Murphy's Law (Roads Less Traveled Book 2) (8 page)

After filling our trays and finding an empty table, we sat down to eat, except we didn’t get as much eating done as we did talking. I suppose we were all too excited about falling into a pile of shit and coming out smelling like roses.

“Can you believe this?” Mia asked.

“I know, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it,” Nancy said, slipping Gus a few strips of bacon under the table.

The woman named Shirley had given Gus a bowl of his own, heaping with cooked hamburger and rice, but old habits die hard. As the others talked amongst themselves, I watched the people around us file in and out of the dining hall, presumably coming from or going to their appointed duties, or simply going to bed. This place looked like a well-oiled machine, and it amazed me they did it with so few people. I wasn’t sure of the exact number yet; so far I had only seen about thirty, give or take, mostly men and women my age, no children or older folk. Not that they didn’t exist here. It was no leap of the imagination to assume they were already in bed, and hadn’t been assigned the nightshift.

“I tell ya, Kase, I wouldn’t mind stayin’ here. If they’d take us, that is,” Jake said through a mouthful of fried chicken.

I was sitting at the end of the bench-seat, with Zack beside me, Jake across, and the ladies next to him. I looked up at him from my own chicken and was silent a moment.

Stay here? Permanently?

To be honest, the thought had crossed my mind. Right about the time I first saw the towering fence and the massive prison complex to be exact. It would be nice, finally feeling safe again after so long. Secure, confident, not having to eat on the run, or sleep on the hard, cold ground or in broken-down farmhouses that smelled of mold and death. I chewed slowly, mostly trying to stall for time. I glanced around at the others and saw the same look on their faces: relief. I turned to Zack, who was always the level-headed voice of reason, and waited for his thoughts.

“It’s not a bad idea, but I think we should wait and see how this place really runs, before making any sort of big decision like that.”

He hit the nail right on the head. Most things always looked one way, and turned out to be something altogether different. Like those boxed chocolates you always seemed to wind up with on Valentine’s Day, creamy milk chocolate on the outside, nasty coconut crap on the inside.

“I agree.” I turned my attention back to my chicken before the others could protest.

While I ate, I noticed Michael keeping a sharp eye on us from across the room. I didn’t blame him, I’d have behaved the same way. He nodded once after noticing I’d caught him staring, solemn respect passing between two leaders. I stood with the others and carried my tray to the dishwasher, where we were met by Shirley, who led us through the labyrinth of hallways to the dormitory complex.

“These are the temporary rooms we set aside for visitors. The permanent quarters are more comfortable, but… well,” she stuttered a moment before I interrupted.

“It’s fine, Shirley, these will be perfect. Thank you again.”

This seemed to please the older woman. She smiled without another word and left us to sort out the sleeping arrangements. They’d set up only two rooms for us, one room contained two cots, the other had three. They’d been clearly made by busting down and removing the walls between the individual prison cells, the end result being rooms about the size of my old bedroom back home. The barred doors had been replaced with real wooden doors, the walls had been painted and decorated with assorted paintings and pictures, large area rugs had been placed on the concrete floor, and other than the cots, they were sparsely furnished. They’d also built new walls around the john, creating small but private bathrooms in each room. Down this corridor I could see six other rooms, and I assumed they had all been remodeled pretty much the same way. I was very curious to see what the permanent quarters were like.

“Well, I guess the ladies in this room, and the men in that room?” Mia asked.

Everyone knew Zack and I had sort of shacked up together over the past several months, and I appreciated the concern over our sleeping arrangements. I looked at him, he looked at me, and we both laughed.

“Goodnight, guys, let’s get some sleep.”

I grabbed Zack’s hand and called Gus, who had sniffed his way to the end of the hall. I let the dog slip into the bedroom first before pulling Zack inside and closing the door. That night, for the first time since finding one another, killing to keep each other alive, and watching helplessly from the barn as our home burned down, we went to bed without our boots on or a gun tucked tightly against our chests.

