Chapter 1

 

 

            The day the world ended was like any other day.

            My normal radio station is on the fritz and my only entertainment is the sound of inmates bitching and complaining about anything, everything, and nothing. I’m sitting in the security room also known as the bubble overlooking the AD-SEG, or Administrative Segregation unit of Peak Valley Penitentiary. So far, it’s been a quiet evening—no lockups, no one trying to kick their doors down like they sometimes try to do. The officers are going about their routine checks. Nothing is out of place.

            Peak Valley Penitentiary is a level-five prison full of the worst and most hardened criminals. A lot of our population are the men that have no qualms about slitting throat or putting a bullet in people just for looking at them wrong. We have gang members from most of the known major gangs in the U.S., as well as members from many of the local and international Motorcycle Clubs, or MCs. This is where offenders come to die.

            The prison itself is in a small town called Peak Valley, in the middle of nowhere Texas. The name is ironic, as there is not a single peak or valley for at least a hundred miles in any direction. Our town is so small, we don’t even get an honorable mention on Geo Maps. The only reason our town exists is for the prison, and for a special government facility that almost no one knows about. We have three different pizza takeout places, one Asian food place, an L-Mart, one gas station, and a single school that teaches K-12. The rest of the space is comprised of a few neighborhoods and wealthy estates. If you blink while driving into town, you might just miss the whole thing.

             My job in the prison is to open cell doors, babysit the suicide risks, and make sure they don’t off themselves, at least while I’m on duty. I’ve had them try braiding toilet paper into nooses, which, to my surprise, almost worked. I’ve seen them climb onto their wall-mounted sinks and launch themselves headfirst into the floor. Hell, I even had one try bashing his head into the door. 

            Overall, the job isn't hard or dangerous, but it is extremely FUCKING BORING. I made the mistake of asking the timekeeper to let me give it a shot running the bubble for a few days and ended up stuck here for months.

            When my undiagnosed ADHD is in full swing, it’s hard for me to sit still for any length of time, making this assignment all the more miserable. At times, I find myself banging the large metal boxes that contain the hardware for the maintenance system like drums or pacing my small work area so much that I worry about wearing the shitty old laminate tiles down to the bare concrete.

            With extraordinarily little to do, I search through the statewide shared network trying to find the fabled solitaire game that I was told was hiding there. I had been at this for weeks, and been through every available file that I could get to with no luck. I don’t know why I think this day will be any different, but here I am searching all the same.

I’m just finishing my second Blue Cow energy drink and going through a folder in the mental health file labeled “Solitary” when the computer just dies. “What the fuck?” I exclaim to no one in particular. I flip the surge protector off and on, but nothing happens. “Sonofabitch!” I yell, again only to myself. I look around and realize that all the power is out. All the wings are dark, and I can’t see anyone around. Even the emergency lights are out. My wing officers are nowhere to be found. The whole place is pitch-black, and I am completely alone.

            The first thing I do is try to get the P.U.M.S., or Prison Utility and Maintenance System, to work. The P.U.M.S. is the system we use to control the doors and utilities such as fans, lights, and speakers. When I touch the screen, nothing happens. “Of course, you dumbass, there isn't any power,” I say. “Goddamn it. What the fuck do I do now?” It takes me a second to realize I’m talking out loud, but it’s not that unusual. Being alone all the time, I catch myself doing it way too often.

            I always hang my utility belt in the same spot, so I feel my way over to it. Luckily, it’s there. I get the belt on and pull out my flashlight, one of those high-speed, low-drag affairs with rechargeable batteries and a zoom function. It also has three main modes: extra-bright, bright, and bright strobe. It also has a lantern mode with its own extra-bright and bright functions; however, there is a red and blinking-red function in this mode. All that said, it’s just a damn good flashlight.

            I flip the light on and pan around, trying to get a clue as to where my people are. At first, all I can see is my own reflection in the windows, and I blind myself with the light. “Fuck!” I curse. That was stupid. Pushing the light up against the window and narrowing down the beam, I’m finally able to see out into the wings. I wish I hadn't.

