Young Writers Society

Viggo, a disgraced cop, has spent a little under a decade in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Now, Nyssa, an old friend, comes to him offering to help him get out.

To know more, go back to Chapter 1.1.

Thoughts of Nyssa replaced sleep. In the vulnerable hours, at night, Viggo stared at the darkened ceiling, listened to the chorus of snoring and to the echoes of steps in the concrete halls, and all he heard was her voice, all he saw was her face, her beaten look. She danced around his mind, and so did Russ. They made him want to ram his fist into a wall and to beat someone up.

Then, the thought of running away came back, worse than ever before. It was an itch under his skin as he paced the rec yard. Restlessness kept him from focusing, pushed, and pulled, and tore him apart, and, by chow time, he was exhausted.

Viggo ate in the cafeteria with everyone. They had tried solitary confinement for a very short while in Pelican Bay, and it had almost driven him crazy. It didn’t mean that he was the life of the party, he focused on his lunch tray and didn’t talk to anyone. He had been served a glorious green mixture that called itself “creamed spinach”, a yellow rock masquerading as cornbread, sloppy, runny eggs and applesauce.

Even if not for the thought of freedom twisting his guts, he wouldn't have had much of an appetite for this shit. Prison had taught him, however, that he couldn't afford to be weak. He needed all the proteins he could get – they were fuel for the muscle he had built up. With the mindless determination of a robot, he grabbed the cornbread, tore it apart and began mechanically stuffing it into his mouth as he scanned the room for new threats. The trick to getting meals down was in swallowing before the taste could register.

He caught a few glares directed his way. No matter how careful the guards were – and he didn't think they were that careful, it always got out that he had been a cop. That's when the beatings usually started. He had completely lost track of the number of blows he had taken, of the number of days he had spent in a hospital bed.

Saint-Paul was his sixth prison. He had been beaten to within an inch of his life in the first two. He had almost killed an inmate in the third one – the idiot had cornered him in Necessities. Viggo had been really tired of defending himself by that point and it had taken four guards to make him stop choking the moron.

Then, he had done a short stint at Pelican Bay – supposedly the most secure prison in America. Another inmate had somehow managed to stab him four times on his way back to his cell. The shiv had missed his liver by less than an inch.

He had been kept in a lower security prison with a medical ward while he recovered from his wounds. Then, they had transferred him to Saint-Paul, which he hated the least so far. Maximum Security there felt more like protective custody and his daily life was a little less regimented. He had only been in a couple of minor fights, just a little posturing. Now, he was almost part of the scenery: people most often forgot to hate him.

Most often, he thought, meeting the eyes of another inmate across the room.

The young man smirked and dragged a finger across his throat. He was a short, wiry African-American with crazy eyes. He looked all of twenty.

Viggo wanted to sigh but managed to hold it in. Unless he was caught unaware or overpowered by some serious back up – both very serious possibilities, he could take the young idiot. One day, though, there would be a new young idiot he wouldn't be able to take on his own. Every day, that became more likely: he was thirty-five and he would either die or turn forty behind bars. All those pushups would only hold age at bay so long.

One of the guards bent to Viggo's ear, “Looks like Demens's got a hard-on for you, Carlsen.” His tone wasn't even unpleasant, he was just remarking on it like he'd have remarked on the weather. Ignoring him, Viggo dragged the last bit of his cornbread through the spinach, then up to his mouth. The guard chuckled. “You're a cool one, alright.”

Cool? He was about room temperature.

***

Viggo had half an hour in the rec yard that afternoon. Time spent out there was always the highlight of his day. There were only a dozen other prisoners from Maximum Security out with him. He was at the weight bench, engrossed in his work-out, when someone asked, “Doing okay, Pete?”

Viggo paused to eye the young man who had snuck up on him. Woodman “Wood” Baker looked like a choir-boy, fair-haired, blue-eyed and so damn young. He was only twenty and doing ten years for the brutal murder of his girlfriend. He rarely talked about his crime and certainly never defended his actions. The kid felt guilty – a rare gem. He deserved to be in jail, but Viggo had decided that he deserved to get out alive at the end of his sentence.

Wood was ill-equipped to survive in Saint-Paul. He had already wound up in the infirmary twice with serious injuries after getting dragged in someone else’s fight. He was lucky the warden had taken pity on him and transferred him out of general pop. In Maximum Security, he had his own cell and spent very little time at the mercy of other inmates. Viggo had his back too. The guards knew not to interfere with his efforts to whip Wood into shape.

