Beneath the gibbous moon, waxing ever larger in the starless sky, Herbert raced through the night, speeding down that black road into the darkening wastelands towards the prison. In his heart he knew time was running out. For him. For us all. Desperately embracing abandon, he pushed the pedal to the floor.

From the west an unholy tempest emerged, a churning veil that soon eclipsed the moon and the sky. Lightning shot from the shrouded heavens in a blinding flash maliciously striking just off the horizon. The thunderous clap that followed was like unto a deafening roar. The wind followed, howling around him, stirring up a dust storm. Out of the corner of his eye, in the flicker of the storm, Herbert swore he saw shadows rising from the sand. Unnerved, his attention shifted to scratching at the windows, myriad fingers clawing at the glass. Herbert swerved along that thin ribbon of road, fighting the gale that yearned to whip him away into the tumultuous sky roiling overhead.

And then the rains fell, a deluge rare to these dry lands. The storm gave the dust its thirsts worth and more, drowning the desert sands into mire. Water coursed down Herbert’s windshield flowing in thick rivulets. He could barely see through the warping flood, his wipers straining against the torrent. In horror he discovered they were all around him; liquid entities, pressing their dread visages against the glass, leering and scowling at him.

The car lost traction on the slick asphalt and began to skid. Gripping the wheel tightly, Herbert fought for control; struggling to steer. Veering across the road, he took his foot off the gas and jerked right finding traction. His relief proved short-lived as something punched his windshield fracturing it.

"Fuck!"

Hail battered the windshield into a spider web of cracks; the cold rain seeped in through the fissures. One icy projectile drove straight into the beam of the driver’s side headlight shattering it.

As the rain poured down over the dash, the radio lit to life with an electronic whine. It squelched and spit inaudible babble.

"Why did I have to die?" a child’s voice pleaded, bleeding through the static.

The hail grew larger, pebbled fists ramming into the roof of his car, blowing out the windshield, the hood starting to cave threatening the engine. With fleeting hope, Herbert could make out the faint glow of the prison in the distance; a beacon in the storm.

"You will die," the voices swore over the radio. "You will die!"

A tire blew sending the car into a tailspin tearing donuts across the freeway. Only Herbert’s seatbelt kept him from being thrown like a rag doll around the inside of the automobile as he desperately wrenched at the wheel. Careening off the road, he rolled end over end, gouging gashes in the mud before the car came to roughly rest right side up out in the rising waters.

The vehicle was a mangled mess, the roof partially collapsed on the passenger side. Chunks of clotted mud clung to the frame in various places. Amazingly, the left headlight still shined illuminating the road roughly thirty feet ahead. The driver’s door creaked open and Herbert fell out into the sludge, his head awash. The world spun around him as he tried to stand up, stumbling a few steps before falling head first back into the morass. He rested there on his elbows, struggling to steady his equilibrium. The thunder cracked overhead. Pellets of hail took shots at his back causing him to wince, while the rain soaked him to the bone.

Herbert pulled himself up, forcing strength into his numb limbs, and started trekking back to the road following that beam of light. The mud clutched at his feet, sucking and slurping with every step. Every time he pulled free, he would find more of that reddish muck clinging to his shoes weighing down his steps, forcing him to fight for every foot.

Herbert crawled back onto the asphalt, abandoning his shoes to the brackish bog. Pausing for a breath, a piece of ice caught him above the brow gashing him. Blood trickled into his left eye as sleet raked at his face, his chest, his back shredding his shirt and leaving him raw.

Steeling himself, Herbert found the resolve to rise. Battered and shaking, bruised and bleeding, he pressed on to the prison, staggering toward that distant light.

***

Officer Richards looked out from the tower into the night, glad to be inside against something as hellish as this. Peering out into the rain, he saw Herbert’s ragged form struggling into view. "What the fuck?" Richards muttered, turning the spotlight on the approaching figure to be sure of what he was seeing. He pulled the radio from his belt and clicked the button. "George? George. This is Richards, over."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"I need you to meet my by the front gate, over."

There was a moment of silence followed by, "What the fuck for?"

"We got ourselves a visitor."

***

"I’m telling you I need someone out here." Joubert was fuming, using what little self-control he had left not to yank the phone from the wall. "National Guard. State Troopers. Anyone. We have a situation."

"I can’t spare the Guard," the governor informed him. "They’re overseas."

"Troopers?"

"I can’t get anyone to you right now with this storm. You’re going to have to sit tight and ride it out."

"Ride it out with what? I’m understaffed and cut off." Joubert continued to protest as Dames brought Herbert into his office, the latter wrapped in a blanket. "God damnit, will you listen to me? Hello? God damnit!" He slammed the phone down, turning his rage on Dames. "What the fuck is this? Why is he here?"

"He was outside, sir."

"Why didn’t you leave him out there?"

The comment stunned Dames. "The storm, sir-"

"Who gives a shit? I told you his visiting privileges were revoked."

"I need to speak to you," Herbert sputtered through chattering teeth. "I know what’s happening here."

Joubert’s eyes went from Dames to Herbert and back. "Get back to your post, Dames."

"But sir, he..." Dames gestured towards Herbert.

"I’ll deal with this. Just get out of here."

Dames quickly exited the room shutting the doors behind him.

"Don’t you look like shit." Joubert stood up and pulled the handkerchief from his suit pocket offering it across the desk.

"Thank you." Herbert put the cloth against the cut above his eye.

