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fredbassettTitle : Within These Walls, Chapter 4 of 30
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Lester, Ryan, Lyle, Ditzy, Stringer
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 59,000 words in 30 chapters of approx. 1,500 – 2,500 words each
Spoilers : None
Summary : Ending up in Dartmoor prison for refusing to recant their belief in evolution is only the start of the problems facing Nick, Stephen and Connor. And Sir James Lester soon ends up with other problems on his hands than just an over-crowded prison population.
A/N : For acknowledgments etc see part 1.
Sir James Lester stopped pacing as soon as he heard the knock on his door. It started to open even before the command to enter had left his lips.
“What the hell is happening, Ryan?” he demanded before the captain had the chance to speak.
“I’ve ordered a full lockdown, sir.”
“Yes, I had noticed, Captain. The klaxon is something of a clue. The question is why? Have they had the temerity to riot again?”
Ryan shook his head. “There’s been a problem on the moor with one of the work groups.”
“What sort of problem?” said Lester, wondering if he was going to have to drag a report out of the man, sentence by sentence.
“I’m waiting for a full sit-rep, but it looks like one guard is dead and one missing.”
“What about the prisoners?” Lester was conscious of the fact that his voice had probably risen an octave or two, but right now he didn’t care.
“Five are still in custody, two are dead, three have vanished.”
A second knock sounded and another man entered the room. Captain Joel Stringer threw a quick salute and promptly got down to business. “We have no fucking clue what happened. I can’t get any sense out of anyone by radio, and I’ve ordered them to cease transmission and not use their phones either. We don’t want the press getting onto this sooner than necessary.” Stringer had managed to articulate Lester’s very thoughts in tones so sharp they could have been used to cut glass. “Lyle is on his way out there now.”
“You’ve obviously spoken to someone, what did they say?” Lester asked sharply, leaning on the desk for support as his mind whirled with possible scenarios.
“In Jackson’s words, sir, not mine, ‘It’s fucking carnage, there’s blood everywhere’. Then he was sick.”
Lester’s eyebrows shot up. “Then I suggest we get out there and see for ourselves, gentlemen.” He pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Lorraine, find Mr Leek and tell him I am leaving him in charge of the prison. I’m going outside with Captains Ryan and Stringer. Tell Leek to maintain full lockdown. He is authorised to sanction the use of maximum force should it be needed. Captains Wilder and Becker will remain at his disposal.”
Ryan nodded, and promptly started to relay orders by radio as the three men made their way down the corridor, heading to the Gatehouse as fast as possible. They passed various members of prison staff on their way, all of whom shied away from the two uniformed soldiers flanking Lester.
A black army Range Rover was waiting for them in the courtyard, and the massive entrance gates had already been opened.
“Sector 5, as fast as you can,” ordered Ryan to the driver.
The man took him literally, and the vehicle pulled away before Lester had even had time to finish fastening his seat-belt. Several road traffic violations later, they were hurtling down a deserted stretch of road, heading out across the moor.
God only knew what made the area so popular with tourists, Lester thought morosely as he stared around him. He thought the whole bloody area was dismal. A wilderness of scrubby grass, bog and heather, interspersed with stony outcrops known locally as tors. He’d been here three months and he hated the place already. It rained almost constantly, as far as he could tell, and now was no exception.
The Range Rover started to climb steadily and by the time they got their first sight of a cluster of vehicles by the roadside, grouped around a bright orange minibus, the rain had turned to sleet. Cursing the fact that he hadn’t remembered to pick up a waterproof before they’d left the prison, Lester followed the soldiers out onto a windswept stretch of moorland. As far as he could tell, a work-party from the prison had been spending their time clearing out ditches by the side of the road in an attempt to improve drainage. It was a job that could quite easily have been done by one man and a mechanical excavator, but that wouldn’t have served the twin needs of exercising the inmates, and demonstrating to the general public that the prisoners were actually paying their debt to society.
Red and white tape was already festooned across the road, and soldiers were stationed at either end of the cordon. One of the uniformed figures broke away from the main group next to the minibus and headed towards them. In the distance, Lester could hear the shrill wail of an ambulance siren.
Lieutenant Lyle the three men with a quick nod, his hazel eyes grim. “We have one man with his throat ripped out, Graham Day, one of the guards. Dan Bailey, the other guard, is missing.”