“Doing fine,” Viggo grunted.

“I heard you got a visit, yesterday.” Wood smiled, and two small dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Pretty, young attorney, they said. Latina chick.” Playfully, he wriggled his eyebrows. “I think I need a new lawyer.”

Viggo grunted an almost-laugh. “What for?” he asked. “You aren't lodging new appeals, anyway.”

Wood raised an eyebrow. “'Cause you are? You said you were done with that crap.”

Viggo had been done with hope. He had thought that nothing could be more painful than the lure of freedom and exoneration. But…

“I am,” he said. “No freedom for me, Wood. No hope.”

No hope. He couldn't handle hope, but he could handle plans – and Nyssa Malik featured prominently in them. Poor kid, he was going to use her shamelessly, to abuse her need for absolution, for help and comfort. She was his way out.

“But there's this pretty, young lawyer and I've got all the time in the world to lose forming appeals.”

“So, you're going to try again?” Wood insisted.

Viggo shrugged. “Maybe.”

***

“Widen your stance.”

Wood didn't and Viggo kicked his right foot, sending him sprawling on the concrete. The boy rubbed his scraped hand and glared reproachfully at him. They had been at it practically non-stop, and Wood was covered in bruises and scratches.

“Ow!” he said. “What was that for?!”

“Focus! Your posture's terrible! If you can't even stand up right, how the hell are you going to defend yourself?”

Wood hoisted himself up. “Why the hell would I need to defend myself?”

“I won't always be there!”

Wood's expression went blank. He dusted his knees thoughtfully. Viggo took a deep breath. His temper couldn’t slip the leash. With everything else, he had neither the time nor the energy for this. The boy would have to take care of himself – same as the other convicted murderers.

“Really?” Wood sneered. “Where are you going? Or is that top secret?”

The mockery angered Viggo, emphasizing the fact that his plans were still little more than empty fantasies. “Shut up. You've got no idea what you're talking about.”

“Of course, I don't, man. You never tell me anything.”

“I’m telling you, shut the hell up and take that damn stance.”

The boy looked like he wanted to argue but, at long last, he took his fighting stance, feet just wide enough, hands up in defense right before his face.

“Your guard's too high,” Viggo pointed out. “I've got a highway to your stomach. Lower it a little. Not too much, your head's still your weaker point. Don't keep your hands so close together. Good. That's good.”

They started trading mock-punches.

Wood hated fighting, he was always on the defensive, afraid of his own anger, afraid he would lose it again and do something he couldn’t take back again. He had killed one girl, and that was plenty enough for him. Maybe it was for the best.

“You're real good, man,” the boy said. “Where did you learn all that stuff? You were a pro boxer or something?”

“I was a cop.”

“For real?!” Wood's eyes went wide and disbelieving. “I thought the guards were pulling my leg. They said you were a detective back in San Francisco.”

Viggo shook his head. Talk about a well-kept secret… The kid took advantage of his distraction to throw an uppercut he barely dodged. “Nice one.”

“Hm,” Wood mumbled. “Did you really kill another cop?”

“Helen Defoe.”

Wood wiggled his brows. “A girl cop?”

Viggo nodded. “She was another detective from my station.”

“Man…” Wood's mouth fell open. “You really killed kids too?”

“That's what they say.” Viggo’s fists tightened. “Her two boys – three and four – and her husband too, they say.

“That’s the truth?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Wood feinted to the left but didn't shut up. “I don't believe it.”

“You think it matters? We’re convicted murderers. You, me, we’re shit outside this luxury resort. Who gives a fuck what you believe?”

Hurt pinched the boy’s lips. He really needed to toughen up. One way or another, Viggo planned to be gone soon from Saint-Paul. Wood would have to watch his own back.

“It's the lawyer, isn't it?” the kid suddenly blurted.

“What lawyer?”

“Your lawyer. I swear, man, you're like a different guy since she first came around.”

Viggo faltered. “Am I?”

He had to dunk to save himself from a nasty bruise. God, he hoped he hadn't been too obvious. After all their precautions, he couldn't let anyone guess at Nyssa's importance. Not even Wood. They would interview the kid within the first few days. The crucial, first, few days.

“Yeah.”

