SPACE TEAM
By
Barry J. Hutchison
Copyright © 2016 by Barry J. Hutchison
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published worldwide by Zertex Books.
www.barryjhutchison.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER ONE
Cal Carver’s last day on Earth started badly, improved momentarily, then rapidly went downhill. It began with him being sentenced to two years in prison, and ended with the annihilation of two thirds of the human race. Somewhere in between, there was a somewhat enjoyable moment when he ate a lemon drop, but otherwise it was a pretty grim twenty-four hours all round.
The sentencing was harsh, but not particularly surprising. It wasn’t Cal’s first offense and, if he were honest, almost certainly wouldn’t be his last.
It was far from his first prison sentence, either, although usually they were dished out in terms of days, rather than years. Still, two years – half, once his impeccable behavior was accounted for – in a cozy open prison would be an opportunity to recharge. A holiday, almost. In some ways, Cal was even looking forward to it. There was just one problem.
“What do you mean, ‘the wrong prison’?”
Cal flashed the warden one of his most winning smiles. He had a number of them at his disposal, and this one was up there with the best, while still holding enough back in reserve to step it up to the next level, if required.
“I literally do not know another way of saying it,” Cal said. “This is the wrong prison. I’m supposed to be in Highvue – you know, upstate? With the gardens? They’ve got this training kitchen. The chefs there, they do these amazing little sort of pastry whirl things that--”
“I know of it,” the warden said, drumming his fingers on one of the few uncluttered patches of desk he had available.
“Good. Right. Of course you do,” said Cal. He waited, cranking his smile up a notch to be on the safe side. It was a smile so dazzling, you could practically hear the ding as the light reflected off his teeth. The warden, however, appeared unmoved.
He shrugged. “And? What’s your point?”
“Well, Warden… Grant, was it?”
The warden didn’t do anything to confirm or deny his name, so Cal continued. “I’m supposed to be at Highvue. That’s what the judge said. Someone even wrote it down on that document this guard here was kind enough to look out for me.”
He gave the female guard an appreciative nod and a flash of that smile. A blush flushed upwards from the neck of the woman’s shirt, but she managed, to her immense relief, not to giggle.
“He’s right, sir. Must’ve been a mix-up during transit.”
“She’s really very good,” said Cal, gesturing to the guard. “I don’t know how it works here, if you take recommendations for promotion or whatever, but if you do I’d be happy – no, I’d be more than happy to--”
“We don’t,” said the warden.
“Oh. Well maybe you should,” Cal suggested. The warden held his gaze for several excruciating seconds. Cal cleared his throat. “I’m going to just let you read that.”
The warden’s stare lingered for a while longer, then he lowered his eyes to the document in front of him. A single crooked finger tapped the desktop as he read, the nicotine-stained nail tic-tic-ticking against the wood.
“As you can see, my crime – while obviously wrong – wasn’t really all that serious.”
The warden didn’t look up. “Identity theft is very serious, Mr Carver.”
“I didn’t steal it, not really. I borrowed it. Just for a while.”
The warden raised his eyes just long enough to make Cal shut up, then went back to reading.
Cal rocked on his heels and studied the office. It must once have been pretty grand, with its wood-paneled walls, high ceiling and lush carpet, but time and a distinct lack of storage space had taken their toll.
The walls were almost completely concealed by mismatched metal shelving. The shelves themselves groaned under the weight of ramshackle ring binders and bulging box files that looked fit to explode and shower the room with their contents at any moment.
Around half of the carpet was as good as new, but a number of paths had been worn into it. The thinnest, most threadbare of them all terminated right on the spot where Cal now stood.
He met the guard’s eye and smiled at her. Despite herself, she smiled back, then fought to straighten her face before the warden looked up again.
“Hmm,” the warden grunted. Cal turned, assuming he’d finished reading, but the old man’s eyes were still fixed on the page, his finger still tapping its steady, solemn beat.
Cal whistled softly beneath his breath and went back to looking around the room.
In the corner of the ceiling, where it met a really quite elaborate bit of cornicing, there was a murky brown stain – three roundish blobs and a swooping curve at the bottom.
“It looks like a face,” Cal announced. The warden lifted his eyes from the page. His gray-flecked eyebrows knotted in the middle. “The damp patch. It looks like a face,” Cal said, gesturing towards the corner of the ceiling. “At least, I hope it’s damp, and not, you know, some kind of dirty protest. I’ve heard what this place can get like.”
He turned and lowered himself until he was half-sitting, half-standing against the edge of the desk. “It must be hard. All that responsibility. You know what? I bet they don’t appreciate you enough, John. Can I call you John?”
The warden’s face remained stoically unchanged.
“Saw it on your stack of mail there,” Cal explained. “You should probably open those, by the way.”
“No,” the warden said.
