EXTRACT FOR
Desolation Outpost
(Author Unknown)

Prologue I: Look to the Skies

    

    Peeking through the parka's narrow, tunneled space was much like staring through a child's spyglass, only with the added handicap of having one's tightly squinted eyes pelted by tiny specs of ice and oversized snowflakes.

    Forced to avert my sights elsewhere, I look down to see my boots have practically vanished amid the growing drift now reaching past my ankles. The dizzy spells have subsided a bit, no doubt aided by the frigid night air, though there is still present a stout sense of bewilderment I could only imagine one might feel after waking from a lengthy coma.

    "What... time is it?" I mutter aloud, turning to press my elbows against the warmth of the cruiser's hood, the engine humming beneath providing a faint, soothing massage to my overly chilled bones.

    "Jeez, Counselor... you scared you're gonna miss a dental cleanin' or what? I'd wager it ain't no more than about three and a half minutes since the last time ya asked."

    Considering the source, I ignore the good-natured ribbing. Besides, I know I'm being a pain. It's just nerves after all... natural apprehension when faced with such an otherworldly scenario. It's so much easier for them. After all, they've experienced all manner of bizarre goings-on. It's how they've made their living. I should be allowed a considerable amount of slack for enduring such madness. In reality, I should be cited and congratulated for not gouging out my own eyes by now.

    "In eighteen seconds it'll be exactly twenty-three hundred hours," came the answer via an exasperated huff.

    "That's eleven o'clock p.m. to us in the civilian world, right?" I respond, an admittedly pathetic attempt at humor, but at least it allows me to work off still another bout of the involuntary shakes. You'd have thought I was standing stark-naked with my bare feet submerged in the piled snow instead of wrapped snugly inside a comfortably thick, well-insulated parka.

    "Sharp as a tack, Counselor... can't get one past this boy," chimes in the lone female voice, and I twist about to spot her through the fur-lined hood, which I've shaped to resemble a one-eyed binoculars of a sort.

    "Anything?"

    "Nothing but the passing blizzard. Won't be for another ten minutes or so anyhow, that is if the calculations are on the bean."

    "They will be," I tell her, quickly scanning the desolate, ice-capped surroundings before re-joining the others in our group stargazing efforts. As cowardly as it sounds, there is indeed a part of me, however minute, that hopes the aforementioned calculations are incorrect and that what we're expecting to appear streaking through the night sky will never materialize. That said, the larger portion of my psyche aches to witness the purest form of retribution, even to the point of contributing whatever I can to see it through.

    "You sound more confident than you act, Counselor."

    "Just nerves, that's all. This... kind of thing isn't exactly my specialty... unlike the rest of you."

    She regards me with a wink through the wide chasm of her own parka hood and I feel a twinge of arousal, as has usually been the case whenever she and I share a personal moment not tied to some sort of charted itinerary.

    "No sweat. I gotcha covered. Besides, if women's intuition counts for anything, I'm thinking this is gonna be a cakewalk."

    "Lord, I hope... pray you're right. After all, I'm an advisor by trade, not a brawler."

    She laughs then, and I feel a rush of warmth bathe my insides. It's a genuinely positive sensation, something that's been mighty rare these last twenty-four hours.

    Moments later, someone behind me gasps, and I whip my head about in all directions, almost toppling over from dizziness in the process.

    A false alarm apparently. Three minutes past eleven. Seven measly minutes to go... approximately. So many lives at stake... so much sacrifice doled out already. It has to work. It simply... has to, as the alternative is far too grave... far too gruesome to contemplate. Thus, we not only need to win... we simply have to. Ignoring Mother Nature's wrath, I stare westward into the tar-black, stormy night and wait for the light.



Prologue II: Raging Bull/Probationary Conditions

    

    "Honestly, Chief, I... think you might've had enough. What say you head on back to the barracks and take in a ballgame? I hear the Bears 'n Packers are about to tee it up on that there frozen tundra... " the bartender chided good-naturedly, though being extra cautious to keep several feet of space between himself and the bar.

    "Appreciate the concern, Pete... it certainly does ya justice," came the gruff reply, only slightly slurred. "Now quit playin' nursemaid and pour me another Jack and Coke. Hell, on second thought, hold the Cola. I hear all that carbonation turns the gut linin' into Swiss cheese."

