seen things his way. He knew as soon as the boy stopped wanting to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s that the man’s cycle of abuse was still in full swing. He had wanted to teach Christian how to defend himself, how to be stronger than he was. Instead, his son had shot him. He’d lived, but only because of miracles. In retrospect, Jeff should have just walked up to the elderly Mr. Hunter and put a bullet in his head.
The knob rattled. Jeff very quietly moved under the desk. His breath caught in his throat and he tried not to make a sound as the door opened. He didn’t know who it was, but he was sure the encounter would end badly. He wasn’t capable of the things these men were capable of. He would be no match for them.
“Nobody’s in here,” he heard a male voice call out.
“Well, she has to be around here somewhere. She couldn’t have just disappeared,” a second voice answered, coming closer.
“I’m telling you, she’s in the dining area.”
“She can’t be. Blake and the others left there almost ten minutes ago. She wouldn’t let Blake and Clachan go without her.”
“We’ve searched all these offices, and she isn’t in them. She isn’t roaming around with Blake and Patterson Clachan. She has to be in the cafeteria.” The first voice again. Jeff wasn’t entirely sure who they were talking about. He felt sorry for her though.
“Well, we’d better find her before she finds some of us. There are those that will talk under her influence.”
“What about her mother?”
“They haven’t found her yet,” the second voice answered. “If they do, they’ll send her a message. However, I have a feeling finding the old woman is going to be harder than finding her. This family is wily with a long pedigree of psychopaths and sociopaths. We definitely need Eric and Patterson Clachan dead before we start taking family members hostage. It didn’t work with Nyleena Clachan. It will be even worse when it’s her mother because Eric and Patterson are both still alive. You saw them together.”
“Yeah,” the first voice again. He sounded almost afraid when he said that single word. Jeff knew exactly whom they were talking about. However, why they wanted Aislinn Cain dead was a mystery. He would need to tell Eric. The two weren’t exactly close, but they were on speaking terms.
“If the three of them can cut down a man like Turkish Jack in under a minute, imagine what they can do to some of the rest of us.” The second voice also sounded afraid. Jeff couldn’t help it. He needed to see them. He needed to know who was talking.
As quietly as possible, he peeked around from the edge of the desk. He ducked back much faster. He didn’t need to see anything more than their pants. He had expected inmate orange. Instead, they were grey slacks; the same slacks and shoes the US Marshals who patrolled the Fortress wore.
Jeff was confused. Why would Marshals want Aislinn Cain dead? He was terrified. If they found out he knew, then they would definitely kill him. His hands shook as they covered his mouth.
“Did you hear that?” The first voice asked. The fear was gone, replaced by curiosity.
“Think she’s hiding from us?” The second sounded like it might giggle.
Jeff’s worst nightmare came into view. Both men walked around the desk from different sides. They stared down at him, surprised.
“What are you doing here?” The second voice now had a face and it was pock marked. If this guy was a US Marshal, Jeff would eat someone’s hat. Nothing about his body language said he was a federal officer, even a corrupt one.
“One of the secure ward inmates came by a little while ago, so I ducked in here to avoid him.” Jeff tried to stop his voice from quivering.
“Which one?” The first guy asked. He was shorter than his partner was and he also wasn’t a US Marshal. He looked like he might have been a mechanic or someone else who worked with their hands. Jeff noted the calluses and beaten up knuckles. Maybe the guy was a fighter.
“I’m not sure, not one I recognized,” Jeff answered.
“Well why don’t you come with us.” The second man made it sound more like an order than a request.
Jeff stood up carefully, watching the two men. They motioned for the door and Jeff started walking. He made it about three feet before he heard and felt the gunshot. It burned through him. He fell, the blood soaking into his clothes and the carpet around him. His eyes remained open. His brain was still functioning. He felt separated from himself, as if he were watching what was going on. Even the pain was beginning to fade away. He’d been shot before and he wasn’t a fan. His brain told him to
be very still.
“Why’d you do that?” Man one asked.
“Jeff Hunter is worthless and he heard us talking. No doubt, he had plans to run and tell Eric. Make sure he’s dead,” man two said. Warm fingers touched his neck, but not in the right spot. Jeff held his breath; his lungs were starting to ache.
