The Pit

Built in the 1930’s in response to the rising tide of crime sweeping through America on the heels of the Great Depression, Pitcairn Maximum Security Penitentiary sat atop a rocky bluff overlooking a small town bearing the same name. Originally constructed to house 480 inmates, by the time it was officially decommissioned in the early 1960’s when the presiding philosophy of incarceration swung from right to left, from the more punitive and rigid application of justice toward the need to provide offenders with rehabilitative programming, the population was only 114.

An anachronistic edifice, long passed its glory days, a testament to a bygone era of stone walls and steel bars, Pitcairn lay essentially mothballed, decaying and decrepit.

The War on Drugs and the implementation of new three strikes legislation caused the rates of incarceration to reach critical mass. Prison populations were exploding and overcrowding was identified as one of the primary contributing factors to the record levels of violence occurring within the penal system.

In an effort to address the problematic issue plaguing the penal system, The Holmstrom Study was commissioned by correction officials to identify potential strategies designed to cost effectively mitigate the escalation of violence within institutions and violent acts committed by prisoners.

After a number of years of thorough analysis, Holmstrom concluded that, aside from overcrowding, the majority of incidents of prisoner on prisoner and prisoner on guard violence were due to the influence of only a handful of prisoners either directly or through their agency. Identifying and labelling these particular felons as ‘habitual criminals’, it was postulated that removal of these antagonistic elements from the system would alleviate one of the fundamental root causes of violence and could be used as a stepping stone to restore a semblance of order to the system.

All parties agreed there was credence in the findings, but implementing the recommendations proved onerous, the cost of building modern new facilities from scratch was an exorbitant expense and burden to frustrated taxpayers, whom elected officials were reluctant to provoke lest they find themselves suffering in the polls.

Mired amid the tremendous amount of bureaucratic process, the Holmstrom project languished, though reviewed and re-submitted but never getting beyond the development stage, all the while the cost to accommodate ever more criminals in the overburdened system continued to spiral out of control.

Then along came elements from the private sector, equipped with liquid capital and an entrepreneurial approach to incarceration and the project was revitalized. Rather than starting construction on an entirely new facility, the new paradigm was to repurpose an existing institution.

The introduction of privatization and the ideology of repurposing old facilities was received very positively by government and correctional officials alike, presenting a much more fiscally responsible approach and one which would permit corrections to absolve themselves of problematic felons.

With financial backing and directorship of the private company Lindholm Global, the project was given provisional assent based on a limited scale for a pilot. Pitcairn was an ideal location for the pilot program due to its location, the nature of the facility, size, and of course most importantly, cost.

Pitcairn, as a whole, would be brought back up to code, but one of institution’s three residential cell blocks would be retrofitted to be a special handling unit for ultra-maximum security inmates. Work began in 2013 and new blood and life were infused into the old gaol.

Originally the institution was laid out in the shape of a ‘+’ and built on the cardinal compass points. North block, the top of the tee, was selected as the unit for the enhanced security remodel, having housed the prison’s previous segregation and isolation units, the infirmary, and a small fully contained exercise yard.

East and west blocks each possessed a left and right side, five tiers high, twenty cells to a tier for a maximum of 400 prisoners. These would be kept vacant during the pilot to determine overall efficacy of the project.

There were no cells in the South Wing, instead, it housed the administrative offices, reception, laundry, and a kitchen and was directly attached to center of the tee and the control area called the Dome.

Renovating the jail proved easier said than done, cost overruns, injuries, and other unexpected complications delayed completion until summer of 2015. Workers joked under their breath that a fresh coat of paint for a facelift couldn’t disguise the fact that Pitcairn was still the Pit, and the Pit demanded its pound of flesh.

While the location was being prepared, next came the screening process to identify twenty prospective candidates for relocation for the pilot from which twelve finalists would be chosen. The criterion for selection was simple, using Homstrom’s methodology, find the absolute baddest of the bad, the most incorrigible and violent amongst existing prison populations. Those with no possible hope of any type of parole or release except in a pine box. After months of careful review, twelve men were selected, nicknamed the ‘Dastardly Dozen’ by the selection committee comprised of representatives from corrections and Lindholm Global.

Like the construction aspect of the project, there were some hurdles to overcome getting the twelve selected criminals relocated. Two of the twelve finalists were killed prior transfer and a legal circumstance precluded inclusion of another so only the rights to nine of the candidates could be secured and the ‘Dastardly Dozen” became the ‘Nefarious Nine’.

Although now a private entity, the operation of the institution would still be bound by the tenets of the Penitentiaries Act of 1973, with oversight still regulated by an appointed council made up of members from government, corrections, and Lindholm Global itself. This being said, it was implied that there would be a substantial amount of unwritten latitude built into the project. Lindholm Global kept the fine print details of the actual project aims and management strategy hush hush, but correction officials didn’t care as long as they were able to wash their hands of responsibility of everything associated with the habitual criminals. All elements of day to day operation would be left to Lindholm Global, including security, catering, and provisional health care.

One Eye

John Francis Taylor, called One Eyed Jack by friends and foes alike arrived at the Pit from the isolation unit at Stonehaven Maximum Security Penitentiary, known within the system as a ruthless gladiator school, a crucible of pain and suffering to battle harden all unfortunate enough to be sent there.

Stepping cautiously out of the back of the armored transport van and onto the folding step, Jack paused a moment in the threshold, looking up with his left eye, his one good one. The faded scar on the right side of his face started at his forehead running vertically through his now milked out dead right eye and over his cheek, making it seem like he wore a perpetual half smirk on that side of his mouth.

“Down,” instructed the uniformed guard, motioning Jack forward with a summoning hand. The other uniformed escort stood back a dozen paces, shotgun in his hands. Two other officers, dressed in the uniforms of the privatized Lindholm Global running Pitcairn stood on the elevated gun walk at the back of the receiving bay, both carrying AR-15’s.

He more dropped than stepped down from the little aluminum step to the concrete, his gait restricted by the shackles binding his ankles and the chain leading up from his leg irons to the body belt restraining his wrists.

Garbed in a bright orange jumpsuit, feet in laceless white canvas slip on running shoes, he shuffled his feet forward, the unarmed officer slipping a hand under Jack’s arm guiding him toward a security door leading into a small vestibule.

Reaching up to the button on the panel, the guard depressed it, holding it in, “Delivering one,” he said before removing his thumb and waving a hand at the officer behind the glass in the security control post overlooking the checkpoint.

“Roger,” came the reply, followed by a buzzing sound coming from the lock on the door. Reaching out with his free hand, the escort pulled open the door and walked with Jack into the vestibule, facing another door on the opposite wall.

The overhead fluorescent light hummed, shedding weak pale light over the light neutral green paint on the walls. Despite the effort to modernize the facility, it held the lingering trace of a smell, something old, tainted by misery and time.

The second door lock wasn’t released until the first door closed behind the pair. Led into Admissions/Receiving, Jack was placed in an eight by fourteen foot holding cell, featureless save for a single bench along the far wall and combination stainless steel sink/toilet combo. He was left in the large cell, jewelry still intact.

Crossing the cement floor, Jack sat on the bench mounted to the floor, leaning his back against the cool cinder block wall and closing his eye.

He heard the sound of boots off the concrete. “Big bad Jack Taylor, welcome to your new home boy,” said the voice of the previously shotgun wielding second corrections guard, breaking Jack’s solitude.

“I know you?” Jack asked, voice deep and gravelly, bringing his head off the wall to look at the guard. He looked relatively young, big bastard, six five in his boots and thick, goon squad material. The guards that prepped him for transport were different than the ones assigned to drive the van.

“Officer Stevens,” answered the man, an air of arrogance in his carriage, smug grin on his face. “You don’t know me, but everyone at Central knows about you,” he said, nodding his head knowingly and raising his eyebrows.

Closing his eye, Jack leaned his head back against the wall, deigning to ignore the young guard.

“You know, I must say I’m kind of disappointed, I was kind of expecting more, what with the stories and all,” commented the officer. “I thought you might even have the nerve to try and escape. Guess you’re just gutless.”

“Officer Stevens, your paperwork is all in order, the prisoner is now in our custody,” came the bass voice of the privatized prison guards.

Stevens turned and acknowledged, ducking his head before departing.

Jack opened his eye again and fixed the steely bluish grey orb on the newcomer as the man walked up to the bars. He was an older man, four gold stripes on each of the black epaulets adorning the shoulders of his white uniform, rounded belly.

“Welcome to Pitcairn Mr. Taylor, my name is Guard Captain Rollins,” he announced directly, nodding his head slightly. Despite wearing the private uniform, Rollins carried himself like a man who had been in the system for a long time. “Despite the dungeon like appearance, Pitcairn is fully modernized with state of the art security,” he started.

Inclining his head slightly as a sign of acknowledgement, Jack waited for the speech. There was always a speech. The words varied, but the gist was always the same. ‘This is my jail and as long as you behave yourself, we’ll get along just fine, blah, blah, blah’. At least this one was being cordial. Sometimes the speech came with a beating for emphasis.

“I ask that you conduct yourself with a degree of respect and you will be treated accordingly,” Rollins finished.

Jack half smiled, showing off his gold crowned right canine, “You ex-corrections?” he asked.

Rollins nodded, “Thirty two years.” Same age as Jack.

Jack nodded, “How’s the food here?” he asked.

Grinning, Rollins lifted a hand and tilted it from side to side, “Cheap but plentiful, better than most other jails by my estimation,” he answered honestly.

“And I thought this was going to be shit day,” Jack quipped jokingly.

“Lindholm Global runs a different kind of institution than you’re used to,” added the security officer.

Chuckling softly, “One based on profit,” Jack remarked.

“I been around for a lot of years, seen a bunch of different posts, trust me, this place is different, for both of us,” explained the former corrections officer, drawn out of retirement by Lindholm Global.

Jack nodded slowly, “Who says you can’t teach an old dog?” he asked.

Rollins chuckled back. “We’ll be moving you through admission soon, then you can get yourself squared away,” he informed, patting the cage bars softly and nodding.

After Rollins left, Jack leaned back against the wall, chuckling and shaking his head. The Pit. The last rest stop before Hell. If Rollins was to be believed, at least the food was bearable.

The Road to Nowhere

Even though his given name was John, his parents called him Jack from the get go, kind of in the same fashion as JFK. Life at home with an abusive alcoholic wasn’t easy and he grew up hard. By the time he was fourteen he was in juvenile detention convicted of aggravated assault for beating his father into a coma. His first armed robbery occurred when he was only sixteen.

By the time he was eighteen he was seasoned vet and placed into an adult facility. Over the first few months of being inside, things were brutal. Tall, lean, good looking, it didn’t take too long before the vultures started circling the fish to try and get a piece of his ass. He was having none of it and made it clear in no uncertain terms, but sometimes people can’t take no for an answer

One such person was Moses Able, a lifer, and ranking member of the fairly strong Red Hand faction within the joint, and he had a thing for handsome fresh faced Jack, but when Jack didn’t give it up willingly, he sent out some thugs to drag Jack back so he could take it.

Jack reached up and touched the faded scar on his face. He got that memento the day it went down, that and seventeen other puncture holes in his body, but in the end, he survived and two of his attackers were dead. And Moses never got ahold of Jack.

He spent the next three months in the prison infirmary, during which the investigation into the incident concluded that though excessive, Jack’s actions fell under the umbrella of self-defense.

The day he got out of the prison’s hospital ward, he tracked down the orchestrator of his attack, Moses Able and went to his cell and beat him so bad the man was left little more than vegetable. He was still in the cell, stomping the man when Tactical interceded and took him down. He got four additional years added to the end of his sentence, ‘for the vicious and callous nature of the offense’, plus he spent eleven months in the digger, another name for punitive solitary confinement.

It was all about respect and by the age of twenty, he had earned some stripes, but he knew it wasn’t over. The Red Hand would eventually be coming for him, undoubtedly green lit to take him out. It was around that time he met Jake Ryan, young like him and in the crosshairs of the some of the jail’s resident chicken hawks. Jack pulled him under his wing and the pair became tight. In a span of less than a year, Jack’s circle of acquaintances grew forming a crew consisting of eight, each solid, each willing to take a blade for the other.

The bigger groups began to take some notice, particularly, the Red Hand. They made their move the day Jack turned twenty-two. When the smoke cleared, there were seven dead prisoners, one of his people, the other six belonging to the Red Hand.

The whole jail went on lockdown and stayed that way for half a year during the aftermath. Jack and Jake both wound up in solitary, though housed side by side where they could still talk to one another. The whole jail knew the play, knew what happened, but nobody seemed willing to testify other than one jailhouse pigeon who somehow wound up OD’d on junk in protective custody.

When administration lifted the lockdown, the landscape was different. Four of Jack’s guys had been shipped out to three other jails and several members of the Red Hand had been scattered throughout the region.

With only three of them left in Stonehaven, Jack, together with Jake and their other remaining crew member, a hulking brute of a human being whom they called Kong, based on the fact the man looked like a bigger version of the wrestler named King Kong Bundy, maintained a fairly low profile, content to just let sleeping dogs lie.

In the vacuum created by the outgoing transfers, another power emerged fairly rapidly, absorbing the remnants of the Red Hand and calling themselves the New Order. Using force and intimidation, the New Order quickly dismantled several of the smaller cliques, recruiting them to bolster their ranks, but as the organization was growing, with no counterbalance to keep it in check, it was becoming increasingly more corrupt, ruthless, and underhanded.

Jake said the wrong thing to someone in passing, offense was taken, and he wound up shanked and left and for dead.

Another lockdown ensued. A day after the stabbing, Officer Kelton came by Jack’s cell to let him know Jake had died in the infirmary while they were awaiting emergency medical transport. Jack raged, surrendering to mindless anger lest grief get ahold of him. Filled with dark purpose, he plotted, pulling together resources and personnel to prepare a counter offensive the moment the screws cracked the gates.

Three days later, the lockdown was lifted, an hour later, the whole jail was in a condition of pandemonium as a full scale riot erupted.

It took five days for staff supported by elements of the National Guard before they were able to retake control of the prison. When the dust settled there were fifteen prisoners dead and damages estimated in the millions placing Stonehaven in the same breathe as New Mexico State, Attica, or Lucasville.

Amongst the dead, all three executive members of the New Order. Anyone who knew anything, said nothing, others whispered it was One Eyed Jack, the man sporting a black heart tattoo on one side of his neck, a spade on the other, one each for the two one eyed jacks in a deck of playing cards.