    "You're the boss," the bartender replied sheepishly, dispensing a double shot over freshly placed ice while eyeing three new arrivals who had sauntered up so quietly as if to purposely catch his client off-guard.

    "Get something for you, gentlemen?"

    The first man, and easily largest in stature of the trio, waved him off with a gloved hand, the overhead strobe lights reflecting off diamond gauntlets. The other two backed away several steps and struck textbook 'at ease' poses. Adorned with matching crew cuts, stocky, muscular physiques and equally sour dispositions, both were dressed in identical uniform garb complete with silver insignia name tags sewn above the right pockets and spit-polished steel-toed boots.

    "No thank you, good sir. Unlike some present, true professionals such as my companions and I abide by the set rules of the facility, most notably the one damning the consumption of alcoholic beverages while on duty."

    Purposely ignoring the statement while looking past the speaker, the man emptied his glass in two quick gulps before sliding it approximately halfway down the bar in the bartender's general direction.

    "There ya go, Pete. How's about a Southern Comfort Breeze this time around... and oh yeah... omit the breeze."

    Wiping the building fop-sweat from his forehead with a bare forearm, the bartender flinched as though he'd been slapped across the backside with a drenched, tightly wound towel.

    "Uh... um... Chief, I don't think I... can... I mean... not while... um... ."

    "See to your other customers, Mister Chapman," the spokesman for the newest arrivals announced calmly, taking the seat directly to the left of the man previously being served. "We'll take care of the chief here. Make sure he gets back to the barracks without harming either himself or anyone else along the way. Isn't that right, Chief Thomason?"

    "Tell ya what, blockhead," Ben Thomason snarled, intertwining his freakishly oversized fingers and applying just enough pressure in order for the explosive retort of cracking knuckles to drown out all surrounding sound, to include the pop music tune blaring overhead.

    "I've got a better notion. How's about you and the butt-munch twins there mind your own Ps and Qs and leave your superior officer to his midday meditation? I'll only ask once, that is... I'll only ask once... politely."

    The other man scooted closer, leaning down and in until his cowl-covered visage was mere inches from Ben Thomason's left ear.

    "Now, Chief, there's no reason for baseless name-calling or physical threats. We're just... concerned for your well-being. Then again, there is the matter of the nonprofessional behavior on display for all... shall we say, lower-ranking patrons to see. Not exactly the example we want to set, now is it?"

    Snorting aloud, Ben then tossed his head back and howled in baying coyote fashion, causing the other man to flinch as if warding off an impending slap.

    "Concerned for my well-being? I'd lay ten to one you've had me on electronic report since strollin' into the bar. Ya really oughta think about officially changin' that hero moniker from Eighth Degree to Narc-Man or maybe Captain Squeal? Be a helluva lot more accurate. Now, for the last time... I'm requestin'... no, make that a di-rect order... step away and depart my personal space."

    In response, the twin brutes visibly tensed while the larger man hardly twitched, the corners of his mouth upturning ever so slightly in sardonic glee.

    "What exactly are you proposing, Chief?"

    "I'm proposin' you adhere to a superior's command or prep for pain, asshole. Your choice... just remember while yer suckin' peas and carrots from a straw that I gave ya one. Same goes for Frick and Frack standin' back there sniffin' your shorts."

    Cocking his head as if to ease a particularly bothersome crick, Ben then slowly rotated his neck until three distinct cracks were heard.

    "All BS aside, I ain't in the mood for this lame-ass power play. Now you three be good little correctional spies and hop the hell on outta here before I forget my manners and retrieve your yellow-tinted spines by pullin' 'em out yer collective bungholes."

    Though Jarod King, AKA 'Eighth Degree' stood at least a foot taller and was twelve years Ben Thomason's junior, the lack of an immediate response and the shaky grin he struggled to maintain in the wake of such a blatant challenge spoke volumes to how seriously he took the immediate threat.

    "Only a matter of time and federal decree, and you'll be addressing the lowest-ranking CO on this burg as a superior," he whispered, though not nearly from as close a range as mere moments before. "Your pal the warden can't protect you anymore, Force. Once the board puts the case file together and initiates court-martial proceedings, you're toast."