"Now what do you mean you know what’s going on here?"

"It’s Deom."

"What about him?"

"I need to see him."

"No way. I’ve got enough problems right now without that adding to them."

"He is your problem!"

"Only one of many. We’re on the verge of a damn riot. Yeah!" Joubert replied seeing the shocked expression on Herbert’s face. "We were lucky to keep the cons in their blocks."

Herbert’s heart fell. "How did this happen?"

Joubert threw his arms in the air. "How the hell should I know?"

"You’re in charge," Herbert sternly countered.

"Shit has been going on without my knowledge. That’s all I know. Damn Nubians attacked the Aryans in the cafeteria. Turned into a free for all. When the guards went in to break it up, the Mexicans assaulted them. We had to use tear gas to clear the place. One of my men has a broken arm!" Joubert slumped down into his chair, eyes empty. "They’ve gone crazy in the blocks. Throwing their shit and piss out into the stairwells. Lighting their damn toilet paper and god knows what else on fire to use as missiles. They’ve been banging on their bars for the past half hour. That god damn gong gong gonging has nearly driven me mad. They already control D-Block."

"You just surrendered it to them?"

Joubert leapt from his chair. "Hell no. Never!" He slammed his fist down on the desk. With effort, the warden regained his composure. "Seems they got the keys from one of the guards. Took one of my men hostage. Freed the rest of the block from their cells. Luckily the main gate to D-Block is electronically sealed or they would have overrun us by now. I was going to send some men in, but they say if I do they’ll kill the hostage."

"What are their demands?"

"I’m not going to bargain with them! Why do you think I was on the phone? I’m trying to get someone down here to help with the situation. I’m tempted to sacrifice the fool bastard for letting himself get caught."

"You can’t do that."

"I know I can’t do that," Joubert shot back. He turned to look out that large window at the empty prison yard below, now submerged beneath an inch of water. "It’s slipping through my fingers."

"What have I walked into?" Herbert asked himself.

"Hell," Joubert stated over his shoulder.

***

Luke lay on his bed, quietly mouthing the final verses of the yasna to the tenebrous Row. Aching and emaciated, he jerked and wheezed, trembling terribly, straining to finish as twilight approached.

Mind wandering, eyes glazed, all the world lost substance becoming as darkened glass. What boundaries had once stood fell away and soon the path was clear. Taking one last breath, he savored that final taste. As it passed his split lips, it carried him out into the abyss.

Silence followed. Stillness. And then they came, riven from the shadows, shades of lives long lost gathering around Deom’s limp form, filling the stygian bowels of the prison with their eldritch glow. They hovered there, in mourning and triumph. The time had finally come. Together, daemon and demon, man and god, they chanted. "Saoshyant. Saoshyant. Saoshyant." Their words echoed through the Row, pulsing through the stone, the pitch rising with each uttering. Again and again they solemnly repeated the sacred word until it reached beyond the walls, beyond the world, further and further until it breached the realm of Nagbu itself.

The voices ululated as Luke’s flesh tensed. Rigidly his back arched as if some invisible hand gripped him and was pulling him skyward. With a gasp, Deom’s eyes shot open, the capillaries bursting turning the whites scarlet. A cry sprang from his dry throat. Unearthly. Inhuman.

In triumph, he rose as if from a deep slumber, his path lined by the unnamable. The unaussprechlichen. The chant continued, laden with malevolence as the dead beheld their resurrected avatar.

***

Marcus had heard noises coming from below and started down to check them out. He wavered in the corridor to Death Row, his instincts warning him to turn back. He knew this path well, yet this night it felt alien to him. Something had changed. Reluctantly, he surrendered to duty and started forward again.

The guard froze when he heard it: the clack and slam of the gate below. He stood there, shaking. Marcus glanced back towards the surface he had left behind, yearning for the light and security above.

Footsteps! Marcus quickly turned back, grabbing his nightstick. He forgot about the radio on his belt and the flashlight at his side. Primitive reflexes took hold against this ancient fear that approached, such terror paralyzing logic.

Only a few scattered bulbs still flickered in the corridor; pools of light. Marcus squinted intently for any sign of movement at the edge of their glowing arc. A fetid breeze issued from below; a dread, charnel thing. And then...He emerged naked from the shadows. Luke came into the light, a necrotic icon. His lithe stride was sure and strong, his piercing eyes shining and predatory. As Deom passed under each working bulb it would pop, the light scattering in sparks and shards; the darkness swallowing the fading glimmer. Marcus retreated up the corridor, Luke charging after.

Running for the upper gate, Marcus stumbled over debris with Luke in pursuit. Deom brought the darkness with him, the dead surging up behind him with an accursed wail, an amorphous monstrosity of distorted limbs, milky eyes, and gnashing teeth; a flood of the antediluvian.

Marcus made it to the gate, struggling with the keys in his quaking hands. He could not find the right one! "Oh God," he whimpered in terror as Luke kept coming, the shrieks increasing. Marcus dropped the keys in a panic. "Help me!" he screamed through the bars. "Help-"

Luke seized Marcus from behind and pulled him into the shadows screaming.

***

Jesse sat in his chair sipping coffee, detachedly watching D-Block. The animals roamed about onscreen in monochrome. There was still no sign of where they were keeping the guard.

"Fuckin’ monkeys," Jesse mumbled as he let that bitter black java scorch down his throat. He placed both hands on his mug to warm them while continuing to monitor the screens. They should just go down there with shotguns and blow their brains out. Off a few and the rest would fall in line. Compromise was for pussies. Besides, they wouldn’t really hurt Harris in there. They knew better.

