Free No Man's Land by G. M. Ford Page B

facility. Driver stopped and turned Corso’s way.
“Okay,” he said affably. “I can understand how you’d feel
that way, Frank. I was just trying to make sure my story got told
right, was all. Wanted to make sure everybody understood why I was
doing this. How it was all coming together.”
    Driver grinned. “I’m a reasonable man, though. I’ll
certainly understand if you don’t want to come along.” He didn’t
wait for Corso to make a decision. “I’ve got some errands,”
Driver said.
    “You take care of yourself now,” he said, throwing Corso a
threefingered salute as he continued down the stairs. Corso stood for
a moment, listening to the building chorus of gunfire. Somewhere
above, another salvo of automatic weapon fire was joined by another,
then a third, until the scream of projectiles and the clank of brass
swallowed every other sound. Corso found himself taking the stairs
two at a time, using his long legs to erase the distance between
Driver and himself. By the time he pulled even, Driver was using his
remote to open an outside door. “You can’t just leave me in here,
man,” Corso said.
    “These crazy fuckers will kill my ass in a heartbeat.”
    Driver paused to consider the statement. He fished in his pocket
pulled out an open pack of Juicy Fruit gum and, one by one, unwrapped
the slices and fed them into his waiting mouth.
    “No doubt about it,” he said after a moment. “You best not
be out and about when the shooting starts.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You could try to hide,” Driver offered, his mouth wide and
wet around the gum. “Or maybe arm yourself.” He held the door
open. Raised his eyebrows. “Coming?”
    Corso stepped outside. The air smelled of smoke and steel. They
were in a wide alley between the administration building and the
short side of the cellblocks. Down in a deep well of darkness, in a
spot where the searchlights held no sway. The crunch of broken glass
beneath his feet took him back thirty years. Took him back to the old
derelict cotton mill at Rasher Creek. The broken husk of another era,
when sweat was king and labor was cheap. A rotting shell of a
building whose windows had long since fallen victim to the stones of
boys, where, in the heat of a summer day, one could find solace in
the narrow, shaded alley between the mill and the creek.
    Driver hooked the door open and hugged the darkness close to the
building as he started off into the gloom. He talked as he walked
across the manicured grass. “You could try to make a break for the
front gate.” Driver waggled a dubious hand. “Way I see it, that’s
way beyond iffy. Only real question is which side nails you first.”
He shrugged. “Or maybe give yourself up to the soldiers on their
way in. You could explain to them that you’re not really a con . .
. that you’re just in here on a lark.” His lips formed the
thinnest of smiles.
    “This isn’t funny.”
    Driver slowed. “I didn’t plan on this, Corso. I didn’t think
they could put an assault together this quickly. I figured there’d
be hours of dialogue. Threats and demands . . . that sort of thing,
before anybody got serious. I figured we could have a couple of hours
for an update. Things have changed.” He waved a hand.
    “Maybe even a sequel.” He paused and swallowed a thought. “I
figured I could get you back out before the shooting started.” He
looked rueful. “Must be losing my edge.”
    Corso could feel the bile rising in his throat. The cold mantle of
fear began to envelop him. “I haven’t got a lot of options here.”
    Driver nodded his rueful agreement. “Your best bet is probably
to find an empty cell, jam the door shut, pull the mattress over
yourself and hope to God one of those Marines doesn’t shoot your
ass for fun.” He nodded at the open door and the shaft of yellow
light at the far end of the alley.
    As if to aid Corso in his decision, another volley of smallarms
fire erupted from the