“No pulse,” the first one said, standing back up.
“Good. As I was saying, he would have gone and told Eric. The last thing we need is for the Clachan family to team up. They are just as likely to kill us as look at us, especially us. It won’t take them long to figure out we shouldn’t be wearing Marshals uniforms,” the second guy said.
“About that, what’s Hunter doing?”
“One’s dying on the floor. The other is outside, waiting for the opportunity to hack the prison.”
“All this for one woman,” the first guy said. “Should have just killed her in New Orleans.”
“You’re an idiot,” the second guy said. Jeff allowed a small intake of air as the man talked. “It isn’t about her exactly. It’s about the entire system. We have to tear down each section to make the plan work.”
“If you say so,” the first guy said. Both men remained out of view. Somehow, Jeff’s son was involved in this, but it didn’t seem like his father was. He needed to alert the Marshals and the Clachans.
“It’s simple. We tear down the institutions that enforce the Serial Killer and Mass Murderer laws, show them that the neighborhoods aren’t safe, law enforcement revolts, anarchy prevails. Anarchy brings about change. A new government goes up to replace this one. But it has to start somewhere and this is the country’s weakest link.”
“It didn’t work last time.”
“Last time, we didn’t have the foundation that we have now,” the second guy said. He kicked Jeff as he walked out of the room. Jeff let his breathing return in shallow gasps, trying to keep them quiet. This was all a political coup. Surely, that wasn’t right. Surely, there was more to it than that. And what did he mean it didn’t work the first time? What first time? There had never been anything like this before at the Fortress and how did his son play into all of it.
He continued to lie there, bleeding and breathing very slowly and shallowly for ages. The square of light had moved much further along the floor by the time he decided to stand. His legs felt wobbly. His feet didn’t want to move. He made it to the doorframe and realized he wasn’t going to make it down to the cafeteria without help. However, there was a desk. Maybe he could write something down for them to find, in case he didn’t make it. This was more agonizing than being shot by the young Christian. He found a pen and paper and began scribbling what he could remember. Blood streaked the paper under his hand, covering some of the ink. He failed to notice as the world was getting dimmer and his mind began to unravel. His thoughts were jumbled words and half-formed ideas.
When he passed out from blood loss, Jeff Hunter’s face fell on the piece of paper. The pen rolled out of his hand and off the desk onto the floor. He had gotten part of it written, including his son’s name. However, it seemed more like the ramblings of a dying man than a logical narrative. He would never wake to see the results.
Twenty-five
Malachi looked grim, even for him. Considering his normal appearance was a mix between serial killer and Grim Reaper and we were all trapped in a prison full of serial killers, it was hard to believe that his countenance could set a bleaker tone. Yet, he did.
I had been right, which was not something I had wanted to hear. A handful of dead US Marshals had been stacked inside one of the cells, but the majority was alive, at least, for the time being. They were being held in one of the towers, on the ground floor, but with serial killers and mass murderers with automatic weapons. It had also been reported that there were more bombs in the hallways that led to said tower. They were on each floor except the ground floor. The group believed the goal was to bring down the tower on top of the Marshals.
It was hard to imagine we could mount a rescue effort full of serial killers and mass murderers, but that was exactly what was being planned at the moment. I wasn’t part of the plan. My task had been assigned by the sudden disappearance of the calm, replaced by a throbbing broken foot. My job was to stay in the cafeteria and watch over everyone that else stayed in place. I had even been given a gun. It wasn’t one of my guns, but since they had crap melted onto them and would probably misfire and kill me, I wasn’t complaining about it.
“Ace,” Gabriel walked over to me. “Do you want Eric or Patterson?”
“Neither, I’m a big girl.” I looked at Fiona. “Besides, I have Fiona.”
“Fiona is,” Gabriel paused.
“Also a big girl,” Fiona answered.
“No, I was going to say normal, but considering the situation,” Gabriel shrugged.
“Compared to the rest of you, I’m normal,” Fiona answered.
