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Pressing the transmit button on his radio, Blood says, “Arty, you there? Come in, Arty. Over.”
“Blood,” Arty says, “I can see that thing coming for us. It’s gonna fucking eat us all up. It’s over. Over.”
“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Blood says. “You guys just hold tight, and we’ll figure out a way to kill it once and for all. You got real bullets now. Aim for its cranial cap. If you nail that, you will put a round in its brain. That will kill it instantly.”
“How do you know that shit?” the panicked Arty begs.
“That’s what Dumas told us before he was torn to pieces,” Blood says. “The only way you can kill it is a headshot, JFK-Dallas style. So far, me and Steele haven’t gotten close enough to put a bullet in its brain. Over.”
“Just hurry up with the new plan you guys,” Arty insists. “If we have to stay here and face imminent slaughter, we’ll at least do our best to keep the monster at bay for as long as humanly possible. Over.”
“That’s the spirit, Arty,” I say. “Before you know it, you, me, and Blood will be lifting weights at some swanky gym outside the walls of The Oven. We’ll have a nice lunch afterward. Just stay calm and all this will work out. Over.”
“There it is,” Arty says. “There’s the fucking crea...”
His voice cuts off, mid-sentence. Not a good sign.
“Let’s get to Leach’s office fast, Blood,” I say. “Time is running out on this shitshow.”
Blood turns and together, we take the stairs two at a time. When we come to the fourth floor, we shove the metal door open and sprint to the warden’s office. We don’t bother with knocking. We just barge right in. We catch Leach standing behind his desk. He’s already got an early morning whiskey going.
I head to his desk and pour myself a shot in the same glass I used the evening before. I also pour one for Blood. God knows we can use it at this point. Leach hasn’t said a word to us while his eyes are glued to his computer screen.
“Oh, good Christ,” he says, after a long beat. He shoots down his whiskey and pours himself another one. “That...that thing is tearing the guard shack to pieces.” He shifts the laptop screen so that we can see what’s happening in Gen Pop via CCTV. In fact, there are multiple screens broadcasting multiple points of view. “The gator’s got another one of the guards in its jaws. She’s consuming him on the spot.”
Blood and I sip our whiskey and witness the carnage as it unfolds in real-time. Leach takes a step back, about-faces, and stares out the window onto the yard and the wrecked chopper.
“Jesus,” he says. “They haven’t even picked up the dead bodies yet. The EMTs are too afraid to enter the prison.”
“Can you blame them?” Blood says. “It’s a fucking killing field. It’s liable to slaughter us all before the day is out.”
Leach turns back around.
“I thought you two said you could kill Max Gator,” he shouts. “You gave me your fucking word.”
We both drink more whiskey.
“We’re trying, Leach,” I say, not without acid in my tone. “If that gator can get at Dumas, she can get at anyone.” Refocusing on Blood. “How many rounds have we put into that thing thus far, brother?”
“Enough to kill ten men,” he says. “But Dumas was able to give us one crucial bit of advice before he took the high-speed rail to hell.”
“What is it?” Leach says.
“The only way to kill her is by shooting her in the cranial cap,” Blood says.
“But thus far,” I say, “we haven’t been able to get close enough to her to get the right shot.”
Coming from the computer then, screams. All three of us eye the computer. Max Gator has chewed the legs off one of the guards and it’s presently dragging a second man out of the guard shack. It’s a young black man, and he’s screaming his lungs out.
“You see what’s happening here?” Arty spits over the radio. “We’re getting fucking massacred here. You gotta do something or we’re all dead. You hear me? You gotta do something.”
On the CCTV we can clearly see Arty shouldering his AR-15 and unloading an entire magazine into Max Gator. But the bullets aren’t having any effect.
Leach picks up his radio transmitter, presses it to his lips.
“Arty get the hell out of there now while the gator is occupied,” he barks. “Exit the guard shack and get your ass up here, on the double. Over and out.”
On the monitor, we spot Arty as he drops the empty magazine and slaps a fresh one into the housing. But he doesn’t take another shot at the gator. As a gesture of mercy, he puts a bullet into the brains of the still alive, but half-eaten man. He then shoots the guard who is presently being consumed from the legs up.
“Now that is a sad sight to see,” Blood says more to himself than anyone else.
Arty runs like hell out of Gen Pop, no doubt tears filling his eyes.