He Didn't Come

Now, five years later, he’d finally been able to escape from slam. He arranged a major explosion in the cell next to his, using some smuggled alcohol, a can of shaving cream, and the unfortunate cell occupant’s affinity for cigarettes. 45 proof alcohol, of course. Anything over 45 proof burned better than most fuels. He planted the ingredients of his deadly cocktail during recreation time. The other inmate, Gregor, was holding a card game in his cell. Riddick elected to sit in the corner and watch them. They all knew his reputation, of course, and his silent presence scared the shit out of them.

These were hardened lifers, but all Riddick had to do was stare too long at one of them for everyone to begin dropping cards and stuttering nervously. They were studiously ignoring him at one point, and he bent down to scratch his leg. As he did so, he slid the half-empty can of shaving cream under Gregor’s bed. He then sat up and removed from his pockets several mini-bottles of liquor. He then slowly, carefully, opened one and then another, set them down, and knocked them over silently. At the strong smell of liquor, the other men began looking at him curiously. Riddick just took a sip of one of the bottles and glared at each convict in turn. They went back to trying to ignore him, and he went back to rigging his homemade bomb.

There was a small hole in the wall between Gregor’s cell and his own, and Riddick liberally coated this with liquor from his side that evening. He made sure to create a very small gas leak in the thin piping that was attached to the ceiling, and then he waited. That night he knew that Gregor would light a cigarette. He would put the match in the plastic ashtray that he kept on the floor by his bed, which was conveniently soaked in highly flammable alcohol. The match would be followed shortly thereafter with the cigarette, which Gregor would grind out in the ashtray. The alcohol would catch, the flame would spread to the aerosol can, the can would explode, the flames would spread through the hole in the wall, the freakishly flammable gas leak would ignite, the flames would spread immediately through the pipe, and poof! Everything- and everyone- in Riddick’s cellblock would be incinerated. Riddick would go back to being ‘dead,’ he could find Jack, and he could get back to living.

There were about a hundred holes in his plan, and he knew it. But he’d been locked up for five years, which was five years away from the girl he was supposed to have been protecting. It was five years too long.

His only problem- and it was a big one- was getting out alive. He had a tentative plan in mind, but it was beyond risky. It entailed getting a guard to take him out of his cell without notifying anyone. He would then kill the guard and stow away on a transport or a freighter. He would have preferred to pilot himself, but he was supposed to be dead. He didn’t want to raise any suspicions by hijacking a craft. He had the shipment schedule memorized, and he knew that there would be a freighter leaving Prison Moon that same night.

Later that night, it was time to get his plan rolling. “Hey, Arnold,” Riddick called in a low voice.

Irwin Arnold was a young guard, just starting out. It was odd for a guard so green to be placed in a maximum security slam. It worked to Riddick’s advantage in a major way that night. Arnold swaggered over to the cell, full of self-importance. He was not only young; he was also the only guard on duty. And then there was the most important thing. He was gay, and he had the hots for Riddick.

“If you swear to keep the other guards off my ass, you can have mine,” Riddick promised in a throaty whisper. He was more than slightly disgusted, but hid it well. Gay people didn’t bother him, but acting like he was gay himself made him uncomfortable, to say the least.

Arnold’s eyes widened. He actually kicked his lips. His fat cheeks flushed, and Riddick tried very hard not to picture what was going on in the guard’s mind.

“Only if we go right now,” Arnold said huskily.

Riddick was amazed at the man’s level of stupidity. Of course, he knew that Arnold would behave that way, but that amount of mental incapacitation was just incredible. “Okay. Where? Here? You really want the other guards to know you’re-“

Arnold cut him off. “Don’t say it!”

Riddick nodded, feigning concern and understanding. “Go get some restraints, then. We’ll go wherever you think we should go. Just remember your part of the bargain.”

Arnold scurried away to fetch some hand restraints and foot chains.

“Perfect,” Riddick breathed in a low-pitched voice. The killer growled inside him. The killing dance would begin again, and his beast relished it.

Arnold unlocked his cell, fastened the restraints to Riddick’s large yet unresisting body, and led him towards the other end of the cellblock. There was a door that Riddick hadn’t ever had occasion to examine, and he was curious as to what was beyond it.

It was only an old maintenance tunnel. Arnold led Riddick inside and turned his back to him to close the door. Immediately Riddick placed the chain from his hand restraints around the guard’s neck and began to squeeze. “Where does this tunnel lead?” he demanded in a menacing voice.

Arnold shrank away from him, as much as the chain would allow, and whimpered, “Old exit. Not used anymore.” A pause. “What about our deal?”

Riddick laughed quietly. “Are you really that stupid, Arnold? How long you been here, hmm?”

“A month.” Arnold’s voice was weak and unsure.

“Do you know a thing about who you’re dealing with here?” He tightened the chain around the guard’s clammy neck experimentally, and was rewarded with a frightened squeak. There was no chance for him to answer, though, because at that moment, Gregor ground out his cigarette. The explosion rocked the entire slam. The piping ended several meters from the tunnel door, and the tunnel itself ran underground, so they were protected from the deadly blast.

Riddick had precious little time. He tightened the chain again and wrenched his hands to the side, at an upward angle. Arnold’s neck broken, he lowered the body to the ground and searched it for the master code list, which included the unlock codes for the electronic restraint chains.

