by Aaron Hodges
The guard stared back at him, mouth open. “What?” he croaked, aghast.
“You heard me,” Sam said dangerously. “I’ve seen those prison movies. There’s far too many cells in Alcatraz to open them all manually. You must have electronic locks. So where’s the button?”
The guard swallowed. “You’re insane. Don’t you know…who’s in there?”
“Traitors? Terrorists? The worst of the worst? Or so I’m told,” Sam replied. “Seems like a fun bunch. So, how do I let them out?”
It looked like the man would refuse, but he quickly gave in when Sam gripped him by the elbow and started to twist. Sam dragged him across the room to a computer, and watched as the man navigated through the menus, ensuring he didn’t set off any alarms. Sam had never used a computer before, and he was quickly lost in the complexity of the system, but his captive didn’t know that. Finally, the option to "open prison cells” popped up on the screen. With a last fearful look at Sam, the man pressed the “okay” button.
The distant rattling of steel wheels came from the window to the prison. Sam gave the man a tap on the head, knocking him face-first into the computer. Leaving him unconscious at the desk, Sam strode into the visitor’s room and onwards through the chain-wire gate into the prison block.
Striding across the concrete floor, Sam watched as the first prisoners stepped hesitantly from their cells. They looked around at each other, eyes wide and shoulders hunched, as though anticipating a trap. Sam rubbed his jaw where the guard had struck him and waited for them to notice him.
Each wore an orange jumpsuit, although many were worn with age. The inmates were in poor shape, their eyes sunken pits in starvation-ravaged faces, more skin and bone than human.
“Welcome to the greatest prison break in history,” Sam boomed when he thought enough prisoners had emerged from their iron shells.
As one, the men and women looked around. Their confusion turned to open fear as he spread his copper wings. A few darted back into their cells, while the others sank to their knees.
When no one spoke, Sam went on. “I mean all of you, in case that wasn’t clear.” He gestured at the open door behind him. “The guards are unconscious. You’ll want to take their guns before you go overrunning the rest of the island. Don’t kill too many people. Or do, I don’t care, they probably deserve it.”
The prisoners still didn’t move. Rolling his eyes, Sam started forward. There were two levels to the prison, with cells on the ground floor as well as a second level of cells attached to a boardwalk above. He strode down the narrow lane between the two blocks. The men and women shrank back as he approached, but he ignored them now. The prisoners were just a distraction—though he was glad he’d helped them. Conditions obviously weren’t exactly humane in Alcatraz, and he doubted many were the criminals the government claimed them to be.
No, these people were like his own parents, arrested for unfounded suspicions of treason—or for merely being related to someone accused. They were all older, at least in their thirties, and he supposed that in a way, they were the lucky ones. It was their children, rather than themselves, who would be tortured and experimented on, forced to fight and suffer and kill just to survive.
Children like himself.
He shuddered at the memories and focused on the task at hand. Ahead, an old elevator with iron grating for doors loomed in the wall. It was a far cry from modern, but he guessed the government had wanted it to blend in with the dated architecture of Alcatraz. If one didn’t know the prison’s history, one could easily believe it had always been there.
Pulling open the iron grate, Sam stepped inside. There were only two buttons. He pressed the bottom and yanked the iron grate shut again. Somewhere above, a motor ground into gear. The elevator lurched and began to descend. Turning, Sam looked through the iron grating at the dimly-lit prison.
Several hundred faces stared back.
Grinning, he gave two thumbs up as he slowly dropped from view.
Then he was alone in the darkness.
22
Liz shivered as she dropped through the clouds. The rain had long ago seeped through her clothes, soaking her to the skin. The flight had been a rough one, but at least it had been short. They’d spent the day building a pyre for Jasmine—placing her body inside the battered car and filling it with dried branches. With the fall of night, Liz, Mira and Maria had said their final farewells, and then set the car alight. They had fled the park as the first downpour broke over the city.
But they had not anticipated the storm. Liz had only managed to fly a few blocks with Maria on her back before the powerful winds forced her down. And so they had traversed the winding hills of San Francisco by foot. Fortunately, Chris’s grandmother was fit for her age, and it wasn’t until they reached the harbor that Liz had to carry her again.
Now, Liz’s wings creaked as she drifted down through the storm. The wind tore at her feathers, forcing her to retract her wings as close to her body as possible or have them torn off. On her back, Maria clung to her shoulders, further hampering her maneuverability. The old woman might only weigh a hundred and twenty pounds, but Liz was already counting the minutes, trying to estimate how much of the one mile between the mainland and the island remained.
At least the storm hid them from prying eyes. With a thick fog hanging over the harbor, Liz could not make out the distant beacon of the lighthouse. Even Mira, swooping through the clouds somewhere to her right, was barely visible. Maria had given the girl the handgun and grenades to carry, but while Liz was glad to be relieved of the extra weight, the thought of Mira with explosives made her more than a little nervous.
Finally, Liz decided they had to be close. Tucking in her wings, she drifted down through the clouds. Slowly the fog cleared, and she saw the waves crashing against stony cliffs.
