by Lee, Damien
8
Frank awoke to his second day in segregation. At first, he struggled to work out what had roused him. But after a few seconds of deliberation, the cause was apparent.
Gus Razor’s poor rendition of ‘Mustang Sally’ boomed down the corridor. The other inmates cheered the crooner on as Frank groaned into his hands. He knew what effects segregation could have on a prisoner, but he never expected them to set in so quickly. Yet here he was listening to the most feared inmate in prison belting out the sixties classic. A guard’s heavy footsteps were almost drowned out by Razor’s performance.
“Gus!” It was the voice of the young guard Frank had heard the night before. “What the hell are you doing? Stop singing! Stop dancing!”
Razor ignored the command as he reached the climax of his song. Frank could only laugh in disbelief as the tone-deaf chorus reached his ears.
Hysterics broke out all along the corridor as Gus started his second verse. The only person not amused was the young guard.
“I’m warning you, Gus! Shut up or I’ll come in there and silence you!”
The singing continued with no heed being given to the guard’s warning. Frank heard a rattling of keys as the guard swung open Razor’s door. The singing stopped as a loud thud sounded down the corridor. After a few muffled thumps, Gus Razor’s voice boomed louder than ever with his second chorus. He made his way along the corridor, jingling a set of keys merrily as he went. Frank sat up, listening as all the doors were opened. The prisoners exclaimed as they were released by Gus, who eventually made his way to Frank’s cell.
“Rise and shine, Frankie.” He grinned through the viewing compartment. “Fancy a walk?”
“Why? We’ll only get banged up again in a few minutes.”
“True, but don’t you want to see something other than these four walls?”
“I rather like these walls,” Frank retorted, looking around at the scrawls on the white paint.
“Well, I’ll still open the door. Feel free to leave if your big head can fit through.” With a rattle of keys, Frank’s door swung wide. He looked at Gus with raised eyebrows. The older man looked haggard. His greying hair was unkempt, and the bags under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep.
“Henderson’s gonna have your balls for this,” Frank muttered as Gus twirled the key chain around his finger.
“You let me deal with Henderson.”
Gus left the cell as he went to join the rest of the prisoners. Frank heard them laughing and joking at the end of the corridor. He hesitated a moment before stepping out. The rest of the men had convened at the barred gates at the end of the hall. Frank slowly approached, aware that they were being watched by at least two overhead cameras.
“So, are we going to break out of here or what?” one man asked, running a hand over his beard.
“Don’t be a fuckwit all your life, Craddock!” Gus snapped. “This is a high security prison. You can’t just clonk a guard on the head and stroll out through the front doors.”
“What’s stopping us? We’ve got the keys!” He motioned towards the key chain in Razor’s hand.
The gangland boss looked around at his thug with a frown.
“Have a word with this one, will you, Tony,” he said. “There are hundreds of locked gates, CCTV at every turn, and enough guards to fill a Pink Floyd concert twice-over!”
“So what’re we doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“Waiting? For what?”
Gus looked from face to face. “I just thought you boys would like to stretch your legs a bit. I know I didn’t want to stay in that cell any longer.”
“You know they’re gonna drag us right back in there,” Frank said from the back of the group. “Why waste your time and get into more trouble?”
“Well, truth be told, I was sick of that smarmy cunt staring at me.” He motioned to his cell where the unconscious guard lay sprawled on the floor.
“And what else?”
Gus ignored Frank’s question and looked back through the barred gate expectantly.
“So don’t any of those keys open that gate?” one prisoner asked half-heartedly. His Polish accent was strong, distinguishing him from the rest of the crowd.
“Have you seen how many keys are on here? I can’t be arsed to sift through them all. We’ll only get a few feet before we hit another barrier!”
“Let me try.”
“There was more chance of your boys escaping Auschwitz than getting out of this place, Zielinski,” Gus muttered, tossing the key chain to the prisoner.
The Polish man ignored the remark. Catching the keys, he made his way forward.
The group watched as he tried five keys, all to no avail. He was halfway through trying the sixth when a rubber bullet struck him in the chest. The crowd backed away as Zielinski fell to the ground, writhing in agony. A few seconds later, an array of armed guards came bursting through the gate.
“C’mon then lads, back in the hole.”
Gus motioned for the prisoners to head back to their cells. Frank watched him curiously as the crime boss scanned the rabble of guards that spilled into the corridor. Henderson was among them, yet Razor paid him no heed as he continued to search the crowd. Eventually, he strode over to an unfamiliar face. Frank could not recall seeing the guard in the past, but watching their exchange, he was sure it was the same person Razor had spoken to the previous night. He watched as Gus handed the man a piece of paper. Before he could see anything else, one of the guards grabbed Frank.
“Back to your cell, Lee!”
“I’m not gonna lose my way, you prick,” Frank snapped, shrugging off the guard’s grip.
“Get in there!” The guard shoved Frank into a new cell.
“What the hell is this?” he yelled as the door swung closed. He looked around at his new abode with disgust. Someone had pulled the bed apart, with blue foam strewn across the floor. The room smelled heavily of urine, with a dark yellow puddle in the corner of the room. Frank longed for the homely environment of his previous cell.
