by Steve Wands
THE
CONDEMNED
STAY DEAD BOOK THREE
STEVE WANDS
Copyright © 2017 Steve Wands
All rights reserved.
Kindle Edition
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Prologue
Dance, Monkey, Dance
This Was Then
The Suicidal Squad
Quick, Get To The Escalade
And Away We Go
Gazing Into The Abyss
Downward Spiral
Storming The Prison
Garth Cane Finds Himself A Throne
What’s Lovecraft Got To Do With It?
In The Kingdom Of Cane
Jailhouse Lock And Load
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go
Whole Lotta Killin’ Goin’ On
Break On Through
Scream Like A Pig For The King, Baby
Wherever The Muse Takes You
I’m Already Dead
Bring Me A Dream
We Got It All
Becoming
Out Of The Frying Pan
Inside
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my family and friends for your support. To my wife—for everything. To my sons—for being beautiful, challenging, and interesting little individuals. To Adam Staffaroni and Gregory Lockard for your insights and editing. To Keith Latch, for helping in the research department.
Thank you all.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel takes place in a fictionalized version of our world. We spend a lot of time in West Virginia, but it’s not quite the place as you know it. Any resemblance to actual incidents, or to any person living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”
–Hunter S. Thompson
PROLOGUE
(back to top)
Virginia.
As a boy Garth Cane had come from a good home. He was bright, with an appetite for knowledge. It was this appetite, however, that led him into dark territories. In these dark territories his appetite for knowledge began to bloom into fantasy. He loved reading and was fascinated by true crime books, especially books on serial killers. In high school, where he excelled academically, and faired well on a social level, he read everything in the school’s library on serial killers. His fantasies grew into planning. He would make photocopies of the pictures and even take notes in a spiral bound notebook that had an “X” on the cover in black magic marker.
Once he read everything there, he moved on to the town library, spending hours studying these documentations of murder. All the while his parents simply thought he was studying for school and doing homework. His grades reflected the hard work of the studious, bookish boy he was. But he was studying for something else.
Garth’s appetites were exceeding what he could find in books. It was growing into prolonged fantasies. Daydreams in class often became meditations on murder. Soon those fantasies started to bloom into ugly shapes that resembled plans. Thoughts were becoming actions, and the fantasies that seemed so insane could so easily be realized. All he needed to do was to act on his impulses. It was like a sickness had come over him. A steady rainfall that dropped harder with each uptick of wind.
After high school the fantasies of murder didn’t waver and his curiosity was seething. His curiosity had grown teeth and claws and the appetite burned in his stomach like too much cheap whiskey. He’d taken to killing animals, and was utterly enthralled with following people around unseen.
Once he started college, his studies proved much more challenging than those in high school and he began to care less about his grades and more about his darker studies. Socially he didn’t do as well either. He began to stand out as strange, but in college it was okay to be strange; to many strange was cool.
In addition to the deluge of crime books, Garth had taken to collecting clippings from newspapers of murders, rapes, and other violent crimes. Of particular interest were a few clippings of a serial killer dubbed “The Woodsman”. Several bodies had been found in the New Jersey Pine Barrens over a span of several years, their genitalia butchered and their stomachs disemboweled like game. There had only been a handful of articles on it, but he hoped—and prayed—that there’d be more. He couldn’t have been more excited about the prospect of it.
In his sophomore year at college the fantasy would finally become reality. One night Garth was taken home by a cute little punk chick with black hair and piercings all over her ears, nose, lips, and nipples (which she’d bragged about drunkenly). They’d talked a lot to each other throughout the party, but despite their connection, Garth couldn’t stop thinking about killing her. He’d had sex before and while the thought of fucking this girl wasn’t a bad one, it would just be foreplay to her murder.
He could feel the electricity between them, and it wasn’t their love of Black Flag and 1970s cinema. The bulge in his pants was attraction, both carnal and homicidal.
He broke away, wanting to be seen amongst others at the party in case he ended up satiating his murderous appetite. Though he mingled well with others his eyes often lingered back to her. Her soft skin and jet black hair called to him from every corner of the room. Everything else was dull. She was contrast.
Garth made sure he’d left before her, and as the party died down he waited for her outside in his car. He’d been drunk earlier, but with the excitement of what he knew the night to hold he found himself as sober as a saint. He waited maybe an hour and then she left the house. She was alone, stumbling into the street, no one else was around. He pulled the car into the street and pulled up to her. She didn’t notice at first but then he waved her down.
“Need a ride?” He asked, and unfortunately for her, she said, “Yes. I was wondering where you went.”
He was a good looking guy, even if he was a bit scrawny. There wasn’t much foreplay and once things were initiated it was only twenty minutes till they were both on their backs and breathing heavy. The little punk princess passed out and snored like she was sawing wood while Garth ran his fingers delicately along her body. She was cute, and nice, and her eyes had gleamed like obsidian when she’d rode him in the dark moonlit room. No matter where he kissed her or touched her she did not stir, except for the obnoxious snoring.
