[Dying to Live 01] - Dying to Live

by Kim Paffenroth - (ebook by Undead)

  Given how Frank looked, I almost welcomed the chant of bloodlust, to hasten an end to his pain. One of the Pit crew walked up with a spear and stabbed Frank in the side with it. More blood gushed out, running down to puddle on the floor. I could never quite visualize until that night just how much blood is in the human body. The undead were usually a dry and crusty lot, or they exploded with puss and putrefaction: only a living body could spill out the incredible affluence of thick, rich, beautiful and horrifying blood. Frank was almost too weak to move at this point, but only flinched slightly at this final blow. The crowd gave another cheer.

  “Will you numb nuts make sure he doesn’t get back up again, please?” Copperhead asked the Pit crew.

  Another member came up with a wooden baseball bat with enormous nails driven through it. I looked away, but I could hear the sickening glitch and crunch as he slammed it into Frank’s head. It was finished. One of the most courageous men I had ever known—a man who had surely suffered enough already—had died, utterly forsaken and in agony.

  * * * * *

  “Let them take him down and bury him,” Copperhead directed from above. “Oh—and if they’re going to bury him, I guess they’re going to use shovels?”

  “Well, yeah, sure,” one of the Pit crew replied.

  “And what are shovels good for?” Copperhead asked.

  The fellow hadn’t caught Copperhead’s sarcasm. “Uh, digging holes?”

  “Yes—and hitting dumb asses in the head! So make sure they’re guarded better this time!”

  Speaking for myself, Copperhead needn’t have worried too much. I could barely walk, breathe, see, or hear. I doubt I was much of a threat at that point.

  Tanya and I got Frank’s body down and dragged it outside with difficulty. We were accompanied by four guards, who gave us the shovels after we had set Frank’s body down. We worked slowly, digging, sometimes almost hacking, through the dense, hard, red clay. The guards didn’t seem to care if it took us awhile, as they were well supplied with the vile fruit liquor.

  If I hadn’t been busted up so bad, we might have entertained thoughts of attacking them, they were obviously getting so inebriated. But as it was, they sat around, laughing and not paying much attention to us. I also saw, lurking in the background, the large black man who had captured us that morning. I presumed he was there to make sure that Tanya was kept intact for Copperhead.

  When we were down to a good depth of about four feet, Tanya and I stopped. It wasn’t the official six feet, but we were exhausted.

  We climbed out and heaved Frank’s body into the hole. They hadn’t given us anything with which to wrap or cover him, and he landed in a particularly grotesque and awkward pose, with his arms outstretched above him, his legs bent up under him, and the hideous nail hole in his forehead clearly visible, blood obscuring his whole face.

  “Poor son of a bitch,” Tanya said. “Can’t leave him like that.” She jumped back into the hole. Again, it simply was not in her just to ignore—as I would’ve been inclined to—something as emotionally weighty but physically inconsequential as a person’s final posture in the grave.

  She straightened his legs out and folded his hands across his chest. Then she raked some of his hair down across his bloody face and turned his head to the right, covering the bloody hole where his ear had been and hiding the nail hole in his forehead. While it was definitely an improvement, the extent of Frank’s stigmata made it impossible to do too much. I shook my head at Tanya’s kind and loving attempts, knowing that back in the normal world, this would most definitely be a closed casket affair.

  I helped her climb out, and we stood there a moment. “They led him like a lamb to the slaughter,” I half-sobbed, half-gurgled through my own blood and rising tears. I had no idea why, as I looked down at Frank’s broken, humiliated body, I would remember that imagery from a biblical verse. I didn’t even remember where it was from in the Bible. I guess it was supposed to mean Jesus, but I wasn’t sure.

  “They sure did,” she agreed. “Poor guy toughs it out for months against the living dead, and these assholes kill him in less than a day. It’s not right.” She looked at me and asked, “You know the next verse?”

  “What? After the one I said? No, I have no idea.”