All of the suspected instigators were rounded up and involuntarily transferred up in security including Jack and Kong, both winding up in Elmhurst Supermax. On twenty three and a half hour lockdown every day, Jack spent two years in solitary with little to do except exercise.

In the course of the next three years, Jack was bounced around to four different jails, moving frequently because no one wanted him, fearing the mischief he might incite. Eventually he wound up back at Stonehaven, five years after he left. Stepping off the transport bus, he was immediately taken to the hole where there was a reception party of guards who remembered him from his previous stint and beat him bloody and unconscious, leaving him for three days in handcuffs and shackles.

Warden Dawes came down to the hole personally, telling Jack he wasn’t a shot caller anymore, just a broken down excuse of a man clinging to an obsolete con code and reading him the riot act, demanding Jack sign a behavioral contract as a condition of getting out of solitary and remaining in Stonehaven. Jack shook his head and spat on the paper.

That was a six months ago, and now he was in the Pit.

Familiar Faces in Strange Places

Once Jack was properly processed, showered, de-loused, and x-rayed, he taken to a room where he was informed he was to be fitted for an electronic collar. He refused and was promptly sedated and adorned with one anyway. Half groggy, he was escorted to the living unit called North 1. Rollins hadn’t been kidding about the Pit’s new modernized systems. Every aspect of the move was compartmentalized and monitored.

Unlike the rest of the jail with its tiers of long ranges and bar faced cells, North 1 was entirely closed in in. Twelve cells in a row with bright green solid metal security doors equipped with a long vertical mesh glass window and a metal drop slots.

Once he was placed in his little 7X10 cement cubicle, the restraints were removed and he was regaining a sense of his bearing. Inside the cell, there was a metal cot bolted to the floor, a table, also bolted down, and a sink/toilet combo unit. Sitting on the cot was thin black and white stripped mattress, new as evidenced by the lack of discoloration and staining on it, and on that a set of sheets, a knit blue blanket, one pillow case on a thin pillow, two towels, another jumpsuit, and a perforated clear plastic bag containing one plastic fork, a round Melmac coffee mug, a short toothbrush, toothpaste, a small clear bottle of shampoo, a single bladed blue disposable razor, a bar of hand soap, and a black comb. Moving the stuff onto the table, he set about making his bed.

“That you Smiling Jack Taylor?” he heard a voice call from another one of the cells.

Tucking his blanket in, he stood up straight, “Who wants to know?” he replied, moving to the door and peering through the narrow strip of wired glass.

“Russell Thomas,” replied the voice.

A slow smile spread across Jack’s scarred face. “Been a lot of years,” he replied. Russell had been one of his mates in Stonehaven before the scatter years back. Russell had gone on to establish himself as a force to be reckoned with in his own right during the years between.

Russell laughed, “Fuck yeah,” he responded emphatically.

“You faggots done getting reacquainted then dummy the fuck up,” called another voice angrily from somewhere down the range.

“Why don’t you shut your fucking face pussy,” Russell retorted. “That yappy little fuck is Cornelius Hall, but you can call him corn hole,” he stated.

“Fuck you,” Cornelius replied.

Leaning his forearm above the window in his door, Jack closed his eyes and nodded slowly, “I know your name, ATK out of Lachlan,” he said. ATK was the name of the gang, ‘Armed to Kill’ they called themselves, others said it meant “All the Kooks’ because any wingnut could and often did get it.

“Represent,” replied the other man.

“What’s the deal with the collar?” Jack asked, trying to slip a finger under the uncomfortable metal band.

“We all got one,” Russell replied. “We think it’s like a Running Man kind of deal, but who knows? GPS maybe?”

Tipping his head back and opening his eyes, “Who else we got up in this house?” Jack asked out loud.

“Marcellus Tate,” came a deep bass voice. Another name Jack knew. A man who used to be very well connected, former founder and leader of the Westcoast Warriors where he singlehandedly consolidated two bitter rivals into one monster gang.

Marcellus was old school and still held to the notion of honor among thieves despite the shift in modern thinking toward get all you can while you can and fuck the consequences. As a result, he was set up and contracted by members of his own gang who were more aggressive and less scrupulous than him. He planted a half dozen of his own before they took him down.

“You and I got some catching up to do you one eyed fuck,” snarled another voice from Jack’s past.

“Darryl Hodge,” Jack said, frowning. Former member of the Red Hand and New Order. A physical specimen to be sure. Jack had stabbed him a dozen times, the man should have died, but he was a stubborn son of a bitch.

“Fucking A right punk,” Hodge cracked back, chuckling.

“Punk? You’re the fucking punk. You better pray they don’t crack us all at once, fucking buster!” hollered Russell, slamming his hands against his door.

“Fuck you. After I dummy your boyfriend, I’m going lay you out and fuck you in the ass bitch,” Hodge threatened.

“Listen up,” Jack growled, “What’s done is done and what happened in Stonehaven years back is over with. There’s no way to undo that, but if you let it go, I’ll let it go and we move forward,” he stated calmly.

“So what? You begging for a free pass now after plugging me full of holes? Fuck that.”

“No, you get to keep breathing and I don’t finish what I started back in Stonehaven,” Jack warned. “You got my word.”

There was a silence, hanging heavy in the air.

“A man’s only as good as his word and One Eye’s is golden bro,” interjected a Latin accented voice.

“Hector?” Jack asked, recognizing the man’s voice. They had done some mutual time together and while not officially affiliated, Hector had been the artist responsible for the majority Jack’s tattoo work.

“Odele vato,” replied the other man.

“How long has everyone been here?” Jack asked.

“Everybody in the last day or two, I think,” supplied Russell.

“Who else is here?”

“John Smith,” answered another con in a baritone voice. Jack nodded, yet another name he was familiar with, spend enough time within the system and soon you know just about everybody’s name and their beef. Two confirmed kills on the outside for Mr. Smith, double that inside. He was a very dangerous man.

Silenced followed.

“Seven of us?” Jack asked, breaking the lengthy stretch of quiet. “I saw twelve cages.”

“Nah man, with you here it makes nine. Unless my eyes deceived me, late last night they brought in Mordred Pallor,” supplied Cornelius.

“The Night Raver?” Jack asked. Word was Mordred seriously believed he was an undead vampire, requiring human blood for sustenance. Inside, outside, didn’t matter, he bled his victims dry, and of course, he was totally insane. Jack was kind of surprised he was here in the Pit in this company of rogues as opposed to some loony ward or puzzle factory.

“Count Von Blood Count himself,” Russell answered.

 “And who else?”

“Maynard White,” answered the last voice, tone haughty. Jack frowned. A man he had never met, but a name everyone knew. White was medical doctor addicted to scrips who, while high, negligently killed the daughter of a very powerful politician. In return, the good doctor was given a very lengthy sentence. The first life he took was by accident, the next three were premeditated. Doctor Death made nine.

The Powers that Be

The following day, at least Jack presumed it was, but without any natural daylight or means of time keeping, it could still have been the middle of the night for all he knew, each of the men was placed in restraints and escorted out of the living unit and into a room that resembled a classroom type setting, with a dozen desks bolted to the ground, each desk equipped with a fixed metal chain that was connected to their handcuffs. Walking to the room, Jack noticed the floor was painted with different colored lines leading out of the living unit to various rooms in the access corridor, like the floor of a hospital guiding traffic.

At the front of the room was a larger desk. The sounds of heels clicking off the floor echoing down the corridor preceded the arrival of a fairly tall woman dressed in a dark blue business suit, white blouse, and navy skirt, blonde hair done up onto of her head, slender framed glasses on a symmetrical pretty face. She held what appeared to be a cell phone in her left hand. Early thirties maybe and absolutely stunning. Moving in front of the desk at the fore of the room, she looked at each man in turn, making sure to engage each with her cerulean blue eyes, before gazing to the next.

Russell put his lips together and whistled.

Ignoring him, she said, ““My name is Director Dagmara Slinden and make no mistake I am in charge,” voice firm and brooking no argument.

“Why don’t you wrap those pretty lips around my dick and get in charge of sucking my cock,” Cornelius invited, laughing out loud and looking to the others for support.

The director held him in her icy blue stare a moment, a look of annoyance on her face. Looking down at the device in her left hand, she tapped at with her right index finger and suddenly, Cornelius started jerking violently in his seat, veins distending in his neck as he clenched his teeth together so hard they might crack. She looked on impassively for several seconds as he thrashed against the restraints before she once again tapped the device in her hand. Eyes rolling back into his head so only the whites were visible, Cornelius flopped forward onto his desk, a thin trail of spittle drooling from his mouth.

“Madre Dios!” exclaimed Hector.

“You’re not allowed to do that,” advised Maynard White in his arrogant self-entitled way.

Looking at him she tilted her head to the side. “I can do whatever I choose Dr. White, wait,” she paused and smiled, “My mistake, they stripped you of that title, now,” her face grew somber, “It’s just convict White.”

“Bitch, what the fuck?” Marcellus growled.

“I realize most of you are intellectually challenged and unaccustomed to adult conversation, but please let us employ a modicum of civility here and refrain from using profanity,” she instructed, holding up the device in her left hand for all to see before delivering a jolt to the powerfully built black man.

After a moment, she released him from the current. Atop his thick neck, his head rolled from side to side and his eyes blinked independent of each other before he gurgled and slumped forward.

“There are only a small handful of rules here, fundamental truths really, with which you will all need to come to terms with. First, you are nothing, cast offs, the dregs of society. You have no rights, no recourse to the law. You are now the property of Lindholm Global.  Second, I am god here, my word is law and my will absolute.”

“Fuck you and fuck Lindholm Global,” snarled Hodge, tugging at the stainless steel chain linking his manacles to the desk.

Her blue eyes narrowed and her full mouth pursed as she stared at him. “I was of the understanding that even the most predatory of animals possess some measure of cunning and I would have thought after seeing the effects of the collar twice now, you would have learned the price of insolence,” she chastised, activating his collar.

Leaning her bottom against the desk, she held out the device, “Anyone else?” she inquired as Hodge bucked noisily against his restraints.

The remaining men remained quiet. She nodded and proceeded to examine her fingernails a few moments, before turning off Hodge’s collar.

“Now where were we?” she asked rhetorically. “Right, you are chattel and I am god. My staff are an extension of my will and failure to abide by their instruction or behave in an acceptable manner will result in disciplinarian action. Are there any questions?”

“Isn’t this against the Geneva Convention or something, you know like a human rights violation?” Russell asked.

She smiled, as if humoring a child, “You have obviously forgotten rule one, the one where you are nothing and have no rights. Beside Dunant’s original proposition for the convention was based on ethical treatment of prisoners and non-combatants during wartime. Any others?” she asked, sweeping her gaze across the faces of the men.

“Sure, what are we doing here?” Jack asked, meeting her gaze with his good eye.

“You are all part of a pilot project aimed at alleviating the social cost of crime,” she replied. “You see, the financial burden each one of you places on society is steadily growing and people in general are fed up, especially with an incorrigible lot like you who will never be returned to society as productive contributors. You are takers, parasites, leeching off decent people.”

“What’s the project?” he asked.

A smile reappeared on her lovely face. “That you will come to understand in time. Let us just say for now we have moved into the human trial phase and depending on our results here, it may change the future of the criminal justice system,” she said.

Jack bit his tongue, knowing there was absolutely no value smarting off to this ballbuster.

“What now?” John Smith inquired.

“Your basic needs will be met, and you may enjoy some additional freedoms within your living unit depending on your behavior. The jewelry,” she made a motion with her right hand and touched her neck, “Allows me to know where you are at all times and it monitors a number of your vital signs. Any attempt to remove it will result in the detonation of a small explosive charge built into the device but capable of separating your head from your shoulders. Any other questions?”

“If we comply, we will be returned to our parent institutions?” Maynard asked casually, growing bored.

She chuckled, “There is no going back. Your cooperation will yield enhanced privileges, but this is where you will live out the balance of your life. For those with sufficient education to understand, Lasciate onge speranza, voi ch’intrate,” she said, half smile dancing across her lips.

Several heads turned to look at Maynard, who simply turned his nose up as if answering were somehow beneath him.

“Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” provided John Smith, “Dante’s Inferno, Canto III, line 9.”

The Director inclined her head, “Very good Mr. Smith,” she said. “Now, when you are returned to the living quarters, you will be permitted access to the common room. There you will find some amusements, playing cards and such. I understand that some of you may possess a certain amount of antipathy toward one another. I strongly caution you against engaging in any form of violent activity. As I mentioned before, the collar will alert us to any anomalies in your vitals.”

Marcellus appeared to be growing more cognizant and several of the men exchanged glances.

Dagmara looked around the room, nodding to herself, then she left the room.

New Digs

The men were returned to the living unit and the restraints were removed. The area between the two banks of cell doors was expansive enough to be called a common room, containing two couches and four chairs. There was a large flat screen television secured to the wall but inaccessible behind thick ballistic Plexiglass. There was another open area at the end of the cells on the west side with a toilet, urinal, and a shower stall.

There was definitely some palpable tension in the air, particularly between Darryl and Jack. Russell watched on, ready to lend aid in a heartbeat if things got physical while Mordred vanished silently back into his cell.

Squaring off, Jack felt confident he could take Darryl in a straight up fight, especially since the other was still rattled by his experience with the shock collar. Stepping up, Jack extended his right hand. “Us and them,” he said, referring to the con code which put the solidarity of all ahead of personal grudges or unresolved beefs.

Darryl looked down at the proffered hand, then to Jack before nodding slowly, “For now,” he said, taking the hand firmly and shaking it.

Releasing the handshake, both men turned away, two alpha males in a pack of alphas.

“I think what we need to do is figure this shit out man,” Hector said, looking around.

Maynard let out a long pronounced breathe, irritated, “What is to figure out? They are conducting an experiment. The Nazis did similar research on POWs and other death camp detainees in the interest of science. I would be curious to see the project summary to see what they intend for us, it could be quite fascinating,” he opined.

“Nazis?” asked Marcellus.

The doctor shook his head, “Moron,” he muttered.

The big muscular black man walked over to the doctor, “You need to watch what your narrow ass be saying. I know about you and how you poison people or cut throats while people sleep because you don’t got any heart. You ain’t got the jam to go toe to toe with a man, you best not be running your mouth, you get me?” he challenged, several inches taller and at least eighty pounds heavier than the doctor.