He got out of bed and stood naked in the darkness. He pulled the condom off his dwindling dick and put it in his pants pocket. He wished he brought in his backpack, but it was too late now. He began to pace. Then he searched the room and found a large Ziploc freezer bag with her make-up in it. He cautiously emptied it, and despite his fear she had not woken up from the noise. He crawled back into bed with the bag and found himself almost crying, his heart raced like nothing he’d ever felt before, thudding so loudly in his chest that he thought it would wake her up. He couldn’t control his breathing and was panic-stricken.
A little voice in his head told him to run away now. To leave this girl alone. She was sweet and nice, and didn’t deserve what he had in mind. But the more the little voice talked, the more it receded in his mind. The quieter it got and the more he wanted to make his fantasy reality.
Then in a moment of clarity it all faded away and he sat on her chest pinning her arms with his legs as he straddled her and he pulled the bag over her head, pushing down with two cupped hands over her nose and mouth. She writhed under him, confused, terrified, bucking and kicking and nearly throwing him off. Time stood still for Garth. The room felt darker and colder a
s he continued to press down as hard as he could. Her muffled screams turned into gags as she began to vomit. She continued to fight him, but he could tell she was running out of steam, and then she fought no more and simply convulsed under him. He kept his arms locked and his hands cupped across her mouth. He began to cry, and noticed he was as hard as a rock.
He dared not move for minutes still, then he slowly eased up and lifted his hands up to examine them. He thought they would look different, but aside from some vomit on his palms and wrist, they did not. He poked at her with his finger, but she did not move. The bag on her hair was impossible to see through with the vomit, tears, spit, and the condensation of her dying breaths. He slipped it off, and continued to cry. She didn’t look so cute anymore. Her hair was a mess, snot and vomit covered most of her pretty face and her raven black hair was already beginning to dull. Her eyes, though still dark, no longer held that obsidian shine.
The little voice returned. Begging for a reason.
All Garth could feel was a crushing guilt and overwhelming feeling of sorrow. What the fuck did I do, he wondered. He stared at his hands again and his eyes were so full of tears he couldn’t see them. He let out a pitiful whine of a cry that sounded more like an animal than a human. He collapsed next to her, much like he did after they’d fucked, and sobbed on her cooling shoulder. He kept telling her he was sorry. So fucking sorry. And he wished he could take it all back. He tried to breath life back into her. He attempted chest compressions. It was too little too late, and after a while he fell asleep next to her. When he awoke in the morning he swept all the vomit on her face and from the bag into her mouth. It was his hope that it would look like she choked on her own vomit, like Jimmy Hendrix. He kissed her on the forehead, took the freezer bag, got dressed and left.
He didn’t go to class that day and days later he was arrested on suspicion of murder for killing a pretty little punk girl who was attracted to the wrong guy with kind eyes. It turned out that they weren’t alone in the street after the party and Garth never got around to throwing out the freezer bag or taking the used condom out of his jeans. He was so disturbed by his actions that he neglected to get rid of the evidence. He was sorry. So fucking sorry. He wanted to take it back. He wanted to listen to the little voice. But it was too late now. The little voice was gone and in its place was nothingness.
1 DANCE, MONKEY, DANCE
(back to top)
West Virginia.
Mount Weather Special Facility.
Acting Secretary of Defense William T. Pymn II had just laid out the broad strokes for his plan to secure the West Virginia State Penitentiary to the man he hoped would lead the ground force, First Sergeant John Torrent. He sat there waiting for Torrent’s response. His gray hair seemed to have a little less luster than in previous weeks. The mountain had a way of aging a person. Lack of sunlight and fresh air on the skin took effect almost immediately. The secretary was aware of this and he hoped he still looked vital and fit to lead. He hoped his appearance had not degraded to the point of perceived weakness. Each day he set aside a few minutes to stand outside and stare at the morning sky. It was vital to the start of his day.
First Sergeant Torrent was the physical embodiment of the word “soldier.” He had a straight-razor slit of a mouth with a squared-off jaw perched atop a broad set of shoulders and a chest that stuck out like a barrel. Despite being cooped up in the mountain he kept his appearance clean, boots shined and a close shave. Unlike the secretary, Sergeant Torrent appeared unmarred by the charms of the mountain. Many of the other men had given up on shaving. Some of them didn’t care to shine their boots, some of them even let the weight of their thoughts drag their posture to the ground as well. But not John Torrent. Aside from the snifter of bourbon in his hands you’d think he was GI Joe incarnate.
Torrent took a sip of the copper-colored swill, swirling the snifter about gently in his hand as he watched the liquid spin around, allowing Pymn’s words to set in. He already knew he was going to leave the mountain and go on this crazy malformed plan of the Secretary’s, but that didn’t mean that he had to make the decision look easy. There was an art to accepting the mission. A little dance.