“So, you ladies fancied an early morning walk?” Henderson shouted over the commotion. None of the cons responded, leading the smug guard to his next question.
Where’s Daniels?”
“Unconscious.” Razor chortled from his locked cell.
“Well, that is a problem.”
“Yeah, it is! Why don’t you come in here and get him, Henderson?”
“No, he got himself into that mess he can get himself out. If he dies, that’s on him.”
“You gonna bury him next to the kid you killed, Henderson?”
Frank’s query caused a hush to spread amongst the inmates. He listened as the guard’s ominous footsteps reached his cell. Henderson’s keys rattled in the lock before he stormed inside.
“What did you say?”
He stopped within an inch of Frank’s face.
“You heard me. You tried to make me think I killed the kid. We both know that isn’t true, and I’m sure the governor would be interested to find out.”
“You think the governor would entertain a piece of shit like you?”
“It doesn’t have to be me, Henderson. Surely you know how many enemies you have here. All I have to do is let my mouth run and you’ll have a major problem on your hands.”
He watched with satisfaction as the guard withdrew slightly, his lips forming a thin line.
“There’ll be investigations,” Frank continued. “Who knows how many more you’ve bumped off in the past. You’ll probably end up in here with the rest of us. Imagine that, Henderson, being hated by the cons and the guards. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Henderson managed a smile and shook his head.
“Watch your back, Lee,” he whispered as he left the cell. “You never know what can happen in here.”
Frank ignored the comment and watched the heavy door swing shut.
“Someone get Daniels out of that cell!” the guard roared as he stormed out of the
wing.
Frank was sure there was no weight to Henderson’s statement, but he knew he’d have to look over his shoulder for the next few weeks.
***
“Good to see you, Gus. Have a seat.” Henderson smiled as the gangland boss entered the room. He motioned for the man to sit in the chair opposite him, but Gus didn’t respond.
“What do you want, Henderson?” he asked, looking back at McAllister who stood beside the door.
“I want you to sit down. Don’t make me ask you again.”
Gus hesitated for a moment before taking his place in the chair. He looked at the guard through narrow eyes.
“What do you want?” he repeated. “Don’t make me ask again.”
He watched as the guard leaned forward, his hands clasped together.
“What do you think I want, Gus? I’ve invited you to this secluded place, in the middle of the night, with only McAllister witnessing what’s about to happen.”
Razor didn’t respond, but maintained his frosty glare as Henderson continued.
“You boys have been playing up big time; disrespecting me, the other guards, and you even got poor Daniels hospitalised.”
“So you’re going to kill me?”
“Oh, there will be blood.” Henderson grinned. “Just not yours.”
Razor’s glare turned into a frown. “What’re you talking about?”
“I want you to arrange a hit. You know everyone in this joint. I want one of them to wipe out Lee.”
“Frank?” Razor retorted. “Why?”
“He’s rubbed me up the wrong way these past few days; saying things out of turn, being rowdy, disruptive.”
“You’ve just described every bloke in here. You can’t kill us all, Henderson.”
“I’m not killing anyone. You are.”
“We all know you have your own ways of getting rid of people. Why ask me?” Gus asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Since Lee killed that teenager, I’ve been asked certain… questions. Awkward questions that I don’t like to answer. If I went and killed him now, I’ll be in deep shit.”
“But if one of my boys gets caught, they’ll be in deep shit. That’s no incentive for anyone.”
“First, you’re all gonna die in here. You know this. Don’t kid yourselves with early release or any of that shit. So, what more can they do to you? Second, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Gus watched as the guard reached into an inside pocket and produced a wad of bills. He placed the money on the table and pushed it towards the prisoner.
“Twenty grand,” Henderson muttered as Gus flicked through the notes. “That’s the profits from the drugs I took off you the other day and a lot more. Kill Lee and it’s all yours.”
Razor sighed in dismay as he pushed the money back towards the guard.
“Sorry, Henderson, it’s not happening. First, Frank is my best fighter. Second, he still owes me. It’s bad practice to kill a man who’s in your debt. You’ll just have to live with Frankie’s taunts a little longer.”
He rose from his seat, satisfied at the look of indignation creeping across Henderson’s face.
“Fine,” the guard snapped. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Just try it, Henderson. You go anywhere near Frank while he owes me money, and McAllister will be digging your grave.”
He eyed the guard as he passed. McAllister didn’t make eye contact but fought hard to suppress his smirk.
9
Joe Longmoor wiped a film of sweat from his brow as he stepped away from the corpse. His mortuary had become overrun with the bodies of countless patients. He had examined the most recent cadaver in the mortuary’s corridor. He knew before he even looked under the sheet what he would see. Deceased patients had been wheeled in by the dozen all morning, all with the same fatal symptoms and all with no apparent cause. As he peeled back the sheet, his speculation was confirmed.
A young woman stared through Joe as he removed his latex gloves. He guessed her cause of death would be the same as the rest. Her pallid skin was tight over her face, angry sores covered her body, and the blood vessels in her eyes had ruptured. He had worked with the deceased for nigh on twenty years, and in that time he had learned to repress any feelings of grief. Whether it was fear of the unknown virus, the hectic workload of that morning, or the promise of more bodies by the end of his shift, Joe could not decide, but his occupation was starting to get the better of him.