Maynard held his ground a moment before backing down.

“Everybody good?” John asked, looking to the faces of the other men. “Maynard’s right on one point. They are doing some type of research project on us and it’s obviously rooted in behavior modification. Over the last hundred years they have been exploring a bunch of different ways to control socially unacceptable behavior, from electroconvulsive therapy, insulin shock therapy, and lobotomy.”

“Moniz won the Nobel Peace Prize in ’49 for his work,” commented Maynard.

“They control the food, the water, the ventilation system, for all we know they could be bombarding us with radiation or white noise or electromagnetic energy,” he continued.

“Like lab rats?” Russell asked.

John nodded slowly. “Just like lab animals and because we are who we are, even if society catches wind of what’s going on, they won’t bat an eye if a handful of convicts are sacrificed along the way. Just some friendly advice, don’t antagonize Dagmara or give her reason to electrocute you and scramble your senses. Like it or not we’re in this together, Dark Side of the Moon, side 2, song 2, like Jack said.”

“Qué?” queried Hector.

“Us and Them,” John answered with a smile.

“So they win?” demanded Marcellus, shaking his head angrily from side to side and frowning.

John shook his head, “I know you’re pissed big man, but we need you to be more strategic in your thinking. How’s getting zapped going to benefit any of us in the long run?”

“Fuck that. There’s nine of us counting Dracula over there in his cage, I say we tear this fucking place apart,” grunted Marcellus, snapping his head back. “Rip it to the ground!” he yelled in a rage.

Instantly, Marcellus was dropped to his knees, hands up near his throat as his collar was engaged.

Jack shook his head and looked at the other men still in the common room, “A lesson for all of us, the moment any of us acts up,” he reached up and tapped a finger against the cool metal around his throat and made a buzzing sound with his mouth.

“What a fucking cunt,” grumbled Cornelius. “My teeth still hurt,” he added, opening and closing his jaw, eyes on Marcellus writhing on the ground.

Marcellus, now lying supine, stopped thrashing.

Looking at Maynard and pointing at the still form of Marcellus on the ground, “You going to do something?” John asked.

The doctor frowned, deepening the age lines in his face. “Fine,” he breathed, tone full of scorn as he dropped to a knee and checked Marcellus’s wrist for a radial pulse. “Still alive,” he said, letting the wrist go and allowing the hand to drop back to the ground before rising. “Happy?” he asked, fixing a look at John.

“Do not underestimate that woman,” John counselled.

“That mami, elle es una mujer caliente,” Hector said, nodding his head slowly. “She probably got some Latin in her,” he offered.

“Dagmara? That a popular name with girls in the barrio homey?” Russell asked, scowling.

“Well if she ain’t got any Latin in her, I can give her a little,” he said, place his left hand on his belly and dancing while giving Russell a wink.

“A very little,” chuckled Russell.

“Dynamite comes in small packages baby,” Hector replied, still swiveling his hips and shuffling his feet.

“How droll,” Maynard quipped, rolling his eyes.

“Mind what you say, this area is definitely under surveillance, probably both audio and video,” Jack cautioned.

John nodded, “Good point,” he said, walking over to Jack. Leaning in close, “We’re going to need to get out of here,” he whispered.

Jack nodded slowly. “Agreed, we need to start gathering as much intel about the layout, routine, guard rotation, assets as possible, the usual, but these bloody collars are going to be problematic though,” he said.

Leaning back, John nodded, “Leave that on the backburner for now,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

A monotone female voice came over the intercom, “Five minutes to lock up. All prisoners are required report to their cells.”

A Needle in a Haystack

Over the course of the next couple of days, Jack came to the conclusion, the place was as tight as a drum. Tension remained high in the unit, though the hostility was primarily directed outward most at Dagmara as common purpose held the uneasy alliance together with the exception of Mordred who isolated himself away and did not interact at all with the group. Efforts to engage him were met with indifference.

Meals were delivered on single plastic plates divided into three sections three times a day during lock up to be consumed in the cells. It was simple fair as Rollins had told Jack on the day he arrived, but there was plenty of it. If it was doctored or spiked with something, he couldn’t really tell.

During that time, each man was individually removed from the unit and left unattended in a 10X10 square room with a chair and a desk with a small pencil and instructed to complete a battery of paper driven psychological tests with titles like MMPI-2, R-CRAS, CPI, and MCMI. Hector refused, got stunned.

When allowed outside of his cell, Jack spent his time examining the interior of the common room, but trying to find some possible means or avenue of escape seemed like trying to find a single needle in a field full of haystacks. The majority of the masonry comprising the walls was pre-formed cinder block, painted with a flame retardant coating. Given the newness of the construction, all of the mortar seams between the bricks he examined were strong and without degradation. The floor appeared to be made out of cement pad covered in utilitarian gray carpet. The ceiling was unusual, in that it appeared to be opaque white impact resistant panels through which the overhead lights shone. Testing them, there was no give and they did not appear to budge. Similarly, there was nothing of note in the washroom, the penetrations for water and drainage, small and without decay. Essentially, it appeared as if it was a giant fully contained cement block. He was able to identify the location of several cameras, presumably with fisheye lenses, built directly into the smoke detectors affixed high up on the walls in the cells and the common room. The furniture was constructed mostly out rigid metal with cloth padding, bolted down to prevent possible use as a battering ram. The big screen TV had yet to come on and there was no remote to activate it. Whoever had designed and built the place definitely made it secure.

Consulting with John, he too met with no success. He focused on looking at human factors. Identifying the different guards they encountered and interacted with, which given the nature of the elevated security was very few. Efforts to engage any of them in casual conversation was useless, with the exception of Rollins. John got an opportunity to chat while the aged staffer was returning him to the living unit from a round of testing. Stopping outside the door, the old bull was all too happy to spend time chin wagging.

According to Rollins, there were only fourteen officers hired on to run security for the whole institution. They were prohibited from entry into the area designated as administration. When asked about the administration, the guard captain explained his dealings with the administrators was very minimal and he was not made privy to the either the nature nor the scope of the project and when he made inquiries, the Director just smiled and brushed him off.

“She’s a hard one that girl,” Rollins said,  “None of my officers got any love for her, they call her Kommandant, probably on account as we think she’s German.”

John laughed, tucking away that little nugget of dissent, thinking of ways to take advantage of the knowledge and widen the rift between the two elements. “What about others, does she have people working directly for her?” he asked.

The old veteran guard grinned, “Yeah there are a half dozen or so, but I’ve only seen a couple of them, that bunch keeps mostly to themselves, but there’s a couple of good looking gals that answer to her, I think one is a psychologist and I don’t rightly know about the other, but let me tell you they’re both pretty enough to make me suck in my gut when they’re around.”

Again John chuckled, mind absorbing every detail, every word, even the nuances of his body language. “You not worried the Kommandant is listening in?” he asked, tone conspiratorial.

He shook his head. “Living units are wired for sound and video, the halls just for video,” he answered.

“Yeah, we found the cameras easy enough and figured there were some microphones,” he admitted, no sense trying to play dumb and it was a concession to help establish some foundation toward developing mutual trust. “What we were really wondering was if they’re drugging the food, or the water,” he said. “You heard anything about that?”

Rollins paused in mid stride, a mortified expression on his jowly face, “Christ I hope not, I’ve been eating the same grub as you fellas,” he said.

“Maybe they’re testing you too, running a double blind, who knows?” John said, hammering home the idea administration was not to be trusted.

Rollins chuckled, but his eyes betrayed the doubt he felt. “What they got you boys doing in there?” he asked, changing the subject.

John shrugged, “Tests, tests, and more tests, though damned if I know why, I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter,” he answered with a chuckle.

John learned a few other things before Rollins put him back in the living unit. Rollins didn’t know about the collars or that they were capable of delivering a remote non-lethal shock, but did say it was also mandatory for all security staff to wear a metallic bracelet that looked like a match to the collar, a non-negotiable condition of employment. Also, the guards were non-union and required to sign an understanding of non-intervention in the event of being compromised or taken hostage during the course of work activity.

Aside from that, John did some experimentation to see if the electrical charge in the collar was strong enough or able to disrupt any of the electronics on the cell door locks, but after a couple of attempts of it proving to be ineffectual and both Hector and Russell were reluctant to subject themselves to subsequent jolts to test John’s theory, he decided to let it go.

Back in the living unit, Jack and John exchanged findings, though neither was heartened by the limited prospects.

Amiss

After a few more days of testing, Jack awoke groggily one morning when the PA system announced that henceforth, all meals would be served off a cart in the common room as opposed to a tray through the slot in the door. He had a monstrous headache, a throbbing situated right behinds his eyes that seemed to flare with each beat of his heart. His chest felt tight, constricted. Groaning he sat up in his bed and rubbed a hand over his face. His mouth was dry and he felt wrung out. Blinking, he swung his legs over the side of his bunk and yawned. Putting his hands down to push himself up, he paused, wiggling his fingers against the linen sheet of his bed. It felt wrong, coarser. Frowning, he got up and stretched before putting on his orange jumper, which also felt somehow different. Pausing at the sink to wash his face and brush his teeth, he looked at his reflect in the plastic mirror bolted to the wall over the sink.

There was a rapping at his door.

“Yeah!” he called, feeling the coarse stubble on his chin.

John stepped in, “You alright?” he asked, serious look on his face.

“Just feel beat down is all,” Jack replied, turning to look at John, “Why?” he asked.

Moving in close, “You notice anything unusual?” John asked.

“Other than the fact it feels like they used kitty litter as a fabric softener, no not really, but then I just woke up,” he answered, puzzled.

John frowned, “Things look the same, but they’re not the same. It’s like everything is a little cruder, like our sheets and coveralls. Looks the same, but when you feel it or handle it, you can tell there’s a tactile difference,” John explained.

“What?” Jack inquired.

“I know, I sound like a bug, but there’s something not right,” he expressed. “Think about it,” he urged, turning and leaving the room.

Jack scowled. Stepping out of his cell, he paused a moment. The atmosphere did feel different, some subtle change in the way the lighting illuminated the interior through the ceiling panels, an almost imperceptible odor of electricity or ozone lingering in the air or something. His scowl deepened.

Russell was seated on one of the couches, leaning forward over a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Walking over, Jack put a hand on his shoulder, “How do you feel this morning?” he asked.

Without bothering to look up, “Like a shit sandwich, without the bread,” Russell replied, chewing noisily.

Looking over at Hector, “You?” Jack asked.

He just shook his head, face pale and eyes sunken in.

Marcellus emerged from his cage, grumbling like an angry bear under his breath, eyes locked onto the food cart.

Hodge and John were standing close together in the washroom area, talking near the sink.

Maynard appeared, his normally gaunt face seemingly more drawn and pale than usual.

Cornelius chuckled, pointing, “You look like a bag of crap,” he chortled.

Maynard rewarded him with a condescending smile, “I may look like a bag of excrement, but you? You are a bag of excrement.”

Russell guffawed.

Jack wandered over to Mordred’s door, knocking before lifting the cloth flap covering the narrow window. The Night Raver was sitting on his bunk, eyes meeting his through the door window.

Nodding, Jack released the cloth and turned back to look at the others. Everyone was present, and either complaining about or looking like shit. John was right, something was off. He knew some psychotropic pharmaceuticals took a few days of ingestion to become active, but it didn’t make sense, given if the administrators were doping them, there was no way to control dosage so why would Hector and Marcellus both show signs now? Hallucinogens? He shook his head. Looking down at his hands, he examined his digits. Aside from the headache, he didn’t physically feel any different or dulled in any way.

Walking to the rolling cart where the food trays were, Jack pulled one plate out, bringing it to his nose to sniff it. Smelled exactly like it looked, eggs and toast. He forgot his fork. Frowning he sat down in one of the chairs and scooped up some egg with his fingers and put it in his mouth. Tasted alright, but the texture was off as he moved the food around in his mouth. The toast was more noticeable, like they used lower grade flour or something. Sucking his fingers clean, he got up and put his dirty plate in the plastic bin atop the cart.

Hector got up and walked over to Jack, bobbing his head, “You got a minute esé?”

“Sure,” Jack replied. “What’s up?” he asked, taking a napkins from the cart and wiping his fingers.

Hector frowned, “You and I been around the block a time or two homes and I know this is going to sound stupid, but just hear me out. Every cell they ever put me in, from the dorms in juvie to Stonehaven to here, I leave a tag, you know, just a way of saying, ‘Hey dudes, Hector was here’,” he said.

Jack nodded, not sure where the conversation was going, but willing to listen.

“So, when we got here, I did that, I couldn’t carve something more permanent in the wall, so I used some blood and left my sign,” he said.

“Okay?” Jack prompted.

“I woke up this morning and it was gone,” he said.

Frowning Jack said, “I don’t follow.”

“Like somebody came into my cell last night while I was sleeping esé and washed it away, just gone. You feel what I’m saying carnal?” Hector said, cocking his head to one side and nodding.

Jack nodded slowly in return, he did understand the implications of what the other man was getting. In the joint, you learn real fast to sleep light or you might never wake up, pure and simple. He knew there was no way in the world anyone could ever come into his cell while he slept without him knowing or sensing it.

Everything was so very confusing. Why erase Hector’s tag? Why did everything feel different? Why had they changed the food delivery method? It was like John said, ‘Everything looked the same, but felt different’.

What the hell was going on?

Overseers

Despite the archaic nature of the prison itself, the lab was spacious and well-appointed with all of the modern conveniences and amenities required to complete the project.

The showpiece of the project was on a large table in the center of the primary lab room. As much as could be reasonably duplicated, including functional toilets and wall switches, it was a 1/25th scale model of the prison’s secure unit, rectangular in dimension with one end the living area, opening into an access corridor containing six more separate rooms, four smaller, two larger. The model infrastructure was molded polycarbonate, a highly durable and strong plastic. All electrical conduits and plumbing was constructed externally to the model with no access from within. The roof was constructed of removable panels of fiber optically enhanced polycarbonate. Inside the model, it would appear like the whole ceiling was one giant soft light, while from above, everything was transparent allowing the project members to observe the residents undetected.

They had several nicknames for the model, jokingly referring to it as the home for model prisoners, referencing the size of the inhabitants as opposed to their behavior, the maze, and the mean hamster cage.