The door squeaked open. Jesse briefly peeked over his shoulder. Seeing the gray uniform of one of his partners, he turned back to the screens, pulling his collar up against the chill which had entered the control room. "The coffee is over there." Jesse gestured to the table. "Little old." He took another sip and grimaced. "Tastes like somethin’ that came out of my wife’s ass end but at least it’s warm." Jesse shook his head. "This is all Dames’ fault. Bastard should have checked to make sure Gene had his keys when they found him in that closet." He scanned the rest of the monitors in boredom. "You know, I’m not supposed to be on break for another twenty minutes. So if you’re here to relieve me...what the hell?" Jesse stopped at the camera for Death Row as his partner came up behind him. Digital snow mottled the screen. Jesse reached forward and tapped the monitor. "Well isn’t that wonderful."

Luke grabbed him around the neck in a chokehold, Jesse barely able to spit out a yelp in surprise. He thrashed, Deom’s grip tightening, the guard kicking wildly and knocking over his chair as he was dragged backwards. Jesse lost sensation in his lower extremities, his body gradually turning to jelly. A pounding throbbed through his head as he scratched futilely at Luke’s forearm. That throbbing became a drum beat that banged away at his consciousness until the lights dimmed in his eyes. Jesse’s mouth gaped like a fish as his face went blue, the veins bulging in his forehead. Luke shuddered as he jerked, feeling the spasming of Jesse’s legs when he broke the guard’s neck with a snap. He let the twitching body fall limply at his feet. Luke sighed a coarse breath to steady himself.

The whispers guided Deom over to one of the panels. One by one, he hit the necessary buttons. He brought them together.

***

"Sir!" Dames came running through the doors into Joubert’s office.

"What is it now?" Joubert growled.

"The blocks have been breached."

Joubert flinched. "What? How? Only the control room-"

"Sir, they’re out and rampaging through the halls."

Herbert looked quickly from Dames to Joubert.

"So what the hell are you doing here?” Joubert demanded. “Get the men and arm them. We have to push the cons back into the blocks."

"But how, sir? We-"

"Just do it!" Joubert commanded. Dames nodded gravely. But as he turned to leave, "Wait."

"Yes, sir?"

"We’re coming with you." Joubert noticed Herbert’s confused expression. "We need everyone we can get. That includes you, Mr. Kraft. Let’s go." The three men rushed out of the office, the alarms whining loudly throughout the halls.

Dames had his radio out. "All men to the armory. I repeat, all men to the armory. This is a code red. I repeat a code red."

“Where is the armory?” Herbert asked as they ran.

"Just ahead," Joubert replied. "You have had weapons training?"

"Yeah."

They approached a large steel door set into the wall. "Open it," Joubert told Dames. The guard retracted a pair of bolts, unlocking the door. Joubert jumped inside ahead of his men. "I hope you’re a shotgun type." He tossed the rifle at Herbert who felt the weight of it in his hands. "Ammo is over there." Joubert pointed to the ammo cans on a far shelf, picking up a shotgun for himself.

"Sir." Dames approached Joubert, radio still in hand. "Chris wanted to know if you meant him too."

"God damnit, yes I did!" Joubert retorted, almost ramming the butt of his rifle into Dame’s head. "He still has one good arm, right?"

Dames lifted the radio back to his mouth. "Yeah, you better get down here, Chris."

"How many men are we talking about here?" Herbert asked Joubert as he pumped round after round into the gut of his rifle.

"We have over a thousand inmates separated into five blocks."

"How many guards?"

"Excluding us." Joubert joined Herbert at the shelves, averting his eyes as he frantically grabbed shells. "Fifty."

"That’s twenty to one odds," Herbert blurted out.

"Yes." Joubert pumped his shotgun. "But they aren’t armed."

***

"Finally some damn food." Freddy drooled over the canned selection: corn, peas, greens, and more. This was a feast after the rationing of the past few weeks. He raided the cafeteria along with Bucky, Julius, and Leon scooping up all they could hold to take back to their black brothers.

"Shouldn’t we be hurrying back?" Julius asked nervously. "We got enough as is."

"Where is the can opener?" Freddy interrupted.

"How da fuck should I know?" Bucky unscrewed some peanut butter and thrust his fingers into the jar, scooping out as much as he could and ramming the goo into his mouth.

"Damnit," Freddy cursed in frustration, unable to find the can opener. He started beating the can against the wall in a series of dull clangs. "I want some corn, damnit!"

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" The four black cons turned to see Rup and four of his Aryan subordinates saunter into the kitchen area. "When the master’s away, don’t the house niggers play." He clucked his tongue. "Better get your hands off our food, spearchuckers."

Freddy and his three buddies stood their ground, clutching their bounty tight to their chests. "Fuck that. This is our food. We got it first."

One of Rup’s Aryans lifted a knife from a nearby butcher block which he passed up the line to his boss. Rup fingered the edge of the butcher knife, cautiously sizing up the opposition. "Doesn’t matter who’s here first. Ask the injuns. Now get your hands off our food, porch monkey. Survival of the fittest. If you’re quick about it, we might throw you some scraps."

