Death Row Apocalypse

by Mackey, Darrick

  Mrs. Wilken’s arms dropped to her sides, as she was already brain-dead, but Eddie’s actions did not stop there. He drove her head even further backwards in a tight arc, causing a tear to form right across her throat and almost ear to ear. Without warning, it tore fully open, spraying thick blood over the corridor walls and ceiling. Eddie buried his face into her open neck, drinking her life and biting down on her flesh. Mrs. Wilken’s corpse then released all remaining control over her muscles. Her bladder relaxed, resulting in a torrent of urine splashing in every direction. When her carcass finally dropped from his grip, the view of the corridor was reminiscent of the elevator scene in The Shining, minus the elevator of course.

  The speed at which Eddie had dispatched Blaine’s mother was unbelievable, and inhuman on so many levels. In uncompressed time perhaps only about three seconds had elapsed from start to finish. The warden had witnessed the complete event and wanted out. He wanted to be away from this place. He wanted to hide, to cry, to be sick, and most of all for someone to take away three seconds of his short term memory.

  The warden was horrified beyond description. Never in all his life had he been privy to the level of gore and violence that he had just witnessed. Watching the thing chew through the unconscious guard’s elbow had disturbed him to the point of wanting to retch. The ugly truth of the matter was that you can’t help but watch the dreadful scene unfold, until it’s too late to act. And so, like a train wreck, he couldn’t help but watch the guards attack and eat the occupants of the execution chamber, and when Mrs. Wilken looked as if she would escape, Eddie had appeared right in front of her, sealing her fate forever in the most vicious attack of strength and violence he had ever seen. Mrs. Wilken’s final moments evaporated quickly, ending with Eddie bathing in her freshly pumped blood and feeding on her torn flesh. These acts belonged only to the realm of nightmares, and they had no right to exist in the here and now.

  He had to get out before he went insane, he thought to himself. There was no phone in the gallery, and he needed to get back to a position of power and, more importantly, a position of safety. Now sweating profusely, he put his ear against the door and heard nothing—no screams, no footsteps, absolutely nothing. With the caution of a mouse, he opened the door. As it gradually opened, his view to the corridor improved. The warden then stepped out into the corridor and began walking toward the far end at first slowly, but he picked up his pace very quickly. Moments later he saw several guards running in his direction, and so thinking he was saved, he immediately came to a stop and began barking instructions at the approaching guards.

  “Where the fuck have you people been? Get down there now and get this shit under control!” He pointed toward the execution chamber’s entrances far behind him.

  Turning back to face the oncoming guards, intending to give them more orders, he realized quickly that he had just made a massive mistake. These weren’t his guards anymore; these were those things. They were zombies, and he doubted that they would pay the slightest attention to anything he had to say. Fight or flight, that ancient instinct that served man so well over thousands of years of evolution, had in his case skipped a generation. Unless of course you count relaxing your bowels and bladder in anger a suitable tactic against zombies.

  In either case, the first of the zombies reached the warden. Then, dragging him into their small group, he kicked and screamed. His jaw was ripped from his face, tearing with it a large chunk of flesh once belonging to his neck. From the massive trauma, blood gushed over his chest and down what was once his throat, making it impossible for him to scream and silencing him forever. Discarded, the warden’s jaw dropped to the floor with a wet thump. The horde entered the open execution room gallery, literally spilling the warden on every surface of the room. The zombie frenzy was in full swing as the warden was ripped limb from bloody limb. As quickly as it had started, it was over, and the gallery was empty again, apart from the body parts and copious amounts of blood that now decorated the small room. The corridor was splattered with blood and bloody remains. Sometimes one could identify specific body parts that lay strewn throughout the hallway, but most often not. The warden’s only remaining body part that remained identifiable was his head. It had been ripped from his body with his spine still attached and littered the corridor. Personal note: funny, I would never have thought he had one.

  Chapter - 14

  - Hotel Hell -

  The guard was quiet on the gurney. His breathing had changed; it was slightly faster and a little more shallow than before. He was awake but for some reason wanted me to believe he was still unconscious. Intrigued, I walked to his side and looked down at his still face.

  “Comfortable?” I asked quietly.

  The guard’s eyes flickered open and tried to focus on me. I’d obviously approached him without his knowing, as he had literally jumped out of his socks. The guard’s name was Joe Beechman. His name tag was clipped to his shirt just above his left breast pocket, and he seemed a little shocked I knew him by name. It was quite possible that he was aware of my reputation.

  “Yes, er, no. How do you know my name? Stay away from me, man!” he blurted.

  He tried to back away but ended up falling off the gurney and landing almost facedown in the blood that covered practically every tile of the floor. He managed to break his fall with his hands, saving his face from injury, but even so he only just avoided slipping on the mess.