    "No thanks to you, right, asslick?" Ben replied without turning, instead facing front and staring directly into his own slightly warped reflection from a wall mirror mounted directly behind the bar.

    "It sickened me, Thomason," the other man continued, gnashing his teeth as his naturally pale complexion flashed a shade of maroon almost as dark as his cowl and matching leotard. With a single, fluid movement, he flung his silken, dark blue cape over one shoulder as to provide additional free movement if needed.

    "Arriving here and being forced to take orders from a vulgar, drunken buffoon such as yourself, when I am clearly your superior in every way, most notably from the standpoint of basic intelligence. Luckily, you've been so very cooperative in digging your own grave, as it were."

    Turning in the direction of the bartender, who had taken up residence at the far side of the bar with several equally timid patrons, Ben began thumping the bar with his oversized digits as if tickling the ivories on a phantom baby grand.

    "Hey, Pete, how's about a triple shot of Comfort on the rocks? Just pour it in a doggy cup and I'll take it with me. It reeks in here all of the sudden. Fact is, somebody's breath stinks just like freshly... kissed... ass... "

    The larger man giggled and stood up, gesturing with a nod for his twin cohorts to join him in departure. Meanwhile, the half-dozen or so patrons inhabiting the bar, including Pete the server, seemed to cringe simultaneously as one, as if expecting an impending explosion.

    "Go ahead, Chief Thomason... talk it up... and booze it up while you're at it. Being that those are clearly the lone talents you possess. See you at the weekly staff meeting... seven a.m. sharp. Meanwhile, please excuse your assigned assistant chief while he goes and cleans up your latest mess."

    "Four words, pal: Eat shit and die," Ben mumbled, tossing a mock salute airborne and almost falling off the bar stool in the process.

    The twin brutes having already departed the tavern through swinging glass doors, Eighth Degree hesitated, halting in his tracks in order to fire a final tally, though all the while refusing to turn about while spreading his cape in true 'Count Dracula' style.

    "By the way, heard from Leah lately, Force? How is your former assistant chief and loving spouse? Ahhh, bad news, I take it. Well, such is life. Women: can't live with them, can't live without them. Guess you can run them off, though. Drive them away with boorish behavior, a laughable lack of discipline and doltish, drunken escapades, correct? By the way, if you do happen to speak to that adorable little Asian killer, tell her Jarod says hey, and that he'd hire her sweet Oriental self to be his assistant chief at the drop of a fortune cookie."

    Pausing a moment longer as to await a response, Eighth Degree then shrugged in apparent dismay and took a lengthy stride forward, only to halt in mid-step as a hard slap stung his left shoulder.

    "Freeze, pal," a husky voice whispered, the very air around the assistant chief correctional officer suddenly thick with whiskey vapors.

    "Got an amendment to that last order, Assistant Chief King."

    Tensing as if to endure an impending blow, Eighth Degree nonetheless remained conspicuously silent, grinning devilishly even as the grip atop his shoulder increased to vice-like proportions.

    "Meet me at the lower level sweat and strain in fifteen, and come alone. Leave the fug-ly twins in their cages, got it?"

    "The inmate gymnasium? Why, whatever for, Chief Thomason? Can we not discuss matters here, in front of so many... intrigued witnesses?"

    Shoving severely chapped, trembling lips practically flush against the cowl's open left earhole, Ben spewed forth a fine mist of spittle that the mask quickly and effectively absorbed upon contact.

    "You'd like that, wouldn't ya, cheese dick? Sorry, but it ain't goin' down like that. We're gonna handle this here personality conflict like men. That is, if ya actually own a pair. Personally, I've always had my doubts."

    "Why, since you put it that way, Chief," Eighth Degree growled, jerking his shoulder free and shoving the twin glass doors ajar with open palms, "see you in fifteen."

    He cleared the swinging doors just as they'd descended inward, only to be flung back through headfirst in an explosion of shattered glass and warped metal frame.

    "On second thought, here and now will do just fine-witnesses be damned," Ben growled, slinging the larger man airborne in a circular whipping motion by the ends of his cape, which was rolled like tightly coiled rope at the tail.

