Breakout by Paul Herron (notion reading list .txt) 📕

stifles a sob and sprints along the corridor, emerging back into the open-plan bull pen. She heads straight across the floor, into a random passage, running until she finds herself in the entrance and reception area of the prison. There’s a door on the opposite side of the room. She makes for it, yanking it open and sprinting through. She almost falls flat on her face, suddenly finding herself in a downward-sloping corridor. She regains her balance and glances back, thinking she has time to lock the doors. She doesn’t. The men are too close.

“Where you running to?” shouts one of them. “Come on. We just wanna have some fun.”

Sawyer puts her head down and wills every last ounce of energy from her body, using the downward slope of the corridor to gain extra speed. She collides with the door at the bottom and pushes down on the handle at the same time, throwing it open and swinging around in a circle as it opens. She slams it shut behind her and grabs the keys, sobbing in frustration as she rams them, one by one, into the lock. None of them fit.

One of the inmates hits the door. The handle goes down and the door opens slightly. Sawyer throws her weight against it, using her shoulder to try to ram it closed.

A flash of pain surges through her arm. She cries out and pushes the door closed, seeing a blade withdraw back through the gap. She tries to ignore the pain and keep the door handle pulled up while she fumbles another key into the lock.

This one fits. She yanks it to the right, sobbing with relief as she hears the tumblers click into place.

She lets out a shaky breath and turns around, sliding down onto the floor as the inmates pound on the door. She can feel it vibrating through her skin.

She examines her shoulder. There’s a gouge there, easily two inches long and about half an inch deep. Blood wells from it, soaking into her shirt. She holds the material down over the wound, hoping it will stop the flow. It won’t be enough. She needs to find the infirmary. She can get wound glue, or maybe surgical staples.

She pushes herself to her feet, pulls the map out of her pocket. She traces her path and realizes she’s in A Wing, the newer part of the prison that was built lower down on the hill. She checks over the evacuation map until she finds the infirmary for this wing. It’s not far from where she is now.

She sets off. There’s nobody around, but she can hear screaming and shouting coming from somewhere in the distance. She pauses at the end of the passage and peers around the corner. She freezes. There are three inmates moving away from her. One of them jumps up and smashes the overhead light with a long piece of metal. They laugh and disappear around the corner.

Sawyer takes a deep breath and slips into the passage, making her way toward the infirmary. Every step she takes is like walking through mud. Her whole being screams at her to run in the opposite direction, to hide, to make herself as small as possible. She feels the panic rising in her again, an urge—a need—to just flee. It’s almost impossible to fight. Every fiber of her soul screams out that she’s walking toward her death.

But all she can do is keep going forward. She’s trapped either way. She tries to block out the screams of pain, the shouts of triumph, the calling of gang names.

“Woods!”

“Chicanos!”

“East Bloods, motherfucker!”

She doesn’t know what’s going on. A standoff between gangs for control of the wing? For weapons? What? She feels tears well up and angrily wipes them away. No. Fuck you. I will not cry.

She keeps going. It’s the hardest thing she has ever done in her life, but she makes it to the infirmary door and finds the correct key.

She has just pushed the door open when something slams against the back of her head.

She cries out in pain, staggers. She holds herself up by the door as her vision swims. The nurse’s station in the infirmary fades in and out of view as she tries to pull herself around again. Her hands aren’t working properly. Her feet get tangled and she drops to her knees.

There’s a loud ringing in her ears. Echoing shouts come from down the hallway. She grips the door and tries to look into the corridor. An inmate is running toward her. Her head drops. She finds herself looking at the screed floor. Something there doesn’t make sense. It’s a pool ball, covered in blood. It has the number 7 on it.

Lucky number seven, she thinks woozily.

She lifts her eyes to the inmate. He’s only a few feet away. He’s going to get her.

But then he skids to a stop, his eyes moving along the corridor to her right.

Someone shouts. The inmate turns to run, but four figures bolt past the infirmary door and grab him. He goes down screaming, and the figures pile on him with metal pipes and knives.

Sawyer manages to pull the keys out and close the door. She fumbles, trying to put the key in the lock to secure the door from this side. She feels her vision fading. Everything is turning hazy and gray.

The last thing she hears before she passes out and falls to the floor is the click of the lock sliding into place.

Eight11:00 p.m.

I’m trapped by a cloying web, suffocating in the darkness. I struggle against it, trying to pull myself up to the tiny light glimmering far above me. I start to panic. Jesus, I’m going to die. I need to get away—

My eyes snap open.

My whole body aches. My muscles are stiff and tight. Like I’ve run a marathon in my sleep.

I attempt to sit up. I hear the sound of clinking metal and my arm jolts to a stop. I squint