9009/Chapter 13

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN


It was the dark hour before the dawn, black and still and cold, when 9009, slipping the last severed bar from its place and laying it noiselessly down, wiggled out of his cell like a red-barred snake. A moment later he was outside the building, shrinking, a shadow among shadows.

He was in the upper yard. To his right was the “Stone Building” from which he had just emerged; to his left, across the yard, lay his old cell-house. Before him, a hundred feet away, opened the alley-way leading to the lower yard with its little garden, where were the warden’s office and the sleeping quarters of the guards. The left side of this alley was made by the second cell-house and the dining-hall; the right side by the line of outhouses. These consisted of the laundry, the cook-house, and bakery. Between them were narrow spaces, mere guts two feet wide. It was in the nearer of these that he had once hidden for three days; in the same one was the niche where his knife lay; and the farther one was now his goal. Between this and the point where now he stood was a stretch of the yard, a hundred feet of it, bluely aglare with the lights of the electric mast.

Everything was very still where he stood, and very sombre. Behind him was a stretch of wall—and on it a muffled guard walked slowly, carrying his gun loosely in his right arm, like a hunter. In the centre of the yard, high on a slim mast, a cluster of arc-lights threw frozen blue rays wide into the sea of darkness below. They revealed harshly everything they touched: the beaten path in the yard, the stones of the high granite wall, the guard, his rifle-barrel gleaming cold, the “Stone Building,” hard and high, the cell-house, black-patched with barred windows, the cluster of outhouses before him, and especially, with a frigid intensity, an uncompromising malevolence, the stretch of beaten ground between him and his goal.

He stood in the narrow gutter of shadow along the base of the façade of the “Stone Building,” and he stared at the guard on the wall with dilated eyes used to searching darkness. The man was coming from the far extremity of his beat, toward 9009, pacing slowly, his rifle loose in hand; he paused to readjust the muffler around his neck, and then, abruptly, his head snapped forward and his rifle rose in his hand.

It may have been the pillar of shade, the blacker shadow in the black shadows which had not been there before—for peering straight toward the place, the guard became very tense; in the glare 9009 could see his features tighten, his left arm crook. The rifle was still going up; it stopped halfway between hip and shoulder; the two men stood still as graven images—the guard, a sharp figure in the blue-white light, bent, taut, watching; the barred convict in the shadow, crouching, motionless, his eyes peering without lid movement, like the pitiless eyes of a snake.

And then the guard relaxed; he dropped back his rifle to the old loose carriage and resumed his walk. 9009, immobile, unblinking, watched him approach the end of his beat and then, pivoting, start for the other end, his back turned; instantly he slid out into the luminous space.

He ran, swiftly and silently, on the balls of his feet, his arms half doubled, his chin thrown upon his humped right shoulder, looking backward all the time at the guard upon the wall, who paced along with his back still turned. He covered forty feet—and the guard still walked; fifty, sixty—the guard was slowing up; seventy feet—the guard paused. There in the middle of the walk something, perhaps some cold premonition, had arrested him. His gun flashed; he was turning. Throwing his eyes forward, 9009 leaped in great bounds; the shadow of the dining-hall, sharp as the tape at the end of a race, cut the ground ten feet ahead. He gave a last look backward; the guard whipped around; 9009 plunged head-first, like a frog, and sprawled upon his belly within the darkness which immediately closed about him like water.

He lay as he had fallen, awaiting the shock of bullet, the roar of the guard’s rifle. But he did not move. He could not believe that he had not been seen. A moment passed. A desire to draw up his legs possessed him; he knew that they must be out, distinct, in the light. But he did not move. He lay like a stone. His face was in the earth; he could taste mud upon his lips; his feet felt cold as though he were beneath a blanket and they were sticking out; he imagined them enormously visible. But he did not move.

A minute passed, a century. But there was no shock of bullet, no roar of rifle. Finally, he turned his head.

He turned it slowly, smoothly, until he could look at right angles to his body, then with infinite precautions, in imperceptible progressions, he bent it till the line of vision had passed his shoulder. But still he could see nothing. Something opaque and enormous barred his way; an immense pillar. It was barred. It was his arm.

He moved the arm in toward his side with the same smooth stealthiness—and he could see across the lit earth of the yard, clear to the wall. But he could not see the top of the wall. Again he began an infinitely cautious movement. He raised his head, from the neck, with no body change, as though he were a contortionist; the muscle of his throat cracked with the effort.

And then he saw. The guard was pacing back along the beat his gun loose in hand, his back turned.