  “What, you just sort of remembered it from Silence of the Lambs?” she sneered. Then she lifted her eyes to the warm, dark sky, her hands at her sides, palms forward. “O Lord of hosts, that judgest righteously, let me see thy vengeance on them.”

  Leave it to the spiritually profound Tanya to remember a verse that I could pray without hesitation. I repeated it over and over in my mind as we picked up our shovels and proceeded to fling the damp, dead clods onto Frank’s body.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When we went back inside, Popcorn’s cell was pretty much walled off from our view by guards, I assume to prevent further trouble from us. Tanya and I were led to our respective cells. I sat there, looking across at the shadows moving on the other side of the cell block, straining to hear anything, but I could detect nothing. We all knew what was going on. But there was nothing we could do at this point.

  I slept fitfully sitting up. Close to dawn, I could hear one of the guards whisper to Tanya, “Hey, bitch, go over and sit with the kid. He needs you.” I saw her walk over, then I dozed back off.

  In the early morning light, I looked over again. The guards had dispersed at some point in the night, and I could see Tanya and Popcorn clearly. They both were asleep. Tanya was sitting up, leaning against the back wall of the cell, like I was. He was lying across her lap, on his side, turned slightly toward me.

  As the light grew brighter, I could see them more distinctly. The way they were sitting, the morning light actually shined brightly across them. Popcorn was in as bad a shape as I had imagined he would be—bruised and bloodied from head to toe, lips cut and swollen, one eye swollen shut. The psychological or spiritual wounds that I couldn’t see were probably much worse. Bathed in the morning light, his brutalized body graceful now and still, her beautiful and loving face bent toward him, both of them suffused with the peace of sleep and the vivifying glow of the sun—they could not have looked more like a pieta if they had deliberately staged it.

  After a while, the prison began to stir with the more mundane and profane forms of life that dwelt in it. Eventually, we were led outside to stretch and spend some time in the light and fresh air.

  While passing through the shattered remains of the guard room and entrance in order to go outside, Popcorn tripped on the doorframe and fell sideways, onto the floor of the control room. I reached down for him, but he batted away my hand. He scuttled a little ways with his left hand clutching at his side. His right hand was stretched out in front of him, and then he swept it around and out to his side, all the while making noises as if he were in pain.

  I was so overcome with pity for him, I could almost have summoned up the strength and courage to fight those monsters again right then and there. One of them almost provoked me to it when he came up to see what was going on, and looked as though he was going to hit Popcorn. But the boy finally got up, bowing submissively to the guard, and we proceeded outside.

  Out there, I paced back and forth; the two former prison guards sat off by themselves, and Popcorn refused any compassion or intimacy from Tanya now in the daylight hours, in front of others. She sat by herself, and he retreated to a corner by a wall and sat with his back to us the whole time.

  When we went inside, Popcorn sat on the floor of his cell the rest of the day with his back to the outside. One certainly couldn’t blame him for spurning all human contact, when so-called humans had so successfully broken him and dehumanized him more thoroughly than the undead ever could. Ill-fed and depressed, with my whole body aching and one eye swollen shut, I myself could do nothing all day but pass in and out of sleep, sitting up in the cell, and repeating my new favorite prayer from the night before: “O Lord of hosts, that judgest righteously, let me see thy v
engeance on them.”

  Toward evening, with deer again roasting on the fire outside, it seemed to darken early in the prison, and thunder could be heard faintly in the distance. I smirked and grunted, the only right way to register enjoyment of a dark and deadly irony. The kind of sudden, violent summer storm that swept through this time of year seemed perfect for what I thought was coming that night.

  Looking over at Popcorn’s battered and bruised back, I had gotten my own thousand yard stare. And it was not out of pity for the undead, as I had felt it so many times before. It was out of rage and disgust for the living. And I felt some of the raw, primal energy of outrage and revulsion that Frank had tapped into the night before.