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Dagmara looked down on the occupants inside the model, a frown creasing her lovely face.

“You look pensive Mara,” commented Hope Stanford, the project’s psychologist.

Dagmara looked up and smiled at the sandy haired doctor. Looking at the other woman, a casual observer would never guess she possessed a doctorate in cognitive behavioral psychology, she appeared like she was still a teenager, big bright green eyes and face that belonged on a magazine cover. A double threat. Not only was she gorgeous, but she also harbored a keen highly educated mind behind those verdant eyes. Like everyone attached to the research portion of the project, she was personally hand selected for inclusion by Dagmara herself. Including Dagmara and Hope, there were two others on the project’s senior guidance committee, medical doctor Karilynn Wolcott, and administrator Madeline Masters. When she had been given authority over the project, Dagmara had selected ambitious career oriented women like herself who shared her ideology and women she knew and felt she could trust. There were also four younger project assistants who were aiding with logistics, data collection, and observational monitoring.

“I don’t know, call it intuition, but I don’t trust our little friends here, I get the impression they conformed a little too readily to the introduction into the new environment,” she commented.

Hope nodded, her light brown ponytail bobbing. “Given the contumacious disposition of our wee guests, I would be inclined to agree with your misgivings. We certainly anticipated a much greater degree of resistance to their circumstances,” she added. “That being said, with this eclectic assortment of personalities here, there is enough case material in that little box for me to spend the years studying the complexity of narcissistic, borderline personality, and antisocial behavioral disorders,” she said with a chuckle, eyes downcast and watching subjects 1 and 4 engaged in secretive conversation.

Seeing Mara and Hope observing the little men in the box, Madeline walked over to a vacant side of the table, “What are we looking at today,” she asked, a hint of amusement in her light brown eyes as she looked in.

“I was just saying to Hope I think our tiny felons are conspiring,” Dagmara replied, pointing a finger toward the common room where most of the nine were assembled.

“Conspiring to do what?” Madeline asked.

Mara shrugged, “That’s what troubles me. I’m not sure what it is, escape perhaps?” she suggested.

“Escape?” Hope asked, “The environment is impervious. A half million dollars went into its design and construction. There aren’t any doors or other means of exiting the model other than through the removable roof plates and they would be too heavy for the subjects to move even if they weren’t independent held fast. There’s no possible way out and if perchance somehow they found one, we have secondary containment here in the lab,” she ventured, shaking her head at the improbability of such.

Madeline grinned, “I think it may be something more nefarious, you know, with nothing but time to dream up ways to disrupt the system, it’s what they do. Idle hands are the Devil’s playground,” she added mirthfully. “Especially that one,” she said, pointing an index finger at Mordred Pallor sitting alone in his cell causing the other two women to chuckle.

“I expected more mayhem. When we selected these specific candidates, we knew several of them had a history of violence toward one another, but none of them are acting out or according to expectations,” mused the Director.

“You were expecting them at each other’s throats?” Hope asked.

“I expected more than verbal confrontation and posturing, especially between Taylor and Hodge, subjects 1 and 3. As a collective body, they’re up to something,” she replied.

“Undoubtedly as they become more and more aware of incongruencies in the environment, this may elevate their anxiety levels and lead to hostility and mistrust resulting in manifestations of violent expression,” Hope suggested speculatively.

“Maybe it’s just me and my thing for bad boys, but I think a bunch of them are hot,” Madeline commented with lopsided smile, not bothering to look up at either of the other two women.

Hope chuckled, “Perhaps when it’s time to conclude the project, Mara will let you take one of the little rascals home as a pet,” she teased.

Madeline’s eyes lit up at the possibility, “Could be fun, could I?” she inquired, hope sparkling in her eyes.

There certainly were some interesting possibilities. Dagmara shook her head, “As much as it would be entertaining, for the moment we will adhere to the project plan and euthanize them at completion of the experiment,” she stated.

Madeline made a show of extending her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

Mara smiled, “That’s for the moment. While they are adapting to their new size, I want to conduct a full screening for any physiological or psychological anomalies,” she said.

“Is there any specific way you want Kari and I to proceed or conduct the screening?” Hope inquired.

“Just go in subject order and isolate them in the interview rooms, use subjects 1 and 2 first, then proceed until all of them have been reviewed,” she instructed.

The doctor nodded, looking to Madeline, who was the one to make the PA announcements.

How Does it Feel?

Though everyone felt something, no one talked about it openly, other than in whispered or hushed tones, and nobody could really pinpoint a rational explanation. There was also the sensation you get when you think you’re being watched.

“Jack Taylor report to the security door,” instructed the same female voice used in all the PA announcements.

Walking over, Jack exchanged a few looks with a couple of the others. The door buzzed. Pushing through, he paused. Every other time he had been permitted access, it was always escorted and in restraints. His frowned deepened, unease gnawing at his belly.

“Follow the yellow line to interview room 2,” instructed the PA voice.

Following the line, it brought him to a door, which buzzed electrically and popped outward as he reached for the handle.

The room was a featureless grey box, a table fastened to the floor, a chair in front of it, also secured. The entire roof of the room was lit, like frosted glass with pale fluorescent light shining through. On the wall to the left of the door was a large 4X6 mirror.

Stepping into the room, he walked over near the table. The door closed behind him with an audible click.

Sitting in the chair, he leaned against the backrest, straightening his legs and crossing his feet before folding his arms over his chest.

“Good morning Mr. Taylor, how are you feeling today?” asked an unfamiliar female voice, tone neither friendly nor hostile.

“Fine I suppose, though there is a weird vibe in the air?” he inquired, narrowing his eyes and trying to locate a camera.

There was a brief moment of silence before the woman spoke again, “The project has been initiated. Can you tell me how you are feeling?”

Jack frowned, “Still feel fine,” he answered, turning his head to examine the interior of the Spartan interview room.

“Have you experienced any unusual sensations since you’ve awoken this morning?”

So they did do something, the question was what. Pursing his lips, he answered, “I woke up feeling groggier than normal.”

“A moment ago, you said, ‘a weird vibe in the air’, can you extrapolate what it is you meant by that statement please?” she asked.

He knew he was being assessed and contemplated how best to answer the question without giving too much away.

“Mr. Taylor?” prompted the voice.

“I’m not sure how to explain it,” he responded.

“Please try,” urged the unseen speaker.

Leaning forward in the chair, he put his elbow on his knees, “Out of sync,” he offered. “Like a step or two behind.”

There was a pause before the voice spoke again, “Any physiological experiences other than grogginess?”

“Headache,” he answered.

“No difficulty breathing, loss of appetite, loss of sensation in your extremities?”

He shook his head slowly from side to side.

“If you could please verbalize your response?” queried the voice.

Pausing a moment, “No, none of that,” he stated.

“Blurred vision, nausea, hearing impairment?”

“Again no,” he responded.

“Thank you Mr. Taylor, that is all for the time being, you are instructed to return to the living quarters,” said the voice, the door lock buzzed.

He tarried a moment, “That’s it?” he asked, looking toward the mirror.

“You are required to return to the living quarters.”

“I got some questions,” Jack said, not moving.

“Further delays will in disciplinary action,” advised the voice.

Frowning, Jack got up, stepped through the door and back out into the hall, retracing his path along the yellow line back to the living unit.

Once back through the double security doors, John came up beside him, grin on his face.

“What was that about?” he asked, looking at the reflective glass on the door.

“Just wanted to know what kind of day I was having,” he joked.

“They called Maynard a few minutes after you,” John advised.

Both men looked toward the speaker as the PA called out, “Darryl Hodge report to the security door.” Hodge glowered, but moved in that direction.

“Apparently whatever this project is, it is now underway and they wanted to know how I felt,” Jack explained. “Got the sense it was an assessment of sorts, you know, like checking to see whether or not I’ll bug out.”

“Makes sense, if they’re experimenting on us they’re going to want status updates along the way,” John said, nodding. “I want you to come over here a moment, I found something,” he whispered almost triumphantly.

Jack turned his good eye on the other man, “Oh, what?”

Chuckling softly, “You’ll see, but you’re not going to believe it,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the area where the toilet was situated.

Jack allowed John to guide him over toward where the toilet was half hidden by a vanity wall.

“I want you to feel it,” encouraged John, pointing at a spot on the wall down low beside the toilet.

Jack frowned, hesitating. “What? The toilet?” he asked, turning to John and giving him a speculative look.

“No, beside the toilet, near that line. Go on,” John prompted, surreptitiously pointing to a spot between the toilet and the wall.

Kneeling down, eyes still on John, Jack ran his fingers over the wall, stopping at the indicated spot, feeling a scar carved in the material. Swiveling his head, he looked at the spot for a moment, eyes widening, “What the? It feel like plastic,” he said, looking up abruptly at John.

John nodded. “Molded plastic made to resemble cinder blocks, then covered with a thick coat of paint so the texture would feel about the same. I was able to peel some of the paint away and wanter to check on the condition of the mortar between the bricks in the washroom and that’s when I discovered the whole wall was made of plastic, one solid piece,” he boasted, big grin on his face.

“That’s insane. Why would they make an entire wall out of plastic? Why make it look like bloody cinderblocks? What the hell are they hiding is on the other side?” Jack asked rhetorically, tapping the wall with the knuckle of his right index finger.

“I think we need to find a way to work on that spot, you know, rotate people through here and start carving away at the plastic and find out what’s behind it,” John suggested.

Jack shook his head slowly, “I don’t think we have anything that could even make a dent in this stuff,” he countered. Plastic? He snorted. It made no sense.

Strigoi

As the days progressed, one thing in particular struck the men as very odd. There was absolutely no contact with any security staff. All directives were issued by the woman on the PA. Failure to comply with any directive led to the delivery of an electrical shock.

They began to experiment with ways to undermine security in the hopes of discovering a way or avenue of escape.

Hector brought up the old school way of circumventing the electronic cell door locks by stuffing the female receptacle for the locking mechanism with compacted wet toilet paper. Jack had Hector try it out not just to see if it would work, but also to see whether or not it drew any heat. It did work and the Mexican wasn’t shocked, so they did it on all their cells door with the exception of the Night Raver.

Jack went to visit Mordred, knocking on his the metal cell door. No answer. He rapped again, a little harder, louder. The door opened, the pale nearly white Mordred stood there, cold eyes meeting Jack’s one good eye. Jack had to admit, Mordred’s appearance certainly fit the reputation. Tall and impossibly slender with light colored hair, skin pasty white, eyes pale blue and sunken enhancing his high cheekbones and giving him a morbid aristocratic countenance.

“Can I come in and talk?” inquired Jack, a little on edge but suitably confident he could handle himself if things got out of hand.

Mordred stepped back and extended a hand by way of invitation. “By all means,” he offered.

“Jack Taylor,” he said, introducing himself and giving the other man an informal nod.

“Also called One Eyed Jack, or Smiling Jack, on account of the scar,” replied Mordred in a baritone voice, tracing his right index finger down the right side of his own face as his lips parted into a smile.

Nodding, Jack smiled, “One in the same. They also say you think you’re a vampire,” he asserted. “Is that true?”

“Tell me, do you believe in vampires Smiling Jack? Rapacious bloodsucking monsters driven by an unquenchable thirst,” he inquired, an amused expression on his slender pale face.

“Nope,” he answered directly, “I believe there’s enough evil in the world without making shit up.”

Mordred laughed heartily and shook his head. “Well then,” he conceded, “Given such adamant certainty, I must certainly be no fiend of the night.”

Grinning, Jack replied, “Plus, if you were, I don’t think you would still be here.”

Mordred smiled, “In truth, I suffer from a condition called erythopietic protoporphyria, essentially a ferrochelalatase deficiency,” he explained.

Jack blinked, possessing not a clue what Mordred had just said.

“I’m allergic to certain wavelengths of light radiation,” he simplified. “Like sunlight.”

“Oh,” Jack acknowledged, nodding his head. “What about the bloodlust?”

“There are certain mental disturbances associated with the disorder,” he answered, “But certainly you haven’t wandered in here to know if I am nosferatu?”

“I came to see where your loyalties lie, we all got bagged and sent here involuntarily, including you and the rest of us have been able to shelve past grievances and start exploring options right now,” Jack said, blunt.

Mordred regarded him a moment, studying the lean but powerfully built man, “What has your assembled brain trust come up with so far?” he asked, inviting conversation.

“Well, we know how to keep the cell doors from locking, sort of a variant of the groove patch trick they used to use on sliding bar doors back in the day, but surprisingly it works on these modern doors too and the bulls haven’t been around to undo what we’ve done,” he offered.

Mordred nodded his head slowly, pursing his lips.

“Plus, we’ve not seen hide nor hair of a screw in almost ten days,” he added.

“I noticed this as well, leading me to speculate the situation,” he stated.

“And?” prompted Jack.

Mordred shook his head, “I am at a loss. You are aware that we have all been relocated?” he inquired.

Jack nodded, “There have been too many things not quite right,” he replied.

“Like?”

“The cameras in the smoke detectors are fake. They weren’t originally, they are now. Not sure why. All textiles are coarser, sheets, blankets, clothes, like they’re made of a looser weave, little things. Hector’s missing tag. The walls used to be cinder blocks, now they’re made of some high tech plastic. The list goes on,” he supplied, spreading his hands.

“The walls are made of heat and impact resistant polycarbonate,” Mordred clarified.

Jack nodded, “We can scratch it, but it’s impossible to dig into it,” he said.

“I appreciate the candor of your approach, open, disclosive and respectful,” he expressed.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jack queried.

“Others in the past have not been quite so cordial, much to their chagrin,” he stated coldly.

Jack wasn’t intimidated, not that he got the feeling Mordred was trying to do so, but he heard the stories of how the slender man had savaged some of those brazen enough to make a move on him. “So what’s it going to be? United we stand and you been running solo here, so I’m wondering if you maybe won’t come out and make nice with the others,” he suggested.

Mordred smiled, expression almost rictal, “I do believe I have something to offer your band of merry misfits,” he said.

Jack tipped his head back, a gesture of askance, “What’s that?”

“I know a couple of things,” he said, being cryptic, sly grin on his face.

“Enlighten me,” Jack urged, curious to learn what it was Mordred believed he could bring to the table.

“Well, for starters, I know how to remove the collars,” he offered, a small smile playing at the corners of his thin lipped mouth.

Jack blinked, “Really?” he asked, surprised by the claim. Was it possible? No one really knew Mordred’s background or really who he was or what skills he might possess.