“No, you’re not going to open the mail, or no they don’t appreciate you enough?”
“No, you may not call me John.”
Cal held his hands up. “I fully understand. I was out of line. That was unprofessional of me.”
He spotted a small round tin on the desk, with a stack of sugar-dusted yellow candy inside. Taking one, he popped it in his mouth. Across the room, the guard stifled a gasp.
“Mm. Lemon. Is that lemon?” Cal asked. “Tastes like lemon. Nice, though. Not too sour.”
A vein pulsed on the warden’s right temple. He closed the folder, very deliberately replaced the lid on his tin of candy, then stared equally deliberately at the point where Cal’s buttocks met his desktop.
It took a few seconds before Cal got the message.
“Right. Yes. Sorry, been on my feet most of the day, just taking the weight off,” he said, standing up. He flashed another beaming smile, and indicated the closed folder. “So, we good?”
The warden crossed his hands over the folder and tapped out
another slow drum beat on it. “It appears there has been an administrative error,” he admitted, making no effort to hide the fact that doing so caused him very real pain.
“Hey, these things happen,” said Cal. “You shouldn’t feel bad about it.”
“I don’t,” the warden said.
“That’s the spirit,” Cal said. “So, I guess I’ll just gather up my things…” He patted down his orange jumpsuit. “Yep, looks like I’ve already got everything, so I guess I am ready to go!”
Cal leaned over and shook the guard’s hand. She stared down at it in surprise. “Audrey, thank you for your help, it’s been a pleasure. I hope we can do it again sometime.”
“Uh, no problem.”
Cal winked at her, then turned to the warden and extended a hand across the desk. “John, I really appreciate you sorting everything out,” he said. “If I were you, I’d get that damp patch looked at. It’s structurally unsafe, and from this angle looks like the trapped soul of a dead clown, and neither of those – in my opinion, anyway – are things a man in your position should have to put up with.”
His eyes flicked from John to his outstretched hand and back again. He nodded encouragingly.
The warden’s chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “Unfortunately, Mr Carver, there are currently no prisoner transport options available to me.”
Cal’s smile wavered, just for a moment. “’No prisoner transport options’? What does that mean?”
“I literally do not know another way of saying it,” the warden said, the corners of his mouth tugging into a slight smirk. “I currently have no means at my disposal with which to transport you to Highvue.”
“That’s fine. Know what? That’s totally fine. You could call me a cab,” Cal suggested. “Audrey could come with me, if you’re worried about me running away. You’d be OK with that, right Audrey?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I could…”
“No. Don’t worry. Prison transport will be arranged,” the warden said.
Cal’s shoulders heaved with relief. “Really? That’s awesome! Thanks, John.” He laughed. “You almost had me going there for a minute. I mean, the thought of spending another minute in this hellhole--”
“Tomorrow.”
Cal blinked several times in rapid succession. The warden leaned forwards in his chair again, steepling his hands in front of his face. Somewhere beyond the door behind Cal, a high-pitched alarm began to chime.
“Tomorrow?” said Cal, at last. “I’ll be honest, John, tomorrow isn’t good for me. Tonight – now, tonight would be ideal.”
“Relax, Mr Carver,” said the warden. “Hear that alarm? That’s the lights out indicator. It’ll soon be sleepy-time. Morning will be here before you know it.”
“Yes, but--”
“Has Mr Carver been assigned a cell?” the warden asked. The guard shook her head.
“Not yet, sir.”
“Good. Good. Put him in eighteen.”
The guard shifted awkwardly. “Uh, eighteen is occupied, sir.”
“I’m aware of that,” said the warden. “This is a prison. Cells get shared. That is how it works.”
“Actually, I’m not really a people person,” said Cal. “If you have, like, a single room available…”
“Well, yes, I know, sir,” said the guard, shooting Cal a worried glance. “But… eighteen. That’s the Butcher, sir.”
The warden held the guard’s gaze. His fingers began drumming on his desktop.
“The Butcher?” said Cal, looking between them both. “The Butcher? Who’s the Butcher?”
“Tell me, Mr Carver,” said the warden. “Do you have a family?”
Cal hesitated. “No.”
“Oh, then you’ll get along just fine,” the warden said. “See, the Butcher did have a family. Once upon a time. Then he had bits of one, in carefully marked bags in the freezer. And now he doesn’t have any family at all.”
He leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers over his stomach. “Yes, Audrey. Put him with the Butcher. But you’d best take that lemon drop off him. We wouldn’t want him trying to choke himself to death on it during the night now, would we?”
The guard nodded. “Very good, sir.” She cupped a hand in front of Cal’s face. After a final few sucks, he opened his mouth, letting the shiny yellow candy drop into her palm. Audrey studied the sticky ball of yellow for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket.
“Come on,” she told him. “I guess we should go and get you settled in.”
