Busted Flush

As soon as the security tech left, Zoë joined her sister at the console. Niobe watched the monitors through her daughters’ eyes. Just as Zoë had predicted, the guards stationed outside the exit up top hurried down to help contain the escapees. Meaning they helpfully brought the elevator down for Drake and Niobe.

The corridors throughout the complex echoed with screams and gunfire. The corridors between Drake’s cell in Q Sector and the elevator, however, were empty.

Niobe squeezed Drake’s hand. It trembled. “Time to go, kiddo. Ready?”

“I guess so.” He nodded, though he looked scared.

“Stay close. Follow me.”

They slipped out of Drake’s cell. As they scooted down the corridor, a voice echoed from the far end of the wing.

“Chomp they tail, chomp they kiddies . . . ”

Oh, no, said Zenobia. Mom, I think I opened some of the other cells by accident.

Flames erupted out of another cell. The heat was so intense that liquid salt dripped from the ceiling.

“Run!” Niobe took off at a dead run, but Drake couldn’t keep up. Soon he fell behind, hunched over and panting. Niobe grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the burning salt caverns. The floor was slick with gallons of spilled glycerin.

“Outta my way, kike!” The Racist blurred past. The wind bowled them over, fanning the flames higher. Niobe shoved Drake toward the exit from Q Sector. Shouting and gunfire echoed through the facility.

Zoë! You know what to do, honey.

Zoë reset the alarm panel. The sirens stopped. She pressed the “general call” button on the PA system. “I’d like to dedicate this first number to my mother.”

Zoë, it turned out, had a lovely singing voice. It echoed throughout the complex both by virtue of electronic amplification and her own deuce. Security techs and inmates forgot what they were doing. After a few verses they started wandering aimlessly.

The cotton didn’t help much. Staying focused was a chore. Niobe chanted a mantra—elevator, elevator, elevator—as she half dragged Drake past scenes that could have been culled from some of the major riots of the 1960s. Her eyes watered, her nose ran freely, and her throat burned; somewhere, the techs had resorted to using tear gas. The HVAC system was circulating it through the complex faster than the filters could cleanse the air.

They hurried past one corridor where a pair of security techs grappled listlessly with an inmate. They had pepper spray and a Taser, but as long as Zoë sang, they couldn’t concentrate long enough to use them.

They rounded another corner. Niobe tripped over a body sprawled on the foor. Smitty lay faceup, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Unblinking. Blood trickled from his eyes and nose.

“Don’t look, Drake.” Niobe covered his eyes as she pulled him along.

They were halfway across the cafeteria when Christian appeared in the doorway. His lips moved soundlessly, as though he was struggling to form a coherent thought—Zoë’s deuce at work again. He gave up, holding out his hand palm out. Stop, it said.

“Christian . . .”

Screams echoed from farther up the corridor. Christian frowned, turned, then frantically scrabbled at his holster for his fléchette pistol. Niobe and Drake scrambled backward, away from a surge of heat. Torrents of fire swept down the corridor. They swirled around Christian, and then he was gone.

Dad . . .

Niobe concentrated on finding a detour, on getting Drake to the elevator. Later. I’ll think about it later.

Drake jumped when a section of the cinder blocks next to the gleaming steel elevator doors pulled away from the wall. Niobe tickled her son under the chin.

“I’m so proud of you, Zane.”

He nuzzled her hand with his tentacles, using one to push a key into the slot next to the elevator doors. They slid open without a sound.

“Going up.” Niobe ushered Drake into the elevator.

C’mon, kiddos. She beckoned to Zane, and mentally waved a finger at Zoë and Zenobia. All aboard.

Zane climbed her shoulder; Zenobia drifted through the walls toward the elevator; Zoë didn’t move.

I have to stay behind, Mom, she thought. Zane and Zen can help you on the road. But the longer I sing, the better your chances of getting away.

But—

Zenobia thought, You know we’re right, Mom.

Niobe cried. “No . . . ”

A tiny frown touched the corners of Drake’s mouth as he watched Niobe.

No! That’s not what we agreed on.

Zane laughed, ripples of marigold orange limned with hints of sorrowful cobalt.

“We agreed to this. I love you, Mom.” Mom-mom-mom . . .

Zenobia rematerialized halfway down the corridor from the elevator. “Almost there, Mom!”