Death Row Apocalypse

by Mackey, Darrick

  Okay, you got me! I was far from pure and kind, but I had decided I needed to conceal my talents. Otherwise, it was very possible that I might end up the guest of yet another facility, with no doubt a new range of drugs to try out.

  It wasn’t until years later that I discovered that my wife was as instrumental to my education as the yearlong cooking classes. Let it be said that there are some women that cannot, that must not, be trusted and certainly should never be partnered with.

  You are probably sitting there nodding while reading this and wishing that you could travel back in time somehow and change the past. If you are, you can’t, so you won’t, so ask yourself if it’s too late—and if it is, then what are you going to do about it? If it’s not too late, make a run for it.

  Whatever you do decide to do, at the very least do something. Anything! Do it perhaps sooner rather than later, though, or risk forever being trapped, with your soul being drained by that leeching two-faced vampire-bitch cow-tart from hell. (Note to self: that was fun, putting it down on paper. Note to reader: sometimes it’s okay to call the kettle black. Ask Dr. Phil if you don’t believe me.)

  Anyway, I was born into a realm where marriage was both unavoidable and ill-fated. Eventually I escaped from that place, but not until about five years later. Did you know in some countries that’s just three years less than the life sentence given to murderers and rapists? I ask you, where is the justice in that? Given the option, I would have gladly endured the extra three years in prison in exchange for some peace of mind, and perhaps I could have kept a little more of my humanity. (Note to self: I must stop exaggerating. I think we established earlier that I have no humanity.)

  During my five-year torment in marriage hell, I evolved further still. Over those five long years, the few remaining qualities that made me somewhat human were systematically stripped away. What she failed to realize was that she would be sealing her own fate by her own actions while simultaneously providing me with the tools to ultimately survive in the coming apocalypse. She had unwittingly been honing a blade of unrivaled quality that would in the fullness of time be brought against her.

  Chapter - 3

  - Sevens my lucky number -

  The zombie’s eyeball rested on my chest. Its gaze is perhaps better described as an unblinking stare. Up close, I noticed further qualities that added to the unusual orb. The iris was not covered with a white glaze but had actually changed color to almost white. Off-white or cream would perhaps be a closer approximation. In any case, it continued to sit there, fixated on me.

  The young guard had finally calmed down, and though his pursuers continued to bash at the door, he now ignored them, concentrating instead on pulling his booted foot from the deceased zombie’s skull. As he struggled, he occasionally looked toward me, without saying a word. He was probably weighing up the situation and considering his new environment. Finally, his boot came free with a sound that I would normally associate with pulling one’s foot from mud. A kind of sucking plop is perhaps the closest description I can offer. Having released his foot from its recent cradle, he stepped backwards, a little off balance. The wall behind came to his aid and kept him from falling on his ass. Without pause or hesitation he stepped back up to the zombie and wiped his soiled boot on its shirt, then walked carefully around the still-twitching corpse and headed toward me. I smiled warmly.

  He walked up to and then past me. Ignoring me totally, he headed toward the white plastic slimline phone that was mounted on the wall. Raising it, he dialed and listened for an answer.

  After a few moments he placed the receiver back in its cradle and looked back at me and said, “Dead!”

  I responded, “It seems to be a common theme. How about unstrapping me from this thing?”

  The guard looked at me as if I were nuts and responded, “You should be dead. Why aren’t you?”

  Not waiting for my answer, he continued to survey the execution chamber, then walked over to the executioner’s room and disappeared inside.

  I called to him, “I really think it would be a good idea to release me. I get the feeling that we don’t have many options.” There was no response. “If you’re thinking of finishing the executioner’s job in there and squeezing off the syringes again, I really think we should talk first.” Still there was no response. “And besides, I think it’s a law that I should be unconscious first before putting me out of my misery.” I heard him moving around inside the room. It sounded like he was searching for something. “Perhaps I can help you, if you’d just loosen these straps,” I said.

  The guard laughed from inside the room, then finally responded, “Oh, I’m sure. That’s all you’ll need, and then it’ll be me on the table all strapped up and you making an escape. Do I look that dumb to you?”

  I called back, “No, certainly not. However, I do think we are both in a very unique and potentially deadly situation here.”

  The guard came back into the room, holding a couple of new items—a baton and a pair of handcuffs.

  “Er, if you’re planning on bludgeoning me to death with a small stick, please notice that I am still tied down, so you will not need the cuffs. But I warn you, I am in need of the restroom, and any pressure on my bladder will cause yet more mess for you to avoid slipping in.”

  He then started to laugh, and when he was done he walked over to me. He flicked the eye off my chest with his index finger. It landed on the floor, bounced once, and came to a stop. In its resting position it continued to stare at me. I was mildly amused by its single-minded fixation.

  The guard lent forward, brought his baton to my face, and placed the tip on my forehead. “Why”—the guard raised the baton’s tip a little and let it drop. It made a thunk as it hit my forehead—“didn’t”—again, thunk—“you”—thunk (from me: “Ouch!”)—“warn”—thunk (“Ouch!”)—“me?”—thunk (“Ouch!”).