    Releasing the cape following numerous rotations, Ben cried a warrior's howl, the metallic buttons of his uniform shirt popping off like spent ammo shells from the expanded bulkiness beneath.

    Sailing the length of the bar, approximately thirty feet from the entrance, Eighth Degree skidded across the slick bar top directly into a mirrored wall and partially through the thick oak boards backing it, filling the air with a fresh tidal wave of glass and wood shards.

    "Oh, great landing there, Jet Li... reeeeaaal graceful," Ben quipped, tearing away the remainder of his shredded uniform top with a muted ripping sound. "Thought you martial arts geeks were supposed to be light on your feet. Guess in your case, it's more like light in the loafers."

    As the few patrons present hurriedly departed for safer climes, Eighth Degree crawled from the wreckage, his cowl sprinkled in whitish debris.

    "Y-you... you s-son... of... of... b-bi... bit-"

    Stepping forward, Ben jumped the bar in a single bound, all the while rearing back a right first the size of a medicine ball.

    "Now, is that any way for a subordinate to babble to a superior? Truth be told, I guess it's all I should rightly expect from such a back-stabbin' horse's ass."

    The fist shot forward like a fired piston, landing with a muffled thump atop the masked man's forehead and sending him flailing into a virgin section of wall that instantly collapsed as if constructed from rotted balsawood.

    "Seems to me some serious counselin' is in order. Too bad I never was the 'talk it out' kinda boss... fact is, Hoss... "

    Ducking into the dark, dust-filled gap his target's flailing body had created, Ben reached inside and gripped a pair of wriggling ankles.

    "... I never was much for paper-pushin' in general when dealin' with uncooperative employees... soooooo... what say we skip all the jawin' and time-out sessions and move directly to the ass-kickin' phase?"

    Yanking up and out, Ben swung the larger man's semi-limp form about at chest level, smashing loose a large chunk of the marble-based bar in the process, before flipping him airborne with a decided spin.

    Tearing through a half-dozen tables and adjoining chairs like a mini-funnel cloud forged from flesh and bone, Jarod King's second forced landing was, if anything, even less gentle than the first. In a groggy, ill-advised attempt to minimize the level of destruction and/or personal injury upon descent, he'd managed to tuck his body into a rotund crunch, resembling a drunken diver executing a rather clumsy splash dive. The results were of the human cannonball variety, as not only the outer but inner walls were torn through like nets constructed from soggy papier-mache, leaving only a jagged-edged, perfect circular chasm in its wake.

    Wiping glass fragments from his bare biceps and forearms, Ben surveyed the damage with a deep frown.

    "Geez, it's a damn good thing the cellblock walls are made of stouter stuff. Looks like this joint was put together with string, straw and mud pies."

    Leaning down onto one knee, he was unable to detect either sound or movement within the smoking hollow.

    "Damn. Looks like I've done it again. Try and talk yourself outta this one, bonehead," he sighed, his flaring nostrils picking up a faint burning metallic scent.

    "Might as well start preppin' the resignation speech."

    The sound of thundering boots echoed from outside the demolished saloon double doors, from which only a small portion of the outer metal frame remained.

    "Too late, Einstein-here comes the Calvary, and me without a white flag."

    Rising to strike an at-attention pose, Ben quickly altered his stance to that of the combat type once the pair of sprinting, all-too-familiar figures swam into clearer view.

    "Shoulda known... it's just Frick and Frack comin' to the rescue of their beloved... "

    The two men, seemingly joined at the hip upon entry, quickly separated as the space narrowed between themselves and Ben, whose crouched, slightly tilted back position remained unchanged save the tucking of both arms across his chest. Crossing his hands at the wrists yogi-style, he appeared to be displaying an ancient prayer ritual of sorts.

    Now charging from either side while rapidly closing ground, the pair meant to converge in a classic 'scissors' maneuver, wherein the intended victim would be impacted from above and below. Holding his ground until the very last millisecond, Ben continued to stand statuesque as each executed their final dives, both leading with their upper bodies as if to initiate twin headbutts.

    Just as his attackers released similar growls, Ben uncoiled both arms like twin springs, his balled, wrecking ball-sized fists swinging out from his body with immeasurable torque.

