“He’s dead,” Lambert announced.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Think I’m lying to you, asshole?”
Resuming his scraping, Cole grumbled, “You seemed a lot friendlier when I first got here, you know that?”
Lambert placed his arms across the bars so he could rest his forehead against them. “That’s when I thought you were someone I could work with and not some swamp lover.”
Hearing Frank’s angry hiss gurgling nearby, Cole said, “If things go the way I think they might, we’ll need to stick together to get out of here.”
“You plan on getting out soon?” Lambert asked.
“Sooner rather than later. That work for you?”
“Sure. How about we swing by to get some food first? I like them ice cream sandwiches in that vending machine downstairs.”
More leathery skin scraped against iron bars as the Squam strained to get a closer look at his neighbor. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Now that the wooden chunk was out of his hand and the wound was slowly healing, Cole felt as if he had his own personal sunbeam shining on his shoulders. It was the best he’d felt for days, and his mood got even better when he saw the fine job the varnished piece of wood was doing on the bar. Like the spear he’d left behind or any other Skinner weapon, the chip was harder than stone, lighter than plastic, and sharper than tempered steel. The fact that it sliced into his fingers while it was pushed against the bars worked in his favor as the splinter absorbed even more of his blood into its grain.
“I’m working on some of this graffiti,” Cole said. “You know. Trying to clean up the place before we have any more visitors.”
The Squam’s face twisted into a strange mockery of confusion. “Are you expecting another visitor?”
“They don’t seem to leave us alone for very long around here,” Lambert said while squinting to try to get a better look at Cole’s busy hands. “I know about them runes too. They’re not the ones used to unlock the door.”
“I know. I can’t reach those.” Suddenly, Cole stopped and closed his eyes. “Frank,” he said, hoping he wasn’t about to look like the biggest moron in lockup, “can you reach those symbols on the wall?”
“The ones the guards always touch to unlock the doors?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
Cole nodded and returned to his task. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the splinter harder until the thorn sliced into his thumb. The command he recited echoed so loudly through his brain that he couldn’t stop himself from mouthing the words. The wood chip didn’t respond as well as his own spear, but it did shift slightly into a more angular shape that was better suited for gouging into the iron bar. He didn’t want to look up from the symbol he was carving into. Every bit of willpower he could force into the task was committed to honing the tool in his hand. “How long have you been in here, Frank?”
“Long enough to know those symbols can’t be scratched off.”
The chip in Cole’s hand was responding quicker with the thorn fully embedded in his flesh. When he wanted to saw deeper, it grew a more jagged edge. When his hold on it started to slip, it formed subtle grooves along its surface to allow his fingers to find better purchase. “Maybe not easily, but I think I can get it done.”
“Do you know how they work?”
“All you need to do is know which ones are the triggers and which way you’re supposed to trace the design to make them turn on or off.”
“I figured out that much by watching the guards,” Lambert said. “What else you got?”
“How about this?” Cole had been hoping for a dramatic snap of metal as the wedge of bar he’d cut came loose and fell to the floor. Instead, what he got was the grind of his wood chip getting stuck inside the groove it had made. There was some struggling involved, but he managed to pull his tool loose while also popping the small section of iron from the bar. He picked it up, brushed it off and examined it. Smiling proudly, he said, “Just what I thought. The runes don’t go all the way down.”
“Why didn’t you just cut all the way through the bar?” Frank asked.
“Actually, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do this much. This wood is stronger than I thought. Anyway,” Cole added while tucking the iron wedge into his shoe, “this is better.”
“Was something supposed to have happened?”
Cole dropped to his knees and bent down to the little square door. “Let me ask you something, Frank. Can you see anything special from these bars? Like maybe something the rest of us can’t see?”
“Yes.”
“Whoa, wait,” Lambert said. “How’d you know that?”
Frank’s voice was like a huff of air blown over a dry slate. “Yes. How did you know about that?”
“I’m a Skinner. We know things.”
The cryptic response sounded bad the moment Cole said it, and went over even worse with the other two prisoners.
“You know how to deface prison property,” Lambert scoffed. “That puts you right up there with the dickhead who had this cell before me who broke the toilet.”
“How do you know about what I can or cannot see?” Frank asked.
“We don’t have time for this,” Cole said. “Someone’s gotta be coming by now.”
Lambert pushed his face into the gap between two of his bars as though he expected to pull the same trick as the Squam. “ Now you’re worried about them watching?”
After seeing the cross section of the other bar, he had a better idea how far down he needed to saw on the others. His progress wasn’t hampered by the sudden rattling of his cage, but the leathery fist pounding against it sure caught his attention.
“Answer me, Skinner,” Frank demanded while thumping the bars with a scaly fist. “How do you know so much about us?”
Cole knew about the Squamatosapien’s eyesight because of another Skinner’s research. Ned Post had spent some time in the Everglades, tracked down a few of the lizard people and discovered they could operate on another visual spectrum that essentially allowed them to see scents. Thus, they could avoid the Nymar that had hunted them, along with any number of predators both natural and supernatural. Since Ned continued his research by cutting out Squam eyes and tear ducts to create the drops used to temporarily give Skinners that same ability, Cole wasn’t eager to answer Frank’s question.
Of all the times he’d heard the elevator doors slide open at the other end of the corridor, this was the first time he welcomed it. Guards were coming, but it also meant he didn’t have to try to bluff a creature that very possibly could have smelled a lie the moment it came out of his mouth. “If you want to continue this conversation, we can do it once we’re out of here,” he said to the Squam. “And if you want to join us, I suggest you do your best to keep these guys off of me so I can work.”
“Fine,” Frank hissed, “but I will not forget to ask again.”
Cole already figured as much. Considering how things had gone so far, why should anything be easy?
“I’m in too,” Lambert said.
Footsteps knocked against the floor outside the elevator. Rather than say anything that might be overheard, Cole nodded and got back to work.
“What’s going on in here?” a guard asked. Cole recognized the voice as belonging to the guy who brought plates of runny stew and cups of instant oatmeal as what passed for dinner and breakfast. The steps stopped near Frank’s cell, punctuated by the loud clang of a club against his bars. “You trying to squeeze out of there? When’d you learn to do that?”
Cole felt like Renfield from the old Dracula movies as he squatted down and sawed away at the cell door with his little wooden chip. The big difference between him and a lunatic was that he knew exactly what he was doing and was making progress. Then again, that’s probably exactly what all the lunatics thought.
“And what do you think you’re trying to do?” the guard asked while swinging his gaze toward Cole. “What’s in your hand? If you’re cutting yourself, it won’t get you—” Frank’s hand shot out from his cell so quickly that the guard never had a chance of stopping it. He barely had a chance to turn around before Frank grabbed the back of his head and snapped his temple against the iron bars.