  “There was a zombie in this room,” I said quietly to him, practically whispering. “I am tied down. If I had warned you, he most likely would have come back to attack me instead. I think it’s obvious. And by the way . . .” Quieter still: “If you hit me again, I will kill you.”

  This grabbed the guard’s attention, and with it a light inside his mind seemed to switch on. Realization, shock, then fear—in that order—materialized in his eyes as my inner demon began to stir. He backed off. Panic had now entered his eyes as he finally put a name to my face. He looked to the door and then back to me, trying to weigh up the lesser of the two dangers. Having made his decision, he started for the door.

  “Wait!” I said. “Think about what you’re doing. If you open that door, then we’re both dead. Untie me, and we both stand a chance at survival.”

  The guard took another step toward the door.

  I followed up, adding softly, “You have my word I will not hurt you, and I always keep my promises . . . If you know anything of who I am, then you know I speak the truth. Tell me, how many guards are alive? How many inmates are infected? You tell me: What do you really think your chances are on your own? It’s your call.”

  I took a gamble, assuming that the whole prison was infected. If correct, this would leave this young guard with only one choice.

  The guard stopped and turned to face me. I could see the cogs visibly whir in his mind as he considered his options. Finally, he must have hit a roadblock in his reasoning, not knowing whether he was better off facing the zombies or remaining in the chamber with me. With his back against the wall, he slid down to a sitting position and looked at me. His head then drooped as he rested his elbows on his knees, and he visibly relaxed.

  He finally responded, “They’re all dead. At least I think so. I haven’t seen anyone—anyone alive, that is,” he corrected himself. “At least not for the past twenty-four hours.” He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and continued: “I think all the inmates . . . are . . . infected too, almost eighteen hundred.” He paused for a few seconds, then continued: “I’m pretty sure most of them are
outside that door right now.” He nodded toward the door while simultaneously flicking his left hand in the same direction, then dropped his head once again.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m literally dying for a piss. You have my word. Really, would you mind letting me off this damn thing?”

  With a grunt, he got to his feet and walked over to the gurney and said, “Your word?”

  I nodded, and he began undoing all the restraints.

  “Remember I’ve got your word now, so don’t make me out to be the biggest idiot in the history of Johnson Department of Corrections.”

  With the restraints finally removed, I looked at him and smiled. “And now you’re worried?” I said with a touch of sarcasm.

  Getting up was an effort, but much less than the effort it took to swing my legs off the gurney. Pushing myself off the table, I attempted to put my full weight onto my legs but failed miserably. A moment later I was unceremoniously deposited on the floor, my legs having collapsed beneath me, probably due to the straps having reduced the circulation in my legs to almost nothing. The guard stood back and watched me warily as I pulled myself upright with the aid of the gurney.

  I looked to him and questioned, “Where?”

  He nodded toward the executioner’s room. “In there there’s a bucket in the far corner.”

  My legs were now feeling a little more reliable and so, with only a slight wobble, I managed my way from the gurney to the executioner’s room, where I found the bucket. While standing there aiming and quite frankly amused at the almost-fluorescent color of my urine, I scanned the room and took stock of its contents. It wasn’t long ago that its last resident, somebody that I was very familiar with, intended to execute me.

  I called through to the guard, “You mean to tell me I’ve been out for the past twenty-four hours?”

  The guard responded, “Yeah, but like I said, you should be dead.”

  I continued: “Because of that zombie guard?”

  He yawned, then responded, “That’s one reason I guess, but mainly because of the injections.”

  Below the one-way mirror, nine syringes were lined up in a row, standing vertically in a purpose-made cradle on the bench. Each one was labeled, and each one had an ominous skull, indicating that its contents were lethal. One through seven looked to have been completely emptied. Only two remained, and their bright-yellow contents were clearly visible from across the small room. I guess those last two would have stopped my heart for good.

  Zipping up, I went over to take a closer look. Beside the syringes was a short pencil and a set of instructions with a check-box beside each execution step. All were checked up to and including step eleven, the directions for injecting Number 7. I placed the small syringes into a palm-sized case that lay to one side and noted that it had been designed to hold all nine. With only two syringes in the case, there was plenty of space for the additional needles and the pencil too. I took another look at the execution instructions and recognized the executioner’s handwriting. Frankly, I was surprised that she had not finished the task she had obviously gone to great lengths to carry out.

  When I walked back into the execution room, I found the guard asleep on the gurney. I smiled at the thought of tying him down just to see his face when he woke later. I had given him my word that no harm would come to him by my hand, so I left him in peace to recover from his personal twenty-four hour ordeal. I went back into the executioner’s room and went to the sink. I ran the cold water for a few seconds, then washed my hands, face, hair, and washed my hands once more using the hard prison soap that I found lying beside the faucet.

