Singularity (21 page)

“For the time being, let me poke around a little, don’t let on that anything is off. We can’t spook whoever’s behind this.”

Andrews nodded. “Let me know about anything out of the ordinary. I have a few people here I’d trust with my life, but I won’t breath a word until you say so. The only problem is
,
we’ll need to start organizing our evacuation very soon if this rain doesn’t stop.” Andrews twisted in his chair again and looked at the windows, then brought his gaze back to Sullivan. “Do you think it’s letting up at all?”

Sullivan shifted his eyes up to the windows for a moment before meeting the older man’s pleading gaze. Pity welled up from inside him like blood from a cut, and he did his best to smile. “I think so.”

==

Sullivan shut the warden’s door behind him and stared at the officer behind the main desk in the lobby. The man’s eyes hovered just above the countertop, and then dropped back to the paperwork before him.

Sullivan walked to the door that led toward the guards’ barracks and swiped his key against the reader. The door clicked and he slipped through. The hallway was barren and quiet. He paused, waiting for any sounds ahead. There were none. When he reached the top of the second floor, he realized where his body was leading him. The fatigue, paired with the soreness of his injuries, was pushing him toward bed without his consent. The whiskey had faded a little, its former power just a pleasant humming in his skull. Every instinct in his being cursed him as he opened the door to his and Barry’s room. He wanted nothing more than to search the entire complex for Barry, but his muscles would have none of it. He knew that if he pushed himself now, he’d only end up a puddle on the floor in a few hours.

As he pushed the door shut behind him, he became aware that someone was in the room.

He smelled cigarettes and something else—peppermint? The hair on the back of his neck stiffened and his hand yanked the H&K from its holster. He spun and scanned the room with the barrel. His and Barry’s beds were exactly as they had been. He crouched and peered beneath them. Without waiting, Sullivan
lunged
forward and kicked open the door of the small bathroom. He knew as soon as he did it that no one stood in the small space. After doing a thorough once-over of the room, he holstered the pistol and examined the small table between the beds. The drawer was open a quarter inch. Sullivan pulled it out the rest of the way, shutting it again after confirming it held nothing but a layer of dust.

After locking the dead bolt in the door, he returned to his bed and sat on the lower bunk. He sniffed the air, pulling in the scents again. He could barely register them now. Someone had been there only a few minutes before he came in. Maybe they’d even heard him ascending the stairs and ducked out just before he came into view.

He looked up at the window and realized he hadn’t completely lied to Andrews. The rain looked to be letting up some, with only the occasional drop splattering against the glass. He glanced around the room one last time, waiting for one of the things he’d seen in the last twelve hours to come rushing out from the wall itself, as if the prison’s flesh was alive with whatever malevolence resided here.

Sullivan felt himself lean toward the bed and his head settle into the pillow, as exhaustion pulled him completely under.

==

A pounding rebounded inside of his head as he awoke. For a moment, as he came to in the dark, he thought it was only the whiskey wreaking havoc with his senses, because he could feel his pulse thudding in the back of his skull. Then it came again, and he sat up, too quickly, his eyesight flashing with lightheadedness.

“Agent Shale?
I thought maybe you’d like dinner. Warden Andrews sent me up with a plate.” The voice from the corridor was a female’s, and Sullivan thought he recognized it from the guard who’d checked them in the day before.

He rose from the bed, steadying himself for a moment before walking to the door. He wished in vain for a fisheye that he could peer out of, and instead, drew his weapon again. “Coming,” he said more groggily than he felt. He drew the dead bolt back and felt the door bite into his wounded shoulder as it was kicked open from the other side.
Must’ve had the knob already turned,
he thought, as he fell onto his back and watched his handgun clatter out of sight beneath the bed.

Three guards rushed into the room. The first two were men he recognized from the group that came to investigate the lower hall that morning. The female guard from the day before was behind them, her sidearm drawn and pointing directly at his face.

