The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(67)

It gave way. The chunk of bread was nothing but a hollow shell of crust, its innards scooped out to make a perfect hiding place. Inside, a small tuft of steel wool and a nine-volt battery were waiting for me. I snatched my treasures and stashed them under the bunk.

Once I’d eaten, I kept the yogurt container too, along with its carefully peeled foil lid. When I passed the empty tray back through the slot, the guard either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

The convicts in Hive B only got one meal a day. Maybe out of petty sadism, probably just to save money. Either way, twenty-four hours with nothing but some yogurt and a crust of bread had my stomach growling. The next day brought the same meal but a different special delivery inside the hollowed-out bread: a razor blade, and two tiny travel-size bottles of baby oil. I stashed the goods and devoured the rest.

The hours dragged on, and on, and on. The light in my cell never turned off, not for an instant, and the only way to tell the time was the delivery of my next meal. I attacked the bread crusts like a rabid dog; after four days, my stomach was tied in knots.

Trying to pass the time with exercise ended fast when a string of energetic sit-ups pummeled me with a blossoming headache and a wave of nausea that sent me running for the stainless-steel toilet. I figured rest had to be good for a concussion. So I rested. I lay on the bunk, and sometimes I stared at the eggshell-white ceiling and sometimes I closed my eyes. When I was exhausted, I slept. When I wasn’t, I hungered.

On the fifth day, like the fourth, a fistful of tiny yellow salt packets from the cafeteria filled the hollow crust. That and a little bundle of twine, like the kind the prisoners in Hive C used to kite messages from cell to cell.

I had everything I needed.

And I only had a few hours left before they’d call me back down to the killing floor.

Now I welcomed the hunger. I let the want, the empty ache, course through my bruised and aching muscles and flood my bone marrow with its bitter pangs. I sat down with the razor blade and the twine, slicing the coarse thread into small, even pieces.

I finished my preparations. Then I took off one shoe, wore it over my hand, and smashed its rubber sole against the light as hard as I could. The wire cage rattled but held fast. Another hit and it started to buckle.

By the sixth hit, the wire was dented and deformed, pressed right up against the square of light. I reached back, turning my face away from the glow, and threw another punch. The light broke with a sound like a china plate shattering on concrete, and plunged my cell into pitch darkness.





36.




The chest-height slot in my cell door slid open. Piggish eyes peered in at me, the guard’s face silhouetted by the light outside.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Jablonski said.

“Light just went out,” I said, crouching in the dark.

He shook his head. “You think I’m that stupid? Oh, sure, lemme just walk into a dark cell and get jumped. You think you’re the first con to try and pull that trick?”

“Wow,” I said. “Guess you’re just too smart for me.”

“Forget you. You can sit in the dark and rot. You’re gonna die tonight anyway.”

The slot slammed shut, bathing me in perfect darkness. I stayed crouched, counting down slow from twenty, making sure he wasn’t coming back. Then I felt my way around the cell. I’d trained myself with my eyes closed, rehearsing how to retrieve my hidden contraband by touch alone.

Showtime.

*

Jablonski came back a few hours later with another guard in tow.

“Come up to the door,” he barked through the slot. “Lace your hands behind your head. Warden says I can’t kill you, but I’ve got fifty thousand volts for your ass if you try anything stupid.”

I obliged. In fact, I all but jumped out to join them the second the door swung open.

“Hey, guys!” I gushed, beaming. “Is it time to fight now? Can I? Can I, huh?”

They both looked at me like I’d grown a second head, but I kept up the patter while Jablonski’s partner shackled me.

“C’mon, buddy,” I said, “hurry up, will ya? I’ve been looking forward to this all week. I’ve got some brand-new moves and everything!”

“Solitary,” Jablonski said to his buddy, twirling his finger next to his ear and rolling his eyes. I hummed the tune to “Eye of the Tiger” and bounced as we walked.

We paused halfway down the stairs as Jablonski corralled another guard. I recognized this one: Vasquez, one of the guards we’d taken hostage on our first escape attempt. From the scowl on his face, he recognized me too.

“Hey,” Jablonski said, “get up to cell four-forty-six and fix the light. This * smashed it.”

Vasquez put his hands on his hips. “So? Let him sit in the dark.”

“It ain’t for him. It’s for the next prisoner who gets put in there, after this guy bites it tonight.” Jablonski shot me a glare. “I’ve lost enough money on you already.”

“That’s because you bet against me last time.” I gave him a cheerful smile. “Don’t make that mistake tonight. I might just surprise you.”

A jaunty jazz tune rose up from the floor below as the piano and bass duo started to swing. We walked down the corrugated metal steps while waiters flitted from table to table and lit votive candles in ornate glass sconces. A tiny sea of pinprick lights at the edge of the killing floor. They’d rolled out the wet bar, and the first guests were already arriving, dressed for a five-star evening, arm in arm and sharing soft laughter.