Bingo.
She frowned as her keen eyes made out figures moving across the open ground. Hundreds of people were pouring from the main building in the middle of the island. Their orange jumpsuits stood out against the muddy ground as they swarmed across Alcatraz.
What the hell is going on down here?
With the howling wind, there was no time to ask Maria her opinion, and angling down, Liz searched for a place to land. She settled on the lighthouse. Standing several stories aboveground with only one entrance, it would be easily defensible if those below proved dangerous.
Although it looked for all the world like the prisoners had somehow broken free of their cells.
She scanned the walkway at the top of the lighthouse as she swooped down, but there was no sign of movement and she landed quickly, Mira just a wingbeat behind her.
“Who were those people?” Maria shouted over the wind as she staggered down off Liz’s back.
“They looked like inmates,” Liz yelled back.
The old woman nodded, then smiled at Mira, who promptly tossed her the grenade belt. Liz’s heart lurched in her chest as the explosives tumbled through the air, but Maria caught them calmly. Looping the belt over her shoulder, she raised an eyebrow at Mira.
“Cheeky.”
Before Mira could reply, the distant whine of a siren carried across the island. Liz looked down as lights flashed above the entrance to the prison.
“What now?” Maria asked.
“You tell me,” Liz shot back. “You’re meant to be the brains, remember?”
The old women pursed her lips but did not reply. Liz sighed. All they had to go on was one word—Alcatraz. That was all the doctor had managed before life fled his broken body. Which meant from this point on, they were going in blind.
“Let’s take a closer look at those prisoners,” Maria said finally.
The same thought had occurred to Liz, though she still couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on. If the people they’d seen were really The Rock’s inmates, how had they escaped their cells? It couldn’t be a coincidence.
They took the stairs two at a time and rushed across the muddy fi
eld towards the prison. Liz scanned the rooftops as they went, alert for prowling guards. Ahead, the open doors to the prison beckoned.
Halfway across the muddy ground, a barrage of gunshots rang out, bringing them to a panicked halt. Ducking, Liz swung around, seeking out the shooter. The last of the orange-garbed figures were disappearing around the corner of the prison building, but otherwise there was no sign of movement. Whoever was shooting, they weren’t aiming at the three of them.
They started out again, crossing the last few yards to the entrance. Liz took the lead, stepping inside and scanning the room, still expecting bullets to come hissing out of the shadows. Instead, she found half a dozen guards piled against the far wall, their hands cuffed behind their backs and mouths stuffed with rags.
What the hell is going on?
Liz glanced at Maria and raised an eyebrow, but Chris’s grandmother had already crossed the room and was staring through a window into what seemed like a tiny guard booth.
Two men and a woman stood on the other side of the glass. It was obvious that the group of prisoners who’d just left had tried unsuccessfully to get to them. The steel door had taken a beating and cracks crisscrossed the window. Only the wire reinforcing had held it together.
Joining Maria, Liz contemplated the door, before giving it a solid kick near the handle. It slammed open with the shriek of tearing metal. The three inside screamed and tried to climb over each other to get away. Stepping in, Liz grabbed the first one and hauled him out.
Tossing him to the floor, she pinned him beneath her foot. “What happened here?”
The man blanked, looking too terrified to speak.
Liz crouched beside him. “I suggest you tell me.” She nodded in the direction the prisoners had taken. “Unless you want me to go fetch your friends out there.”
“No…no,” he stuttered. Blinking, he looked at Liz as though seeing her for the first time. His eyes settled on her wings. “Your…friend, he’s already gone below.”
“My friend?”
“Yes, the boy, with the copper wings…the one from the television. I assume—”
Liz hit him in the head before he could finish, knocking him unconscious. She’d heard enough.
So, this was Sam’s doing. He was alive and already well ahead of them. But unlike her, Sam was alone. She shook her head at his hypocrisy for telling her to be careful and then doing this.
So much for not going off like Rambo, Sam.
More red lights were flashing as they made their way into the prison block. Marching past empty cells, Liz clenched her fists, the sight of the bunk beds inside summoning all-too-vivid memories of her own time behind bars. Taking a breath, she tried to banish the feelings of helplessness. She was strong now, strong enough for whatever waited within.
Ahead, she could see the steel grating of an elevator and guessed that was where Sam had gone. The government seemed to enjoy hiding things underground. Bracketed by Mira and Maria, she pressed the call button. An engine whirred and the cable beyond the grating began to move, raising the cart back to their level. It took long minutes, and Liz didn’t waste any time pulling open the iron grate when it arrived. She stabbed the down button.
“Sam’s here. How is Sam here?” she muttered as they lurched downward, more to herself than the others.
Maria shook her head. “Had to have been the doctor’s wife. Somehow, she must have found out where her husband worked. I wonder if Sam brought the men he went with. We could use the extra firepower.”
“I don’t think so.” Liz eyed the concrete scrolling past. “A boat wouldn’t have made it in that storm, and he can’t have carried them all. Either way, it looks like the Director might be the one who’s outgunned.”
Maria pursed her lips. “We’ll see.”
