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Authors: Karen Robards
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returned to their cell blocks.
“This happen a lot?” Hughes stood up and grabbed his briefcase.
Before she could reply, there was a single loud knock and then her door was thrust open. Johnson stood there, his hand on the knob. His eyes immediately shot past her to Hughes, and he blinked nervously a couple of times. Then he looked at her.
“Got to head outside, Dr. Stone.” Johnson had to yell to be heard over the commotion. In the hall beyond him, Charlie saw a river of guards, prisoners, visitors, and staff already filing toward the stairs. With the door open, the alarm was deafening. Add in clanging doors, raised voices, tramping feet, and the other noises associated with mass exodus and the racket was mind-boggling.
“We’re coming,” Charlie answered, moving toward him, and Johnson turned away in an obvious hurry. With Hughes following, Charlie joined the crowd in the hall. Johnson charged off ahead of them, forging through the surge of bodies, presumably to see to the evacuation of the other offices on that floor and also, she thought, to get away from Hughes. She found herself being jostled on all sides. To her consternation, as she neared the propped-open stairwell door, Charlie thought she detected a whiff of smoke. Prisons, being built largely of concrete and steel, were not particularly flammable, so an actual fire that amounted to more than a grease flare-up in the kitchen or a trash can alight would be surprising.
“This is a drill, right?” Hughes asked in her ear. He was right behind her, so close that his briefcase kept poking her in the thigh. A glance at his face told Charlie that he was worried: she guessed he smelled the same thing she did.
Behind them, a man yelled, “Fire’s in the library,” and someone else yelled, “Get the hell out of the way.”
A jolt of alarm widened her eyes. She glanced around to see the prison fire detail in their bright yellow vests shoving their way toward the library against the tide of evacuees. As Charlie registered that apparently there really was a fire, she cast a worried look back at her office. All of her research and the material in her files existed in triplicate and were backed up online as well, but still there were some things she would hate to lose. Like, for example, the half-empty coffee cup with Hughes’s DNA on it.
Nothing to do about it now.
The ramped-up rush for the exit bore Charlie along with it like flotsam on a wave. Grabbing on to the sturdy iron handrail as she started down the stairs, she found herself packed in so tightly by the larger male bodies around her that she had to hold on for dear life to keep from being knocked off her feet. Hughes was right behind her. He, too, grabbed the handrail. Out of the corner of her eye she watched his hand that looked so much like Michael’s sliding along behind hers and felt her shoulder blades tighten. She suddenly felt seriously at risk. Her skin prickled.
Was it because of who was behind her?
“Keep moving,” someone yelled, and they did, lurching downward in an uncoordinated mass.
The staircase was packed, nothing but shoulder-to-shoulder people, ninety-nine percent of whom were men. The noise level was unbelievable. The alarm’s continuous shrieking peals echoed off the walls. The smell of stale sweat made Charlie wrinkle her nose. Right in front of her, the Scared Straight kids were descending in a tight little group with their chaperone and a pair of guards. In front of them were Dr. Creason and his staff with the infirmary patients, who were being carried on gurneys to safety. The prisoners in their orange uniforms were easy to pick out of the crowd, and as she made her way down to the next landing she spotted Gary Fleenor’s tall, rangy body and narrow, sharp-featured face above her in a small group of prisoners emerging into the stairwell from the floor she had just left. His group was flanked by four guards, and Charlie concluded that they must be the prisoners who
“This happen a lot?” Hughes stood up and grabbed his briefcase.
Before she could reply, there was a single loud knock and then her door was thrust open. Johnson stood there, his hand on the knob. His eyes immediately shot past her to Hughes, and he blinked nervously a couple of times. Then he looked at her.
“Got to head outside, Dr. Stone.” Johnson had to yell to be heard over the commotion. In the hall beyond him, Charlie saw a river of guards, prisoners, visitors, and staff already filing toward the stairs. With the door open, the alarm was deafening. Add in clanging doors, raised voices, tramping feet, and the other noises associated with mass exodus and the racket was mind-boggling.
“We’re coming,” Charlie answered, moving toward him, and Johnson turned away in an obvious hurry. With Hughes following, Charlie joined the crowd in the hall. Johnson charged off ahead of them, forging through the surge of bodies, presumably to see to the evacuation of the other offices on that floor and also, she thought, to get away from Hughes. She found herself being jostled on all sides. To her consternation, as she neared the propped-open stairwell door, Charlie thought she detected a whiff of smoke. Prisons, being built largely of concrete and steel, were not particularly flammable, so an actual fire that amounted to more than a grease flare-up in the kitchen or a trash can alight would be surprising.
“This is a drill, right?” Hughes asked in her ear. He was right behind her, so close that his briefcase kept poking her in the thigh. A glance at his face told Charlie that he was worried: she guessed he smelled the same thing she did.
Behind them, a man yelled, “Fire’s in the library,” and someone else yelled, “Get the hell out of the way.”
A jolt of alarm widened her eyes. She glanced around to see the prison fire detail in their bright yellow vests shoving their way toward the library against the tide of evacuees. As Charlie registered that apparently there really was a fire, she cast a worried look back at her office. All of her research and the material in her files existed in triplicate and were backed up online as well, but still there were some things she would hate to lose. Like, for example, the half-empty coffee cup with Hughes’s DNA on it.
Nothing to do about it now.
The ramped-up rush for the exit bore Charlie along with it like flotsam on a wave. Grabbing on to the sturdy iron handrail as she started down the stairs, she found herself packed in so tightly by the larger male bodies around her that she had to hold on for dear life to keep from being knocked off her feet. Hughes was right behind her. He, too, grabbed the handrail. Out of the corner of her eye she watched his hand that looked so much like Michael’s sliding along behind hers and felt her shoulder blades tighten. She suddenly felt seriously at risk. Her skin prickled.
Was it because of who was behind her?
“Keep moving,” someone yelled, and they did, lurching downward in an uncoordinated mass.
The staircase was packed, nothing but shoulder-to-shoulder people, ninety-nine percent of whom were men. The noise level was unbelievable. The alarm’s continuous shrieking peals echoed off the walls. The smell of stale sweat made Charlie wrinkle her nose. Right in front of her, the Scared Straight kids were descending in a tight little group with their chaperone and a pair of guards. In front of them were Dr. Creason and his staff with the infirmary patients, who were being carried on gurneys to safety. The prisoners in their orange uniforms were easy to pick out of the crowd, and as she made her way down to the next landing she spotted Gary Fleenor’s tall, rangy body and narrow, sharp-featured face above her in a small group of prisoners emerging into the stairwell from the floor she had just left. His group was flanked by four guards, and Charlie concluded that they must be the prisoners who
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