Freddy turned to his friends who eyed one another with concern. He nodded to them before turning back to Rup. "Sure. Here ya fuckin’ go." Freddy threw a can right at Rup’s head, the latter sidestepping the tin as Freddy and his gang charged the Aryans, tackling the whites to the floor. Bucky had an Aryan by the throat, choking him as he beat the redneck’s head into the floor over and over again, while Leon wrestled with two others off in the corner and Julius struggled against the counter. Freddy stood over Rup, taking great joy in kicking him in the belly time and again, bouncing on his feet like he was dancing.

The tide soon turned against the blacks. Julius took a shot to the ribs and crumpled to the floor. The Aryan gave him a quick punch to the side of the face to finish him off before snatching a cutting board off the counter. He hurried over to help his comrades, bashing the board upside Leon’s skull with a stiff thwack nearly taking his head off. Freddy heard the shot and turned to see what had happened. "Leon!"

Rup grabbed Freddy by the leg and yanked him off his feet. Freddy fell face first to the floor smacking the tile with a slap. Dazed, Freddy was unable to fend off Rup who turned him over and put a knee on his chest. Rup proceeded to stab Freddy repeatedly, blood gurgling out of Freddy’s mouth as he choked on a final retort.

Bucky was oblivious to everything happening around him as he pounded his opponent’s head to pulp, continuing to mindlessly slam it into the floor; brains seeping out of the dead bastard’s ears. Bucky howled to the ceiling in triumph before falling victim to three Aryans, one grabbing him by the neck as the other two took him by the arms.

Only Julius got away, abandoning his friends to be massacred in the kitchen. He ran for all he was worth, staggering through the corridors back to D-Block. He nearly collapsed from exhaustion when he broke through into the dimly lit territory of his Nubian brothers.

Hastings, the hulking black leader, stepped forward. "Julius? What’s wrong? Where are the others?"

"And our food-"

"You secure that shit!" Hastings ordered.

"They...got Freddy...Bucky." Julius struggled to breathe. "And...Leon. Killing us."

Hastings’ eyes narrowed. "Who?"

The block gathered around the bent form of Julius as he sucked wind, their faces twisted with concern. "Aryans...in...in the cafeteria."

"Fuckers," one in the crowd spat.

"We owe ’em for what they did in the showers, corn-fed shit kickers."

"Fuck yeah, we do!" Hastings shouted. "First they beat us like dogs. Then they kill us like bitches. Are we gonna keep taking their shit?"

"No!" the block yelled in unison.

"Fucking think they run this place. This ain’t no white man’s world. This is our territory!" Hasting’s bellowed, thumping his chest.

“Yeah!” the block yelled together.

"Killing our brothers. Time we ended this shit. Made this place ours. We got the numbers."

"Fuck yeah!"

“Seems the Aryan block is open to visitors,” Hastings stated. “What do you guys say we pay Aryan territory a visit?”

The crowd erupted like warriors of old: hungry for blood and conquest, rage clouding their minds. They lusted to snuff out the other. Hurrying to their cells, they fashioned weapons out of whatever they could find. They shattered mirrors to make knives and broke the legs off beds for clubs. Some ripped their sheets to wrap their hands. They shouted and roared, beating their weapons against the cell bars in passing, creating all the noise they could; a savage battle chant to unify them.

"You five." Hastings jabbed his nightstick at a segment of men up on the second story. "Stay here and guard that bastard."

"Don’t worry, boss." One of them mockingly saluted. "We’ll take special care of our guest."

Hastings snarled as he turned to follow the men.

The blacks ran through the shadows screaming like banshees, their massed footsteps resounding through the narrow corridors. Their faces were savage and brutish. The tribe took to the halls with frenzy, their white eyes, absent of reason, burning bright in the dark like torches. They did not march into battle with subtlety but rushed with reckless abandon. But as they reached the Aryan block, the blacks slowed their mercurial advance. The Aryans were massed and waiting for them. The two sides cautiously eyed one another.

"Don’t you niggers know where you belong?" Rup asked as he played with his butcher knife, Freddy’s blood fresh on the blade. He thrust it at them. "Back that way, to that shithole you call home." As the blacks tried to stare them down, Rup turned to his men. "This is what niggers call a sneak attack, fuckin’ dumb gorillas."

"Get out of here niggers!" someone yelled to the roaring approval of the Aryans.

"Why don’t you make us leave?" Hastings challenged, tapping the nightstick in his palm. Those behind him clutched their weapons tighter.

"Like how I made you boys surrender our food?" Rup smirked, scratching his chin. "We’re gonna bury you, fuckin’ monkeys."

"I’m gonna make you pay for what you did in the showers," Hastings swore.

"Aw, what’s the matter? I mash up your bitches so they ain’t cute enough to fuck anymore?"

"Don’t you fuckin’ talk that way about the brothers," Hastings warned.

"Fuck you. And fuck your brothers," Rup bit back in derision.

The blacks cut loose a war cry and drove into the Aryan line. Some dove deep into the white ranks bringing their weapons to bear, swallowed by the crowd. Hastings swung in arcs, fracturing skulls in swaths. He was a giant here among men, his club dislocating shoulders and cracking jaws. Rup buried his knife in the ribs of every black he could grab, yipping and whooping a rebel yell; faced stained crimson. The slaughter had just begun.

And there, several floors up, Siyyid and the other disciples watched with great pleasure what they had wrought. When the Nubians spotted them, several broke from the melee, charging up the stairs, weapons in hand. Siyyid and the others did not flee, instead prostrating themselves before their attackers and surrendering to approaching death with reverent acceptance.