“Grab him!” she yelled, and the two men in front of her dove at Sullivan.

He caught the first guard with an upward kick below the jaw. He heard the man’s teeth clack together and a cry of pain as he stumbled sideways toward the bed. The other guard fell on top of Sullivan and rained two quick punches down, which rocked his head off the floor.

“Fucker broke my teeth!” the first guard cried, swinging a graceless kick into Sullivan’s ribs. The wind flew from him, and he felt a blow from the man on top of him connect with his ear.

“Alive!” the female guard yelled, and Sullivan took the opportunity to breath. His lungs worked without catching on any broken ribs, although they felt tight enough to snap any second. Hands encircled his biceps on both sides and hauled him to his feet.

“Piece of shit!” the first guard said, as he spit a piece of what Sullivan could only assume was his tooth at the side of his face.

“Cuff him.”

“Got it.”

Sullivan tried to resist, but both men forced his arms behind his back, and he felt the bite of cold steel against his wrists. He flexed his forearms as the guard behind him closed the cuffs tight, and was thankful when he felt the flexibility of a chain between the shackles.

“Walk,” the guard that punched him said from behind, shoving him toward the open door.

“You guys could have just brought me dinner instead of taking me to it. Way easier, you know,” Sullivan said.

The woman’s pistol whipped across the side of his face, and leveled once more in his eyes as he opened them. Both men pushed him again, and he nearly fell as he stumbled into the hallway.

Only a few lights glowed outside the room, leaving the hallway dappled in shadows. Sullivan’s heart rate accelerated as he felt the two male guards grab his biceps again and steer him toward the stairs.

“Where are you taking me?” Sullivan asked, working his jaw where the female guard had hit him.

“Somewhere special,” the man on his left responded.

“The same place you took Agent Stevens?” Sullivan heard similar sniggers on either side of him, and anger began to override the fear he’d felt in the room. He heard the sound he was waiting for—the soft dragging of steel sliding into plastic—and knew that the woman had holstered her handgun. He tested the give in the handcuffs and pulled the chain tight across his lower back, calculating how much he’d have to stretch. “Jesus, you guys opened up the stitches in my shoulder. I think I’m
gonna
be sick.”

“Who gives a fuck? Dave, do you care?” the guard on his right asked.

“Nope, how ’bout you, Shelly?” the man on his left said.

“Both of you shut up and hold on to him, it looks like he’s passing out.”

The head of the stairs neared and Sullivan mentally braced himself for what was to come. Before they could force him down the first step, he halted and leaned forward as if he were going to vomit. The grips on each of his arms tightened and both men moved out from behind him, closer to his sides. He breathed out once, and then in.

With a short lunging motion, Sullivan kicked the guard on the right in the knee, and felt the joint give. The man flailed and screamed as he lost his balance and tipped into the stairway. Without putting his foot down, Sullivan kicked back, hoping that Shelly was right where her voice had come from a moment ago. She was. He felt the heel of his foot sink into her generous stomach and heard air launch out of her lungs in a startled cry. The guard on his left finally reacted with a haymaker, which Sullivan partially blocked with his shoulder. He returned with a knee to the man’s crotch, which doubled him over in agony. Sullivan threw himself into the guard and both men tumbled into the open space above the stairway.

The edges of the stairs sent flashes of pain throughout Sullivan’s body as he and the guard bounced and rolled down them. The landing came up quickly and stopped their progress. He felt himself land on top of the guard he’d kicked in the knee. Immediately, Sullivan launched his hips into the air and tucked himself toward his legs. He pulled the handcuffs down and felt them slip beneath his buttocks, and then past his feet as he tightened himself into the fetal position.