            The doors that are supposed to be locked down twenty-three hours a day are all open. The inmates didn’t waste any time taking out their frustrations on the staff—all four of my wings’ officers are on the ground and motionless in their respective wings. The inmates are taking the time to beat them with their legs, feet, and fists. As I watch, one fuckhead removes an officer’s spare cuffs from his belt, opens them up, and uses them as a weapon to punch and stab the officer on the ground. With that scene burned into my eyes, I know there is nothing I can do to help the officers. The only weapon I have available to me is my pepper spray, and a fat lot of good that will do me against a house full of a hundred and sixty-two pissed off lunatics, rapists, and murderers.

          The flashlight moving around must have caused the inmates to notice that they have an audience. They begin gesticulating and brandishing their makeshift weapons at me. This can only mean they are happy to see me, I think. With that, I cut the light and try to think of what to do next. I have to assume that something happened, and that the whole camp is down like this. It’s just a matter of time before the prisoners realize they might be able to escape, and I don’t want to be here when they do, or I’ll end up like the officers down in the wings.

            After a moment of indecision, I finally come up with a plan. I set my flashlight on its lowest setting, cupping the end with one hand to minimize the glow as best I can, then open the lockbox with all the house keys, as well as general maintenance and miscellaneous keys, and grab all of them. I keep one of each set and dump the rest in the key disposal, and with that, my plans are exhausted.

            What to do…what to do…

            Okay, fuck it. I have to get out of here. I go to my bubble door and test its lock. It's not locked. “Fuck!” Alright, that means nothing is locked down and the likelihood of getting out of here alive is looking pretty bad.

I bail out of the bubble and go through my emergency keys. I try the bubble emergency lock and shout “Thank God!” as it slides home with a satisfying snick. At least I know that the world hasn’t gone completely mad, and mechanical objects still seem to function as they are supposed to. I lock down both the sallyport doors and the fire escape doors using the mechanical deadbolts before anyone thinks to try and escape that way. With that done, I am at last satisfied that my house is secure.

            I take a moment to catch my breath and slow my heart. I don’t know what’s happened yet, but I know that I won’t be of any help if I become immobilized by the panic that sometimes creeps up on me ever since the end of war. After a couple of agonizing seconds of deep-breathing, I’m able to stand up straight and look around me. I’m not overweight, exactly, but I’m not skinny. Sitting on my ass in the bubble the last few months has not been good to me.

            I begin to get an idea of my surroundings. It seems the whole camp is in chaos with inmates screaming and running in every direction, and staff officers running for their lives. My little corner is quiet, and I take some time to think through my next moves. I need to escape from the grounds, but it is a prison, and even without power or electrified fences, it’s still going to be a tough nut to crack. The keys I have will allow me to open many of the padlocks that secure the different areas of the prison; however, not any one set I have will make my escape easy. I have to plan each move, but my damn brain just keeps screaming at me that I didn’t record the power outage on my shift log. I pull out my pen and notepad and begin a list of what I need to do and in what order. I know the order is pointless, but it gives me a place to begin.

            With my tools in hand, I start my list with step one: escape prison.

 

Chapter 2

 

            My plan is to make my way into the dog run between the fences, and hopefully make it to the control center where I might get out, or at least find help.

            In order to do this, I have to cross an unoccupied zone that separates the segregation house from the rest of the camp. This is a wide-open area with no cover or concealment, making me a big-ass target for anyone looking my way. There is nothing but short, cropped yellow crabgrass and empty space between me and the fence.

            I drop to my belly and begin to low crawl like I was trained to twenty-or-so years ago in the army. By making myself a smaller target and forcing myself to move slowly, I make it across the area without being noticed. Once I get to the fence, I look for the small gate kept locked with a mechanical gate key. This gate is seldom if ever used. We have a large electric gate we can control from the bubble to let people in and out without the risk of a security breach due to someone leaving the gate unsecured. This gate’s rare use resulted in the lock becoming rusted, and now it doesn’t want to move. I wiggle the key up and down and side-to-side and curse at it under my breath, and even consider kicking it, but it finally breaks loose with a squeal.

            All this time I am fully exposed in the dying light of the day, and I can easily be seen from across the yard. Hearing the squeal, a few of the closer inmates look my direction. How they could have heard with all the noises going on around us, I will never know—maybe it was simply the pitch of the whine. Regardless, it’s enough.