“What about the prisoners?” said Lester, before either of the other soldiers could speak.
“Four of them are fine, apart from shock. One is bleeding from a massive stomach wound and I’ll be surprised if he makes it, his guts were strewn half way across the road when I got here. Of the others, one has been ripped up so badly he’s unrecognisable, another one’s had his leg half torn off. He died from blood loss. Femoral artery severed. Two are missing, but one of them is almost certainly dead.”
“Why do you say that?” demanded Lester, feeling his stomach lurch at the lieutenant’s blunt descriptions.
“His arm’s over there,” said Lyle, his lips set in a thin, hard line, nodding towards the field on the other side of the ditch.
“What have you got out of the survivors?”
“Not much apart from vomit, piss and repeated use of the word ‘fuck’,” Lyle said. “I can’t say I blame them. It’s a fucking charnel house. None of them are in a fit state to be questioned.”
An ambulance came to a halt on the other side of the cordon, followed by two police cars. One of the soldiers waved the paramedics forward. A quiet flurry of activity followed, centred round the man still lying in the middle of the road. Lester watched with horrific fascination, unable to drag his eyes away from a slimy trail of what he presumed were the man’s entrails laying across the tarmac.
Moments later, the three men straightened up, one of them shaking their head. The soldier nodded, gestured at the minibus, then marched over, his normally good-natured face a stony mask.
Second Lieutenant David Owen, known to his fellow soldiers – for reasons that had never been made entirely clear to Lester – as Ditzy, said, without preamble, “He’s dead. It was an animal attack of some sort. Don’t ask me what type, I have no fucking idea. I’m a medic, not a fucking zoo keeper.”
“Are you saying the Beast of Bodmin was responsible, Lieutenant?” said Lester, with mounting incredulity.
The soldier looked at him wearily. “Well, that’s what the press are going to be saying, sir, but for all I know it could just as easily have been the Hound of the fucking Baskervilles. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure the survivors are being cared for.” He glanced over at the three officers. “We’ll need people to accompany them to the hospital.”
Ryan nodded. “Do you want to take a closer look, Sir James?”
Lester could already feel bile rising in his throat, but against his better judgement, he nodded. He just hoped he could keep his lunch in its correct place. It was a close run thing, very close, but he managed it, to the obvious surprise of the soldiers. In fact he did better than one of the young policemen, who took one look at the mangled, blood-soaked bodies, and promptly turned away, retching.
“I’ve seen enough, Ryan,” Lester commented quietly. “This is a matter for the police now. We’ve contaminated their crime scene quite enough for one evening.”
The sleet was coming down thick and fast now, and it wouldn’t take much to turn it into snow. Anywhere else, sleet in mid-October would be considered unusual, but not here. His suit was soaked through and water was making its way in icy trails down the back of his neck but he’d be damned if he would show any discomfort. Men had died on this godforsaken stretch of road. That was worse than anything he had to endure, although he still rather suspected he might feel slightly differently after he’d spoken to the Home Secretary on the subject.
“The Chief Inspector is on his way,” said the older of the two policemen. “I’ve called for a full scene of crime unit. One of my men will accompany your people to the hospital, Sir James. We’ll need to start taking statements as soon as we can.” The man stared around him, helplessly. “Jesus H Christ, it’s like a fucking battlefield.”
“It’s not like any fucking battlefield I’ve ever seen,” commented Captain Stringer, before he addressed himself to Lester. “Ditzy’s right, sir, we need someone with experience of large animals.” He stared at the policeman. “Can you arrange it?”
“I’ll leave that decision to my boss, if you don’t mind,” the man said stiffly.
Stringer shrugged and walked over to the Range Rover, holding the door open for Lester. “Fucking plod,” he muttered, keeping his expression strictly neutral.
Lester allowed himself a tired smile. “I rather expect they’ll come round to your way of thinking, Captain, but in the meantime, I would be grateful if you would remain at the scene, with Captain Ryan. Please inform the Chief Inspector, when he arrives, that I will be awaiting his report to convey to the Home Secretary.”
The return journey to the prison was accomplished at a more sedate pace, but not by much. To his irritation, a mobile broadcasting unit had already taken up station outside the main gates, and he could see his Press Officer, Jenny Lewis, already doing her best, on the basis of no useful information at all, to find something to say.
