Breakout Paul Herron (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📖

it and ditched the whole plot. They sold everything to a private company owned by some guy called Ravenhill and it was turned into a civilian prison. They stopped using the Glasshouse in the late eighties. It was too old. No electronics or anything. It’s all manual. You know? Massive levers to open the cell doors, that kind of thing. So fucking claustrophobic. You’re actually lucky. It used to be an initiation for new COs to sleep a night in that place.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.” Martinez shivers. “Feels like the walls are closing in on you. You hear all these noises…” She trails off, lost in her memories.

Sawyer has been counting the doors as they walk. Number seven is coming up, and the staff corridor comes to an end about three hundred feet in front of them.

Martinez stops walking. “End of the road,” she says. “That’s ACU to our left.” She points at the double doors straight ahead. “Through there is Northside. Staff and admin. Changing rooms, kitchen, that kind of thing.” She hands Sawyer two electronic keycards. “These are temps. This one will let you through the doors on either end of this corridor. The other one will let you out of the Northside staff room. My advice? Use it and leave now. Good luck. I’ll catch you when this hurricane has blown over.” She turns and starts retracing their steps.

“Wait,” calls Sawyer, suddenly realizing what Martinez said. “What do you mean? You’re not staying?”

“Fuck no. We’re being subbed by the National Guard later on today. The COs are leaving in shifts, starting now. Seriously, you should just get back in your car and go. Head north. This storm is going to get real bad before it gets any better.” She looks around. “Here’s hoping the place is still standing by the end of it. I need this job. Got bills to pay.”

She starts walking again, leaving Sawyer standing alone in the wide corridor. She can hear a weird sound coming from the door into ACU. She steps hesitantly forward and listens.

It’s the sound of inmates screaming.

Three7:30 a.m.

All the inmates called by Evans line up in the narrow corridor outside our block. The corridor is painted in that institutional yellow-green color that hospitals, mental institutions, and prisons all have in common. My theory is that someone in government got a bulk deal in the early eighties when everyone realized that the previous decade’s fad for decorating your house in mustard and avocado really wasn’t a good idea. Solution? Mix the colors and sell it off to government.

The corridor ends at a heavy door. To the right is a wire-reinforced window looking into the security room. We wait up against the wall while Evans counts us off on his clipboard. A younger officer, a guy named Gonzalez, stands just ahead of us, a dirty sack sitting at his feet.

Gonzalez is new, only been on the job about a year. He’s still pretty decent to the inmates. Seems like a good guy. But you can already see the effect the job is having on him. Obligatory overtime means the COs work fourteen-hour shifts, and the dark rings that live permanently beneath his eyes show he’s taking strain. It won’t be long before he becomes just like the others. Minimum effort put in. Just watching the clock until it’s time to go home.

Evans finishes his head count and picks up the sack, tipping its contents onto the floor. Belly chains spill out, curling at his feet like iron snakes. Great. Nobody likes belly chains. They restrict arm movement so much you can’t even scratch your nose.

Gonzalez and Evans head down the line attaching the chains. Evans does mine, cinching it so tight it digs into my waist. Rookie mistake on my part. You’re supposed to push out your stomach when they put on the chain. That way, when you relax again, it isn’t so tight that it actually cuts off your breathing.

“You might want to loosen that a bit,” I say to Evans.

“Might I now?”

“Yeah. It’s a bit tight.”

“Sure. My apologies.”

He loosens the chain. I try to push my stomach out, but he jabs me hard in the side with his elbow. I wince and double up. He takes the opportunity to yank the chain even harder, locking it in place with a smile on his lips. He grabs the handcuffs attached to the chain and snaps them over my wrists, making sure they’re as tight as possible.

“How’s that, sir? To your liking?”

He chuckles and moves down the line, checking all the locks, tightening the cuffs that, in his opinion, Gonzalez left too loose. He then bangs on the metal door leading out of the corridor.

“Open B.”

“Opening B,” comes the muffled voice from the security room.

The security room is positioned as the central hub, while A, B, and C blocks are the chunky spokes radiating outward. Inside are the computers that activate all the locks in the wing. The room is protected by bulletproof glass, a solid three-inch door. It contains a gun locker in case the inmates get out of hand. Shotguns, live rounds, rubber bullets, beanbag rounds, anything a CO might need to put down any trouble.

There’s a loud buzz and the door clicks open. Evans leads us into the corridor on the other side. Same color paint, but the floor is covered with gray screed that has a red line painted on it two feet from the wall.

“Stay in the line!” shouts Evans.

“Nice to get out,” says Felix conversationally as everyone shuffles to the right side of the red line. “Break from the old routine. Just like a family vacation.”

I look around the corridor. Fluorescent lights are recessed in the ceiling, their glow dimmed by thick safety glass. Exposed pipes, their top halves coated black with years of accumulated dust, snake along the walls just below the ceiling. There’s an old rust-colored bloodstain smeared on the wall.

“Where the hell did you go on vacation?” I ask.

Gonzalez stops at