Movement at the far end of the landing drew his attention and he scrambled to his feet as the guard he’d kneed stood shakily and pulled his handgun. Sullivan stepped forward and caught the man’s wrist of his gun hand. In a twisting movement he wound the handcuff’s chain tight around the small bones in the guard’s hand and pulled straight up. He heard the man’s wrist snap and pop, as ligaments and tendons shredded and broke. The gun fell to the floor and Sullivan drove his head forward, smashing the guard’s nose flat and cutting off a scream.

A brush of air pushed at the back of his neck and chips of cement from the wall pelted his face. It was only then that he registered the sound of the shot. Shelly had recovered enough to point her pistol and fire at him, as he ducked down the second set of steps, snatching the dropped handgun as he fled.

Another shot sank into the stairs as he leapt to the main floor. Sullivan spun and slid to one knee, pointing the guard’s weapon back the way he’d come. The seconds ticked by and sweat ran freely down the back of his scalp. He imagined he heard the pounding steps of reinforcements responding to the sound of the shots, but then the edge of Shelly’s arm appeared at the top of the stairs, and Sullivan focused, drew a bead on the exposed flesh, and fired.

Shelly screamed and disappeared from sight. Sullivan got to his feet and ran low up the stairs, easing around the corner, gun-first. Shelly lay propped against the guard who’d fallen down the stairs initially. Sullivan glanced at him and noticed the odd angle of the guard’s head and the dead stare in his eyes. Shelly’s breathing came in ragged gasps, and Sullivan searched the floor until he spotted her weapon lying a few feet away from her open palm. Blood ran steadily from a hole just above her collarbone and stained the blue of her uniform black. He stepped forward and kept the sights of the handgun between the woman’s staring eyes.

“Where’s my friend?” Sullivan asked. His voice came out in a growl, his words garbled by adrenaline and rage.

Shelly breathed and blinked through tears streaming down her wide face. “You’ll never find him. It’s too late.”

Sullivan moved closer, shoving gun into her upturned face. “It better not be. I’ll bring this whole fucking place down if he’s gone.”

The guard’s soft laughter shocked him and he lowered the muzzle a few inches. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her belly shook. When she looked at him again, only cold indifference resided in her eyes. “You’ll see. Everyone will see. She’s here and nothing can stop her.”

Tendrils erupted from her mouth as she lunged for her handgun. Sullivan felt his finger twitch on the trigger and most of Shelly’s head sprayed the dead guard and wall behind her as she slumped to her side.

He stepped back and tried to steady his shaking arms as he watched the twisting appendages slither back and forth across the hard floor. Gradually they receded back into what was left of the corpse’s head.

Keeping his eyes on the dead body before him, he searched the unconscious guard’s duty belt. At last his fingers found a small key, and he forced it awkwardly with one hand into the opposite handcuff.

A door opened somewhere above him and his head snapped up, stomach tightening into a hot ball. The handcuff sprang open, and as he turned and hurried down the stairs, Sullivan heard voices murmur above him, along with the scuff of shoes moving closer.

He unlocked the second handcuff just before he reached the lobby door, and dropped them in a jangling heap on the floor. Again he wished for a window in the door before him, some way to see if the lobby teemed with guards and if this was the end. He opened the door as softly as he could and peeked out.

The main desk was empty. Perhaps it was Shelly’s shift here tonight. He hoped so. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and jogged across the silent lobby. The doors to the outside were black rectangles, and the lights overhead threw the entire room into an eerie shade of yellow.

He slid to a stop at Andrews’s door and wrenched at the knob. It stayed immobile in his hand.

“Shit,” Sullivan cursed. He needed to find the warden. He was the only one who could help him now. Sullivan pulled on the knob again, praying it would give so he could at least hide in the office until he figured out his next move. He let go after a moment, in exasperation, and ran in the opposite direction.

Miraculously his keycard was still operational, and he flung the door to the main holding area open, shoving the handgun into the back of his pants as he went. The guard desk on the other side of the door was as empty as the front desk had been. Sullivan searched the rows of cells and the portion of the second floor catwalk that he could see. He spied no uniforms in either area.