Mordred nodded slowly, confidently. “Undoubtedly,” he assured.

Word on Mordred he was insane, like bonkers crazy and Jack was cautious about investing in the notion in case it was a red herring borne of insanity, “What about breaching the wall, you got that figured out too?” Jack japed.

Mordred grinned, a creepy expression on his gaunt face, “While not nearly as certain, I do possess a viable idea which should make it possible, now that we’re all working together,” he offered.

Jailbreak

Sitting together, the plan was simple. Using small lengths of copper wire pilfered from behind the light switches in their rooms, they could create a continuous circuit around the collar while punching the hinge pin letting them slip the restraint. Putting all of the collars in one corner of the room, covering them with mattresses to try to direct the blast, they were going to attempt to use the charge in the collars to blow a hole through the plastic. Depending on the size of the hole, would determine the next step. Hopefully it would be large enough and the plastic sufficiently weakened they might create an opening big enough to get Hector through, him being the smallest of the nine.

The day of the attempt was not unlike the ones preceding it, everyone did the same thing and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

After night lock down, Hector slipped out of his cage, testing to see if there was anyone or thing was monitoring his movements. When he sensed the all clear, he alerted the others and one by one the men made their way to Mordred’s cell, deciding to use his as it was the cell furthest away from the common room security door, lest the muffled explosion create more noise than anticipated.

“What if it’s triggered bio-electrically? You know, once it no longer detects a pulse it automatically detonates?” Maynard asked, arching an inquisitive eyebrow, mocking expression on his face.

Jack frowned, “Now? You bring this up now? You might have deigned to have shared that consideration with us earlier,” he growled.

Maynard grinned, “Where would the fun be in that, that stunned looked on your mutilated face is positively amusing,” he chided.

Jack stared at the doctor a moment, fingers on his right hand curling into a fist.

“Jack,” cautioned John, placing a hand on the one eyes man’s shoulder. “None of us thought of it.”

“The idea was mine, I shall test the theory,” offered Mordred stepping forward.

The process of punching the pin proved more difficult than anticipated, and there was some concern with the amount of time it took. Once it was finally out, Mordred shed the collar and deposited it on the mattress and stepped back. Everyone stood still, unsure of what to expect. There was no explosion, no electric shock, nothing.

“Fuck you Maynard,” Jack quipped, smirking at the doctor.

The arrogant former physician rolled his eyes demonstrably and shook his head.

Removing the rest of the pins whiole keeping the copper circuit intact proceeded fairly quickly compared to the initial collar and after all the collars were removed, they were piled on the floor in a corner. There was no way to remove the improvised copper circuit jumpers simultaneously to coordinate the collars to go off collectively, but it was thought if the copper bypasses were removed at relatively the same time, the hope was that it would create a large enough cumulative effect to generate a more forceful blast and punch a hole through the plastic wall. Shredding a sheet and braiding a tight rope with an end resembling a cloth cat o’ nine tails, they were tied to the copper strand. The idea was to yank the ‘rope’ and remove the copper all at once. Once it was in place, they grabbed a few other mattresses and piled tem over the collars.

“Wouldn’t it be a bitch if they were lying about the collars and they are no explosives, just so we wouldn’t fuck with them,” joked Hodge.

“Dude, that is not even funny man,” commented Marcellus, scowling, standing near the back of the room.

Letting out an exaggerated breath, Maynard quipped, “Perhaps everyone should evacuate the room and close the door to contain the explosion and focus all of the energy,” he said, shaking his head as if speaking to ignorant children.

Everyone shuffled out of the room, the makeshift rope under the cell door. With everyone clear, John jerked the rope. There was a low sounding series of booms in rapid succession, followed by a single concussive wave, strong enough to buckle the door and spiderweb the metal grid security glass panel inset in it.

“Guess they weren’t fucking with us after all,” chuckled the big black man.

“Nope,” agreed Hodge.

Pulling the door open, John peeked in the room. Small tufts of mattress fiber and filler floated inside the hazy interior of the darkened room, weak light spilling through the open doorway. There was an unpleasant smell like burnt hair strong in the air.

Hustling across the floor, John crouched down beside the spot where they had set up the disengaged collars and ran his fingers over the site of the blast. Examining the wall, the paint was stripped away and there were some darkened char marks, but the material itself appeared pretty much undamaged.

Looking up at the others, John pursed his mouth and shook his head, “Not even a scratch,” he commented, tone disappointed.

“Well now, that certainly puts us all in a pickle come the morning when our handlers come and find we have removed our collars,” Maynard said sarcastically. “I say we all return to our little boxes and try and get some rest.”

“I say fuck that, make them bitches come in here and try and put that shit back on. I’ll snap that little girl’s chicken neck,” growled Marcellus, making a breaking motion with his big powerful hands.

“I got a better idea,” said Jack, eyes fixed on the ceiling over the corner where they had detonated the collars. From his vantage, it appeared as if the whole ceiling had been lifted up and shifted slightly askew, creating a gap in the corner nearly eighteen inches wide, blackness beyond.

All eyes turned to him, then followed his gaze.

“It’s like the roof was one solid panel that’s been blasted out of place,” Russell observed, shaking his head.

“Forced it up, like a firecracker popping the lid off a coffee can,” Hector stated, smirking.

“Interesting,” mused Mordred.

“Enough jaw wagging, we need to see what’s on the other side,” John said, standing up and brushing his hands together.

“I’ll go,” volunteered Hector. “I’m the smallest and it might be harder for them to spot me if they’ve manned the guard towers.”

John turned to Jack, “You’re the one who spotted it, your call?”

Jack nodded to Hector and looked up at the gap.

Marcellus and Hodge offered to boost Hector up, but he shook his head, running up to the wall and launching himself up, grabbing an edge and pulling himself easily through the hole and vanishing into the gloom.

Revelations

The eight men still in the cell waited expectantly. When Hector‘s face peered back through the gap in the ceiling, his eyes were wide and he was shaking his head.

“Well?” asked John.

“You have to see it esé, I,” his voice dwindled off, as he looked up and away at whatever was on the other side.

“Get me up there,” instructed Jack, fixing his good eye on Marcellus and stepping forward. The big black man tented his fingers and Propelled Jack up so that he could squeeze through the opening.

The light outside the box was subdued, standing up, Jack looked around, his mind having difficulty processing what his eye was telling him. Around the table upon which the model was situated were six mounted cameras facing down over the model.

In the distance glowed the word EXIT in bright red letters, but to his estimation the sign was like a billboard. In the dim light, he could see a number of desks, some with computers, along the wall a long blacktopped counter.

“Jack?” called John.

Turning, he looked down at his feet, able to see directly into the living unit, as if the entire roof/ceiling was one way glass.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered.

“What is it?” John asked excitedly from below.

“It’s the roof, the whole thing is made up of see through panels. There’s giant cameras everywhere that can see down into every room from here,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You need to get up here John, you all need to get up here,” he said, moving back toward the gap and extending his arm into the breech.

One by one, each of the men were lifted out of the cell and on top of the model. Standing there, it appeared the model was situated on some type of elevated platform approximately fifty or sixty feet above a light colored tiled floor.

“What the fuck?” breathed Hodge, shaking his head.

“This don’t make no sense at all,” mumbled Marcellus. “This place is bigger than the inside of the Superdome.”

“It’s like one of those home show models or dioramas or something,” Cornelius said.

“Why is everything so bloody big?” Russell asked, running a hand over his head, eyes boggling.

“No,” said John, shaking his head. “Everything is not big. I think it’s us, we are all small. Two and half inches maybe judging by how large everything appears.”

“Balderdash,” snorted Maynard, shaking his head disdainfully. “Obviously this is some shared delusion precipitated by the ‘experiment’. There currently exists no technology capable of shrinking people.”

John turned toward the doctor, “Maybe this is the human trial version of that goddamn technology you pompous ass. You ever think of that?”

“Verily? You think it more likely that some company has developed some new profound technology and is clandestinely testing it on incarcerated persons as opposed to dosing us with something like a dopamine antagonist? Really?” challenged the disgraced physician.

“I believe what I see,” John countered, extending an arm toward the interior of the lab room.

Maynard shook his hand and waved flippantly, “Obviously it is some mass hysteria primed by the plethora of tests we were subjected to prior to this elaborate set up. And before you attempt to dispute the notion of mass hysteria, it is a much more common phenomena that you might expect, examples like Blackburn 1965, Mount Pleasant Mississippi 1976, or the Holliwell Incident 1980 all support my position,” he asserted indignantly.

John grinned, “In each of the cases you’ve cited, you’re talking about physiological manifestations of infirmity as opposed to sensory delusion. We all see the same thing and we’re not talking about the Asch Paradigm of conformity through peer pressure theory,” he countered. “Look with your own eyes.”

“What I am saying is that your hasty decision to suggest we have all be made miniature by some heretofore previous unknown technology is asinine. Take a look at any ‘mass UFO sighting’. Just because a hundred moonshine inebriated hillbillies think they see a UFO instead of a lenticular cloud hovering in the sky doesn’t make the UFO real. Obviously you possess some education, albeit limited, ask yourself if which is more plausible, we are psychologically impaired, or we have all been magically shrunk down to less than the length of a regular cigarette? ” challenged Maynard haughtily.

Jack stepped up, “Whether this is some incredibly impressive feat of engineering and a complex psychological test project or Dagmara waving a bloody magic wand and now we are all the size of little green army men, I honestly don’t give a shit. What I do know is right now we are out in the open and we need to get down off of this goddamn thing. We can braid together some of the bedsheets and make a rope to get down to the floor and see if there is a way out of this monstrous room,” he snarled, extending an arm in the direction of the massive door under the exit sign.

“Well,” started Maynard before he was cut off.

“At the moment, that is something we can control instead of sitting here bitching about the how and why everything is haywire. Another thing, running around in here dressed in bright orange jumpsuits is going to make us easy to spot, regardless of how big we are or aren’t, so cut the shit,” Jack growled, asserting himself.

John looked to Jack and nodded slowly, “You’re right,” he conceded.

Maynard let out a long breath. “Fine,” he said reluctantly.

Cornelius walked over to the edge of the model and looked down, whistling, “That’s going to be a lot of bed sheets,” he commented, hawking up some saliva and spitting it over the edge.

Jack recognized it a moment too late, Hector’s body language said it all, and before he could intervene, the small man stepped in and pushed a surprised Cornelius off the edge, the sound of him hollering before hitting the distant ground below less than two seconds later making an audible thud followed by silence.

“Pendejo,” hissed Hector, pursing his lips and spitting after the fallen man.

Man Down

“What the fuck Hector!” demanded Jack, moving quickly toward the edge near the smaller man who was still peering over at the broken form of Cornelius on the floor below.

“That piece of shit didn’t think I knew, but I did. It was his boys that shanked my cousin Carlos back in Lachlan in last year, he lived, but he’s got to shit into a bag for the rest of his life,” he answered, turning his head to look at Jack.

“Maybe you didn’t fucking notice there is some fucked up shit going on right here,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

“I know, but we’re outside the box now esé, debt needed to get paid,” Hector said, “You know how it is.”

“So what? Now me and Hodge got to have a tilt because of our past? You stupid bastard, we are still in it up to our eyes and you just put us a man down,” countered Jack.

“We’re better off without him,” Hector said, shrugging.

Jack turned and walked away, “Russell, you and Hodge get back down in there and gather up all the bedding. We need to hurry, there’s no telling what or who might walk through that door,” he said gruffly, doing his best to control his anger.

John walked over, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder, “What’s done is done. Cornelius’s fall was about two seconds, which means the drop to the ground is probably around sixty feet or so,” he offered.

Jack shook his head, eyes boring a hole in Hector, “Stupid,” he murmured.

“Done,” john replied, knowing getting worked up about something they couldn’t change was a waste.

Having collected all of the sheets and blankets, Hodge and Russell started passing up the linens through the gap where Marcellus began braiding them.

In short order, they had a fairly decent looking rope, “It should be plenty strong enough,” Marcellus said, measure of pride in his voice.

Tethering the end of the rope through the metal frame of Mordred’s bed, Marcellus cast the line over the edge. “Who’s first?” he asked.

Jack turned to look at Hector, “He is,” he said.

“Fine, I’ll go,” Hector replied, moving over to the edge and descending the makeshift rope surprisingly fast.

“Good job on the rope,” John said, grinning and looking at Marcellus.

The black smiled and nodded back, “I used to have cornrows,” he said.

One by one each of the men used the rope to get to the floor, Maynard requiring almost three times as long as any of the others to get to the ground and grousing about his arms hurting.

Jack was the last man left atop the model. Walking back toward the center of the roof, where the video cameras were pointed, he looked directly into one and nodded slowly, the perpetual smirk on his face spreading into a grin, “Too bad there isn’t any audio here because I just wanted you to know you lose,” he said with a chuckle. Turning, he walked back over to the edge and began to descend down the rope, arriving to find Marcellus off to the side removing his orange jumpsuit.

“What are you doing?” demanded Maynard in a haughty derisive tone.

“Like Smiling Jack says, I ain’t running around in no day glow orange bullet attractor,” he said unabashedly, rubbing his big hands together once he was stripped bare.

“Well, I for one refuse to go naked,” announced Maynard directly.

No one responded as the others exchanged glances and began divesting themselves of their garments.

“Have you all gone mad?” queried the doctor.

Jack shook his head. “Marcellus makes sense. You want to stand out in bright orange, be my guest,” he offered, tossing his own discarded jumpsuit to the side.

After everyone else was naked, except for their shoes, Maynard relented, grumbling under his breath and stripping down.

“So what now?” Russell asked.

Looking around the room, Jack pointed to the counter nearest where they stood. “I think we make for that edge and circle around toward the door. It looks like it’s the only one here,” he said, meeting the looks from the other men.

John nodded, “I agree. Anyone else?”

“Perhaps it would be more prudent for us to simply try and find a place in here to conceal ourselves,” countered Maynard, arms folded defensively over his very slender chest.

“You stupid? Take a look around, where the fuck we going to hide?” challenged Marcellus, stepping in front of the doctor, his thick muscles rippling, daring the doctor to open his mouth again.

Physically cowed, Maynard looked away.

“Come on,” urged Jack, leading the way to the near counter. Hector’s murder of Cornelius had certainly splintered the tenuous peace between them and he knew if the good doctor wasn’t careful, nothing was going to stop the big black man from stomping him into the ground.