***

"God damnit!" Officer Richards yelled as the Mexicans threw more debris at him. He ducked into the doorway to join his partner. "I feel like I’m on border patrol. Fuckin’ grease balls!"

George pushed the door open and let loose a round of buckshot that blew one of the Mexicans off his feet to join the growing pile of chewed up corpses littered across the corridor’s floor. The two guards were holed up in the laundry room without any avenue for escape. "We can’t hold them here forever. We need back up!"

Richards brought the radio to his mouth. "Dames. Dames, this is Richards, over."

George let go another shot tearing a Mexican’s face off. "Anything?" he asked, tensely surveying the hall.

"Not so far."

The Mexicans waited at the other end of the hallway, probing the defenses in front of them. They threw anything they could to drive the guards back inside in order to give their allies a chance to make it to the door. In close quarters, the advantage was the guards; the narrow corridor forcing the Mexicans to funnel themselves into a ready-made kill zone, negating their numbers. As long as the ammo held up, George knew they could hold them. Another three started to run forward under a hail of junk artillery. Ducking back inside, George and Richards waited nervously behind the closed door watching through a slim slit of window.

“Now?” Richards asked George.

George took a knee. “Now!”

Richards pulled the door open. George aimed at the center convict as the group charged down the corridor to within ten feet, loosing a deafening shot that tore a hole out of the Mexican’s chest and grazed his partner on his right sending him dazedly into the wall. The Mexicans quickly retreated back down the hallway carrying their wounded with them as George kicked the door closed.

"Richards, Richards, Dames here," crackled the radio.

"Finally." Relieved, Richards picked up the radio. "I got problems here."

"Have you found Marcus?" Dames asked.

"No, but I have found practically all of B-Block."

"You aren’t supposed to be in B-Block," Dames replied.

"Exactly. The fucks got us cornered here in the laundry room! They came out of nowhere."

"How many?"

Richards looked through the mesh window. "I’m pretty sure all of ’em."

"How many shells do you have?" George asked Richards as he reloaded.

"Three. Why?"

"I need ’em."

"No way."

"I’ve only got two rounds left."

"Then make ‘em count." Richards returned to the radio. "We need reinforcements here. We’re almost out of ammo."

"We’re shorthanded as it is," Dames told him. "I can’t spare--oh Jesus."

"What? What is it?" Richards asked.

"We found Jesse."

"Is he-"

"Oh fuck!" George shouted, cutting Richards off. "They’re coming!" Richards pushed his partner aside to see the Mexicans pouring down the corridor en masse trampling their dead beneath them. They came shoulder to shoulder, a screaming wave directed right at them. George jerked the door open and expended his last two shots only making a mild ripple in the wave as it poured on.

"Hold the door! Hold the-"

The Mexicans burst into the room, throwing the two guards down onto the ground. Dozens of hands grabbed the two officers strangling them, beating them. The pair glimpsed the faces of their killers, rage etched into that wall of cruel visages that collapsed on top of them. The two guards were throttled and torn to unidentifiable pieces, their shrill cries echoing through the hallways.

***

"Now we know how the blocks were opened," Herbert said as Dames pulled Jesse’s corpse over to a corner.

"But who?" Joubert asked.

"Luke," Herbert stated. Dames and Joubert looked at each other.

"No way." Joubert shook his head. "He couldn’t have gotten out."

Dames thought it over. "Well, we haven’t heard from Marcus-"

"That doesn’t mean shit!" Joubert barked at his subordinate.

"Whoa." Herbert gasped, his eyes on the monitors.

“What now?” Joubert asked, feeling weaker by the second.

"Where is that?" Herbert pointed at one of the screens.

Dames came up. "A-Block. Jesus." They stared at the melee going on down there between the Aryans and the Nubians. It was a full-scale war. Joubert caught a glimpse and went over to the controls, hitting a series of buttons. Onscreen, the gates to A-Block started to close.

Herbert wheeled around. “What are you doing?”

"Sealing the block," Joubert icily rejoined. "At least I can put the odds back in our favor."

"But they’ll kill each other if we lock them in there."

"Better them than us," Joubert bit back. Suddenly it occurred to him. "What does D-Block look like?"

Dames checked the monitor. "Pretty empty, sir."

"Send two men down there. We need to mount a rescue operation. Who’s the closest?"

"Clyde and Chris." Joubert gave Dames a look. "I’m on it." Dames keyed the radio: "Clyde? Clyde, this is Dames, over."

"Clyde here."

"Yeah, I need you and Chris to go to D-Block."

"Uh, I don’t think we have the ammo for something like that."

"D-Block is deserted. We believe Harris is still there, possibly unguarded."

There was a pause, the static waxing and waning over the walkie-talkie. "Are you sure about this, sir?"

"We’re watching the monitor now. It appears empty."

The silence that followed could only mean Clyde was mulling it over. "Ok. Chris and I are going to check it out."

"Dames out."

Herbert went to leave, Joubert stepping in front of him. "Where the hell do you think you’re going, Kraft?"

"I came here for a reason."

"You are not leaving. Dames-" Herbert pumped his shotgun. Joubert’s mottled face twitched. "You son of a bitch, I’m in control here!"

"Take a look at those monitors," Herbert urged. "No one’s in control."

"Fine," Joubert spat. "Get the fuck out of here. You’re not coming back."

"I wasn’t planning on it." With that, Herbert hurried out.

***

In the laundry room, the Mexicans planned their next move courtesy of the radios they’d picked up off of George and Richards. But first, they had to free a friend from solitary.