    The left landed squarely atop brute one's squared forehead, temporarily suspending the man's skull even as his floundering torso sailed forward from the clothesline effect.

    The right pummeled the whole of brute two's face from the bridge of his horrendously pulped nose to the tip of his equally shattered chin, his body going limp almost instantly even as it levitated forward at warp speed.

    Hopping back a step, Ben watched in grim bemusement as his would-be attackers slid across the slick tile flooring in opposite directions, their flaccid shapes cutting similar paths while tossing various tables and chairs aside like bowling pins.

    "Nothin' personal, boys. Can't help but admire your sense of loyalty, if not a woeful lack of combat savvy."

    Following a quick status check of the knuckles of both hands, a few of which had cracked and bled in lieu of the blunt trauma endured, Ben lumbered over to each of the fallen men and gripped them by their uniform collars. With a single thrust, he hauled each up and over a separate shoulder and headed for the bar's demolished exit, which looked as though it had been blasted open with heavy explosives. Several former patrons, including Pete the bartender, peeked from afar, watching Ben's progress from the end of a twisting hallway leading to a trio of elevators.

    "Least I can do is haul your ignorant carcasses to the infirmary."

    Ben had just pulled even to the exact spot where the double-glass door entrance had once been when a flurry of blows to his lower back and upper thighs sent him plundering forward in a wild lurch, the comatose bodies of the twin brutes flying from his grip as he landed face-first in a pile of jagged debris.

    Spitting glass and metal fragments from between bloodied lips as he arose, Ben whirled about just as Jarod King planted a solid right front kick directly into his exposed midsection, followed by a perfectly executed backhand to the chin, and finally a looping left hook that landed squarely on the right cheekbone.

    Unable to alter his backward momentum, Ben fell back into the narrow hallway and began a series of clumsy rolls, only to recover somewhat by ending the trek with an impromptu backflip that at least served to land him upright.

    "How about picking on someone closer to your own size, Thomason?" King bellowed, stepping slowly forward while performing a series of calculated martial arts movements. Even with his cowl hanging comically off-kilter and his cape in virtual tatters, he appeared otherwise unaffected despite the previous battering.

    "Son, I gotta tell ya... that Kung-Fu Grip shit only goes so far," Ben replied flatly, holding out both hands in a pleading gesture. "Personally, I'm suggestin' we drop it as it is and report to the warden to take our medicine."

    Blinking rapidly, King's anger-charged grimace suddenly transformed into a expression born of pure, unadulterated befuddlement, complete with mouth hanging agape and wide, bugged-out eyes.

    "Take... take our... report to the warden to... take our... our medicine? Not to sound openly critical here, and I truly hope you don't take this wrong... but, sir, are you out of your rock-filled, dementia-laced mind?"

    "Hey, I'm sayin' don't push it, Hoss. Pullin' punches don't come easy for this boy. Back off or pay the price, that's all I'm sayin'. I can't and won't promise any leniency just 'cause I got ya outgunned in the power department."

    As Ben retained his stance of mock surrender, the man known as Eighth Degree, infamous for the seven separate martial arts belts he had so effortlessly mastered, continued a gradual progression forward through carefully orchestrated half and sidesteps.

    "I'm not intimidated by your bad-ass rep, Thomason, nor those overrated wrecking balls you call fists. Never was... never will be. To me you're nothing but a loud-mouth ignoramus with oversized meat-beaters."

    Ben smiled despite himself as King paused to straighten his damaged cowl.

    "Touche, pal. Not bad at all. Didn't know ya possessed the inner crudeness. Now, let's just make peace and let the warden decide on a fair and reasonable punishment."

    "You practically snapped my spine and now you want to make peace?"

    Dropping his massive hands to his sides, Ben bowed his head a tad and stared menacingly into the taller man's cowl-shaded eyes. As was the case when booze begat violence, he could feel his formidable buzz decrease with every passing tick.

    "Damn it, King, you're the one who took the shot at Leah. I warned ya once, hell, several times, about crackin' wise on that particular subject. Even three sheets to the wind, I can still take a board-snapper like you without strainin' a single testicle."

