Into the Fire(95)
Deputies ghosted through the haze below, turned insectoid in gas masks, herding inmates out of the pod. Many of the prisoners had removed their shirts and tied them over their mouths bandito style.
A few deputies pounded up the stairs, leading with their shields. Evan collapsed on the catwalk, curled up, coughing until he gagged. He balled a fist and rubbed his eyes hard, working the ash, grit, and tear gas deep enough to prompt swelling and redden them up even more.
They reached him and dragged him out. “Looks like smoke inhalation.”
“Christ, let’s get him to the med bay.”
Evan found his feet, fought off an urge to throw up, and waved the deputies off. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” His voice came out strangled, unrecognizable.
They steered him downstairs, out the security door, and through the mantrap he’d first entered twenty-seven hours ago.
The stream of prisoners passed the central control room, and then the men were packed into an adjoining dayroom insufficient to accommodate the pod’s overcrowded population.
The room simmered, a press of bodies. Shoving matches broke out, threatening to erupt. Evan shoved his way to one side of the room and stood with his back to the wall to aid his balance. He needed the building to hold him up.
The temperature was on the rise, rivulets of sweat working down Evan’s forehead. He mopped his brow and then finger-pasted more soot in its place, needing to keep the cover intact. He hoped the inked teardrops weren’t running. He was seeing spots; he desperately wanted to lie down.
Tension escalated, skirmishes flaring, resolving, flaring again. Deputies patrolled, pulling out prisoners for the medical bay and taking others in groups to store in various locations. The room thinned out a little at a time. Around eleven o’clock a deputy swung open the door and rapped it with his fist. “Anyone due for release tomorrow, come with me.”
Evan joined a half dozen other inmates, following the man out. More deputies materialized to flank them all the way to the inmate-reception center. Evan had to look down at his feet to make sure he was walking straight.
He found himself seated at a familiar table before a deputy he didn’t recognize.
“Your lucky day, homey,” the deputy said. “We don’t let you go day of release, you can sue our asses. And since we gotta unfuck that mess in 121 B-Pod today, we’re kicking you at midnight.”
“Okay.”
“Social and date of birth.”
Evan had memorized Teardrop’s personal information in advance, having chosen him for his size, build, and release date. But for an awful moment, he drew a complete blank. The ringing in his ears drowned out all recollection. The only thing he could picture was the awakening he’d received with Casper’s fist on one end and the concrete wall on the other.
The deputy leaned over, muscular forearms bulging. “Well?”
And then, like a dream, the numbers were there again, rippling up to the surface of Evan’s shattered thoughts. He recited the data quickly before it vanished once more into the deep.
The deputy grabbed Evan’s arm and twisted it to bring the wristband into view. He scanned it and then rubbed his fingertips together, eyeing the filmy residue.
Soap.
“What’s this?”
Evan fought not to alter his breathing. “I was washing up in my cell when the fires started,” he said. “I didn’t have time to—” He feigned another coughing fit, leaning over the table toward the deputy, who drew away.
“Okay, okay. Jesus.” The deputy tossed him a blue fishnet bag. “Here’s your shit. Get dressed.”
When Evan stood, it took his full attention not to topple over. He carried the bag to the concrete room where he’d changed before. After stripping off his uppers and lowers, he pulled Teardrop’s clothes from the bag. Wallet holding a debit card, driver’s license, eighty-some dollars, and a tattered photo of a woman in a bikini. Pack of cigarettes. Pack of chewing gum. Filthy jeans and a blood-crusted flannel shirt that had no doubt been soiled during whatever altercation had split Teardrop’s chin and landed him in here.
The two dollars and seventeen cents Evan had walked in with would remain behind, along with the fake license that would have faded to invisibility by the time anyone thought to pull it from deep storage.
Evan had to sit to yank on Teardrop’s dirty jeans, and then he buttoned the soiled shirt. His fingers felt numb, and he had a tough time shoving the buttons through the holes. Caked blood blackened the collar in the front. Swallowing hard, Evan ground it against his chin, bits catching in his emergent beard. If anyone thought to look for a cut on his jawline, the mess would provide ample cover.
He stepped out of the room, cleared his throat, and said, “I’m ready.”
As the deputy led him downstairs, he could hear his pulse whooshing in his ears. The air-conditioning blew down sharply on him, drying the back of his throat. His legs had turned to rubber, his knees threatening to buckle with every step. When he saw who was standing at the metal detectors in the front, he had to resist a powerful urge to draw up short.
It was Willy—the deputy who had classified him on the way in. His mustache, fringed with brown coffee stains, bristled as he bunched his lips.
He stared Evan straight in the face.
Evan lowered his gaze, prayed that the beard and soot and teardrop tattoos were sufficient cover. How many prisoners did Willy process through in a given day? Dozens? Hundreds? Moving past Willy, Evan sensed the man’s glare on him.