“How so?” he bit out, “Don't lower your guard!”

“You aren’t cold as you think anymore. You're, like, burning.”

The thought of Russ being out there had a way of setting him aflame.

“Burning?” he repeated.

“Waiting. Watching. Wanting. I can tell. And the time I saw her, she had the same thing in her eyes.”

Viggo took his most threatening tone, “You should stop flapping your mouth, Wood.”

The stupid kid just gave him an eyeful of that dimpled smile of his. “Relax. It's not like I'm going to tell anyone here.”

They glanced around at their peers and, sure enough, who was Wood supposed to babble to? The other Max-Sec inmates were creeps: child-molesters, serial rapists, the worst of the worst, those so bad general pop rejected them. It took new levels of evil.

“Just shut up, Wood. Your mouth is going to get you killed one day. What the…Woof!”

Wood had finally managed to land a punch in his guts. Viggo froze, both hands on his bruised stomach. It was completely silent out there, eerily silent. The rec yard was usually noisy, plus birds and insects thrived in the island’s vegetation. He was drawing up slowly when he felt the first tremor.

“What are you…” Wood began.

“Run! Away from the buildings!”

It was going to be a big one. Viggo could feel it. He grabbed Wood and sprinted for the fence. The rumbling grew louder and louder. The other inmates were shouting and scurrying around them. The ground was shaking under their feet, almost as if it was trying to trip them up. The earthquake came, and came, and came. Forever – but not really, of course. A big, very big one. Six. Maybe seven.

And, then, it was over. But the racket didn't die down. There were still crunching sounds, creaking sounds, dry explosions. Concrete, giving out. Sick with dread, Viggo glanced back over his shoulder. An aftershock hit. And the watchtower wobbled. It stood over them, looking ten miles high.

Understanding went through the rec yard like a shock wave. Guards and inmates alike launched themselves at the inner fence – which, fortunately, wasn't electrified. They crawled up and away from danger.

Viggo's brain short-circuited, went mute. He had to let go of Wood to climb. People were fighting somewhere. He could hear shouting, insults, threats and calls for help. He jumped down from the top of the fence. Wood was right behind him, clinging to it like an octopus.

The watchtower came crashing down on top of…everything. Viggo didn't think to react, he just took two steps back and, like a fucking miracle, all but two other inmates and the one guard got squashed under the building. Wood's eyes went wide. That's the last Viggo saw of his friend. Wide blue eyes, then nothing but a never-ending scream. Crushed. Crushed, just like that.

And around this single bit of horror, the prison was in rubble, a scene of apocalypse – broken slabs of concrete and dead-bodies. Viggo wondered if he had gone permanently deaf with the thunder-like noise. Then, someone screamed, and he knew he hadn't.

The other two inmates had jumped the last guard. He was only a kid, no older than Wood, and those two fucking animals had him pinned down. Charlie Linred and Ray Ramirez. Both serial rapists: Linred had a thing for pretty housewives, Ramirez liked little kids. He had his huge brown hands around the guard's throat.

No way. No fucking way.

Viggo heard an animal sound of fury but didn't realize that it was coming out of his mouth until he grabbed Ramirez’s collar and threw him on the heap of rubble. Quite a show of strength, but he didn't think twice about it.

Linred met his eyes and backed off, hands raised high up in the air. He scurried away when Viggo squatted next to the guard to check his pulse. The kid was alive – shaken-up and knocked-out, but he would be okay. Ramirez was out cold too. Just a bump on the head.

What a shame…

Viggo finally started thinking straight. It was three in the afternoon and the ground had virtually swallowed up his prison. Even the outer fences had been flattened by the crumbling buildings. It would take reinforcements a while to get to Saint-Paul island – and even longer to realize he was gone. His injuries were minor: a twisted ankle from jumping down the fence and a big scratch on his arm. He was thirty-six years old, and physically fit. He could make the short, hard swim to the mainland. Bad currents, but nothing lethal enough to dissuade a desperate man.

He took his cuffs and gun from the guard. The gun, he tucked under his uniform. The cuffs, he used on Ray. Then he looked around, spotted the last lone camera still standing. He waved at it, imagining some schmuck watching the recording, and he set out at an easy jog.

If Linred had any brains left, he would pray not to cross his path because Viggo was pissed off.

To know how far Viggo's going to run, read Chapter 2.1.