sits here, a very expensive shell wasting away in the mountains of New Hampshire. It’s perfect for us.”
He turned on his heel, walking down the hallway toward the direction he’d come, and his commandos dragged us into place behind him.
“Did you know,” he continued over his shoulder, “that eighty percent of prison escapes occur when an inmate is already out of his cell, maybe tending to his prison job, or in the infirmary? That’s because no one, absolutely no one can escape from a modern jail cell. Walls are five-thousand-pounds-per-square-inch concrete poured twelve inches thick. The windows feature one-inch-thick bars formed from saw-resistant steel and positioned every five inches in front of fifteen-minute ballistic-rated glass. That means”—he gave me a glance—“you can fire a small-caliber pistol at point-blank range and the glass might spiderweb, but still won’t break.
“Doors are twelve-gauge steel with a solid one-inch-thick dead bolt. All locks are triggered electronically, meaning there is no way to manually override the dead bolt system. Not to mention there are at least seven locks between you and the outside world. First lock is on your cell door. Get by that, you’re in a locked dayroom. Which leads to a double-locked sally port, where the system only allows one locked door to be opened at one time. After that is a locked corridor leading to a main wing entrance where there is yet another sally port. Two more doors, two more locks.
“Should you finally exit the prison, you must now confront the perimeter fencing. The fences are completely electrified and built in two layers, each sixteen feet high and separated by a twenty-eight-foot-wide no-man’s-land filled with seven rolls of razor wire. Even if you somehow disabled the electric fencing, and/or survived scaling the first sixteen-foot fence, you must still drop down into the no-man’s-landand navigate seven rolls of razor wire in order to make your way over the second sixteen-foot-high fence. After which, you will find yourself plopped in the middle of six hundred acres of some of the most rugged wilderness the North Country has to offer. Nighttime temperatures are currently forecast to be below freezing. Oh, and this area is known for bears and bobcats.”
Z stopped walking. Abruptly, we all drew to a halt.
He stared at my husband. “Did I miss anything?”
Justin didn’t speak. I looked at him in confusion. He and Z seemed to be involved in some kind of staring contest.
“Not that there’s any need to leave the prison,” Z said now, still staring at Justin. “As part of the building contract, this facility was fully stocked. Bunk beds, rec tables, state-of-the-art medical equipment, state-of-the-art dental. Two cafeterias, including a separate, self-enclosed cooking space for the preparation of nut-, dairy- and gluten-free items. Can’t have any of the inmates dying of food allergies, yes? The complex also runs on ‘duel fuel,’ both natural gas and oil, with fifty thousand gallons of oil on site. Plus its own water tower, sewer system and utility plant. A fully independent operation. With redundancy. I believe that’s what you call it? So utilities can’t be disrupted, water cut, sewer stopped. We could hole up here for years without anyone being the wiser.”
Z still stared. Justin still didn’t speak.
On the other side of Radar, my daughter shuddered.
“I served eight years as a soldier,” Z said abruptly. “Still never had it as good as the convicts who will one day occupy these cells.”
My husband spoke up: “I just build—”
“I didn’t say speak.”
“Then stop talking to me.”
“I’ll hurt you again.”
“Then do it. Just tell me what the fuck you want and stop terrorizing my family!”
Ashlyn and I both recoiled, tucking ourselves ironically against the kid, who stood as still as stone.
Z didn’t move. He continued to watch my husband, as if evaluating something. The look on his
He turned on his heel, walking down the hallway toward the direction he’d come, and his commandos dragged us into place behind him.
“Did you know,” he continued over his shoulder, “that eighty percent of prison escapes occur when an inmate is already out of his cell, maybe tending to his prison job, or in the infirmary? That’s because no one, absolutely no one can escape from a modern jail cell. Walls are five-thousand-pounds-per-square-inch concrete poured twelve inches thick. The windows feature one-inch-thick bars formed from saw-resistant steel and positioned every five inches in front of fifteen-minute ballistic-rated glass. That means”—he gave me a glance—“you can fire a small-caliber pistol at point-blank range and the glass might spiderweb, but still won’t break.
“Doors are twelve-gauge steel with a solid one-inch-thick dead bolt. All locks are triggered electronically, meaning there is no way to manually override the dead bolt system. Not to mention there are at least seven locks between you and the outside world. First lock is on your cell door. Get by that, you’re in a locked dayroom. Which leads to a double-locked sally port, where the system only allows one locked door to be opened at one time. After that is a locked corridor leading to a main wing entrance where there is yet another sally port. Two more doors, two more locks.
“Should you finally exit the prison, you must now confront the perimeter fencing. The fences are completely electrified and built in two layers, each sixteen feet high and separated by a twenty-eight-foot-wide no-man’s-land filled with seven rolls of razor wire. Even if you somehow disabled the electric fencing, and/or survived scaling the first sixteen-foot fence, you must still drop down into the no-man’s-landand navigate seven rolls of razor wire in order to make your way over the second sixteen-foot-high fence. After which, you will find yourself plopped in the middle of six hundred acres of some of the most rugged wilderness the North Country has to offer. Nighttime temperatures are currently forecast to be below freezing. Oh, and this area is known for bears and bobcats.”
Z stopped walking. Abruptly, we all drew to a halt.
He stared at my husband. “Did I miss anything?”
Justin didn’t speak. I looked at him in confusion. He and Z seemed to be involved in some kind of staring contest.
“Not that there’s any need to leave the prison,” Z said now, still staring at Justin. “As part of the building contract, this facility was fully stocked. Bunk beds, rec tables, state-of-the-art medical equipment, state-of-the-art dental. Two cafeterias, including a separate, self-enclosed cooking space for the preparation of nut-, dairy- and gluten-free items. Can’t have any of the inmates dying of food allergies, yes? The complex also runs on ‘duel fuel,’ both natural gas and oil, with fifty thousand gallons of oil on site. Plus its own water tower, sewer system and utility plant. A fully independent operation. With redundancy. I believe that’s what you call it? So utilities can’t be disrupted, water cut, sewer stopped. We could hole up here for years without anyone being the wiser.”
Z still stared. Justin still didn’t speak.
On the other side of Radar, my daughter shuddered.
“I served eight years as a soldier,” Z said abruptly. “Still never had it as good as the convicts who will one day occupy these cells.”
My husband spoke up: “I just build—”
“I didn’t say speak.”
“Then stop talking to me.”
“I’ll hurt you again.”
“Then do it. Just tell me what the fuck you want and stop terrorizing my family!”
Ashlyn and I both recoiled, tucking ourselves ironically against the kid, who stood as still as stone.
Z didn’t move. He continued to watch my husband, as if evaluating something. The look on his
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