Circling around the base of the counter, then along the wall, they arrived near the big heavy looking door, the gap under it fairly tight.

“No way we can get under it,” commented John.

“Not all of us. Hector, Maynard, maybe Mordred,” Jack agreed, dropping to his belly to peer under the door. “Long hallway on the other side. Doors to either side,” he said.

“If you think I’m going to slither on my belly like some kind of snake to get under that door, you are out of your mind,” snorted the doctor.

Marcellus interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles.

“Hector why don’t you go scout out the other side, we’ll move to the other side of the door,” suggested John, looking up at the door hinges high overhead, realizing they needed to be on the other side so that should the door open, those unable to get under the door would have an opportunity to slip out.

“We’ll cross to the other side,” Jack said, looking on as the Mexican dropped down to the ground.

Hector nodded, “Odelé vato,” he said, wiggling under the door.

Moving quickly across the threshold of the door, Russell was bringing up the rear, the thick man heaving and lagging behind.

“Less time in the chow hall, more in the gym,” chided Jack.

Russell paused, hands on knees, “More out of shape than I thought,” he conceded, chuckling.

Suddenly Hector appeared under the door, eyes wild, “There is someone coming!” he shouted scant moments before the door started opening. Russell was slightly more than halfway across the threshold.

Diving to the floor, Russell tried to make himself as flat as possible, the sweep at the bottom of the door scraping his skin open as it passed over him, dragging him back into the room some. Grimacing he rolled onto his side just in time to see a gigantic woman’s size 8 Nike running shoe descending down over top of him. Raising his arms in vain, he sucked in a breath and then vanished under the sole of the shoe with a wet squelching sound.

“Run!” yelled John, pulling at Hector’s arm to help him to his feet and pushing him through the door.

“We go right fucking now!” yelled Jack, spurred on by a surge of adrenalin and knowing Russell was gone, slipping out the door and into the hall as the figure passed by and the door was slowly closing.

Now they were seven.

The Chickens Have Flown the Coop

Dressed simply in a fairly snug white sleeveless shirt and knee length black spandex shorts, graduate student Julie Preston, long blonde hair with tendrils of bright pink pinned back came bounding down the hall leading from the facility training center toward the lab, headphones in her ears, iPod strapped to a band on her right biceps, bouncing on her feet as she hummed along to the song Somebody Told Me by the Killers. Night shift was usually pretty dull, aside from the one time she caught one of the little felons tugging one out unaware she was looking on.

“You go little fella, work it,” she had encouraged from the other side of the glass the night subject 4 masturbated oblivious to his audience.

Grabbing the access card she wore on a purple nylon lanyard around her neck she bent forward and swiped it across the reader beside the door, grabbing the handle in her free hand. Pushing the door open, she stepped through the portal and bopped into the lab, crossing the floor to her workstation to get the clip board containing the nightly observation report sheet and readouts. Checking the clock on the wall, she grabbed the clipboard and noted the time on the report sheet. Swiveling on her feet, she stopped dead and frowned, seeing a series of reddish stains tracked across the floor from the door to where she stood. Shifting her weight, she lifted her right foot to look at the underside of her size 8 bright green striped Nike cross trainer and finding a nasty red mess of something mashed in amongst the treads of the heel.

“Gross. What on earth did I step in?” she asked, frowning and crinkling her pretty face before slipping the shoe off her foot and following the prints back to the door to a pulpy mass near the opening. Reaching over, she turned on all the overhead lights, filling the room with brightness.

Crouching down, she looked at the lump, recognizing bits of bones and hair in amidst the wreckage of what had once been a tiny human.

“Oh no,” she whispered, brown eyes widening as she snapped her head and looked toward the model in the center of the room. Scurrying over, she put the clip board down on the ceiling over the interview room side of the model and looked inside.

Pulling the buds from her ears, she plucked her cell phone out her clip tucked in the waistband of her shorts and quickly dialed the number of her shift partner Taryn Wilson, another grad student assisting in the project.

“We’ve got a breach in primary containment, I need you in here now,” Julie demanded, putting the phone atop the clipboard and looking at the makeshift rope emerging from the dislodged roof panel. Taking the tiny braid rope in her fingers, she followed it down where she also found the broken corpse of Cornelius Hall lying in a heap on the floor near a heap of discarded orange jumpsuits.

The lab door clicked and Taryn stepped quickly into the room, dressed in a white blouse, dark slacks, chestnut colored hair held back but sweeping across her shoulders, a touch of blush in her cheeks from hurrying.

“Lookout!” cautioned Julie, raising a halting hand and pointing to the greasy stain on the floor that was all that was left of one of the subjects.

“Oh my god!” said Taryn, halting in her tracks, soft blue eyes round as she looked down at the mess and then the lessening shoe tread marks moving away from the carcass before stepping over the carnage to join Julie by the model. “How many?”

“All of them. They’re all gone, but I’ve got another dead one down here,” Julie said, taking the limp form of Cornelius by his right foot between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and lifting him as she stood up, his body hanging lifelessly.

“I’ll call her,” Taryn said, punching in the quick call code and bringing the device up to her left ear, eyes darting from the now vacant model to areas around the edge of the room near the floor.

Dropping Cornelius’s body on top of the model, Julie moved quickly back to the door and opened it, frowning and shaking her head, eyes narrowed as she surveyed the hallway for evidence of any of the others escapees.

Tucking her phone away, Taryn joined Julie at the door, “She’s on her way,” answered the brunette, tone ominous.

“Did she sound pissed?” asked the blonde, making a frowny face.

Taryn shook her head, “She said to contain areas A through C and sit put. She would be here shortly. I couldn’t tell if she was upset or not though,” she answered, shrugging her shoulder. Dagmara could be a very hard woman and it was never a good thing to find yourself on her bad side, ever.

Julie nodded, “I didn’t see anything in the hall, I don’t know if they’re together or if they scattered,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“I take it you didn’t feel it when you stepped on him?” Taryn asked, crouching down, scrunching up her attractive face, eyes on the splatter smeared on the floor.

Julie shook her head glumly, “I was just coming from the gym to do my rounds and I didn’t see him there,” she explained. “Everything was fine during my last go through and I had no idea any of them were out. I don’t even know how they were able to get around security and find a way out. ”

Taryn nodded, “Do you know which one it is?” she asked, leaning forward slightly to get a better look.

Again Julie shook her head, pony tail swishing. “I really can’t tell, though I’m pretty sure it’s not subject 8,” she offered, referring to the black man, Marcellus.

“I guess Dr. Wolcott will have to figure it out,” Taryn said, raising her eyebrows and straightening up and looking at the other girl.

Dagmara

Her cell phone coming to life woke Dagmara from her slumber. Usually a light sleeper, she was awake after the first ring. Looking at the number on the screen, the lab, she swiped the arrow and brought the phone to her ear.

“Dagmara,” she said curtly, not overly pleased at the disturbance, but also knowing it must be important for someone to do so.

“Director Slindon, it’s Taryn at the lab. There’s been an escape,” she blurted.

Sitting up in her bed, Mara swung her legs over the edge, “How many?” she asked, running a hand through her long loose blonde hair, knowing Taryn could only be referencing the subjects being monitored in the lab.

“Well, at present there are seven unaccounted for and on the loose, and well, two dead,” Taryn replied, panic increasing the rate of her speech.

“Relax,” Mara soothed, speaking calmly trying to assuage the anxiety in the intern, “This event was not an unanticipated outcome, right now I want you to seal sectors A, B, and C and remain within the facility. See if you can locate any of the other missing subjects in the area,” she instructed.

“Yes ma’am,” replied the girl.

Hanging up, a contemplative look crossed Mara’s beautiful but cold face. As she dressed, she called Madeline, briefly explaining the situation before directing her to alert Hope and Kari and get them to attend the lab post haste.

A brief smile brushed across her lips as she hastily pulled on her shoes and exited her rental suite. She had been assured by all the ‘experts’ the model was essentially escape proof, well her little charges just proved otherwise. Pulling her hair back into a pony tail as she made her way across the parking lot to her car, she found she was fairly excited by the turn in events. Something new.

She arrived at the lab building seconds behind Hope, the latter holding the door for the director and together they walked into the building.

Navigating through the maze of halls, Mara swiped her card and pushed open the door, stepping in right behind the psychologist.

Dr. Wolcott was already there, examining the squashed remains of one of the subjects on the desk. The limp form of another inmate lying close by. Both Julie and Taryn were still there.

“What are we looking at Kari?” asked Dagmara, crossing over to the medical doctor.

Looking up, “Two dead, looks like Cornelius fell, his wounds are consistent with impact trauma. This little mess, well, Julie inadvertently stepped on this one,” Kari advised.

“I’m so sorry,” Julie offered contritely, eyes wide.

Mara smiled and waved her off, “Can we tell which subject that was?” she asked, pointing at the human wreckage.

“Under the magnifier, there are a few identifying tattoos so I’m pretty confident these are the remains of subject #7, Russell Thomas,” she replied.

Turning to look at the two young interns, Dagmara nodded, “Did either of you search in this room for any others?” she asked.

Julie nodded her head, “We looked first in the habitat, and when we saw everybody had gone, then searched the rest of the room, but only cursory,” she explained.

“We didn’t dare go out in case there might be others in the hall in section B, we didn’t want to step on them,” Taryn added.

Mara held a hand up, “No worries, as of now, I’m issuing the Omega Protocol for this project, all subjects to be terminated,” she ordered.

No one questioned her order, though Madeline made no effort to conceal her disappointment.

“Do want us to start looking?” Kari asked, hands on the examination table.

“I’m going to review the video footage for any possible information that might be relevant. We have to assume they’ve managed to breech the lab and may be in sector B,” she advised. Turning to look at Taryn, “You did initiate the lockdown on Sectors A, B, and C?” she asked.

The girl nodded emphatically, brown hair bouncing. “Absolutely, only access card overrides will work,” she assured.

Dagmara smiled, “Good. Since no one other than four of us,” she started, referring to Madeline, Hope, Kari, and herself, “Have entered since the loss of containment, there is no way for our wayward little desperados to get out of the facility. Start here in the lab proper, see what you can find by opening lower workstation drawers and shelving,” she informed before retiring to her office.

Sitting at her desk, two synched computers monitors glowing, she split the screen on the monitor to her left into four panels, populating the fields with material from all four cameras and reviewed the footage, fast forwarding until she arrived at the moment subject #5 simply pushed open his cell door. Noting the time stamp on the footage, she nodded. They had a means of disengaging the locks.

“Interesting,” she mused, surprised at how easily the door opened. How? She wasn’t sure yet. Letting the footage continue at normal speed, she shook her head slowly as each of the little convicts got out of their cells in the same fashion, just by pushing tier doors. There must be something obstructing the locking mechanism. She laughed softly, marveling at the craftiness of her little test subjects.

Their original intent was obvious, once they slipped the collars, they were trying to blow a hole in the wall, but failed. However, the blast was significant enough to displace the roof panel. Step by step she watched the little felons get out of their confinement and escape the model. Gathering bedsheets to fashion a homemade means of descent. It was the very last scene that captured her attention, the one with Jack Taylor, subject #1, standing and looking defiantly into the camera and speaking.

Rewinding it, she played it again, and a third time. Contrary to the lament in his message, there was indeed live audio pick up, the microphones sensitive to clearly hear his taunting words, “Too bad there isn’t any audio here because I just wanted you to know you lose.”

The smile on her gorgeous face was broad, pink lips pulled back revealing pearl white teeth, “I lose?” she asked aloud, eyebrows raised in amusement, a soft chuckle in her voice. The sheer audacity, chutzpah of the man. She liked it, the fact that even during his flight to perceived freedom, he tarried to specifically try and heckle her. Balls of steel.

Strumming her nails across the surface of her desk, she nodded slowly, smile never waning. “Why Mr. Taylor, if it’s a game you want, well then challenge accepted. Let us play and see in the end who loses,” she said, laughing softly as she got up from her desk.

Walking out from her office and back into the lab, she motioned for the other women to come gather around her, “I’m rescinding the order to exterminate them, I want them alive, or as many of them as we can capture alive,” she said, nodding her head authoritatively. “Most specifically, I special precautions taken for subject #1. I will have him delivered to me alive,” she clarified, eyes narrowing.

“Does that mean I might get to keep one?” Madeline asked, bringing her hands excitedly together.

Mara just smiled.

Evasion

Escaping the lab as the security door was closing, the seven desperados entered a long brightly lit hallway, three doors on the right and two more on the left before the hallway turned ninety degrees to the left. There was nowhere to possibly hide in the hall, the polished light grey surface gleaming under the fluorescent overhead lights.

The closest door was on the not too distant up ahead on the right. The gap below this door was slightly more substantial than the door to the lab and all of them men were able to squeeze under into a darkened space that appeared to be some type of janitorial storage/mop room. There were metal shelves with box along wither wall and at the back was a yellow molded plastic mop bucket, a large plastic sink and a drain.

“What now?” asked Marcellus, bent at the waist, breathing hard from the exertion of running hard.

“We can’t stay here,” breathed Hodge, shaking his head, breath coming in gasps.

“This is your master plan? Leading us into desperate flight? Two dead already,” Maynard said snidely.

“We have to keep moving, put some distance between us and them,” Jack said, controlling his breathing.

“Then what? Escape into the night? This is a fool’s folly,” Maynard commented, looking to the others for support in the gloomy room, light filtering in under the door from the brightly lit hall beyond.

Ignoring Maynard, Jack swept his eyes over the other members of the group. “There were a bunch of doors ahead in the hall, I think we need to check them out, see what options are out there. I don’t think we have much chance remaining here,” he offered.

“I’ll go,” offered Hector.

“Give me a minute to catch my wind,” Marcellus said, gulping air, massive muscular chest heaving.

John looked at Jack, “You think we should split into two groups, one for either side of the hall?” he asked.

“Looking for what?” challenged Maynard, stepping forward. “Please, tell us, what are we looking for?”

Jack turned to face the doctor, his one good eye cold, “A place to hole up, figure shit out,” he replied through clenched teeth. “Not here, not now,” he seethed.

Maynard laughed, a mocking sound. “Why don’t you tell that to your friend Russell?” he sniped, condescending smirk on the side of his face as he extended a hand toward Jack.

