Summary: Exactly what it sounds like.
Author’s Notes: This came out of the Title challenge for “Stories I Never Wrote You.” fiddleyoumust is responsible for this piece of CrackFic, and a later poll as to which stories I should actually try to write came up with this one as a winner. I hope you break something reading it, and I apologize in advance. :0
They’re trapped. T-Bag’s getting edgy, and Michael’s close to imploding. They are blocked from freedom by the very metal Michael had counted on being gone—his beautifully corroded pipe now replaced by some overly-efficient janitor.
Lincoln is on the other side of that pipe, and they can’t get up there to reach him. Escape begins at the Infirmary window, beyond the barricade of this industrial-grade metal, and Michael wants to cry. All this planning, every piece in place, and now this?
The lights dim again as The Chair is re-tested. It’s haunting and cruel that the amount of power required to jolt the life from his only brother is enough to drain the workings of an entire prison. Michael thinks he hears a distant rumbling as the lights go on full strength, but it must be the churnings of his desperate, scattered mind…
On South Halsted Street, the creature’s head turns. With one foot in the river and one planted through the Dan Ryan Expressway it pauses as a tasty crackling draws its attention. Something powerful is down to the South, and it lures the giant lizard like the scent of fresh-baked cookies calls to children. Rrruuurhm, it thinks, and it marches toward that siren song of delicious, trembling current.
Within half an hour, it has stomped across Romeoville and Lockport, and then its foot is through the front entrance of Fox River Prison. Bellick is moving through the hallway as guards and personnel start scrambling toward the exits. He spits on the floor. This is what comes of all that wussy-pussy soul-searching, he thinks. A firm hand would snap this place under control and put an end to this ‘find your feelings’ crap.
Warden Pope marches past as Bellick shakes his head, unnoticed. Pope is single-minded in his duty, and though this isn’t the fun part of his job, the man in charge has to show his leadership.
He steps out thorough the opening of the front entry door. “Mr. Lizard,” he begins firmly, “I am Henry Pope, Warden of Fox River Prison. I would like to have a word with you.”
“Rrawrrr!” comes the response, with a flood of angry teeth pointing his way. Pope makes an executive decision.
“Run for it!” he bellows, and herds the stampede of inmates and workers around the massive leg and toward the large city-block-sized hole in the prison gate.
From the Infirmary window, Lincoln can see the creature eating the East guard tower. “Fictitious my ass!” he yells, breaking open the window and climbing out toward freedom.
A careless gargantuan kick swipes off the corner of the break room, revealing C.O. Hendricks and Pope’s secretary playing Ride the Stallion on a stray chair. From across the compound, Patterson’s face transforms into rage.
That two-timing sweet-talking bitch! He strides manfully toward the source of his damaged honor. “Lincoln!” a voice calls out, as Scofield clips him on the shoulder in his race to catch up with his brother. Scofield’s perky ass is bouncing rapidly toward the exit, but Patterson’s on a break right now. He’s got a score to settle, and that gaping hole in the fence is more than any one man can contain.
Halfway across The Yard, the sun vanishes from the sky. Patterson turns to see a foot descending near him, Bellick jammed on its bottom like a wad of half-dried gum. He dodges out of the way and the foot leaves a crater in the ground next to him. The monster is attacking the main building now, and suddenly that distraction seems important. To hell with his silk shirt back in the locker room—Patterson runs out into the streets like a sprinter after the Gold medal.
A titanic green knee shoves the top story off A-Wing, and the dust clears to reveal a wiry little morsel on the ground below.
“Well now, look at you,” the voice calls out. “Aren’t you just something?”
The creature halts. Something kicks in its reptilian brain, and it lowers its head for a better look at the source of this interesting sound.
T-Bag is eye to eye with a pupil the size of double-decker bus, and he steps forward with a smile on his face.
“I am thoroughly impressed, I must admit,” he says, his voice nearly drowned out by the random screams of the B-Wing inmates in lockdown and the groans of the nearby dying.
This is something new. The creature has felt tiny bullet pricks and eaten train cars and airplanes, but… it’s never been admired before.
“What say we hang out together for awhile, do this world some damage?”
The sounds mean nothing in particular, but the tone is something the lizard likes. It reaches out a delicate claw, lifting the little man onto its neck where he clings to a ridge.
“Giddy-up!” T-Bag calls out. “You and me are goin’ places!”
The smallest pat tips the edge of a scale, and the creature turns toward the land across the lake. Smokestacks are in the distance, and it’s in the mood for something crunchy and hot.
They lumber off toward Detroit, with Fox River forgotten behind them. A tail like a tornado sweeps across the landscape, leaving buildings-turned-pebbles and tumbling automobiles drifting in its wake.
------------- Grrrrrgh -----------
Art work by clex_monkie89