He wiped his brow once more and pulled the sheet over the corpse. Hunger had set in, and he knew he needed nourishment before he could continue his grisly task. With that, he left the corpse in the corridor and made for the kitchen. With his co-worker calling in sick, Joe had to examine the dead patients on his own. He had worked alone frequently during his time at the hospital, but never at a time of such dire need. He knew if there were any more fatalities, the examinations would have to wait until the next day. Dread merged with the gnawing sensation of hunger in his stomach. If he didn’t eat soon, nausea would overpower him and he would not complete his tasks. With this in mind, he entered the kitchen.
The overhead lights cast a harsh glare as he looked around the room. He squinted as he made his way over to the refrigerator, his eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness. The sterile surfaces glimmered as he retrieved his lunch and sat at the table. Various magazines lay scattered on the surface, most of which had been there for the past six months. Few people ate in the kitchen during their lunch break, opting to venture out to the canteen or café within the hospital. Yet, Joe had always preferred to eat his meals in the comfort of the mortuary. It made him feel more at ease to eat alone with the deceased, rather than face the living in the rest of the hospital.
A muffled thud in the corridor disturbed the solitude of the morgue. Joe put down his sandwich and gazed at the door. The sound came again, only this time it was more prominent. A heavy slap met his ears, followed by a low groan. He rose from his seat with visions of an undead corpse shuffling towards the kitchen. He knew it was impossible, but he failed to think of an alternative. The morgue was closed off to most staff, and the only living person in there was him. There were no windows, and only one way into the department was through a secure door.
His heart hammered against his chest. The sound of shuffling footsteps drew closer. He glanced around the room, looking for something to defend himself with should the person outside be a threat. He knew it was illogical, but something at the back of his mind told him he was in danger. The footsteps approached, getting louder and louder until they were right outside the door. But then they diminished. The intruder passed. Joe exhaled deeply as the echo from the footsteps faded to nothing.
He took a slow, deep breath before creeping over to the door. Despite his apprehensiveness, he had to find out who was there. There was no sound coming from outside. With trembling hands, he gripped the door handle. It felt slippery under his sweaty palms. He slowly opened the door, cringing as the hinges squeaked in protest. He stopped and listened again. There was no sound. He eased the door open further and slipped through the gap into the corridor. There was nobody there. Upon inspection, Joe realised how literal this observation was. The corpse had gone. The examination trolley was empty.
Similar visions of a naked, shambling cadaver roaming the corridors filled his mind. He dismissed the idea. Dead people don’t come back to life. Once somebody enters the morgue on a steel trolley with a sheet over their face, they don’t get back up. Somebody had moved the body. He couldn’t decide which was worse; an undead corpse wandering the corridors, or a twisted body snatcher looking for an escape route. It didn’t take long to find out which it was.
The rhythmic slapping of bare feet met his ears. Joe made to turn, but was seized in a fierce embrace. Before he could scream, a portion of flesh was ripped from the back of his neck. Now, he found his voice. With a cry of agony, he whirled around, hurling his attacker aside. The woman’s corpse screeched and lunged at him once more. This tim
e he was ready and seized her head with both hands. She fought against his grip. Twisting her head, she ripped off a section of his thumb. Joe screamed for a second time as the crazed woman feasted on his flesh.
Blinded by pain, he shoved her aside and made for the exit. He could hear her in pursuit, her bare feet slapping against the floor. He knew he’d never outrun her. Cradling his injured hand, he shouldered open the nearest door. A rectangle of light briefly illuminated the area before he slammed the door behind him. The room was plunged into darkness.
The dead woman pounded the door, shrieking with every strike. Joe stood firm, using all his strength to keep the monster at bay. He tried to look around for a weapon, but his eyes could not penetrate the vast darkness of the windowless room. At the back of his mind, he wondered where he had escaped to, but this thought was superseded by another; how was he going to survive?
Seconds passed and the woman’s attempts grew more futile. Joe tried to slow his breathing, but fear still gripped him. Worse still, the blood loss had started to make him lightheaded. Finally, the pounding stopped and he could hear the zombie shamble away down the corridor. He eased the pressure on the door but didn’t vacate it completely. For all he knew, the woman was still close by, waiting for him to leave. He fought the urge to collapse in a heap as touched the scathed flesh on the back of his neck. He needed medical attention and fast.
He put an ear up against the cold steel of the door and listened for any sign of movement outside. There was none. Or at least nothing he could hear over the rapid beating of his heart. He closed his eyes and tried to picture his escape route. It proved difficult as he was still unsure which room he had fled to. Replaying the scene in his head, it slowly dawned on Joe which part of the morgue he was in. The realisation hit him. He screamed as a sea of hands grabbed him, pulling him further into the darkness. Joe had not found sanctuary at all. He had fled into the lion’s den. As a dozen eager mouths began to feed, the door to the chapel of rest opened. A silhouette of the young, dead woman appeared before she joined in the feast.