***

The clash of the damned drew him from the shadows. Beyond words, beyond reason; it was a mesmerizing vision of a long forgotten dream. Toward the flaring glimmer of A-Block, Luke emerged transfixed by the orgy of destruction unfolding within. It was almost Wagnerian. Blessed Götterdämmerung. Men, black and white, suicidally broke upon one another. And in the wake of such fanatical madness, bodies lay strewn across the gore stained floor. One convict bayed at the ceiling amidst the corpses, clothing himself in viscera and smearing the blood of his opponents across his face, mind long shattered. So much rage; so much flesh crushed together. The mood heated. Feverish. Air spiced with the tang of murder.

Luke watched Rup press his way into the melee, pushing men aside to dig his knife into Hastings’ side. The Aryan leader wrapped his arm around the Nubian’s neck and loosed that grim yellow grin when he felt Hastings go rigid in his grasp with a turn of the steel. But Hastings was far from dead. He twisted and grabbed Rup by the throat, gritting his teeth as he pulled the blade from his side. Staring into those baleful eyes, Hastings rammed the knife into Rup’s stomach. Rup squealed, bile flooding his mouth and spilling past his lips to dribble down his chin. The two faltered there amid the chaos, locked in a moment; sharing their final mortal minutes in one another’s embrace. In those precious last seconds, they realized that their deaths, like their lives, meant nothing. Together they collapsed amongst the corpses on the floor while the conflict continued to rage on around them oblivious to their loss.

The slaughter fed on itself senselessly. The psychotic laughter, that febrile cackle of cracked minds, echoed through the block segueing into the death rattles of doomed men and the grunting of mindless savages. It was an abominable choir of men reveling in their own destruction, battling to the last.

And as death laid claim to the living, time slowed. The light dimmed. Gradually the color bled out leaving all ashen. But then came the flickers, sparks shooting from those fallen clay vessels. Up from the abattoir’s floor rose the souls of the dead, white hot and searing; immortally scarred by the lives they’d suffered. Lost and confused in that realm between spaces, stars lacking orbit, they beheld Luke lingering behind the bars, studying them intently; a legion of flames borne of spent candles. To these souls, Luke extended his hand.

***

Chris gripped the shotgun with his one good arm, his left tied up in a sling. Clyde led on as they snuck through the corridor. He held up his hand for Chris to stop before putting his back against the wall. Clyde peeked around the corner into D-Block. The floor smoldered with burning debris while the cells yawned empty, dark and still. Clyde rounded the wall, waving for Chris to follow.

The pair stole into the abandoned block. A few lights buzzed overhead, though such illumination was sallow and nigh worthless in the suffocating haze that had settled over the block. Clyde and Chris pressed their sleeves against their mouths, stinging tears streaking down their cheeks; struggling to breathe in the acrid smoke that concealed their progress into enemy territory.

"Do you think-"

"Shhhh," Clyde cut Chris off, coughing lightly.

"Do you think Harris is still here?" Chris whispered.

Some laughter emanated from a rear cell up on level two.

"Someone is," Clyde offered in hushed tones.

The two made their way to the stairway, warily climbing to the second floor where the lit hole waited. They crept along the walkway, the hidden voices getting louder. As they got closer, they heard what sounded like a muffled whimpering.

Clyde stopped short of the cell. He turned to Chris and held up three fingers. Chris nodded in comprehension as one finger dropped and then another. As the third finger dropped, the two jumped out. Clyde fired his rifle blindly, ripping the head off one of the inmates as the con started to stand up; his face now part of the wall.

"Get your mother fucking hands up now!"

Inside, three inmates were seated in chairs they had dragged up from below, hands raised in surrender. A fourth had Harris, the captured guard, bent over the bunk, sodomizing him.

"Oh Jesus," Chris muttered.

"Get the fuck away from him," Clyde rasped. The rapist looked over his shoulder, his face shining with sweat. "I said get away from him!" The rapist pulled out, standing up to pull his pants on. Harris wept into the pillow, his blotchy ass bare to the group. Just hearing the pitiful sounds coming from Harris made Chris cringe. Clyde swore he saw a smirk on the rapist’s face.

Leveling the barrel, Clyde shot the rapist in the groin, the impact sending the con flying back into the corner behind the bunk. He fell to the floor shrieking, his crotch nothing more than a spurting mound of shredded beef. His three friends started to rise only for Clyde to turn his shotgun on them as a warning.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Chris yelled at Clyde.

“Check on Harris.”

Chris hurried over and clumsily tried to help his friend up off the bunk. Harris just shook and bawled. The rapist remained on the floor next to the bunk squirming in pain as he tried to hold himself together, whining and blubbering. "Shut up rapist!" Chris kicked him in the back.

"Is this what you do for fun? Huh?" Clyde demanded of the cons.

"He had it coming," one of the three retorted.

Clyde shot a round of buckshot into the smart mouth’s knee blowing the leg off at the joint. The con collapsed in anguish as Clyde pumped another round into the chamber. "Anyone else have an opinion?" The crippled inmate clasped his shattered knee, eyes wide, crying through clenched teeth.

“You mutha fucka,” the rapist gasped from the corner. “God damn mutha fucka.” Clyde calmly strode over to the man and proceeded to ram the butt of his rifle again and again into the con’s skull until it split spilling his brains across the floor. Everyone watched in stunned disbelief.