“Okay, well, see if you can make any headway with this mess,” he pointed at Peart. It wasn’t really about Peart, just the style of blackmail. How many Marshals had come to work today under duress and would they be willing to admit it? That was a question for the ages and I had a feeling the answer was no.
Going with Eric’s theory though, we didn’t just need to rescue the Marshals. Finding Jeff Hunter should be a priority. Getting the Fortress back under control should also be on the list, but short of machine-gunning down all those that opposed, I still hadn’t figured that one out yet either. It should have been easy, but every time someone entered this place, killers confiscated their weapons. Meaning we were still outmanned and outgunned, unless we could figure out a way to use the bombs to our advantage.
In all honesty, I hated the plan. I hated that I was stuck in this stupid room, doing nothing but waiting while the guys got to go rescue people and beat up bad guys. I also hated that Patterson was so fucking useful. Perhaps I did need a little more therapy when it came to Patterson. At the moment though, it just annoyed me that my eighty-something grandfather was of more use than me. Hell, he could even walk better than I could.
“You look like you are going to kill someone,” Bella whispered to me. If I hadn’t been me, I might have jumped. She was suddenly so close I could smell her breath as it passed along my ear. It had a slight garlicky odor.
“I’m considering all options,” I answered. “Do you have strep throat or are you on antibiotics?”
“No,” she answered.
“Italian for lunch?” I finally turned to look at her.
“Like they serve Italian here.”
“Your breath has a garlic odor to it. If it is not because of antibiotics or lunch, you might want to see a doctor. It is an abnormality for a person to smell like garlic.”
“More so than other odors?” She frowned.
“Yes,” I answered. “The ladies use a lye based soap, but it does have a mild scent to it of lemon and gardenias. The clothing detergent smells like chemicals. You are too dangerous to work in most of the jobs offered at the Fortress, so that means you probably have a lot of down time. You do not smoke clove cigarettes, which can sometimes leave a similar smell on the breath and I cannot think of any other reason for your breath to smell of garlic. Cigarettes, lousy coffee, food, decay, and bacteria, yes, but not garlic.”
“Annoying, isn’t it?” Fiona asked.
“Disconcerting,” her sister answered, drawing her brows together and looking at me a little differently.
“I have a very good nose,” I told her.
“How good?” Bella asked.
“You do not want to play that game with her,” Fiona said. “I’m shocked she can’t smell the betrayal on the Marshals that turned.”
“I might be able to, if it were not for the copious amounts of blood loss, the profuse sweating from being in a cramped space, and the mingled odors of everything that has passed through this room in the last day or two.” I looked around. “If they were nervous or concerned, of course. If they were cool and calm,
I probably could not. Unfortunately, this room does not have the best air recycling and everyone has a smell to them, none of them pleasant.”
“What do I smell like?” Fiona asked.
“Apples, cinnamon, sweat, antifungal cream and it is not working, lidocaine, probably for the itch, you had something with a lot of butter on it for breakfast, you have not eaten since then, plus coffee, and that minty toothpaste you use that contains peroxide, and you are thirsty,” I told her.
“I had popcorn for breakfast,” Fiona commented. “And it isn’t working. I was supposed to have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, but I’m guessing I will need to reschedule it.”
“I understand,” I nodded. Some things Xavier did not handle. I would not use him for my well woman’s exams or personal problems in that area. He could look at my exposed brain, but he was not touching my nether regions.
“Wait, you’re telling me you can smell that she has,” Bella started.
“That’s exactly what she means,” Fiona interrupted.
“That would be annoying.” Bella almost smiled.
“For me, mostly,” I answered. “Celibacy is not practiced by any members of the SCTU.” I stood up, putting weight on my injured foot. It didn’t make me want to scream so either it was going numb or I was. I was hoping it was the second. If I could reenter the calm, I could function up to snuff. “If you were on the take, would you want to be in this room?”
“Not in the least,” Fiona answered.
“That was sort of my thought.” I grabbed Malachi’s arm. “Just because you find a Marshal roaming free, do not assume him or her to be an ally. I have a feeling that most of the bad ones are not in this room or with the hostages.”
Fortified Dreams Page 18