  “Aghh. Aww, God!” he exclaimed in disgust as he looked at his hands. He managed to bring himself to a standing position. “I don’t fucking believe this shit. It just ain’t real. It ain’t happening, man!”

  He made his protestations as he walked past me. He was now so totally engrossed—or should I say, grossed out—by the mixtures of viscous dark body fluids that now covered his hands that he paid me no attention at all and had seemingly forgotten what had caused him to fall off the gurney in the first place. So far my conversations with him had been limited to only a few words. At first I thought his reactions were due to exhaustion, then later to fear. In retrospect, I think that he was perhaps a little challenged mentally.

  I waited until he returned from the executioner’s room. Having now washed his hands, he appeared to have other matters on his mind. Me.

  “Feeling better?” I said.

  I was now perched on the gurney. I watched him with interest as he considered his words.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Surprised you’re still here, though! Thought you would have made a run for it,” he said.

  “That was certainly my first thought. While you were sleeping, I took a quick look outside. I didn’t like the look of the welcoming party you left for us. I’d like to avoid them for the time being.”

  “They do that sometimes. They just wait for you, and just when you think you can make a run for it, they get you. It ain’t pretty. Then you’re dead. They’re fast—really fast and really strong. Did you see how many are waiting?”

  “The corridor is full of them,” I said. “If I had to guess, I’d say all of them. Take a look, why don’t you? They’re standing right there, watching this door. Do you know if anyone else is alive, or if anyone is coming to help us?”

  Joe looked up at me from across the room. He had managed to find a clean spot and was sitting again with his back to the wall.

  “Everyone is dead! I ain’t seen or heard anyone alive since last night. There’s been no SWAT, no police, no nothing. And they’d need guns an’ shit to take care of these mothers. The only noise I heard around here since yesterday was from those fuckers chasing me.” Joe motioned with his thumb toward the door. “Man, we’re so dead. Why do you think I untied you? We’re so fucked, it makes no difference whether you’re tied up or not. I know who you are and what you done. I figured you’re gonna be so busy trying to save your own ass that you’ll leave mine alone.”

  “True, you have a point,” I said. “Though I don’t think I want to stay around here too long and wait for the cavalry. For some very ob
vious reasons, I believe I would live far longer outside the prison than inside.”

  Joe grunted, presumably agreeing with me.

  “If no one has come to this facility’s aid by now,” I said, “then I doubt anyone will. Either way, they won’t be here for at least a couple of days. We’ve got water but no food, and I don’t like being hungry. I tend to get a little cranky when I have an empty stomach! So I’m leaving this room and, with luck, this building. You’re welcome to join me, but I warn you: try to stop me and it will be the zombies’ company that you’ll prefer, not mine.”

  “Like I said, man, I want no trouble,” Joe said.

  The situation was a dire one. If Joe was right, then there were over a thousand zombies between me and my freedom. My plan really only covered the immediate escape from this chamber. It was going to be a gamble, but one I was willing to take to get out of there. I’d given the situation some thought, and what I failed to mention to Joe was that one of us would need to be the bait and would have to divert the zombie horde for it to work.

  Joe looked straight at me, and I could see that he was starting to get scared.

  “Look, man, I’m staying here,” he said. “I’m gonna wait it out till the cops arrive. I ain’t gonna stand in your way.”

  I grinned back at Joe the most friendly grin that I knew how to pull. From his immediate reaction, I guess I needed to work on it some more.

  “Okay,” I said. “Your funeral!”

  His face immediately turned slightly pale at the mention of a funeral, and he frowned as he watched me drop down from the gurney and start to check it out. This gurney was made by Stryker, and from my limited knowledge of stretchers, it was the gurney of choice in the US and, in particular, throughout the prison system in the States. I was drawn to the end of this particular model. A horizontal, white steel bar was secured in place by large hand-sized knobs, which doubled as bumpers. I turned the first knob anticlockwise and was rewarded when this part of the apparatus became loose and finally came apart altogether. I did the same at the other corner and smiled at my new weapon. Hefting the bar in my right hand, I tested the feel and weight with a couple of swings back and forth. It felt good, not too heavy, but heavy enough to crack some skulls. It was a little over two and a half feet long and weighed two to three pounds. For the time being, this would have to be my weapon of choice. The nearest conventional weapons would be located in the canteen or kitchen, so they would have to be my first destinations.

  I walked over to the gallery window and took in the view. “Joe, I need to know where the kitchen is and from there the nearest building exit,” I said without turning to look at him.