CHAPTER TWO
Cal stood in the corner of the cell, his back wedged into the narrow space where the two walls met. He was uncomfortably close to a very full and what was, to his mind, deeply unsanitary slop bucket. The only alternative was to stand closer to his cellmate, and that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon. At least, not if he had any say in the matter.
The Butcher sat on the edge of the lower bunk, a blank, utterly impassive gaze fixed on Cal. Or in that general direction, at least. Beyond sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed, Cal wasn’t entirely convinced the man had even noticed his arrival.
He was large, both in height and girth. Even sitting, he would be considered a tall adult male, and the last time Cal had seen shoulders quite so big and round he’d been on a day trip to SeaWorld.
Neither his height nor his width were the most worrying aspect of the Butcher, though.
Despite being in his fifties, he was oddly baby-faced, with wispy tufts of white hair, puffy, rosy cheeks, and forehead that was a road-map of old scar tissue. There had been letters carved in there at some point, but most of them were back to front, and too faded for Cal to be able to read. He doubted it was anything of particular literary merit.
None of that was the most worrying thing, either.
The most worrying thing about the Butcher, was what he wore on his bottom half. Or, more specifically, what he didn’t wear. He sat perched on the edge of the bed, his genitals dangling almost all the way down to the floor. If Cal had to describe the Butcher’s genitalia, he’d have to say ‘terrifying’. If he was forced to elaborate further, he’d add, ‘devastatingly impressive’.
They were the single most unpleasant collection of body parts he’d ever borne witness to, and yet there was something about them which drew the eye, despite all Cal’s best effort to resist. They were like a fatal car accident at the side of the road, or two dogs humping in the background of a harrowing news report about childhood cancers. You knew you shouldn’t look, and yet…
“Hey there,” said Cal. He tore his eyes away from the Butcher’s junk and forced them to glance around at the walls, instead. There was a slick of something dark and body-fluidy on one, which he felt warranted precisely zero further examination. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
The Butcher adjusted his position on the bed, making his penis pendulum back and forth. Cal found himself following it like a hypnotist’s watch, then hurriedly dragged his gaze away again. He forced himself to focus on the Butcher’s face, instead. Not that it offered much of an improved view.
“I know, I know, the last thing you probably wanted was a houseguest,” Cal said. “I promise, you won’t even know I’m here. Just you go about your… whatever it is you do with your spare time, and pretend I’m not around. I’ll be out of your hair first thing tomorrow morning.”
The Butcher continued to stare. His mouth was hanging open, and thin strands of drool trailed from his bottom lip like silken webs. He had very few teeth, but those he did have had been filed into sharp points.
“I don’t know which bunk you prefer – I’m guessing the bottom, you know, with the size and everything – but it doesn’t matter,” Cal continued. “Because I’m just going to stand right here, propped against the wall, eyes open all night long. Just eyes wide open.”
He indicated the single bulb above them, fixed in place behind a perfectly smooth orb of mostly transparent
plastic. “As soon as that goes out, it’ll be like you’re on your own. I’ll just melt into the shadows. You won’t be able to see me…” He flinched, suddenly concerned. “I won’t be able to see you. Which, you know, is fine. It’s good.”
The bed frame squeaked as the Butcher stood up. Cal found his eyes drawn downwards again, but managed to fight the instinct. The hulking figure shuffled closer on his troll-like bare feet. Cal tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go, and he only succeeded in pressing himself harder against the rough cell wall.
The floor, wall and Cal all trembled as the Butcher lumbered across the gap between them. The giant’s breath whistled tunelessly in and out through his crooked, misshapen nose. His girth blocked Cal’s view of first the beds, then the door, then everything but the Butcher himself.
Cal raised his left hand, palm open in a gesture of surrender. The fingers of the right one, meanwhile, curled into a tight fist and braced themselves.
The smell of cheap prison soap snagged at the back of Cal’s throat, followed a split-second later by the sweat-stench it had tried – but ultimately failed - to mask.
The Butcher leaned in, placing his left hand on the wall above and to the right of Cal’s head, fingers splayed wide. With his right hand, he idly toyed with his genitals while holding Cal with his dead-eyed gaze.
“I know I said you should pretend I’m not here,” Cal said. He pointed briefly to the man’s crotch, where his meaty, sausage-like fingers were vigorously kneading away. “But, I’m going to be honest, this feels borderline inappropriate.”
“They call me the Butcher.”
The voice that came out was gravel on crushed glass – a throaty growl with a deep, rumbling resonance which wouldn’t have been out of place on a movie trailer, Cal thought. Horror, probably.
“Yes. I had heard that,” Cal said.
The Butcher leaned in. Cal’s fist tightened as those filed-down teeth hovered in front of his face. He tried not to look at those, either.
“But my name’s Eugene.”
Cal’s brow knotted, just briefly. “Eugene?”
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