March 22
^nd:
Blueville Correctional Facility

“Mornin’,” Jake greeted Michael, and the two shook hands in the hallway.

“Morning. Breakfast is being served in the mess hall, if you’re all up and ready to eat.”

Zack was just coming out of the room he’d shared with me and pulling a shirt over his head. “In a hurry to get rid of us?”

Michael smiled in reply and shook his head. “Not hardly. But we run a tight ship around here, and we don’t keep food out all day. When it’s ready, it’s ready, and if you don’t eat then, you don’t eat until the next mealtime.” He glanced at his watch, then back to Zack. “Which is in five hours, to be exact.”

“Fair enough.” Zack knocked on the bedroom door next to ours.

I had snuck over a little earlier to wake up Nancy, and was currently busy in the john, but I heard her say we’d be there in a minute. Mia was still asleep, and would sleep until noon unless someone woke her. I flushed the still-working toilet—thank God for gravity-fed water systems and big-ass generators—zipped my jeans, washed my hands, and shut the door behind me. Nancy was giving her hair some finishing touches in the mirror over the dresser, so I walked over to Mia’s cot and gave it a swift kick.

“Hmrrggh…” she groaned and mumbled.

I kicked the cot again.

“Call in sick for me, would ya, babe?”

I kicked the cot a third time. Her eyes flew open, her hands automatically reaching for the rifle propped next to her cot. After a second of what-the-hell, lucidity returned and she grinned.

“Mornin’, baby.” This had been her customary greeting for as long as I’d known her.

“Time to get up, the guys are getting anxious I think,” I said. Nancy waited until Mia was up and in the bathroom before opening the bedroom door.

“Ma’am,” Michael said in greeting. Nancy was quite taken with the man young enough to be her son. She ruffled Jake’s hair, drawing a scowl from him, and said her good mornings to Zack.

“What’s up?” I asked, stepping into the hallway.

“I just came to let you folks know breakfast is ready. After you eat, I can show you around, or show you out, all depends on your plans,” he said, absentmindedly playing with Gus as the dog jumped around and against his legs.

“Let’s eat first, then go from there.” I was slightly annoyed at his attitude. He was friendly enough, but if there’s one thing my traveling companions had learned about me, it was don’t start throwing all kinds of shit at me first thing after I wake up. It’s a good way to lose an arm or something.

“Sounds good. If you’re all ready?” he asked and swept his arm out.

I yelled for Mia, who replied with a string of curse words and a few thumps from inside the bathroom. No doubt she was trying to hurry and bumping into things in the cramped stall. That’s my Mia.

* * *

There were a dozen people in the mess hall when we arrived. We could hear them as we walked down the hallway; talking, joking, plates and silverware clattering about.

“That’s the dayshift now,” Michael explained. We walked in and started down the “chow line.” French toast, sausage, orange juice, milk, and coffee. Nice spread.

“We run three eight-hour shifts here. The day and afternoon shifts are split up between keeping watch and doing the daily housekeeping chores. The men and women on the roof are our most skilled shooters, and usually don’t get assigned any other duty. They mostly stick to the roof. The nightshift is the smallest. Those folks are strictly watch only, up top. We’re running pretty slim on manpower, but we get the essentials done. Cleaning, cooking, garbage detail, that sort of thing. Everyone rotates shifts and jobs once a week—except the roof watchmen, they only rotate shifts—so they’re not stuck doing the same job for too long. Keeps them busy, gives them something to focus on.”

He led us to a table by the window, greeting people as they left for whatever duties they’d been assigned for the day. Everyone seemed to like him, and he them. Maybe he’d been the mayor, once upon a time. Nah, everybody hates a politician.

“What about supplies? Food, water, fuel…where do you get them?” Mia asked.

“Sit,” I quietly ordered Gus, snapping my fingers and pointing at my feet. The old boy obeyed and lay down, resting his chin on the toe of my boot.