  Now there was a novelty: actual soap! I hadn’t seen soap since my arrival—my cell had been barren. I guess the prison guard yearly budget isn’t enough to cover luxury goods. I finally took several mouthfuls of water and could already feel my body come to life as I felt the water fill my stomach and its effects reach my brain.

  A thought struck me, and I wondered if the zombie carried anything useful so I decided to check its pockets immediately. I walked through to where the zombie lay. The guard was sound asleep on the gurney as I passed him, and I briefly considered checking his pockets too but finally decided against doing so. I guess being woken up with a guy rummaging around in your pockets is almost as bad as coming face to face with a zombie. From the zombie I was rewarded with seventy-five cents in small change, a set of door keys, a steel comb, a small credit card wallet with six cards belonging to various banks, and an insurance and ID card. I kept the comb and keys and removed his watch from his left wrist—a nice one, a Breitling B1 model with a black leather strap—and in doing so I came into contact with his skin. Though the zombie had been killed less than twenty minutes ago, it was ice-cold. Normally it took hours for a corpse’s temperature to drop to room temperature. The distinct difference here was that his skin temperature was well below the room’s ambient temperature. Odd. In fact, the human body reduces temperature at a rate of about 1.5 degrees Celsius per hour until it reaches room temperature, so this really was peculiar!

  Lastly, I took the pinned-on name tag. I was tempted to take his shirt and trousers, but they were caked in piss, shit, and blood, so I left them where they were. I wasn’t that desperate for a change in clothing, not yet anyway. I looked down to his feet. The boots looked fine, about the right size, and would offer far better protection than the prison sneakers I had on. Removal was a little tricky, but I got them off his feet, along with the socks, without too much trouble. They were a good fit. That done, and because I had come into contact with the zombie, I decided to wash up once more and then rechecked the executioner’s room for anything useful.

  I searched but found nothing of immediate use. The execution room was sparsely furnished. Except for perhaps the telephone cord, there was nothing of use. Walking over to the guest-viewing gallery window, I peered in and could see from the mess in the gallery that there had been at least one zombie in there. It had obviously found someone to attack, as there was plenty of blood splattered on almost every surface plus countless pieces of flesh scattered around. Curiously though, there was no body.

  The last time I saw this gallery, a short, skinny, middle-aged, balding man I knew as the warden had been in there. He wore a mustache like a badge and reminded me of the many two-bit car salesmen one can find in any town these days. He had taken a personal interest in my demise and had been keen to witness my death. I tapped the window. It was shatterproof glass. With enough effort it could be broken, giving me a potential alternative route out of here.

  A little while later I noticed that our unwanted guests beyond the door had become very quiet in the last hour or so, and being very inquisitive, I decided to take a fast look. Carefully and as quietly as possible, I unlocked the door. I listened for the slightest sound coming from the other side . . . There was nothing . . . So I pushed down on the handle and very slowly pulled the door open, just enough to give me a reasonable view of the hallway. Before me, the waiting zombies were too numerous to count. Each and every one of them stood facing me. Like statues they stood, unmoving, not a breath amongst them. They were indeed truly dead.

  In the area immediately outside the chamber it honestly looked as though someone had been fed into an industrial bacon slicer. There was blood on every surface, strips of flesh hung from the walls, and larger chunks of flesh were scattered around the area. The corridor surfaces were not merely decorated in arterial spray; it looked more like someone had thrown several buckets of congealing blood over the walls, ceiling, and floor.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed an oddly placed object some three or four yards away. I could swear it was my mother’s head. It was! Her face retained the image of pain and anguish from her last moments on earth. Her gaze was as empty as her eye sockets, and I truly felt no loss.

  I hesitated for only a moment and was glad that I did. Had I reacted on seeing the horde and closed the door, I may have brought unnecessary attention to myself, instead I kept my motions s
low and careful as I took in the scene. Most of the zombies were inmates. The rest were dressed in either civilian clothing or in prison guard uniforms. The closest zombie to me was an inmate, standing a little under five foot and dressed in the familiar blue trousers and orange top, though the color of his clothes was in reality difficult to determine, due to the copious amounts of blood that covered him. The whole scene was surreal and somewhat reminiscent of the Michael Jackson music video Thriller from the eighties, though I doubted very much that they would start dancing.

  Like our dead guard, this closest zombie who was only about eighteen inches from the door, had pale white eyes and dilated pupils, and his skin was pale to the point of being white in color and in sharp contrast to his blood-smeared mouth and chin. A huge chunk of flesh had been ripped from the side of his neck. Several strips of flesh hung from the wound, with several large veins clearly visible. This short zombie was right in front of me. He did not move or twitch, but as more of my head became visible from behind the door, his eyes found mine. Then, moving his head only slightly, he took a sniff at the air, testing it perhaps to determine what I was. It was then that I opted to close the door, and as carefully as I had opened it, I closed it, ensuring that it was well and truly locked, before turning back to face the room. Curious, I thought. Where was the instantaneous attack that I had expected and witnessed only a few hours ago?