  Tonight, I would help see God’s vengeance extend even here, to the deepest pit of this manmade hell. God and I had let this place be stained with innocent blood, and I blamed both of us for it. Now it was time for these walls to be painted with the blood of the guilty, the way hell was supposed to be, with righteous judgment and richly deserved, never-ending punishment.

  I looked heavenward. “Give me the strength, God,” I said quietly. Thunder boomed closer. I clenched my fists and could extend them without as much pain as before. I looked outside my cell and could focus a little better with my one good eye, enough to have a little bit of depth perception.

  I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. “That’ll do.”

  * * * * *

  We were again treated to the barbaric venison feast outside, though there was none of the fruit liquor this time. I was grateful not to smell its nauseating odor this night, but it meant the inmates would be sober and better able to fight us off. I guess I didn’t care at this point. We all ate ravenously as storm clouds swirled above us, though as yet no rain had fallen.

  When I looked at Tanya, I felt sure that I saw a look of defiance and determination. I hoped it was the same look she saw on my face. And I hoped that it would end somewhat differently for us than it had for poor Frank.

  With Frank dead, and me and Popcorn beaten into bloody pulps the night before, the Pit crew didn’t seem to worry about our ability to fight them off. They had two guards on Popcorn, but only one on me and Tanya, as before, with several more hanging back, ready to jump in if necessary.

  With the prison now in semi-darkness, punctuated by flashes of lightning, Copperhead descended the ladder and approached Tanya’s cell. He too seemed satisfied that there would be no uprising, as no bodyguard accompanied him. He even felt optimistic enough to stop and taunt me before going in to Tanya’s cell.

  “Big storm tonight,” he said with his mock cheerfulness—though, of course, I’m sure the prospect of sadism and degradation really did make him feel cheerful. “But I’m sure you’ll still hear my new black bitch screaming my name when I show her how a real man gives her some hard lovin’. Ain’t nothing gonna be loud enough to drown that out once I get all up in her shit.” He guffawed. I prayed it would be his last.

  As Copperhead bated me, another group of pedophiles entered Popcorn’s cell. I made no move toward the door. Better not to raise the alarm prematurely; I felt sure that Popcorn or Tanya would attack the monsters at any moment, and that would be the signal for me to jump in and do whatever I could before they beat me to death. I still assumed it would end with my death, though I hoped to take more of these ugly bastards with me than poor Frank had.

  The lightning flashed, and I only counted to five before the sound of the thunder rolled through. The storm was getting close.

  I stared intently at Popcorn’s cell. Both guards had gone in with the visitor this time, I assume to administer another beating if necessary. Popcorn must’ve timed his attack just right, though, as I heard one of them yell, “Shit! Look out! Little bastard’s got a…”

  This switched abruptly to a gurgling scream as a huge arc of red shot out between the bars to splatter on the floor outside the cell.

  “Get him off me!” another man yelled. “Get him off me!” This also trailed into another horrible scream.

  Neither the inmates nor I had thought Popcorn would improvise a weapon, though, in hindsight, it was hard to believe we’d overlooked the possibility. Prisoners had been turning practically anything into a weapon ever since there were prisons, and usually with much less motive than Popcorn. If a man could spend weeks making something into a knife to kill another man for a pack of cigarettes, then certainly someone fighting against torture and humiliation could be counted on to fashion something sharp and deadly.

  It suddenly hit me that when he’d stumbled that morning, it was all a ploy so he could hunt around on the floor for a piece of glass big enough to do the job. And judging by the screaming, it was just the right size.

  I came out the door of my cell and went for the guard. It was the same guy as I had fought the night before—an ugly, bald, squat little bastard. He came at me with the rebar and a long, rusty knife.

  We both snarled as we collided. I grabbed both his hands, and we wrestled for the weapons. He tried to kick me in the groin again, but I turned slightly to the side, and it did nothing; I tried to headbutt him, but he pulled back, and I grazed his nose, to no effect.