Michael was nibbling at a piece of toast. I assumed he’d been up for a while, monitoring and supervising things around the joint, and had probably already eaten breakfast.

“We’ve got six months’ worth of supplies already put back in another part of the complex. The fields behind here are already planted in potatoes and other early vegetables. We’ll get the later stuff out next month. What we can’t grow…well we just head out and salvage from nearby towns. We keep animals here, chickens, pigs, a few cows. This place sits on about a hundred or so acres, most of it open fields. All fenced in, by the way. Makes it pretty nice for gardening and pasturing.”

He’d already explained to us the night before how they were still able to have running water and electricity. Water from a large lake high on the mountain above was gravity fed to the prison, and the generators powered the pumps, purification units, and kept the lights on. They still rationed; to conserve fuel, the water and power was shut down between noon and four in the afternoon, and then again between nine at night to six the next morning.

We ate quietly for the next several minutes, all of us mulling over questions in our minds, but hesitant to voice them. Even Michael looked like he had a million questions for us, but wasn’t sure whether to ask. These days, what survivors there were tended to keep to themselves, overwhelmed with the simple task of staying alive, let alone getting mixed up in another survivor’s business. After swallowing the last of my French toast, I decided to take the bull by the horns.

“Well, you’re probably wondering what we were doing out there, where we’re headed, that kind of thing. It’s a long story, but I can give you the Cliff Notes version if you want. You might even be able to help,” I said, then immediately added when I saw the look on his face, “No, no, not that kind of help. We don’t need any of your supplies. We’re set as it is. I mean information.”

This seemed to ease his mind a bit. He visibly relaxed and continued to nibble at his toast.

“It’s none of my business what your reasons are for roaming around. We get passersby here all the time. They stay a bit, week or so, then move on. We offer what we can to them, at the very least we give them a safe place to rest and recuperate for a while. So no, I don’t need to know your business, ma’am. But I’ll help out, tell you what I can.”

He studied each of us, his eyes lingering on ours long enough for me to know this was a solid guy, and not one I’d want to be on the bad side of. I took a deep breath and told him our story, then filled him in on the details of our so-called mission. He was disturbingly quiet after I finished talking, the look on his face changing from shock to anger in a matter of minutes, though I have to give him credit—he did a good job covering it up. Well,
attempting
to cover it up. Points for trying, I guess.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something, the radio on his hip crackled to life.

“Hey, Mike, we got runners on the south side. Thirty and closing,” a calm, male voice said. Michael held up one hand in apology, mumbled an “Excuse me,” then stood and took the radio from his belt.

“Who’s on it?” he asked.

“Cal and Olly.”

“I’m on my way.” Michael turned to leave, stopped, glanced at us, and tipped his head towards the door. “Want to come along?”

“Well hell yeah we wanna come,” Jake said and jumped up, already on his way to the dishwasher by the time the rest of us were on our feet.

“Do we need our weapons?” Zack asked. Michael seemed to consider this for a moment before finally shaking his head.

“No, we should have it covered. This way,” he said, leading us out of the cafeteria and towards the southern part of the complex.

* * *

We learned that “thirty and closing” had nothing to do with how many deadheads there were, but how many yards they were from the inner fence. We’d ended up jogging through the hallways after leaving the cafeteria, after the radio guy updated Michael and told him the “runners” were trying to climb the “south gate,” which turned out to be nothing more than a smaller version of the larger front gates, opening to a service road leading to the outside world. Michael had then given the okay to take them out, and as we climbed the stairwell leading to the roof we could hear the steady reports of high-powered rifles. This place was huge, and if we ended up staying here I figured it would take weeks to get used to the layout. There were seven main buildings, three on the south side, and two on both the east and west sides. The north side was a wall that extended and joined both the east and west side buildings, with the large entrance gate in the center. All the buildings were adjoined, as I’ve already said, with a wide grassy courtyard in the center.