As the vehicle drove through both outer gates and into the courtyard, Lester very much doubted that he, or anyone else for that matter, would get much sleep that night.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Lester, Ryan, Lyle, Ditzy, Stringer
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 59,000 words in 30 chapters of approx. 1,500 – 2,500 words each
Spoilers : None
Summary : Ending up in Dartmoor prison for refusing to recant their belief in evolution is only the start of the problems facing Nick, Stephen and Connor. And Sir James Lester soon ends up with other problems on his hands than just an over-crowded prison population.
A/N : For acknowledgments etc see part 1.
Sir James Lester stopped pacing as soon as he heard the knock on his door. It started to open even before the command to enter had left his lips.
“What the hell is happening, Ryan?” he demanded before the captain had the chance to speak.
“I’ve ordered a full lockdown, sir.”
“Yes, I had noticed, Captain. The klaxon is something of a clue. The question is why? Have they had the temerity to riot again?”
Ryan shook his head. “There’s been a problem on the moor with one of the work groups.”
“What sort of problem?” said Lester, wondering if he was going to have to drag a report out of the man, sentence by sentence.
“I’m waiting for a full sit-rep, but it looks like one guard is dead and one missing.”
“What about the prisoners?” Lester was conscious of the fact that his voice had probably risen an octave or two, but right now he didn’t care.
“Five are still in custody, two are dead, three have vanished.”
A second knock sounded and another man entered the room. Captain Joel Stringer threw a quick salute and promptly got down to business. “We have no fucking clue what happened. I can’t get any sense out of anyone by radio, and I’ve ordered them to cease transmission and not use their phones either. We don’t want the press getting onto this sooner than necessary.” Stringer had managed to articulate Lester’s very thoughts in tones so sharp they could have been used to cut glass. “Lyle is on his way out there now.”
“You’ve obviously spoken to someone, what did they say?” Lester asked sharply, leaning on the desk for support as his mind whirled with possible scenarios.
“In Jackson’s words, sir, not mine, ‘It’s fucking carnage, there’s blood everywhere’. Then he was sick.”
Lester’s eyebrows shot up. “Then I suggest we get out there and see for ourselves, gentlemen.” He pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Lorraine, find Mr Leek and tell him I am leaving him in charge of the prison. I’m going outside with Captains Ryan and Stringer. Tell Leek to maintain full lockdown. He is authorised to sanction the use of maximum force should it be needed. Captains Wilder and Becker will remain at his disposal.”
Ryan nodded, and promptly started to relay orders by radio as the three men made their way down the corridor, heading to the Gatehouse as fast as possible. They passed various members of prison staff on their way, all of whom shied away from the two uniformed soldiers flanking Lester.
A black army Range Rover was waiting for them in the courtyard, and the massive entrance gates had already been opened.
“Sector 5, as fast as you can,” ordered Ryan to the driver.
The man took him literally, and the vehicle pulled away before Lester had even had time to finish fastening his seat-belt. Several road traffic violations later, they were hurtling down a deserted stretch of road, heading out across the moor.
God only knew what made the area so popular with tourists, Lester thought morosely as he stared around him. He thought the whole bloody area was dismal. A wilderness of scrubby grass, bog and heather, interspersed with stony outcrops known locally as tors. He’d been here three months and he hated the place already. It rained almost constantly, as far as he could tell, and now was no exception.
The Range Rover started to climb steadily and by the time they got their first sight of a cluster of vehicles by the roadside, grouped around a bright orange minibus, the rain had turned to sleet. Cursing the fact that he hadn’t remembered to pick up a waterproof before they’d left the prison, Lester followed the soldiers out onto a windswept stretch of moorland. As far as he could tell, a work-party from the prison had been spending their time clearing out ditches by the side of the road in an attempt to improve drainage. It was a job that could quite easily have been done by one man and a mechanical excavator, but that wouldn’t have served the twin needs of exercising the inmates, and demonstrating to the general public that the prisoners were actually paying their debt to society.
Red and white tape was already festooned across the road, and soldiers were stationed at either end of the cordon. One of the uniformed figures broke away from the main group next to the minibus and headed towards them. In the distance, Lester could hear the shrill wail of an ambulance siren.
Lieutenant Lyle the three men with a quick nod, his hazel eyes grim. “We have one man with his throat ripped out, Graham Day, one of the guards. Dan Bailey, the other guard, is missing.”
“What about the prisoners?” said Lester, before either of the other soldiers could speak.