  The adrenalin and the outrage pushed me on, but he was better fed and stronger, with a lower center of gravity. Neither of us could gain the upper hand.

  On the tier above us, more men came out to watch. If some of them came down to help, as they had the night before, then it would all be over just as quickly as it had been then.

  But as we struggled there, Copperhead come staggering out of Tanya’s cell, with her hanging onto his back and screaming like an avenging fury. I couldn’t exactly see, but she was strangling him from behind, with something wrapped around his neck. I guessed it was her shoelace, something else they’d overlooked in their laziness and stupidity, and which my naiveté had been unable to identify as a potential weapon.

  He couldn’t grab her, and he was staggering about now, looking for someone else to hit her for him, but it wasn’t working. The guard in front of her cell, who carried the baseball bat with nails that had killed Frank, couldn’t get a good shot at her, and he couldn’t decide whether he should help the guy who was fighting me.

  So Copperhead threw himself back against the bars of the cell, slamming Tanya into them with all his weight. I didn’t think it was going to work, judging by how determined she looked. It also made it impossible for anyone else to take a swing at her.

  When the crowds above saw Copperhead’s predicament, they did not rush down the ladders to his aid. Instead, the same cheer as the night before rose up—“Kill! Kill! Kill!” This time it was punctuated by thunderclaps that were louder and closer each time. Clearly, the inmates were not only lacking in intelligence or a work ethic, but also in loyalty. It was hardly surprising—a place fueled exclusively on testosterone, barely-cooked red meat, sodomy, and fear would surely be lacking in those other qualities.

  I suppose if Copperhead somehow came out on top, they could always claim later that they were cheering him on, so it made double sense not to get involved, but instead to enjoy the show. They regarded Copperhead fighting for his life as just an unusual and therefore very enjoyable entertainment—which, to be fair to them, was exactly how he would’ve regarded them in a similar situation.

  This unexpected cheer also made the Pit crew hesitate. Several who had rushed to Popcorn’s cell were now backing away and looking up at the crowd. Without a leader, and with its loyalties divided, the animalistic mob was much less frightening, and much less effective at either inflicting pain, or even at defending itself.

  Perhaps our fight would last a bit longer than the previous night. I still assumed we would all die, but it now looked as though we had a real chance to kill Copperhead and several of the Pit crew. I could easily—no, gladly—accept that outcome.

  Chapter Eighteen

  But at the moment, I was still locked in a struggle with the guard. This ended abruptly when Popcorn flew in from my right and grabbed the guy’s l
eft arm. Popcorn was snarling like a beast and was already covered in fresh, hot blood from the men he had stabbed. He climbed up on the guy I was fighting, holding onto him and biting his forearm, as he plunged a shard of glass into the guy’s neck. I was showered with blood as it shot from the guy’s neck and came flying off the shard as it repeatedly slashed up and down.

  The guy screamed and staggered backward. I grabbed the rebar away from him as he collapsed. He fell to his knees, with his left hand clutching at his neck, blood pouring from between his fingers. The crowd’s chant of, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” crescendoed, but I hardly needed any encouragement. There could be no mercy, both for what he had done, and for what he would become if I let him bleed to death. The last thing we needed was a zombie in here.

  I brought the rebar down on his head once, then again when he fell onto his face. The crowd above us let out a cheer, just as they had when Frank was being murdered last night. As one might have expected, their cheering did not indicate approval of the winner, but merely excitement and near orgasmic joy at the maiming and killing they were witnessing.

  Popcorn stood up beside me. Now his face and especially his mouth were covered with blood. It was even streaked throughout his long, wild hair. He was panting and licking his lips like a wild, rabid beast, which was not far from what he was at that moment. I couldn’t say I blamed him, or even that I found the behavior all that disturbing, under the circumstances. I think anything short of drinking the blood or consuming the flesh of his tormentors would have been defensible, even decent, behavior.