Tremor by Patrick Carman Page A

trying to open, and the one I’m standing behind, are both solid iron, with retractable iron rods that insert into the walls. Those rods are seven inches around.”
    â€œBitch,” Clara said under her breath.
    â€œDon’t talk to your mother that way,” Gretchen ordered. “Also, there’s no food or water in there. You’ll be dead in a few days.”
    Cheers went up again, because it was the first time a unit of single pulses had bested Wade and Clara.
    â€œThey’re good,” Wade said. “Real good.”
    Clara had to agree, even if it made her want to throw up.
    â€œGood one, guys. Now let us out of here.”
    A new voice came through the speakers. It was Andre Quinn, and he wasn’t in a favorable mood.
    â€œI think it will be best if you spend a few hours in there. It will give you a chance to think about how not to make the same mistake twice.”
    â€œNo way am I doing that,” Clara said. “Lesson learned. Just open the door.”
    â€œI’d prefer it if you didn’t interrupt me when we’re training,” Gretchen said. She hated it when Andre randomly inserted himself into her work.
    Andre didn’t answer, in part because he was, possibly, more annoyed than Gretchen was. Prison life had brought out the general in her. Andre had taken to holing up in the warden’s old office, thinking about what was to come. They were days away from going into serious action, and serious action always made Andre nervous.
    â€œWe have a situation up here,” Andre’s Tablet announced. It was the first-unit supervisor from one of the gun turrets. “A real one.”
    Andre tapped his Tablet and spoke directly to Gretchen.
    â€œLet them out. Now.”
    â€œAlready doing it,” Gretchen said. “But it’s going to take at least a minute or two to get them all the way out there. I’ll go.”
    â€œNo, don’t,” Andre said. “Get the twins and meet me at the east turret. Let’s not overexpose until we know what’s going on. I can be up there in thirty seconds.”
    Gretchen was the only other second pulse they had, but if Andre wanted her to wait, she would wait. It was his funeral if something went haywire outside her control.
    Dylan was walking steadily toward the walls of the supermax prison, still fifty yards off in the middle of an empty field. It was daylight, so the skunks and other vermin were holed up, out of sight.
    â€œThis is a secure facility,” Dylan heard the voice over a loudspeaker warn. “Stop where you are. Don’t run and don’t advance. Don’t move.”
    It was the second time the warning had been given, and Dylan wasn’t changing his course of action. He saw, far off to his left, an abandoned van parked on the side of a road that hadn’t been used for years. He picked up the vehicle with his mind, raising it ten feet in the air, and sent it flying. Glass and wheels and doors exploded off the wall, along with chunks of concrete from the wall itself. He very nearly blew a hole in the prison, which was maybe a little more damage than he’d intended to do.
    But it sent the appropriate message. Before Andre arrived at the east gun turret, the shooting had already begun. Dylan was under fire from four different locations, bullets pelting the earth in bursts of dust. He didn’t change his pace or his expression when the first bullet bounced off his shoulder. He felt it push against his skin, nudging him softly backward, but it did nothing to slow his progress. Another bullet hit him in the leg, puncturing a hole in his jeans.
    â€œWe’ve got a second pulse out here!” someone yelled. They’d skipped the loudspeaker this time, but everyone inside the prison went into high gear.
    â€œThat’s not possible,” Gretchen said. She had the door open, which was on a one-minute delay, and Wade and Clara were pouring out into the