Forty yards away, a pickup truck had just smashed through glass and plaster and slammed into the lobby adjacent to the emergency room.
C.O. Salcido yelled to a nurse for help with Lucas Watson. A woman dressed in surgical greens responded. She pushed her way into the bathroom as C.O. Barclay restrained the seizing inmate.
Even over Watson's harsh, guttural spasms, they heard the explosion of gunshots from the lobby. A woman shouted, a child screamed. C.O. Salcido charged into the conflict like a snorting bull.
C.O. Barclay watched Salcido disappear, but the nurse's order brought him back to attention.
"Get the cuffs off!"
"I can't—"
"Get them off before he dislocates both shoulders."
Barclay groped for the keys on his belt. Sweat ran down his face and throat as he tried to fit the key into the cuffs.
The nurse glared at Barclay. "Keep him down! He'll thrash his head!"
"I can't do both—" The key turned and the cuffs came off. "Oh, shit, he's turning blue!" Barclay moaned.
"Keep him still! I'll be right back." The bathroom door closed hydraulically behind the departing nurse.
C.O. Barclay clamped one hand on the jerking inmate's shoulder, the other on his hip. He wasn't ready for the shock of impact when Watson's body bucked and cracked upward. Barclay's jaw snapped behind the force of Watson's skull. Barclay gulped blood.
"Fuckin' pig!" Watson grunted as he jammed his head into the lumpish guard a second time.
"Ummmmph," the breath shuddered out of Barclay like air from a pierced inner tube.
Watson closed his fingers around Barclay's neck and dug his nails into skin. He leveraged his weight and smashed the C.O.'s head into the edge of the toilet.
Barclay went limp.
At the same instant, the nurse stepped through the door and saw a blood-soaked inmate staring back at her with white eyes. She stiffened in fear, but Lucas had her by the hair before she could scream. His body poised like a hitter, hands clamping hair instead of a bat, he slammed her into the wall and she went down.
He stuffed the unconscious C.O. into the shower stall, tore off the nurse's surgical top, and left her limp body where it had fallen. He slipped her shirt over his head, opened the bathroom door a crack, and peered out into the hall. He could see two nurses huddled behind the reception counter, their attention riveted on the sliding glass doors and the lobby directly beyond.
For an instant he stared, too. Under the glaze of fluorescent lights a bright yellow pickup truck looked like it was eating its way through plaster. A doctor, her white coat flapping, yelled orders. Two or three other people huddled over someone on the glass-strewn floor.
Lucas forced himself to walk out of the bathroom, and ten feet down the hall, he slipped into a curtained treatment bay.
Yellow eyes stared back at him. An old man was propped up in a wheelchair; a tube protruded from a hole in his throat.
Lucas inspected the wheelchair-bound man. "You're my ticket out of here, old man," he whispered. He heard raised voices.
Dr. Huffy's voice boomed out from the damaged lobby, "The cops are on their way!"
C.O. Salcido's voice exploded angrily, "Get down! Spread your legs!"
"You're fuckin' nobody! You're all fuckin' nobodies!" Even from a distance, Billy's voice was slurred and raw.
Lucas growled; they'd caught his brother.
He couldn't wait; he pushed the wheelchair. The ancient face rolled up at him, red eyes bulging. The tube in the old man's throat jerked like a straw as it sucked in and out of the fleshy hole.
Watson pushed the man past a nurse comforting a child, past a room where someone was crying, and through the door marked EXIT in hot red letters.
He moved briskly toward the west end of the ER parking lot. When he reached the last six car slots in the row nearest the hospital, he let the wheelchair go. It rolled forward—the old man straining like a landed fish—and bounced off a truck's fender.
At least three sirens wailed angrily. The
C.O. Salcido yelled to a nurse for help with Lucas Watson. A woman dressed in surgical greens responded. She pushed her way into the bathroom as C.O. Barclay restrained the seizing inmate.
Even over Watson's harsh, guttural spasms, they heard the explosion of gunshots from the lobby. A woman shouted, a child screamed. C.O. Salcido charged into the conflict like a snorting bull.
C.O. Barclay watched Salcido disappear, but the nurse's order brought him back to attention.
"Get the cuffs off!"
"I can't—"
"Get them off before he dislocates both shoulders."
Barclay groped for the keys on his belt. Sweat ran down his face and throat as he tried to fit the key into the cuffs.
The nurse glared at Barclay. "Keep him down! He'll thrash his head!"
"I can't do both—" The key turned and the cuffs came off. "Oh, shit, he's turning blue!" Barclay moaned.
"Keep him still! I'll be right back." The bathroom door closed hydraulically behind the departing nurse.
C.O. Barclay clamped one hand on the jerking inmate's shoulder, the other on his hip. He wasn't ready for the shock of impact when Watson's body bucked and cracked upward. Barclay's jaw snapped behind the force of Watson's skull. Barclay gulped blood.
"Fuckin' pig!" Watson grunted as he jammed his head into the lumpish guard a second time.
"Ummmmph," the breath shuddered out of Barclay like air from a pierced inner tube.
Watson closed his fingers around Barclay's neck and dug his nails into skin. He leveraged his weight and smashed the C.O.'s head into the edge of the toilet.
Barclay went limp.
At the same instant, the nurse stepped through the door and saw a blood-soaked inmate staring back at her with white eyes. She stiffened in fear, but Lucas had her by the hair before she could scream. His body poised like a hitter, hands clamping hair instead of a bat, he slammed her into the wall and she went down.
He stuffed the unconscious C.O. into the shower stall, tore off the nurse's surgical top, and left her limp body where it had fallen. He slipped her shirt over his head, opened the bathroom door a crack, and peered out into the hall. He could see two nurses huddled behind the reception counter, their attention riveted on the sliding glass doors and the lobby directly beyond.
For an instant he stared, too. Under the glaze of fluorescent lights a bright yellow pickup truck looked like it was eating its way through plaster. A doctor, her white coat flapping, yelled orders. Two or three other people huddled over someone on the glass-strewn floor.
Lucas forced himself to walk out of the bathroom, and ten feet down the hall, he slipped into a curtained treatment bay.
Yellow eyes stared back at him. An old man was propped up in a wheelchair; a tube protruded from a hole in his throat.
Lucas inspected the wheelchair-bound man. "You're my ticket out of here, old man," he whispered. He heard raised voices.
Dr. Huffy's voice boomed out from the damaged lobby, "The cops are on their way!"
C.O. Salcido's voice exploded angrily, "Get down! Spread your legs!"
"You're fuckin' nobody! You're all fuckin' nobodies!" Even from a distance, Billy's voice was slurred and raw.
Lucas growled; they'd caught his brother.
He couldn't wait; he pushed the wheelchair. The ancient face rolled up at him, red eyes bulging. The tube in the old man's throat jerked like a straw as it sucked in and out of the fleshy hole.
Watson pushed the man past a nurse comforting a child, past a room where someone was crying, and through the door marked EXIT in hot red letters.
He moved briskly toward the west end of the ER parking lot. When he reached the last six car slots in the row nearest the hospital, he let the wheelchair go. It rolled forward—the old man straining like a landed fish—and bounced off a truck's fender.
At least three sirens wailed angrily. The
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