“I’d want to pick my team,” Torrent said, being sure to sound non-committed.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Pymn nodded in agreement, taking a long sip from his own snifter and then wiping his thin lips dry.
“A small team. Little more than a skeleton crew.”
“However you want to run it, John, with whomever you want to run it with. All I want is the prison secured. I know you can get it done. And if you can’t—if the place is full of reanimates—level it.”
“I also want to have a Bravo response team on standby, and I want a promotion to Sergeant Major, too,” Torrent said, surprised by his pettiness. He was fairly certain this was the beginning of the end of human life on planet earth as he understood it, and still, part of him was concerned with his military career and said status within it. Even with all that was going on, in many ways his life had not changed. The dead may walk the earth, but the chain of command was still in play.
“You’re a soldier—a warrior—don’t let the politics of it all get in the way. A man like you needs to be on the ground getting shit done. Shit like this prison. So, can you do it? Can you get it done?”
The little dance was over. Torrent downed the rest of his bourbon and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He slid over the empty snifter to Pymn, who was now pouring himself another few swigs.
“I’ll get it done.”
“I know,” Pymn smiled, and poured another helping into John’s snifter, sliding it back to Torrent, “I know.”
Once Torrent finished with the bourbon he slid the glass back to the man with the bottle, straightened, saluted, and walked out.
John Torrent strode down the halls with purpose. Despite his rigidity he felt loose from the alcohol. He hadn’t been eating much in the mountain, nor had he been drinking much of anything other than water. So the warm sensation in his gut was a welcomed one. The bourbon was smooth and he’d have loved to have enjoyed a few more fingers of it, but he needed a clear head. When this war was over he’d have his fill of bourbon. He would celebrate in grand fashion, with several nights of intoxication punctuated by feats of carnal gladiatorial conquests.
There were two soldiers in the mountain he wanted by his side for the mission to be a success. First and foremost he wanted to get his 88M (Motor Transport Operator) on board. Possibly the hardest part of the gig would be getting to the location. If anything happened to the bird he wanted someone with experience behind the wheel. If they had to abandon the hawk then he wanted the best MTO around.
Niko “Mad Max” McKeever navigated Torrent out of a lot of rough road and he knew he needed her for a few more miles still. He made his way to the garage, knowing most likely if she wasn’t there working her ass off, she’d be comatose in her quarters. The garage was full to the brim with vehicles. Mostly military and government vehicles, but there were some commercial and civilian vehicles as well.
On the mountain everyone was training to do other jobs. Manpower was minimal so everyone needed to be able to do everything. Niko had begun pilot training months before the dead reanimated. She kept up with it and was now as skilled in the air as she was on ground. She was also one hell of a mechanic. One more reason she was perfect for Torrent’s Alpha Team.
Wrench-wielding grunts covered in oil and grease busied about the room. He noticed a couple of guys armoring up a set of pickup trucks. They had welded metal plates over the windows, mounted machine guns and added roll cages. They had gone so far as to weld spikes to the front and rear bumpers. They looked like something you’d see in a movie or a comic book, he thought, not something suited for warfare. Though he supposed an unusual enemy deserved an unusual tactic.
As he moved around the large bay he finally saw Niko. She was gulping down what was most likely black coffee—her drink o
f choice. She put the cup down in an open mechanic’s cart draw and was about to pop the hood on one of the many black SUVs when she saw John. She redirected her body and walked towards him smiling.
“Sergeant,” She said nodding, “to what do I owe the pleasure?
“Well, I figure it’s about time we get the hell out of here and get some fresh air. You feel like flying today?”
“Fuck yeah.”
2 THIS WAS THEN
(back to top)
Like everyone else who had turned on the television or radio, or checked their cell phones, Facebooks, and Twitters before leaving the house, Rachel now sat glued to the news. The reports were not to be believed…THE DEAD RISE.
“Was this fucking real?” she wondered.
She gulped down a sip of Pepsi from a can that had sat warming overnight and hoped no flies had come to their demise in its fizzy abyss. Though if she accidentally ingested a soda-soaked insect she wouldn’t have noticed; she was too transfixed by the news.
Minutes ticked by and Rachel continued to stare unblinkingly at the screen. Scenes played out in front of her of what looked to be dead people getting up and attacking the living—zombies was her first thought. But no, that couldn’t be right. Zombies were B-movie monsters. Her brother was a zombie film nut so she'd seen the Return of the Living Dead movies, Dawn of the Dead in college, and even the black-and-white Night of the Living Dead. Though these things on television certainly looked the part, she knew that they couldn’t really be zombies. Could they?
CNN was playing footage from New York City via a cell phone video. It was jumpy and pixelated, but showed a small, early morning crowd backing away from a person whom had just crawled out of an overturned vehicle. His head was nearly ripped and dangled from its side, but still it moved forward.