            They begin to move my way—three of them, all shirtless, brandishing makeshift knives. The biggest one is about six feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. The other two lackeys are built more like a “no parking” sign. Short and skinny with barely-there shoulders. Definitely smaller than the big guy, but still big enough to potentially cause me problems. As I already said, I’m not a skinny guy. I’m 5’7” and weigh 250lbs. I have a lot of muscle, but the years since the army have not been kind to me. Regardless, I’m still a well-trained (if slightly rusty) soldier, and I can handle myself when I need to.

            The smallest one comes at me with his D.I.Y. dagger raised over head as though he is going to stab the top of a pumpkin or like he’s a serial killer from a B-movie where the ditzy blonde dies first. It is almost enough to make me laugh. There is no technique, no skill, just brute strength and raw anger. I sidestep the attack easily to my left while spinning into him and shoving hard on his back while he’s off-balance, causing him to crash to the ground unceremoniously. The next guy is right behind the first and has no chance to slow his headlong charge before crashing into his buddy on the ground. I don’t hesitate, kicking the second guy hard in the temple. I hope it knocks him out. In the back of my mind, I think about how annoying it’s going to be to have to complete the “use of force” paperwork when things calm down.

            With the first guy still conscious but struggling under the dead weight of his hopefully-not-dead buddy, all that's left is to deal with the big guy. He is a bit more cautious after seeing how fast I took care of his fellow degenerates, but he doesn’t back down. He has two halves of a broken pair of scissors, one in each hand. Swinging them back and forth in front of him, he says in a low menacing voice, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

            This statement makes me come out of my fighting crouch from the pure cliché of the words—I’m dumbfounded at the stupidity of it. I start to respond, “No one actually says that kind of shit,” but I’m interrupted as he lunges at me. With his superior reach, he is able to get a shallow cut across my forearms before I’m able to move completely out of harm’s way.

            This sudden burst of pain helps to refocus my attention. I drop back down into a fighting stance, legs apart, and plant my weight firmly and evenly, arms up like a boxer’s. Fighting against edged weapons is never easy or fun, but in this case, I’m lucky that the blades on this particular weapon are from the blunt, pointed safety scissors the prison uses. Even without a sharp point, the blades still have the potential to be deadly, so I will need to keep my wits about me. The wannabe Norman Bates licks each of his blades and grins a wide, toothy smile. “Your blood tastes sweet,” he states. I pause again at this, but I don’t let his stupidity befuddle me this time. I keep on my toes and stay focused.

            Grinning back with my own toothy grin I tell him, “If you liked that, then come get some more.” This trips the guy up for just a moment, then he laughs and lunges at me again.

            This time I am a bit quicker on the defense and manage to keep from getting cut on his initial lunge, but he immediately follows up with a backhand. This strike gets me across the chest, cutting my uniform shirt and undershirt but barely scratching the skin. I’m starting to get annoyed, so on his next swing, I step back and to the side of the wide arc before rotating my entire body inwards, and I punch him as hard as I can in the right kidney. Immediately, I can see the results of this action as his crotch starts to darken as he wets himself and crumples to the ground. I’m not above kicking a man when he’s down, so that’s what I do. Using all my strength, I connect my foot to his temple. He is probably dead, but I don’t have time to check or even think about it too much. I can hear the angry shouting of more fuckheads coming my way—I have to move or get mobbed.

            With the stealth option out the window, I run my oversized ass off. It’s about twenty-five meters to the next gate, but it feels like miles.

            Slamming into the chain links and breathing hard, I struggle to unhook the bundle of keys from my belt. I have enough presence of mind to realize I shouldn’t have brought all the keys; I should have gone through them and taken only the ones I would need. Either way, it doesn’t matter now—I have them. Struggling to find the right one, I fumble and almost drop the keys, but I manage to keep them in my hand. Finally finding the key I need; I slam it home in the lock and proceed to turn it in the wrong direction.

“Fuck!” I shout. Looking back over my shoulder, as I wrestle to get the key to turn the right way, I can see the mass of writhing angry bodies coming closer. I’m running out of time to get this gate open. I hear the click that means the solid metal mechanical latch has retracted. I swing the gate out and dash inside, slamming the gate and rotating the latch back into place. I pull my key back through the links just in time to keep from having my hand and wrist crushed by a makeshift billy club.

            Screams, snarls, and spittle follow me as I move away from the gate towards my next objective: the Control Center.