“Four of them are fine, apart from shock. One is bleeding from a massive stomach wound and I’ll be surprised if he makes it, his guts were strewn half way across the road when I got here. Of the others, one has been ripped up so badly he’s unrecognisable, another one’s had his leg half torn off. He died from blood loss. Femoral artery severed. Two are missing, but one of them is almost certainly dead.”
“Why do you say that?” demanded Lester, feeling his stomach lurch at the lieutenant’s blunt descriptions.
“His arm’s over there,” said Lyle, his lips set in a thin, hard line, nodding towards the field on the other side of the ditch.
“What have you got out of the survivors?”
“Not much apart from vomit, piss and repeated use of the word ‘fuck’,” Lyle said. “I can’t say I blame them. It’s a fucking charnel house. None of them are in a fit state to be questioned.”
An ambulance came to a halt on the other side of the cordon, followed by two police cars. One of the soldiers waved the paramedics forward. A quiet flurry of activity followed, centred round the man still lying in the middle of the road. Lester watched with horrific fascination, unable to drag his eyes away from a slimy trail of what he presumed were the man’s entrails laying across the tarmac.
Moments later, the three men straightened up, one of them shaking their head. The soldier nodded, gestured at the minibus, then marched over, his normally good-natured face a stony mask.
Second Lieutenant David Owen, known to his fellow soldiers – for reasons that had never been made entirely clear to Lester – as Ditzy, said, without preamble, “He’s dead. It was an animal attack of some sort. Don’t ask me what type, I have no fucking idea. I’m a medic, not a fucking zoo keeper.”
“Are you saying the Beast of Bodmin was responsible, Lieutenant?” said Lester, with mounting incredulity.
The soldier looked at him wearily. “Well, that’s what the press are going to be saying, sir, but for all I know it could just as easily have been the Hound of the fucking Baskervilles. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure the survivors are being cared for.” He glanced over at the three officers. “We’ll need people to accompany them to the hospital.”
Ryan nodded. “Do you want to take a closer look, Sir James?”
Lester could already feel bile rising in his throat, but against his better judgement, he nodded. He just hoped he could keep his lunch in its correct place. It was a close run thing, very close, but he managed it, to the obvious surprise of the soldiers. In fact he did better than one of the young policemen, who took one look at the mangled, blood-soaked bodies, and promptly turned away, retching.
“I’ve seen enough, Ryan,” Lester commented quietly. “This is a matter for the police now. We’ve contaminated their crime scene quite enough for one evening.”
The sleet was coming down thick and fast now, and it wouldn’t take much to turn it into snow. Anywhere else, sleet in mid-October would be considered unusual, but not here. His suit was soaked through and water was making its way in icy trails down the back of his neck but he’d be damned if he would show any discomfort. Men had died on this godforsaken stretch of road. That was worse than anything he had to endure, although he still rather suspected he might feel slightly differently after he’d spoken to the Home Secretary on the subject.
“The Chief Inspector is on his way,” said the older of the two policemen. “I’ve called for a full scene of crime unit. One of my men will accompany your people to the hospital, Sir James. We’ll need to start taking statements as soon as we can.” The man stared around him, helplessly. “Jesus H Christ, it’s like a fucking battlefield.”
“It’s not like any fucking battlefield I’ve ever seen,” commented Captain Stringer, before he addressed himself to Lester. “Ditzy’s right, sir, we need someone with experience of large animals.” He stared at the policeman. “Can you arrange it?”
“I’ll leave that decision to my boss, if you don’t mind,” the man said stiffly.
Stringer shrugged and walked over to the Range Rover, holding the door open for Lester. “Fucking plod,” he muttered, keeping his expression strictly neutral.
Lester allowed himself a tired smile. “I rather expect they’ll come round to your way of thinking, Captain, but in the meantime, I would be grateful if you would remain at the scene, with Captain Ryan. Please inform the Chief Inspector, when he arrives, that I will be awaiting his report to convey to the Home Secretary.”
The return journey to the prison was accomplished at a more sedate pace, but not by much. To his irritation, a mobile broadcasting unit had already taken up station outside the main gates, and he could see his Press Officer, Jenny Lewis, already doing her best, on the basis of no useful information at all, to find something to say.
As the vehicle drove through both outer gates and into the courtyard, Lester very much doubted that he, or anyone else for that matter, would get much sleep that night.