    "Is that so, tough guy? Well, as the old saying goes... the proof is definitely in the pudding," King cracked, enunciating each syllable of the final sentence in a mocking, purposely sluggish, garishly faux southern accent.

    "So shut the hell up and prove it already."

    Tossing up his hands in frustration, Ben then gestured in a reluctant 'come hither' motion just as the hallway to his rear grew crowded with the sudden arrival of a half-dozen armed guards, all of which were donned in full SWAT gear.

    "Chief Thomason... Assistant Chief King... what the... what's... going on here?" the lead guard inquired through a dark-tinted faceplate, the five men at his back tentatively shouldering the stun-rifles they'd previously held in firing position.

    "We... we got word of a brawl of some sort... Chief?"

    "Just a slight misunderstandin' between me and my backup, Sergeant Clifton," Ben replied, straightening up as best he could while rotating his gaze between King and the guard supervisor. "We... I had a few too many and... things got a tad outta hand.

    "Assistant King and myself were just on our way to the warden's office, ain't that right, Assistant Chief?"

    Ignoring the guard unit completely, King shuffled forward an additional step while maintaining exclusive focus on his intended target.

    "I won't let you BS your way out of this one, Force. The charade that is your so-called reign of leadership ends right here and now. I alone must take a stand to expose you for the drunken, irresponsible lout that you are.

    "Nobody, and I mean no one or thing, sucker punches Eighth Degree and simply waltzes away. Besides, it's no secret whose side The Guardsman will take, no matter how many eyewitnesses to your cowardly assault speak the truth."

    Once his peripheral vision captured the sergeant unsheathing an electrocane from his utility belt and the other men following suit, Ben flashed the guard unit a textbook 'hold your position' gesture. Seconds later, still more back-up personnel arrived, including a specially trained three-man team commonly referred to as the 'Confronters'.

    "Hell of a speech there, Bruce Lie. Always knew you were a closet politician at heart. All horseshit aside, Jarod, what say let's drop the school play dramatics and handle this in-house... by the book."

    "By the... by the book? Did... did you really just say... " King howled, briefly dropping his guard before resuming the same mantis-styled fighting stance, "Oh, always the comedian, aren't we? You never even read the book, Thomason. Enough with the faux professionalism already... to use a certified redneck quip straight from the master... that being you... enough with the jaw-jackin' already and let's do this!"

    "Chief Thomason, do you wish this man restrained?" Sergeant Clifton asked, holding the now extended shock cane in a defensive pose, the dozen or so men at his disposal equally braced. In his four-plus years on staff, Clifton had shared both many a hearty laugh and cold brew with the man he called boss. More so, the two had stood side by side as loyal teammates on numerous occasions in more trying times. Certainly there had been a strong level of respect for the man's past, almost legendary deeds in the civilian sector, but over time Ben Thomason had cultivated his rep as a tough but fair, even fun-loving supervisor amongst the assigned guards. Oppositely, Jarod King was considered a selfish, bullish mini-dictator whose self-centered ways and blatant disregard for his men (save the two he'd personally hand-picked as his personal pets) had led to the nickname 'King Prick' throughout the ranks. In his brief, six-month stint as Ben Thomason's second-in-command, Eighth Degree had managed to alienate inmates and staff alike while cultivating an aura of cockiness and mean-spirited arrogance.

    Thus, if taking sides in such a case were an issue, there would exist no dilemma amongst Clifton and his men on which to choose.

    After little more than a three-second pause, Ben repeated the stand down gesture.

    "Not necessary, Sarge. The man wants a piece of me this bad, I guess he's entitled. However this ends though, the next stop for the both of us is the warden's office, understood?"

    Sergeant Darrin Clifton, a fourteen-year vet of the corrections trade, stiffened as to salute, tapping the cane against his heavily padded thigh.

    "Affirmative, Chief."

    "'Course, I'll need witness statements after the fact."

    "Yes, sir, that's a given."

    Eighth Degree speedily closed ranks, sidestepping ahead until there was less than three yards of open hallway between the two. In response, Ben struck the pose of a classic twentieth-century pugilist.

    "Alright then, Chop Suey, have it your way. Just remember what they say... be damned careful what ya wish for."