"Get his pants on," Clyde ordered Chris as he turned to guard the three inmates. The con whose leg had been blown off had stopped moving, gone still in a pool of blood. “He dead?” Clyde asked.

“Fuck you care.”

“Yeah. Fuck if I care.” Clyde glanced over his shoulder. “Chris, hurry the hell up.”

"Come on." Chris pulled Harris up off the bed.

The two cons fidgeted in their chairs drawing Clyde’s attention. "You two jackrabbits keep still." He took another quick look over his shoulder. "Will you get his fucking pants up."

In that instant, the two cons made a run for it. "Stop!" Clyde caught one in the shoulder with a shot sending him spinning over the railing to the floor below. The other had enough time to make it to the stairs, diving down the steps. "God damnit." Clyde followed the length of the walkway, keeping his eyes peeled. The escapee appeared not long after, breaking for the exit. Clyde brought the shotgun to bear, shooting the con in the back. The inmate was thrown to the floor dazed.

Clyde made his way to the stairs, keeping his eyes on the limp form below. He took his time, descending step-by-step, reloading as he stalked forward; the cockiness heavy in his boots. The convict tried to crawl as Clyde stood over him. The guard clucked his tongue as the inmate looked up at him, defiance in his eyes. "God damn niggers." Clyde sighed as he shot the con point blank in the face. He shook his head before wiping the blood off his boots on the man’s body. To his right he found the corpse of the inmate who had went over the railing, the man’s neck broken by the fall.

"Is everything all right?" Chris called from upstairs.

"Yeah." Chris and Harris appeared on the walkway, assured things were safe. Clyde motioned to Harris. "We should get a medal for saving your ass."

"A little late," Harris shot back, still sniveling.

Clyde waived him off. "Don’t be a pain in the ass, Harris."

"Fuck you!"

Clyde laughed at his friend until he heard it. Something was coming down the corridor. Not something. A lot of somethings.

"Hey Gringo!" someone shouted from the darkness.

"Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit." Clyde hurried back to the steps and up to the second floor. "Get back to the cell!"

"Why?" Chris peered into the shadows past the entrance to D-Block. Out of the gloom, the Mexicans poured into the place. "Oh fuck!" he hoarsely exclaimed, retreating back into the cell.

Harris remained at the railing, whimpering.

"Come the fuck on!" Clyde commanded, seizing Harris by the shirt and heaving him back into the cell before jerking the door shut.

"What the fuck now?" Chris hysterically demanded.

Clyde checked how much ammo remained in his jacket. "Well, they can’t get in without keys. We’re just gonna have to hang tight until the reinforcements arrive. D-Block is deserted, my ass." Harris curled up into a ball on the bunk and lost it, shaking and wailing plaintively. "Cut that shit, Harris. It ain’t helping."

One of the Mexicans came lunging up the stairs, darting toward the cell. Chris let loose a round when the man came into range, the impact hurling the guard back against the bunk onto his broken arm. "Fuck!" he screamed in pain.

"Don’t be a pussy," Clyde chided as he waited for the rest.

***

Luke entered D-Block unnoticed drawn by the sound of gunfire and cries for retribution. He surveyed the mass of men who dashed to certain death at the end of the walkway. The guards tore gaps in the wall of Mexicans gathered in front of their cell only for more to fill the breach. Luke appraised the pile of bodies crumpled both on the walkway and on the floor below before his eyes returned to that rear cell.

Eventually the gunfire fell silent. The Mexicans rattled the bars trying to rip them off their hinges to get at the guards inside, cursing the men just outside their reach. Clyde did his best to beat them back, futile though the effort was.

Faced with this stalemate, Luke held a ring of keys up and shook them. A stillness seized the place as everyone turned to where he stood. With a smirk, Luke tossed the keys onto the floor before retreating as the block’s gate sealed behind him. A few of the Mexicans cautiously descended to see what he’d thrown. As one of them picked up the ring, they let loose a holler.

On the second floor, Clyde and Chris desperately beat their rifles butts against the hands that kept reaching through grasping for them. Clyde caught one Mexican in the face knocking him cold. Before he could pull his rifle back, two of the inmates grabbed the stock and pulled the weapon out of his hands. "Fuck you, you god damn spics!" Clyde yelled at the inmates, giving them the finger.

A high-pitched whistle brought a cessation of activity. The Mexicans backed away from the bars, focused on something just beyond the guards’ sight. Clyde heard the steady footsteps of someone coming down the walkway. Chris backed up as Clyde waited to see who it was.

Paco strode into view. His face bore an expression of expectation. Clyde gored him with his eyes as the con pulled something from behind his back. It was the ring of keys. As Clyde started forward, one of the Mexicans threatened him with the butt of the captured rifle. Paco slid one of the keys into the lock, jiggled it, shook his head no, and then tried another key. Once again, he shook his head no. Then he inserted the third key and with a turn heard the clack as the bolt retracted. He nodded as he looked up at Clyde.

Luke heard the cell door slam open. He did not have to wait long for the screams.

***

"We shouldn’t have locked them in D-Block," Dames muttered, frowning.

"Don’t you fucking judge me," Joubert warned. "We’ve got the majority of those bastards sealed up now. If it comes down to it, we can starve them out."

"Oh shit!" Dames gasped. Through the monitor, he watched the Mexicans pour into the cell. "Clyde. Chris."

"Sometimes you need to make sacrifices," Joubert coldly replied, refusing to face the screen.

