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We’re breathing heavily by the time we reach the top of the staircase. By then, it’s full light outside and the day is already broiling in The Oven. Blood fingers the transmit button on the radio.
“Warden Leach, you there?” he speaks. “Over.”
“I’m here, Blood,” he says. “Just dozed off is all. What’s the sit rep? Over.”
“Mr. Steele and I have good news and not-so-good news,” he says. “Over.”
“Give me the not-so-good news first,” the Warden insists. “Over.”
“The gator is still alive,” he says. “Over.”
“And the good news?” the Warden says. “Over.”
“It ate Dumas,” Blood says. “Over.”
There’s some hesitation on Leach's part. I don’t know if he’s happy Dumas is dead or disappointed. Probably a little of both.
“What’s next?” Leach says after a long beat. “Over.”
“Plan C,” Blood says. “Over.”
“What’s plan C?” Leach says. “Over.”
“Yeah, I’d like to know what fucking plan C is too,” Arty jumps in, “because I got a shack filled with guards who refuse to leave it. Plus, the door to the shack is badly damaged. You know what that means, gentlemen?”
“You don’t have to tell us what it means, Arty,” I say. “But you’re gonna tell us anyway.”
“Say ‘Over,”’ Blood reminds me.
“Over,” I say.
“Fuckin’ A I am,” he spits. “It means we’re packed in here like a bunch of scared shitless sitting ducks, that’s what it means.”
Blood looks me in the eyes.
“He’s right,” Blood says.
“Warden Leach,” Arty says, “I’m officially requesting that you allow us guards to stand down and exit the premises. It’s too damned dangerous, Warden.”
“What, and abandon your posts when you’re needed most?” Leach says, his voice exhausted and gravelly. “I think not. And please refrain from foul language while using the radio. Don’t make me remind you again, Arthur. Over.”
I can almost sense Leach’s anger coming over the radio. He’ll be standing at his desk, his suit jacket off and tossed on the leather couch, his tie hanging low, the first couple buttons undone on his creased and wrinkled button down, the sleeves rolled up above both elbows. If he slept a couple hours during the course of the night it was a lot, and he’ll be suffering from a headbanger of a hangover.
Suddenly, a roar coming from down below and the sound of scaly feet pounding on the concrete stair treads.
“Jesus, here it comes, Blood,” I say.
“Go for the office facilities door,” he barks. “We need a face-to-face with Leach.”
Our AR-15s gripped in our hands, we run for the door. As we’re opening it, we get a look at Max Gator. Its jaws aren’t wide open like usual, because it’s holding something in between its fangs. It’s the severed head of Dumas. The giant gator is gripping it by the jagged skin on the serial killer’s neck.
When the gator spots us it quickly flips its long, fang-filled head over its shoulder, and then snaps it forward again, releasing the head like it’s a balling ball. The head rolls past us. The dead Dumas stares up at us with wide-open eyes and an open mouth. Blood and I use the occasion to open up on the beast with our firearms. But like every other time we’ve shot at it, we miss the crucial round skull cap.
The beast charges. Blood opens the door, and we shove our bodies inside. Slamming the door closed behind us, the gator does what it always does. It uses its snout for a battering ram.
Glancing at the hinges, I see them getting looser and looser with each collision of beast against metal door. Some of the loose concrete drops to the floor. I picture in my head, Max Gator backing up, and preparing to ram the door again. Blood must picture the scene also because he shoulders his AR-15 and prepares himself for the inevitable. The crash comes, and the hinges loosen up even more.
“That door ain’t gonna last too much longer,” he says, stating the obvious.
I see Blood's Adam’s apple bob up and down in his thick, muscular neck. It tells me that there’s real fear running through his veins. And if there’s fear running through his veins, you know damn well it’s running through mine too.
One more slam comes from Max Gator. The door holds true, but for how long? We wait another long minute or so, before I reluctantly place my hand on the doorknob, inhale a breath, and hold it in my lungs. Opening the now loose door, I spot the twenty-five feet long tail that belongs to the massive killer gator. She’s heading back to Gen Pop to kill and feed.
Closing the door, I turn to Blood.
“Radio Arty,” I say. “Tell him the beast is on its way. I don’t have the heart or the guts to do it myself.”
Blood nods.
“I’ll do it,” he says solemnly. “I’ll damn well do it now.”