Marcellus suddenly appeared behind Maynard, big hands grabbing the doctor by either side of his head. With a quick twist, there was a crack, the sound of bones breaking, seeming to reverberate in the darkened space. Maynard voided himself, bladder and bowels emptying.

“Getting tired of that bitch running his mouth,” he said, still breathing hard and tossing Maynard’s body to the side.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Jack, startled by the abrupt move.

 Marcellus shrugged and shook his head, “That fool been asking for it the whole time,” he said, justifying himself.

“It’s true homes,” Hector said, nodding and presenting a fist to Marcellus, who in return made a fist of his own and gave him a bump.

“Despite the fact that he was an ignorant prick, we might have needed his medical expertise, or scientific knowledge to figure out how to reverse this process. I serious doubt given our current situation we’re going to be able to intimidate any of the women we’ve encountered thus far to do what we want,” Jack said, eye locked onto the dead physician.

Walking a short off, Jack shook his head. Maynard had been right. What was the plan? Run. But to where? There was nowhere to escape to as long as they were small. They needed to be restored. How? This wasn’t the time for strategizing, it was time to move.

“Listen, this is how things are going to play out right here right now, no more fucking killing each other. We’ll split into two, John, you take Hodge and Hector and scout the two rooms on the other wall, I’ll take Mordred and Marcellus and we’ll see what’s behind the two doors on this side of the hall,” he suggested.

“I would prefer to remain here for the time being, on account of the light,” Mordred said, rubbing his arms to try and sooth the burning sensation he felt in his pale flesh.

Jack nodded, “No guarantees we can meet back up,” he cautioned, tilting his head to the side as if to say, ‘You’re on your own’.

Mordred smiled, “Of course,” he replied, nodding. Whether from the exposure to the light in the lab or the hall, or the stress attached to the escape, for whatever reason, he could feel a violent episode coming on, one of those homicidal blackouts associated with the illness.

“How do you signal each other if we want to communicate?” Hodge asked, looking from John to Jack.

“We’ll have to figure it out on the fly,” Jack replied, “For now, we need to get the hell out of,” his words trailed off as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps sounded from the hall.

Moving to the door, several of the men dropped down to watch the gigantic woman dressed in dark trousers and a white blouse stop at the lab door and swipe her security card before pushing open the door.

Looking over to John, Jack nodded, “Go,” he urged.

John nodded back, flicking a quick glance to Hector and Hodge, “Let’s move,” he said, sliding out under the door followed by the other two men.

Jack got back to his feet, looking to Mordred, “We wouldn’t be here without your help,” he said.

Mordred raised a hand and smiled, “Perhaps, but you two should go,” he said. “Now.” He could feel his grasp slipping, his will yielding to base impulse. Though he felt no animosity toward either man, in fact, he found he quite like Jack, but when the red rage was upon him, he could not distinguish friend from foe.

“Come on,” called Marcellus.

Jack nodded slowly, a gesture of gratitude and respect, before following the big black man under the door.

John, Hector, and Hodge

Although the smallest, Hector was the fleetest of foot, crossing to the other side of the hall. Stopping at the wall, he turned back and grinned, enjoying the excitement of what was transpiring. John was second to reach the wall, followed by an open mouthed Hodge, breathing heavily and sweating profusely.

“Vámonos,” Hector said, clapping Hodge on the shoulder and darting along the edge of the rubber baseboard at the bottom of the off color white wall toward the first door.

“Fuck me,” breathed Hodge, muscles burning. Taking two gulps of air, he resumed running.

When Hector arrived at the door, he dropped and wiggled under, the metal band across the threshold of the door securing the carpet to the floor within the office cold against his naked skin.

The carpet inside the office was a short utility blend of fibers mostly gray with innocuous dots of blue and red scattered randomly throughout. It was readily apparent this was some type of neat, well organized office space. Nice leather furniture including a couple of chairs and a nice couch, big desk, though not too ostentatious, computer monitor on the top. Bookshelves on the walls with books primarily relating to medicine.

Hector reached down and helped John through before setting off toward the desk.

John waited near the door, helping Hodge to his feet and nodding, “Take a moment to catch your breath. You make it out of this, maybe a few more laps around the yard and few less reps eh?” he chuckled.

Hands on his knees, head down, Hodge nodded and grinned.

There was a buzzing sound coming from the hallway. Dropping down John peeked out from under the door to see if he couldn’t identify the source. It was the blonde girl who had unknowingly trodden upon Russell, still dressed in workout attire, looking into the hallway, eyes narrowed, scanning. Looking for them.

Scooting back under the door, he jumped back to his feet, motioning for Hodge to follow as he scampered across the carpet toward the couch.

“What is it?” Hodge wheezed, several paces behind John.

“The woman who crushed Russell, she was looking into the hall,” he answered, concealing himself behind one of the couches squat legs.

“I think I may be having a freaking heart attack,” he volunteered, cardiac muscles racing inside his well-developed muscular chest.

“Too bad Marcellus offed the gregarious Dr. White,” chuckled John.

“Gregarious? Does that mean asshole?” Hodge said between breaths.

John shook his head, “I was being sarcastic, it means sociable, friendly,” he answered.

“Fuck that guy,” Hodge said. “He was an asshole, slippery bastard,” he added, leaning back and still sucking wind.

“I think we’re okay for the moment,” John said, eyes on the door.

“Good, feels like I’m going to puke,” replied the other man.

“Marcellus probably has it worse, packing all that muscle around,” offered John.

“But they didn’t have to run as far as us,” countered Hodge.

“Here comes Hector,” John said, eyes on the smaller man as he loped easy across the carpet toward where the two other men were hiding.

When he arrived, he wasn’t breathing heavy.

Hodge shook his head.

“Well?” asked John.

“It’s like what you expect to see. There’s an electrical plug built into the floor under the desk, cords going up for the computer and shit. Don’t see a way into the drawers from down here, but I was thinking we could climb up and maybe look around,” Hector suggested, looking back toward the desk.

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re like what, buck twenty soaking wet? Fuck, I’m almost double that,” he replied.

Hector laughed, “It’s like that movie, where the guy is being chased by a bigger guy,” the sound of the door lock clicking halted the Mexican mid-sentence as all three sets of eyes looked toward the door.

The door swung open and a woman with long wavy auburn hair none of the men had seen before walked in, dressed in a skirt and top, nice shoes, jacket draped over an arm. Flicking on the overhead light, she hung her jacket up and set her purse on the desk.

“Mami,” said Hector, shaking his head, appreciative grin on his face as he watched the gigantic woman from under the couch.

“Dude, are you for real right now? You any idea what that girl would do to you? A little Latin right now for her would mean all of you,” Hodge said, shaking his head.

“Why can I say? I love me some ghetto booty and that right now is the biggest sweetest nalgas I have ever seen. It’s the fiery Latin lover in me,” Hector replied, licking his lower lip.

“That great big taco of hers would be the end for this little Latin lover,” countered Hodge, jabbing a finger in Hector’s chest.

“What a way to go esé, smile from ear to ear, going out in style,” Hector replied, eyes still on the enormous woman as she departed the room, closing the door behind her.

“Hector, you said you think you can get to the desk top using the cords, why don’t you see if you can do that?” John said.

Hector nodded, trotting off.

“With this new woman here, I think it’s pretty obvious this is her office. We’re going to need to keep point, make sure no one surprises us. We got lucky this time we were all hidden,” John said, looking at Hodge.

“You want me to watch our six?” he asked.

John smiled and nodded.

“Where you going to be?” Hodge asked.

“Going to join Hector, see if there’s anything we might be able to use on top of that desk. There might be something in her purse too, not sure, won’t know until I get up there,” John replied.

Hodge snorted, “Dude, if I’m at the door, there is no way you are going to hear me yelling six if you’re on top of the desk before one of these gigantosaurs comes rolling in,” he countered.

“You’re right,” acknowledged John, thinking for a moment. “What I need is something reflective, something you can use to create a flash of light or something, you know, like when you’re watching the wire,” he said.

“But what?” Hodge asked, spreading his hands apart.

“Let’s go over to the desk, if there’s a thumbtack up there that would be perfect, you could easily swivel it,” John suggested.

Hodge nodded and together they set off after the speedy Mexican.

Jack and Marcellus

Watching the others sprint quickly across the open space of the floor to the far side of the hall, Jack assisted Marcellus to his feet. “Come on,” he urged.

Moving up the wall to the next door, they dropped down and slid underneath the opening to find themselves in a short corridor that turned abruptly left up ahead. The floor was comprised of medium brown tiles with a darker colored grout between them.

“What do you think, washroom maybe?” Jack asked, looking sidelong at Marcellus.

Marcellus nodded. “Might be a good place for us to find a hiding spot,” he suggested, eyes surveying the brightly lit area.

Pushing onward, what they originally thought might just be a simple washroom, turned out to be much more expansive. While there were three washroom stalls and a counter with a like number of sinks under a gigantic mirror, the opposite end of the room opened up into another corridor, except the wall was lined with much larger white tiles from floor to ceiling.

“Showers,” Jack suggested, looking at Marcellus. The large black man nodded, breathing heavier. “Come on,” he urged.

Marcellus raised a hand, “I got me a bunch more muscle than your skinny white ass be packing,” he joked between breaths.

“Skinny?” Jack shot back. He knew he was in wicked shape, but standing next to Marcellus he actually did feel kind of skinny.

Marcellus flexed then laughed and nodded.

“We need to keep moving. We have no idea how many people are here. We don’t even know where here is. But I want to be holed up before Dagmara shows up and the shit and fan become one, you know what I’m saying?” Jack asked.

“I feel you,” Marcellus said, nodding. Taking a big breath, he started ahead of Jack loping off in the direction of the showers.

Jack grinned, easily catching up then overtaking Marcellus to arrive at an elevated tiled lip leading into the shower area. Bracing himself, Jack boosted Marcellus up first, who in turn reached down and help pull Jack up. Lowering themselves over the other side of the lip, they padded in the n expansive space, two showers head set high up in the wall. On the other side of the showering area was a change room, a half dozen off grey colored metal lockers along the wall with a wooden bench directly in front of the lockers. Scaling the ten foot high lip, they dropped down into the changing area.

Sitting on the floor next to the end of the bench was a huge black tote bag with pink piping and accents. It was open and there was evidence of some dark colored cloth through the opening atop the bag.

“That girl that stomped on Russell looked like she been working out,” said Marcellus. “My guess, up there around that bend, we going to find a room full of weights and shit,” he suggested.

Jack nodded. The woman had been attired like she was exercising and logic suggested more than likely this being the only obvious tote was her bag.

“We can go scout it out,” Jack said, in reference to what lay around the corner.

Marcellus waved a hand, “You go, I’ll rest up here awhile,” he said, doubling over, deep bass voice laden with the effort to breathe.

Frowning, Jack turned and walked back, “You alright?” her asked.

Marcellus laughed and looked up, “Do I look like a Kenyan?” he asked, ebony skin slick with perspiration.

Shaking his head, Jack wasn’t sure where the big man was going with the question, “What?”

“Shit, do I look like I’m put together for running miles across the African safari?” he asked again, big toothy grin on his sweaty face.

Jack grinned, “More like a defensive tackle on a football field,” he conceded.

“True that,” Marcellus replied. ”Now, you go, I’ll stay here near the bag,” he added, waving Jack onward.

Although sweaty and fatigued himself, he felt capable of carrying on, “Okay,” Jack said, moving through the locker room to cautiously peek around the corner into a spacious brightly lit workout area. Devoid of people, he stepped into the room. The floor was comprised of several interlocked thick black rubberized mats and there were a number of various pieces of workout equipment, treadmill, stair climber, stationary bicycle, and a universal workout machine. Aside from the door he had entered through, there was another along the wall to his left. Windows lined the wall ahead and the wall to his right. From his perspective at floor level, all he could see through the windows was darkness. On the wall to his left, passed the door, was a large flat screen television mounted on the wall with a stand and some type of media player. There was a handful of thick blue exercise mats in front of the TV for what he guessed were for stretching or yoga or some other type of exercise.

Looking around, there were several excellent places to hide, especially inside some of the cardiovascular exercise machines. He stood there a moment, evaluating, knowing it would be near impossible for any of the program people to ferret them out. But. Maynard, for all his arrogance and before Marcellus had snapped his neck, really had not been too far off the mark when he had asked now what? While there were smart places where they could hide away from the women running the project, but for how long? Food and water would become issues. Once resources started getting more and more scarce, the fragile peace would crumble and it would become survival of the fittest. More people would die.

What they needed was to figure out how to reverse the process. Anyone of the cons would be more than a match for the women. Hiding would not help them and they had zero leverage with which to coerce cooperation. Not one to succumb even in the face of overwhelming adversity, there was a feeling of resignation as he walked out into the room amidst the titanic exercise machines.

Mordred and the Head Shrinker

He called it the ‘Blood Rage’, a time when he lost his senses and surrendered to mindless homicidal impulse. Having recognized the impending fit, he was pleased Jack had taken heed of the advice to depart for two reasons, one, he really didn’t want to hurt the other man, and two, he didn’t want Jack to be forced to hurt him. It wasn’t voices telling him to kill, or vision of carnage, just a buzzing in his ears, maddening and growing in intensity until he couldn’t drone it out of his head. He wasn’t entirely sure what triggered the episodes and often wondered if it was something akin to what old Viking berserkers went through prior to battle. The sight of Maynard made his stomach turn and his skin burned. The buzzing grew louder inside his head, almost to the point of being painful and his consciousness retreated into the recesses of his mind.

Psychologist Hope wasn’t really expecting to find anything in particular when she opened the door to the mop room adjacent to the lab proper, let alone a tiny corpse of subject #2 and frenzied form of subject #6 mutilating the body.

“Jesus,” she murmured as the demented little creature looked up from the torn open remains of Maynard White.

Immediately the miniaturized ghoul started running directly at her, snarling and growling. During her schooling she had encountered articles of clinical lycanthropy about people whose perspectives were altered or they were suffering some form of psychotic break, but to actually witness it, albeit on a scale that seemed almost cartoonish. She was instantly reminded of a cartoon she had seen as a child, about a slavering weasel attacking a rooster. The recollection made her smile as she watched the little figure attacked the toe of her black leather shoe.

“Out here, quickly!” she said louder enough for the women in the other room to hear as she drew her foot back from the little attacker.