    "You may be stronger, Thomason," King concluded, ripping away what remained of his tattered cape before circling Ben at a decided angle, "but it's been proven throughout the history of recorded combat that skill, determination and courage can overcome brute force."

    Sidestepping to keep King directly in front of him, Ben kept his main focus on the man's constantly shuffling feet, which he'd learned long ago was the main weapon of choice of all martial arts types.

    "Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Jean-Claude... it's your dance. Jeez, and they say I talk too much."

    Weaving in and out like a striking cobra, King tossed several dozen, mostly ineffective jabs Ben's way, the majority of which were easily slapped aside.

    Maintaining an exclusively defensive posture, Ben staved off a series of front and sidekicks by either sidestepping from their path or using forearm blocks, though a select few did make minimal contact with his shoulders, left side and upper chest.

    "Wearin' down yet, Segal?" Ben chastised, backing down the looping hallway and forcing the guard units and scattered witnesses to do the same.

    "Just warming up, boss man," King spat out angrily, his frenzied pursuit growing increasingly reckless. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this-dreamed of the day I would be allowed the opportunity to test the waters-go toe to toe with a living legend... even if it was a self-proclaimed one."

    A wildly aimed roundhouse kick sailed well over Ben's head, instead removing a large chunk of the synthetic stone wall. Flashing a wide grin while back-stepping furiously in the opposite direction, Ben seemed on the verge of hysterics.

    "Oh, that hurts, Jackie Chan. So now not only am I a worthless sot and shitty supervisor, but a card-carryin' egomaniac to boot. Gotta tell ya, boy... that cuts... deeeep."

    Still another clumsily executed roundhouse missed its mark, King's steel-reinforced bootheel ripping a foot-long section of stucco free, its jagged remnants littering the hall like gravel-laced confetti.

    "Stand still and fight, you damned... lummox!" King croaked, his voice crackling like an enraged preteen, inducing Ben into a barely subdued fit of muffled giggles.

    "L-Lummox? What... what the hell nineteenth century Thesaurus did ya pull that particular gem out of? Gottta tell ya, Jarod, you're soundin' gayer by the minute."

    Enduring a surprisingly solid jab to the ribs, Ben then caught a hard right to the left temple and staggered back, gripping a steel railing for support and ripping it from its post in the process. A front kick to the solar plexus ended the mad flurry, and he soon found himself staring up into the hallway's bright fluorescent lighting, the bent railing lying across his chest like banding straps.

    "How'd you like those marbles, Force? Still feel tickled, do we? Where'd all the laughter go, big mouth?" King bayed, bouncing about in a victory dance that included an impromptu moonwalk aimed directly at the guard units.

    "Ben, um, Force, um... Chief Thomason, might I inquire how much longer this... session is going to take?" Sergeant Clifton inquired stoically. Having previously folded and put away his shock cane, he stood with his gloved hands atop his hips.

    "I mean, not to overstep my bounds, but we do have active cellblocks being woefully undermanned due to this... distraction."

    Tossing the rod iron aside, Ben rolled to his feet and began casually brushing shattered pieces of carpet lint and stucco fragments from his ample chest hair.

    "Gotcha, Clif- uh, Sarge. You're right as rain... guess the booze clouded my good judgment. Send everybody back to their posts save you and... let's say two others to help haul 'Happy Feet' to the warden's office."

    "Getting a shade cocky for a man who's getting his lunch handed to him, aren't we, Benjamin?" King gloated, still jerking and hopping around in a semicircle, his damaged cowl having again slipped free and threatening to fall away altogether.

    "Small wonder such a fine, classy lady as Leah packed up and made tracks. My god, how did she tolerate you to begin with? For that matter, how could any woman with good sense? Hmm, perhaps that classy lady part needs to be amended to dumb as a stump... "

    "Whoops, there ya go again," Ben replied in a hoarse whisper, having instantly stiffened once the subject had been broached. "See, here's where cold hard reality sets in, Jarod, old buddy, old snatch."

    As Ben took a lengthy stride forward, cutting the space between the two men roughly in half, King's premature celebratory jig noticeably slowed.