The elevator dinged. Gathering herself, Liz yanked open the steel grate and leapt into the corridor outside.
And froze.
The corridor might have been a replica of their facility back in the mountains, or the one below San Francisco, for that matter. A stark white hallway stretched away from them, lined on either side by steel doors.
Only this corridor was littered with broken bodies. Blood and bullet holes splattered the white walls, and a distant chorus of moans and shrieks came from the fallen. Some were slumped against the walls, while others lay face down, their limbs bent at awkward angles. Most seemed to be alive, although a few lay deathly still, their faces drained of color. None of them looked like they’d be getting up any time soon.
Liz swallowed hard. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. A cool breeze filtered down the corridor as the air ducts sucked up the humid air from the elevator shaft. It carried with it a strangely familiar aroma. She frowned, lifting her head, trying to recall the scent.
Finally, she shook her head and started down the corridor after Sam.
“Save some for me, Rambo.”
23
Chris stood in silence as the guards wheeled Mike into the room. He had lost more weight in the last few days, and now his eyes were little more than dark pits in the purple and blue mess that was his face. He made no effort to look around while the guards parked his wheelchair in front of the cameras. Not that he had any chance of escaping. His arms and legs had been cuffed to his chair.
Watching the Texan, Chris tried and failed to feel pity for the spy. After all, hadn’t it been Mike’s own carelessness that had gotten him—and ultimately Chris—caught? Wasn’t it his fault that Chris now found himself standing there with the Director, used and broken, all alone in the world?
No, let the man make his confession and pay the price for his treachery. At least his torment was almost over. For Chris, there was no such hope.
Chris looked dispassionately around the room. The Director sat on a stool beside him, allowing a young woman to apply fresh makeup to her polished face. On her other side, a familiar face was going over notes with her. Chris had glimpsed Jonathan several times while in the facility, but the two had never made contact.
When he’d first discovered the man’s betrayal, Chris had been enraged. Now though, he could only stare in silence at Jonathan, unable to summon the will to care. For his own part, Jonathan treated Chris with studied indifference—though it would be difficult to recognize Chris behind his steel helmet and visor.
Nearby, the film crew was busy setting up. Large cameras and an entire wall of computer equipment were needed to make the broadcast. The Director intended to send a signal to the whole world this time.
The soldiers were busy making sure the brakes on Mike’s wheelchair were properly secured. Beside the man, two vials of clear liquid and a jet-injector waited on a steel tray. A memory flashed before Chris’s eyes—of a boy, writhing on the floor, dying in agony.
In his chair, Mike’s eyes fluttered as he lifted his head. Squinting against the bright lights, he looked around, as though seeking out a friendly face among those who had gathered to watch him die.
“Christopher.”
Chris swung around as the Director called him. His heart started to race as she waved away the makeup girl. Stepping from her chair, she tugged at Chris’s helmet. It came away with a click. She placed it on a nearby bench, then leaned in and kissed him.
A moan whispered from Chris’s mouth as the void in his stomach widened. But despite his shame, he kissed her back, struggling to blot out the memories of the night before.
When the Director finally withdrew, there was a smile on her lips. “Good boy,” she said softly, stroking his cheek. “Keep an eye on our guest. We’re almost ready for the show.”
She moved away, and Chris crossed the room to stand in front of Mike.
“What has she done to you, Chris?” the Texan mumbled.
Chris looked down. He had no answer to that. His tension grew as the door clicked and swung open, but it was only one of the doctors arriving for duty. The woman crossed the room and began inspecting the equipmen
t on the tray.
“Is everything in order, Doctor?” the Director asked.
The woman nodded nervously. “Before we begin…there’s been a new development with the subjects—”
The Director waved a hand before she could finish. “Whatever it is, I’m sure your people are on top of it, Doctor. Or did I place the wrong person in charge?”
The doctor swallowed and opened her mouth as though to object, before apparently thinking better of it. “Yes, ma’am.” She nodded. “I’ve left…instructions for the day staff. They should be arriving shortly.”
Silently, Chris wondered what the problem was. For half a second his thoughts turned to Ashley, locked in the cells with the other subjects, before his mind shut down the thought.
She’s gone. He repeated the words in his head. Gone.
“Excellent.” The Director clapped her hands and faced the film crew. “Shall we begin?”
The men with the cameras quickly moved into position. Chris retreated to the far wall, putting himself out of sight. There he folded his arms and watched in silence, happy for once to be no more than a spectator to the coming horror. The cameraman held up five fingers and quickly counted down to zero.
“My fellow citizens of the Western Allied States,” the Director began, as a red bulb lit up on the equipment. “It saddens me to come to you in such grave times, when the very future of our great nation is under threat. Beyond our borders, enemies conspire against us, working their vile plots to sow dissent and terror.”
“And yet, their efforts have only brought us closer together. Their hatred has made us stronger. Long may we continue to see the WAS as one country, one nation united against the chaos of the independent states. Let the cowards of the Lone Star State conspire. Let them send their monsters, their spies, their soldiers. Together, we will send them all screaming back into the holes they crawled out of.”