9009 now crawled, on his belly like a red-ringed snake, into the alley-way.

He crawled by the narrow gut where his knife had lain hidden for more than three years, and went on, writhing, to the second, between the cook-house and bakery. Crouching at the entrance of this, he looked back. He could not see the guard; and he must be invisible to the guard. He rose and went in between the two buildings, squeezing edgewise, his right hand ahead, feeling the wall, until it came against the broken drain-pipe. He dropped his hand into the pipe—and the cold muzzle of a rifle, there between his fingers, thrilled him to the marrow.

He stood there, his hand in the pipe, his fingers about the cold muzzle, long; then with a jerk drew up the rifle. It fell across his outstretched arms, and he held it thus a moment, as a mother holds her child, his eyes examining it swiftly, passing with satisfaction over the thin, short barrel, the massive breech-lock, the stock, heavy with stored death. The magazine was full, a cartridge was in the breech—he knew that those who had climbed the wall and hidden it had been negligent of no such details. He took up the weapon in his hands now, right hand about small of stock, left hand a sliding crotch about the barrel—and suddenly he snapped up to his full height.

A terrific feeling of power had risen through him. Once, in this prison, he had been a man intent on obedience; months had changed him to a sullen suspicious convict; years had made of him a crouching, stalking beast; and now, at the touch of this rifle, he sprang up a monster. His muscles were of steel, his nerves were of iron; he was sure of himself, absolutely sure. He felt that he could kill, that no one, not God Himself, could keep him from killing. He could kill when he pleased. He could not miss, of that he was incredibly sure; in his arms, already, in his arms, in his eye, in his trigger-finger, he had the feel of the coming kills.

He groped again into the pipe; his hands found three things: first, a rope, coiled, at one end of which dangled a grappling hook; then a revolver, then a box of ammunition. He coiled the rope about his waist. The revolver was a long heavy single-action six-shooter, of the pattern he had always liked. He tucked it beneath his waist-band. The cartridges he dropped, loose, into one of his pockets. Then he stood, erect, in the alley, close to the wall of the cook-house.

Dawn was coming in the east, a sullen dawn. It coloured lightly the scale-tips of a mackerel sky, and then, with weird swiftness, painted perpendicularly three great red bars across the murky horizon. 9009, standing in the shadowy alley, saw the three red bars; he knew that in half an hour the day guards would be up, that in half an hour the whole prison would be rising—and a sudden temptation convulsed him.

He saw the guard, alone, upon the wall; an impulse told him to shoot, rush to the wall, climb, jump, rush to freedom, now, on the instant, using the moment’s opportunity. His heart stabbed him with a palpitation, his blood leaped through his veins—and the stock of his rifle sprang to his shoulder.

He stood thus, a long minute, the stock smooth against his cheek, peering, through the crotch of the back-sight, at the white bead held immobile against the dark loom of the guard’s breast, his finger, twitching, crooked about the trigger, while he fought the fight. Finally, with a release of pent-up breath, he lowered the gun. The temptation was gone; his purpose had won; again it was with him, grim, inflexible, unconquerable.

He crept into the narrow gut between the laundry and the cook-house, and in the niche behind the water-pipe found his file-knife where he had laid it, three years before. The blade was rusty now, dulled with cakes of rust; the point was gone and was like a knob; but the thing still was hard and thick and heavy; its well-balanced weight was still a joy in the hand. He slipped it under his waist-band, by the revolver—and immediately, like a memory of old times, almost sweet, he felt the rasp of it upon his skin, the rasp that once had been a promise, the promise now so near of fulfillment. He crept back farther into the narrow passage, and waited there, patient, alone with his purpose.

The whole heavens were red now, deep red, like congealing blood. A cold light spread along the ground, sweeping, swift, silent. In the blackness of the gut, 9009 listened. He caught the vague stir of awakening men in the cell-house. The stir grew, became detached and distinct noises. Doors rang, a tread of feet sounded, footsteps came down the alley; two trusties passed, paused in front of the cook-house, coughing shiveringly, then entered. He heard the rasp of a match, a clang of stove-lids, and then voices, muffled, within. In a few minutes the day guards would be dressed. The mackerel sky above settled to a cold drab; 9009 stepped out silently into the alley-way.

He stood there a moment, erect and motionless; then his rifle leaped to his shoulder, bellowed, and the blue-clad guard upon the wall toppled over, hung on the edge an instant, and slid along the perpendicular stones to a huddle in the yard.