Julie was the first to respond, pulling open the door, looking first to Hope’s face, then to her feet where Mordred was scampering back at the foot of the other woman.

“Holy shit!” she said, surprised to see how aggressive the little form was acting.

Kari was next to arrive, stepping in behind Julie before quickly turning her head to Taryn, “Get me a beaker!” she instructed.

Mordred was back on Hope’s shoe. She lifted her foot off the floor slightly to try and shake him off, but he clung on tenaciously.

Julie crouched down, reaching out tentatively to try and grab one of his legs to pull him off, but jerked her hand back quickly when he turned and snarled and gnashed his teeth at her. “Nope,” she said.

“Get it off!” said Hope, shaking her foot more vigorously.

“The beaker!” demanded Kari as Mordred was dislodged and tumbled across the floor.

Getting to his feet, eyes distant and void of reason, he grinned, a feral expression and ran back toward where the three women were gathered.

“He’s like a mini terminator,” Julie said, lifting her feet and edging back into Kari, who took a one litre low form beaker from Taryn.

Slipping passed Julie, Kari inverted the beaker and deftly set it down over top of Mordred, confining the feverish felon and pressing down on it with the index and middle fingers of her right hand to secure it to the floor.

Leaning his head back, he slammed his fists repeatedly against the side of the glass.

Dagmara appeared, shooing the other out her path. She looked from the contained figure to dead form of Maynard, a frown touching the edges of her full mouth. “That leaves us with five unaccounted for. Obviously they’ve made it out of the lab and could now be anywhere in Sector B. Julie, you and Taryn begin looking out here. It might be wise to take another one of the beakers with you just in case,” she said.

Julie nodded, meeting Taryn’s eyes.

“What about him?” Hope asked, looking at Mara.

Dagmara chuckled, “I think I see why they called him ‘The Night Raver’ and he is all yours,” she said, turning away and walking back into the room.

Kari waited for Hope to replace her hand on the glass before rising back to standing and moving away, grin on her face. “I’ll take care of our other little friend there,” she said, pointing at Maynard’s body.

Looking down at the animated little figure trapped beneath the inverted beaker, Hope frowned.

Madeline poked her head out to get a look. “Cool,” she said, eyebrows raised.

“Madeline, can you please get me a piece of paper?” Hope asked, Julie and Taryn stepping around her to get into the hall.

Madeline nodded and hustled off, returning with the request sheet.

Taking the paper, Hope carefully slid it under the glass and under Mordred causing him to lose his footing before quickly tilting the glass and lifting up, pitching him into the beaker and making him fall as she turned it over.

Lifting it near her face as she rose, she smiled at him as he continued to pummel the inside of his glass prison. Moving out of Kari’s way and back into the lab, she set the beaker down on the top of her workstation, taking a seat and watching the episodes continue.

When reality came crashing back in for Mordred, leaving him with a dull pounding headache and the coppery taste of his own blood in his mouth, he looked through the glass wall of the beaker containing him, smears of blood from when he had broken his skin streaking the surface of the clear glass.

There was a face of a very attractive woman looking in on him. Looking first at his bloody hands, and then the rest of himself, he looked back up into her bright green eyes and nodded slowly, “It would seem you have me at a disadvantage madam,” he said.

A Host(ess) of Possibilities

After witnessing the bizarre frenzy of Mordred savaging Maynard’s corpse, Julie and Taryn, glass beaker in hand decided it might be more prudent if they searched together.

Moving down the hall, they entered the washroom that led into the shower room.

“Why do you suppose Mara has changed her stance?” Taryn asked as they began to look for traces of the escaped convicts.

“I’m pretty sure it was the challenge subject #1 threw at her,” Julie answered, peeking in and around one of the toilets.

“I wouldn’t want to be him when she gets here hands on him,” she said with a chuckle.

Julie snickered. They both knew Dagmara could be a ball buster at the best of times.

“Madeline seemed pretty enthusiastic about the prospect of getting her hands on one of these little men,” Taryn said.

Julie moved in close, a knowing grin on her pretty face, “She told me,” she said, nodding, “If she got to have one of these guys, she was going to fuck him,” she concluded.

“What?” Taryn asked, eyebrows raising.

Julie nodded. “Said she wanted stuff one inside her vagina,” she explained.

“What for?” Taryn inquired, shaking her head.

Julie shrugged, “I don’t know, but,” she left the rest unsaid.

“What do you mean but?”

“I’ve had time to think about it, you know, after Madeline told me,” Julie replied.

“Think about what, using some tiny man on your pussy?”

Julie grinned.

“You can’t be serious?” Taryn challenged.

“Why not? They are all condemned to die. Isn’t it every man’s fantasy to go out that way?” she queried.

Taryn snorted. “I wouldn’t want one of these guys anywhere near my coo,” she commented.

“Okay, be honest now, do you find any of them physically attractive?” she asked.

“They’re murderers and the worst of the worst,” Taryn replied.

Julie cocked her head slightly, “That wasn’t the question, yes or no, are any of them hot?” she repeated.

Frowning, Taryn paused, “Based solely on looks, yes, some of them are attractive, but you saw what subject #6 did to Subject #2. He was like some crazy little thing come unhinged,” she stated.

“True,” Julie conceded, “But, think for a moment if you could, for want of a better phrase, housebreak one, you know, like domesticate it?” she suggested.

“Probably try to kill you in your sleep,” countered Taryn, moving over to the sinks to look under the counter.

“You could make them do time in the hole,” Julie joked, looking down at her exercise shorts and touching her crotch with a finger.

Taryn laughed, “The hot box, like from that movie,” she said, amused expression on her comely face.

“Tiny little hands rubbing you in all the right ways,” Julie mused, “Trying to polish your pearl.”

Taryn shook her head, “I don’t think so,” she offered.

“Who knows? We have to catch one first,” Julie stated with a nod. “Anything over there?” she asked.

Taryn shook her head, “You?”

“Not here,” she replied.

“You want to check out the shower and change rooms?” Taryn asked.

Getting back to her feet and picking up the medium sized glass vessel, Julie nodded.

Walking toward the showering area, they passed at the tiled partition separating the washroom and showers. “I don’t know if they’re big enough to get over this,” doubted Taryn.

Julie nodded, “If they were traveling solo, maybe not, but if they’re moving as a pack, probably no problem getting over this obstacle,” she replied.

“True,” Taryn agreed.

Given the bright white starkness of the shower stall it was pretty easy to see it was empty.

Crossing the tiled floor, Julie suddenly raised a hand, halting Taryn in her tracks. Touching a finger to her lips, she gestured toward where her gym bag was on the floor.

Taryn nodded, eyes following where Julie was pointing.

The two women exchanged looks.

Grinning, “I don’t think any of them came this way,” Julie said loudly, motioning Taryn to circle around the tote.

Taryn nodded, smile crossing her face as she circled around to the other side, “I guess we’ll just have to search elsewhere,” she said.

What had felt like a marathon distance to him, the two gigantic women easily covered in only a handful of steps. Holding his breathe, he pushed himself back against the dark colored fabric of the bag, losing sight of them from thighs up as they loomed close to the bench.

Eyes darting from one to the other, he had been in the yard often enough to recognize the two chicks were flanking him. In a move borne of pure desperation, he bolted, running parallel along the underside of the bench.

“There!” shouted Julie, stabbing a finger at the fleeing fugitive.

Dropping quickly to her haunches, Taryn lunged out and pressed her hand down over top of Marcellus, flattening him to the ground. “Got him!” she exclaimed.

He was pretty sure he felt more than heard his left arm snap from the force of her hand crashing down on him and pinning him roughly to the floor.

Mustering every ounce of his considerable strength, he tried to twist and slip out from under the hand.

“Ugh, I can actually feel him wriggling under my hand, like a snake or bug,” Taryn squeaked, leaning forward pushing down on him harder in an attempt to immobilize him.

Julie settled in beside Taryn, glass beaker inverted and poised to be dropped down over their recent capture.

Exchanging looks, “On three,” Taryn said.

“On three, or three, then go?” Julie asked, raising her eyebrows.

Under the absolutely crushing force of the hand bearing down on him, Marcellus tasted blood in his mouth and couldn’t move, let alone breathe. There was a rushing sound in his ears and brilliant spots of white light exploded in his vision, then his skull cracked.

“Three, then go,” instructed Taryn.

“Okay, 1, 2, 3,” counted Julie. Taryn lifted her hand while Julie dropped the glass container over top.

He lay there unmoving, arm twisted off on an impossible angle.

“Shit,” Julie muttered, tilting the beaker cautiously to one side in case it was some type of ruse.

“I think I killed him,” lamented Taryn, reaching down and gently prodding at the still form with her right index finger.

“Maybe, but he could also just bet unconscious,” countered Julie, shrugging her shoulders. “Did you feel him crunch or anything?”

Taryn paused, shaking her head, “I don’t think so,” she answered, shrugging.

“How hard were you pressing?” Julie asked.

“Not really that hard, for me it didn’t seem too hard anyway, just enough to keep him from squirming,” she replied, pursing her lips.

“Looks like blood around his mouth area,” Julie stated, pointing add the smear on the shower room floor near Marcellus’ head.

Taryn quickly turned her hand over and examined her palm, checking to see if there was some blood there. Finding none, she looked back at Marcellus. “That’s probably not a good sign,” she conceded.

Julie shook her head. “I guess they’re not very durable,” she opined.

“We should get him to Kari,” Taryn said, using her thumb and forefinger to pick Marcellus up by the leg.

Turning the glass container upright, Julie tilted it toward the other woman who set the tiny man on the edge. The pair watched as he slowly slid down the glass wall, leaving a thin streak of blood as he passed, arriving at the bottom in a tangled heap.

 “I don’t know,” Julie commented speculatively, shifting the container all the way upright and bringing it before her face.

“Let’s get him back to Kari,” Taryn said, rising to her feet.

Together the two women exited the locker room back out through the washroom.

Doctor’s Office

While Julie and Taryn were in the locker room area, Madeline decided to check Kari’s office. She asked permission first to explore the room, Kari assented, though she indicated she hadn’t seen anything when she had come, though she also conceded she really hadn’t been looking for anything either.

Going out into the hall, she walked down to the office, pushing open the door, astounded to see two diminutive figures actually scampering across the floor toward the desk right before he very eyes.

 “Holy crap!” she exclaimed, recovering very quickly from her surprise and stepping into the office.

John on the left, Hodge on the right, they weren’t quite halfway to the desk when the office door had unexpectedly swung inward and opened, leaving them fully exposed practically in the middle of the room.

Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, John looked at the woman standing in the door. Of course she was impossibly enormous, huge breasts straining against the fabric of her white blouse, long dark brown hair pinned back, excited expression on her attractive face. “Split!” he yelled, suddenly veering to his left while motioning to Hodge who in turn mirrored the move to the right.

“Oh no you don’t!” Madeline exclaimed excitedly, rushing across the floor. She suddenly wished she had brought a towel or something she could have thrown onto the pair of them to try and prevent them from separating. As it was she steered to the right, focusing her attention on and rapidly overtaking Hodge, getting low and sweeping him up off the ground in her right hand, eyes sweeping across to the other fleeing miniaturized felon as he sprinted toward the couch.

Twisting in her grip, Hodge bit down on the side of her hand causing her to instructively open it and suddenly he was flying, momentum carrying him forward through the air just above the carpet.

“No!” she cried, eyes darting back as Hodge sailed before gravity pulled him down and he skittered a short distance across the carpet.

Unaware of what was happening behind him, John ducked under the couch, heart racing as he crossed over to the back near the base of the wall before turning back to look.

Madeline dropped to her knees, one to either side of Hodge as he struggled to his feet. Reaching down, she easily scooped him up, holding him in such a way as to prevent him from biting her again. Lifting the discombobulated little felon near her face, she made a guttural sound of triumph in her throat before turning her head toward where John had vanished under the couch.

“You know I saw you go under there don’t you?” she asked, pushing herself up to her feet and moving toward the couch. “There is nowhere to run little one, you might as well come out,” she said softly, “I won’t hurt you,” she enticed, getting back down on her knees and leaning forward to look under the furniture.

Scampering as quickly as his little legs could carry him, John ran alongside the baseboard in a desperate bid to flee.

“There you are,” he heard the woman say, her hand snaking in under the couch and suddenly he was knocked from his feet, pitched forward and colliding with the wall.

Rolling onto his side, her hand was right there, fingers searching, but he was just beyond her reach.

Pressing himself hard back against the wall, he chuckled nervously, watching as she withdrew her arm.

Moving slightly forward, and lying down, Madeline reached back under the couch, hand like a giant spidery thing racing across the carpet toward him.

Realizing she could now reach him, “Fuck!” he shouted, bolting, but he was too slow and then the hand was upon him, slapping him down hard against the carpet before giant fingers snaked tightly around him, awkwardly folding his body in a way nature never intended.

There was a sharp shooting pain coming from his back and he had trouble breathing. Gritting his teeth, he tried to push against the tremendous force of the hand dragging him out from under the couch, but his efforts were useless.

“Stop it!” she instructed, curling her fingers more tightly around him as he squirmed.

Rolling sideways, she came back up on her knees, one little man secured in each of her hands, big broad grin on her face, “You boys have absolutely no idea how much fun we are going to have together,” she said, eyes gleaming with caprice.

“My back,” John said breathlessly, skin pale, eyes frantic and round before fluttering.

“What?” she said, frowning, eyes on John. He jerked erratically a couple of time in her lessening clutches, feet twitching, then he grew still in her hand.

Shaking the hand holding him, she gave him a little squeeze, he never responded, instead his head lolled to the side. “No!” she wailed, eyes round and full of alarm.

Rocking back up onto her feet, she stood up and hurried over to the door, using her elbow on the handle and drawing it open before vanishing into the hall.

From his place of hiding on top of the desk near the upright pencil holder, Hector had been unable to watch how the whole spectacle played out. All that he knew is that it was over in mere moments. A moment ago, there had been three of them, now he was alone. “Vaya con dios amigos,” he whispered, kissing his right thumb nail and touching his hand to the points of the cross as he walked toward the leading edge, eyes glued on open door to the hall.

Arriving at the edge, he paused to look down at the precipitous drop. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He did ponder a moment the words the beautiful woman had spoken about having fun and wondered what she had meant. Like the other woman, this one was a hot mamacita. A smile crossed his lips. Perhaps he should have let himself get captured too.