    "Hey, I'll give ya credit where credit is due. Eighth degree black belt in seven forms of martial arts... it was all confirmed by the hiring panel before they officially brought you aboard as my... new assistant chief. Damned impressive combat resume to boot. Gotta confess though... I had some serious reservations about ya."

    Still another stride and predator quickly became quarry, as King leapt back several feet to maintain a safe distance. Meanwhile, Ben trudged forward, his clenched fists pinned against each bulging thigh.

    "Nothin' substantial as far as powers go save what your file listed as 'minimal' superstrength. Hate to sound prejudiced, but after all, how effective are a few karate chops, headbutts and knee-jabs gonna be if one of these inmates manages to bust loose? After all, we ain't talkin' run-of-the-mill convicts, but superpowered baddies just itchin' to pound the nearest correctional employee into plasma fragments."

    Finally holding his ground, Jarod King's raised fists visibly shook as his bloodshot eyes grew wide and spastic with apparent fear.

    "All that aside, I took ya under my wing as best I could," Ben sighed, halting less than two feet from the other man's position while staring down at the carpeted floor with his arms still hanging loose at his sides.

    The hallway grew deadly silent-no murmuring or shuffling of feet-no whispering or movement of any kind-as if a universal mute button had been employed. Even the familiar hum of the air regulators seemed to pause in reverence to the incident at hand.

    "Endured your insolence... ignored the backstabbin'... overlooked the lack of respect for my authority... but there's one thing, Hoss... one thing that I flat refuse to take from a snivelin', traitorous punk such as yourself... "

    As Ben peered gradually upward through tightly squinted eyes, he bared his teeth like a predatory beast prepping to feast, his jaw muscles flexing in timed intervals.

    "... you will not take the name of my lovin' wife in vain... and remain upright... "

    Lunging forward just as King flinched back, Ben never felt the flurry of punches that ricocheted off his forehead and nose, effectively breaking the latter with a loud crunch.

    The stiff left hook that lifted Jarod 'Eighth Degree' King from the carpeted floor and bounced him off the granite wall like a human pinball hardly registered when compared to the ferocious uppercut that followed, wherein the two-hundred-fifty-pound man was pummeled the length of the hall, landing a full twenty feet from the spot the blow had originally impacted and forcing two of the remaining three guards to duck and cover in order to avoid being crushed upon his floundering descent.

    Moments later, Ben Thomason stood over the prone body, flanked by Sergeant Clifford and his men.

    "Go ahead and cuff the stupid bastard, Cliff," he said as softly as his naturally husky voice would allow, "and while you're at it... "

    He turned to the sergeant and extended his own bare wrists.

    "... do the same for this stupid bastard as well."

    "But, Ben... Chief... " the sergeant mumbled, actually backing away from his superior's offer.

    "I started it, Cliff. I was drunk on duty... am legally drunk and damned disorderly. Shithead that he is... Jarod's in the right. Yeah, he pushed my buttons like he always does... like only he knows how... but in the end, I tossed the first haymaker... not just the last."

    The three guards, all having lifted their glass-shield masks, exchanged a worrisome glance. Reaching up, Ben laid an oversized mitt atop the sergeant's shoulder.

    "Hell, it's okay, guys, really. I've... had this comin' for a while now. Take us to the warden, Sarge... and that's an order."

    Adhering to the command, albeit somewhat hesitantly, Sergeant Clifton then instructed his men to carry Jarod King forward as he brought up the rear a few steps behind Ben, the small group half-stepping their way through a handful of awe-struck witnesses.

    "Oh yeah, call the med boys and get Mills and Clark prepped for the infirmary. I get the feelin' they'll both need more than a band-aid and a handful of aspirin."

    In the fourteen and a half minutes it took to reach the outer hallway leading into the warden's private office, Benjamin Kyle Thomason had a chance to rethink his actions of the past month. The word disgraceful came to mind, as did a sickeningly familiar term used most often by peers and enemies alike whenever his name was brought up in even casual conversation: Loose cannon. In a lifetime of blown chances, he deduced solemnly, this last bit of ridiculously bad judgment might well have taken the mythological cake. The best job he'd ever been entrusted to was more than likely history, just another negative footnote on a resume littered with such unsightly incidents. As for his marriage, he felt a sense of overwhelming nausea that it too would soon follow suit.