And 9009 stepped out full into the yard, red-striped, gaunt, and terrible. He walked slowly, on the balls of his feet, his body inclined forward from the waist, his chin, pivoting upon his neck, thrusting itself out to the right, to the left, as he strode; and in his right hand his rifle, held loosely, like a hunter’s.

The reverberation of the shot was still bounding from building to building, mingled with the echo of a shout which had followed. A shrill whistling now rose, strident, into the air. A white-faced trusty ran out of the cook-house; another. 9009 kept on, going down the middle of the yard, slowly, looking to right and to left. A trusty showed his head at the door of the cell-house. 9009 shot him, wantonly, gleefully, full in the face—a long shot, but he could not miss, he felt he could not miss, never miss. A flick of dust sprang from the ground at his feet, over his head a brief snarl passed, almost simultaneously the cracks of two rifles rang heavy between the walls; he grinned and pumped a new cartridge into the breech of his gun.

And then he began to run; going low, he made for the “Stone Building.” The rifles cracked again; bullets struck to his right and to his left. He reached the end of the “Stone Building,” halted, gave a swift look, then sprang forward toward the wall with a great self-announcing yell. He reached the wall, shot along it like a rabbit, then, when he was out of sight of the men above, quietly slipped back into the shadow of the “Stone Building.” A laugh cleft his face as he saw the guards upon the wall, back toward him, peering still in the direction from which he had doubled. Then, in successive furtive rushes, he slid back to the alley and crouched in the narrow gut between cook-house and bakery, waiting.

He had accomplished three things by these movements. By shooting the guard upon the wall, he had aroused the whole prison, including all the other guards; by his feigned rush to the wall, he had determined just to what point these awakened guards should throw themselves in the first impulse of the alarm; by his circuitous doubling back, he now stood where they must all pass.

In spite of his running, he was breathing steadily; his muscles were like steel; and he was absolutely sure of himself, of his power to kill. He laid down his rifle and drew his revolver. He waited there, all alone with his purpose, peering out of the black gut. The whole prison, now, was buzzing about him like a beehive. Shouts sounded, gruff, like orders. A guard passed by on the run, his face very red; two more, putting on their coats as they ran; a whole group of five. He still waited. There was an interval of silence; again the drum of approaching feet. He peered—and then he glided out into the centre of the alley and faced Jennings.

The guard stopped in the middle of a step; and the two men stood there alone in the desert alley, in the wan light of morning, facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes.

The guard was half-dressed, his shirt open on his hairy chest, his suspenders hanging behind. His eyes narrowed, then widened; a flicker of light for an instant sprang into them, then died at once, leaving them as of old, lidless, opaque, white-gray; and his sallow face showed no emotion, though slowly, like an invisible blush, a dull threat rose in it. 9009 red-barred, stood with coarse-shod feet close together, bending slightly forward from the waist, his revolver at the end of his arm, held with crooked elbow close to his ribs; and in his face, gray with the prison pallor, his two eyes glowed like fires at the bottom of two caves.

They stood thus, it seemed long, motionless. Then the guard straightened his shoulders, and he half smiled. Immediately he was very serious again; and then he spoke.

“Put down that gun,” he said, calmly, evenly.

The upper lip of 9009 raised like a theatre-curtain and showed his teeth. It remained raised.

“Drop that gun,” said Jennings again, his voice like furbished steel; and a film came over his eyes.

But 9009 was not listening; he was absorbed in another problem. He was trying to decide how he would kill Jennings. His first impulse had been to shoot him through the heart. Then he had wanted to put out with bullets the white-gray eyes. Then he had almost made up his mind to shoot him low in the body, so that he would die slowly and in great pain. But as he stood there, frigid, gun in hand, a profound dissatisfaction of these methods had filled his being. Somehow, none fitted; they were discordant, all of them, with a dream he had dreamed.

“Put down that gun,” said Jennings for the third time.

And then 9009 knew.

He stooped, laid down the gun upon the ground, and snatched at his waist-band. He rose to a crouch, to full height, and his right arm, unfolding, continued the upward movement. He stood thus a moment, motionless, straight, shoulders back, head back, right hand high in air. Then Jennings, bending, rushed forward, and 9009 sprang upon him.

He sprang high, leap-frog fashion; his left hand snapped down Jennings’s lowered head with a jerk, and now the other hand, still high in air, whistled down, It sank into the guard’s back with a crunch. It rose, fell, rose, fell, rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell in a rapid crescendo of pumping movement, crunching into the heap beneath long after it had become limp.

Then 9009, springing lithely to his feet, flung the file-knife from him in a wide gesture, and picking up his rifle, strode for the wall.