Dames glared at the warden, the muscles of his face stiff with rage. "Those are my men. My men!"

"Don’t go getting dramatic on me. If your men had done their jobs properly, then we wouldn’t be knee high in this shit storm right now."

Dames shook his head. "No."

Joubert blinked. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re wrong.” Dames went to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"D-Block," Dames tossed over his shoulder. "See if I can level with ’em. Save my guys."

Behind his back, Dames heard Joubert pump his shotgun. “You will do no such thing. You’re staying here-”

"No," Dames cut him off, spinning on his heel to face Joubert’s rifle. "I am going down there to save my men. Then, after all this is over, I’m making sure you pay for what you’ve done tonight. Willingly sacrificing men-"

"Like hell you will, you fucking hillbilly."

"Are you threatening me?" Dames held his rifle with one hand and, with the shake of the wrist, pumped a round into the chamber.

Joubert brought his weapon up to his shoulder, sighting Dames’ head. "You will lower that rifle or I will make you lower it."

The two stared down the barrels of one another’s rifles, their fingers twitching on the triggers. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, running down into their eyes blurring their vision. The lights above flickered and then died. Only the cathode glow of the screens lit the two men in the grainy illumination of the chaos unfolding around them. As the two stood waiting on the edge of the abyss, all they needed was a nudge. Without warning, the monitor for Death Row began to fluctuate wildly giving off a sizzling electrical whine. Neither man flinched as it scraped their ear drums, the pitch increasing to a squeal. And then the screen blew causing both men to reflexively pull the trigger. Their rounds tore into one another, both men crumpling to the floor. Dames was dead instantly, his left leg jerking.

The warden lay there on the floor, eviscerated, straining to put the pieces back in; his guts slipping through his fingers. Joubert’s breathing was shallow and rapid, interrupted by a hacking cough which brought up bile and other vile fluids. The faint light of the screens faded in and out. He thought to stand but his legs were numb and useless.

The door behind the warden opened. He failed to hear the approaching footsteps, deaf from the blast. Before he knew it, Luke was looming overhead.

Deom kicked the rifle away from the warden’s hand, pulling the nightstick from his belt ever so slowly. He knelt down to stare into those steel gray eyes of Joubert’s, pulling the warden’s stiff hand away to look at his wounds; poking at those bared bowels with his nightstick to make the warden grimace.

“Yeah, look at it. Look at it, you fuck!” Joubert slapped weakly at Luke’s face. “Go ahead. Go ahead and kill me,” he wheezed, scarlet spittle spilling down his chalky chin. “I said fucking kill me.”

Luke nodded at the warden, raising the stick high in the air. Joubert didn’t flinch as Luke brought it down again and again and again.

***

All was void. The Deep had risen and the halls of the prison now held only sepulchral stillness, upset by the random scream spawned by unseen horrors. Men had devolved to monsters and order had been laid low. Herbert alone lingered, standing resolutely against the dark; a lone noble silhouette framed by moonlight. Like Cerberus, he was determined that no soul should pass from the depths. The corruption of this place had to be contained. At the sound of footsteps, Herbert jerked the shotgun up to his shoulder; pointing it at the shadows.

“The world will remember this day,” a harsh whisper cajoled from the abyss, akin to the divine bat kol.

"I can’t let you go," Herbert professed, straining to find Luke in the blackness.

“Why do you persecute me? Do you think killing me will purge the darkness in your own heart? Do you think this act offers redemption? You sought me out like so many others, for answers, and though your flesh abhorred me and your instincts warned you to flee, your soul drew you back. And why? It was never to understand me. It was always about you. You had to know what you are, why you are. Well now you know. You exist to destroy.”

“No,” Herbert feebly challenged, finger trembling on the trigger.

“I have hardened your heart for it must be hardened. Against guilt. Against shame. Against them. Your heart must be emptied that they find no succor there.

“It all must end, this nightmare without reason, this unending cycle of abominable Creation. Life shall find no respite this time, nor must another reality rise from its ashes to replace it. All this death, this dark energy that I foster, shall continue to grow until every bond is broken and all is torn apart; one final, great rip.

“And you…are my chosen vessel. Plead my testament to the world. Affirm what you have seen this day and all those that came before. Make them understand. The end comes and death is the only salvation."

Herbert savagely pumped a round into the gut of the shotgun. "Then come unto me and be saved."

Luke submitted himself to the nebulous light, raising his arms to either side a ready martyr. Behind him they followed. Hundreds. Thousands. They were an unholy mass of ambiguous, amorphous figures whose tenuous existence was tied to this fallen soul. The macabre vision shattered Herbert’s mind, his arm going limp and the shotgun clattering upon the floor. A ragged breath passed his lips as he fell to his knees, jaw slack, eyes glassy and empty. Despair washed over him, flooding that hollow shell of a man drowning what resolve remained.

Deom approached, soon looming over Herbert and placing a hand on the man’s bowed shoulder. "You will be my voice. Tell the world what you have witnessed. Print the revelation I have granted you. Speak of me. Spread my word. For I have finally completed the equation. And this," Luke declared as he surveyed the lifeless hall, "is the answer."

Luke abandoned Herbert, broken and weeping, and pressed on into the tranquil night, the storm now passed. In the courtyard, he paused before those massive gates of steel. Raising his crossed arms to his shoulders, he slowly pulled them together. By his will, the gates parted, grinding across the scored concrete. Shrieking as it split, the world opened to him. And into that space, Luke vanished.