Arms and legs free, he took off running down the tunnel. He kept a sharp ear open for sounds of pursuit, but none came. The only thing chasing him was the wicked fire he had set, which was spreading down the tunnel at an alarming rate. Hopefully it would disfigure Arnold’s body enough to make the medical examiner decide he had simply died in the fire and broken his neck when he fell.

There were several side tunnels leasing to various pieces of electronic equipment, all of which he bypassed in favor of the main tunnel itself. He came to the exit shortly, and consulted Arnold’s list, looking for the specific unlock code. He keyed in the proper code and the old rusty door obeyed smoothly. He didn’t take the time to enjoy the first fresh air he’d experienced in five years. Instead, he focused on completing his escape.

~*~

Jack leaned against the bar, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pounding in her temples. The club was noisy and chaotic: two things she was beginning to deeply and truly loathe. She had been working there for several weeks, and was seriously beginning to consider quitting. She was sick of dishing up drinks for rowdy rich kids.

These preppy college boys all wanted a piece of her ass. No matter what she did to discourage them, they kept asking for rejection. It was all she could do not to break a few noses and attempt a little home castration. Unfortunately, if she gave into the temptation, she would definitely get fired. Nero’s was the only place hiring when she got to New Mecca, and though she loathed her job with the kind of passion she usually reserved for social workers and a certain hit man, she desperately needed the money.

A familiar silver glint flashed briefly in the corner of her eye, making her stomach lurch. She shook herself mentally and ignored it. Get a grip, Jack, she scolded herself.

She refilled some shot glasses and popped a couple of over-the-counter pain pills, hoping they would kick in soon enough to keep her from going homicidal on the greasy-haired asshole who was ogling her. Once she got back to her apartment (and if she managed to lose her headache) she was going to beat the royal shit out of her punching bag. Her favorite form of home entertainment was picking out a particularly obnoxious club patron and pretending her punching bag was the poor fuck that had pissed her off. She regretted not being able to damage her victims for real.

There was that flash again! She was never able to see it in detail, but it almost reminded her of… no. It was impossible.

“Hey, sweetheart, what are you doing after work tonight? Maybe we could get together,” Grease-boy oozed at her when she pushed another shot of tequila in front of him.

“I’ve got better things to do,” she said, not looking at him as she cleared away some empty glasses nearby.

“Oh, like what, baby?”

She looked at him in disgust. “Like spend the night wishing to whatever God is up there pulling strings that I could hurt scumbags like you.”

He grinned. “I’ll let you hurt me any way you want.” She rolled her eyes and turned away, but he grabbed her arm. She broke his grip in an instant and twisted his wrist back as she did so. He winced and opened his mouth to yell, but she let go and gave him a warning glare. Not wanting to seem bested by a girl, he kept his mouth shut.

If it were possible, Jack would have worn pants and her comforting long-sleeved shirts to work, despite the intensity of the body heat. The manager of the club made the female employees, chiefly the bartenders, dress as though they were the ones on sale, instead of the booze.

She guessed other people thought she looked good in the miniskirt and nearly see-through halter-top. She had no concept of her own beauty. When she had been a little girl, she was told that she was pretty at times. However, in the next breath whoever was speaking might slap her and call her an ugly, dirty whore. She stopped worrying about it long ago, when Riddick showed her how to take care of herself. She’d learned not to rely on her looks (or lack thereof, whichever it was), but on her wit and skill. In so doing, she stopped caring about her appearance one way or the other.

When her shift finally ended, she gratefully threw on an ankle-length overcoat and left through back door of the club. Nero’s was on the third tier, bordering the ghetto and the edge of the more affluent part of the second tier. The streets in that part of New Mecca weren’t well kept. Garbage was scattered all around, and rats that had to have stowed away all those years ago from Old Earth gnawed on the shoes of passed-out junkies in the gutters.

Making her way toward her shit-can of an efficiency apartment, she drew her shiv from the waistband of her skirt. It was compact and light enough to be carried around in the skimpiest of outfits, but it needed to be handled carefully. She kept it incredibly sharp.

She maintained the same pace, not letting on that she knew she was being followed. She waited for whoever it was to come close enough for her to strike. Closer… closer… there! She whirled around and grabbed Grease-boy’s arm, wrenching it behind his back and twisted it in such a way that he couldn’t move it at all without considerable pain. Poking him in his skinny side with her small metal shiv, she began speaking in a low, deadly voice.

“How stupid are you? I told you I wasn’t interested.”

He began stuttering a response, but she dug the weapon into his side a bit deeper. He whimpered as it pierced the pale skin.

“Don’t talk,” she hissed. “What were you planning on doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

He wisely chose not to answer.

“Stay away from Nero’s from now on. If I ever catch you there on my shift, I will get shiv-happy on your pansy ass.” She let go of his arm and in one smooth motion, kicked his legs out from underneath him. It reminded her of Joanna, and she fought a smirk.

He stared at her from the trash-covered ground, mouth agape, for several seconds. She gave him a cold, measured stare, and made a dismissive motion with her free hand, shooing him away. “Okay, disappear now.”

Wide-eyed, he scrambled to his feet and took off running. Apparently he couldn’t resist tossing back a parting term of endearment over his shoulder as he made his undignified exit.

“Crazy-fuck psycho bitch!”

Jack shook her head and slipped her shiv in the small pocket she had sewn in the waistband of her skirt. “I hate my life,” she whispered angrily, hoping to make it the rest of the way home without any further problems.

The man she hadn’t noticed following her nodded in approval. “Not bad, kid,” he murmured, already passing her. “Not too bad at all.