Flood Plains by Mark Wheaton (best reads txt) 📗

arm there, skulls, torso. It looks like all the animals in the zoo got loose and took apart a whole Metro station.”

The prisoners in line, twenty in all, realized at the same time as the guards that they shouldn’t be hearing this.

“What the hell was that?”

“Storm’s causing some major damage,” one of the shotgun-wielding guards said. “You keep your eye on your business.”

“It’s nothing,” added a sergeant, who turned off the radio.

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” a skinny Latino prisoner yelled back, much to the amusement of his comrades.

“Prisoner, step out of line,” the guard bellowed, striding over to the group. “You just earned dishwashing duty.”

But before he could make it over the man, the sound of screams echoed down from the cells on the floor above.

“Oh, shit,” the sergeant said, reaching for his gun.

“You men—against the wall, now!” the shotgun guard roared.

He raised a hand and indicated for the prisoners to stand behind the strips of blue tape Alan had found himself guarded by the day before. Two other guards came running out of a room full of security monitors, unholstering their pistols.

“What’s the situation?” called out the sergeant.

“There’s a fight in the cells,” the guard yelled.

A couple of the prisoners in Alan’s line cheered, while others groaned. This was the kind of thing they were hoping to avoid.

The shotgun guard, who wore a badge giving his name as “Richards,” kept the prisoners covered with his weapon even as he shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. A second shotgun-carrying guard hurried over from the cafeteria, a questioning look on his face.

“Keep these guys against the wall,” Richards said.

Alan looked over at the gangbangers next to him. He could practically read their glances back and forth as they sized up the odds. Two guards against twenty prisoners? They could take them.

Magnetic locks clanged open, followed by shouts, more screams, and, finally, an unholy banging that Alan imagined as metal on bone. The entire building shuddered, almost knocking the prisoners off their feet. It sounded like a basketball game was being played out on the floor above.

The two guards looked anxiously as each other. The sergeant ran for the steps.

“Get anybody you can up here. Now!”

As the sergeant disappeared up the stairs, Alan waited for the guards to comply. When they didn’t move, he realized they were as terrified as the prisoners.

“What’s going on up there, man?” a prisoner barked.

The second guard, who Alan could see was named Vining, shook his head.

“You stay behind that line, prisoner. That’s all you need to know.”

Suddenly, an unearthly howl echoed down the stairs. There were further cries in English, some in Spanish, and some in a language Alan couldn’t identify. This was followed by more banging and higher-pitched screams. Gunshots reverberated through the building as well, causing both Richards and Vining to twitch their fingers across the shotgun triggers.

Then silence.

Alan felt his whole body go ice cold as if going into some kind of arrest. His heart was beating a mile a minute. Something was going to be coming down those stairs in the next few seconds, and he didn’t want be around to see it. His eyes flitted back towards the cafeteria and over to the locked doors he knew led down to the garage.

“Don’t even think about it, prisoner,” Richards said.

He aimed his shotgun at Alan’s head. Richards’ face had gone completely white, and beads of perspiration hung over his brow. Alan knew that if he twitched so much as a muscle, his brains were going to be blown all over the wall.

“We just need to be calm,” Richards demanded, sounding as if he was trying to explain this to himself as much as the prisoners.

It was at that moment that the power went out, plunging the entire office into darkness.

“Oh, Jesus,” choked Vining, as if he might cry.

Seizing the opportunity, two of the gangbangers in Alan’s line launched themselves at Vining. One grabbed his shotgun away, while the other, a sleepy-eyed fellow who didn’t look capable of such violence, punched him straight in the nose. It exploded in a geyser of blood. The shotgun-wielding prisoner turned the gun on Richards and pulled trigger.

Alan held his breath, but nothing happened.

The prisoner pulled the trigger again, but the gun refused to fire.

“Never heard of a Smart Gun?” Richards asked, indicating a metal ring around his index finger.

He pulled the trigger on his shotgun and shot the gangbanger in the torso. The force of the blast almost cut the man in half. Richards ejected the spent shell and chambered a second one before turning the gun on the dead man’s companion.

“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”

The gangbanger stared at his dead friend without comprehension. One moment alive, the next dead. It seemed like too much for him to fathom.

“You all right, man?” Richards called to Vining.

But then he looked over and saw that his partner had been knocked cold. Blood dribbled out of his eye socket and nose. Richards turned back to Alan.

“Get my partner’s cuffs,” he ordered. “Put them around the prisoner’s wrists. Now.”

As he moved over to Vining, Alan prayed that the gangbanger was too rattled to attempt another breakout. Nodding to Richards, Alan moved from behind the blue tape and over to the fallen officer, feeling the other cop’s shotgun aimed at the side of his head the whole way.

When he reached the officer, he pulled the handcuffs from a pouch on the man’s belt and got behind the gangbanger. The prisoner had done exactly what he was told and was on his knees, fingers interlaced at the back of his skull. Alan wrapped the first metal bracelet around the man’s wrist, closing it tightly. He was just about to place the second one on the man’s other wrist when he and everybody else in the room heard the sound of water splashing down the steps from upstairs.

The thick liquid pooled at the base of the stairs. In the dim light, Alan thought it looked black but flecked with a