  The scene in the gallery was reminiscent in many ways of some of my own work, but with perhaps one exception. This one was created during a feral-like feeding frenzy. Either that or someone had literally exploded, painting every surface with blood and guts. Whoever had been in that room had been literally shredded to pieces by a zombie or zombies. I could see that amongst the remains a few pieces of clothing lay ripped and drenched with the victims’ blood. It was at that moment a string of memories came flooding back, filling one of the many gaps in my disjointed short-term memory. I smiled as I now replayed the last moments up until my execution and recalled the emotionally volatile warden.

  The sodden material seemed to match the fabric of his suit. I took in the sight with new eyes and a new appreciation for the recent interior decoration. With those newly restored memories, I now recalled that not only was my mother present, she was also my executioner. That alone had certainly been a strange twist to the already-peculiar day. In any case, it explained why her head lay outside in the corridor. This gave me a warm feeling, knowing that she had indeed come to a fitting end.

  “Joe?” I said as I turned and angled my head in a questioning gesture.

  He seemed to be weighing up whether he had a choice in giving me the data I asked for.

  “You won’t get ten feet from the door before they tear you apart,” he responded.

  “Let me worry about that,” I said.

  “Why the kitchen? You hungry? If you make it, maybe you can bring back some for me.”

  I replied with a frown, “You are kidding, aren’t you? When I go, I will not be returning for any reason, certainly not to feed you.”

  Turning back to the gallery window, I tapped the thick glass with the tip of my steel bar. I quickly stepped back and spun on the spot, swinging the bar in a two-handed grip in a wide arc, bringing its tip into contact with the center of the window. The glass shattered, creating a mosaic of broken glass. It held for only the briefest of moments as the momentum pushed apart and tore through the glass laminate. The bar finally came to rest after making a sixteen-inch gash.

  “I’m waiting!” I said to Joe, who was now staring at me, slack jawed. “Joe, are you in there?” I asked.

  To Joe I had moved so quickly that it had been a blur of motion. He snapped out of his trancelike state and stuttered his protestations about the noise I was making.

  “Wilken, are you fucking nuts? Those things will hear you. The noise will bring ’em here!”

  “Joe, take a look outside. They’re already here.” Turning to face him again, I started to walk toward him. He understood my intention as his eyes went from mine to my bar. “I won’t ask you again!”

  Before I reached Joe, he blurted, “All right, all right, man! Out of the door, follow the corridor, through the security gates, take the first left, then the first right. After about twenty yards you’ll see the dining room. At the back is the kitchen.” Joe took a breath and continued: “The nearest exit to the roof—instead of taking the first right, take the second right past the washrooms, then take the second left through the security gates and there’s a door on the right side.”

  I stopped and threw him the paper and pencil that I had retrieved from the executioner’s room. “Draw a map,” I demanded.

  Joe took the paper and pencil and began sketching. Turning back to the window, I returned to slaying the glass divider.

  Bang! The door to the chamber shook violently from the massive impact it had received. At the same time, from beyond the door the horde began to howl. This time, though, they were in unison. I can only describe the sound as demonic, a truly unholy, spine-chilling cry from the undead. The door shook again with equal intensity. The steel door withstood this second onslaught easily, but I suspected that it would not be the door that gave way to their insistent offensive; it would be instead the supporting wall.

  Joe had stopped drawing and stared at the chamber entrance. He turned to me. “I told you, man, and now we’re fucked!” he said.

  I walked quickly over to where Joe sat. At my proximity, he started to raise his hands to cover his head in self-defense. I pulled the paper from his hand and viewed it quickly.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I then went back to the window. I ripped the last of the glass from the frame just as a third strike to the door occurred. This time, masonry dust drifted down from the hinges. The bolts that held the hinges and frame in place were becoming loose. The surrounding concrete had partially fractured from the accumulated impacts. I was right. The supporting wall would be the weak point and would fail long before the actual door.

  “Joe, you might want to rethink whether you come with me or not,” I said.

  I walked over to the chamber entrance. The door shook again, this time with a visible wobble to it. The door frame was coming loose and somehow the zombies knew they were making progress. It wouldn’t be long before they broke down this door, and if we didn’t move soon Joe’s prediction would be accurate. We would both be fucked.

  Joe got to his feet. “Aw, fuck, man. Not again. I told you not to make any noise. But no, you have to go on like a fucking idiot. Now we’re both gonna die!”

  I responded with a slightly raised voice. “Joe, before you go and start your period, get yourself a weapon and head for the gallery. Now, Joe, move it!” I yell
ed.

  Joe carried on with his complaints as I lent against the door while he went to the gurney and removed the second bar at the opposite end of the stretcher. The door shook again as the zombie horde worked together, smashing against the door.

  Something caught my attention at the bottom of the door. It was blood—thick, dark blood—almost black in color. I surmised that on each assault on the door the foremost zombies were being crushed, like oranges in a juicer, liberating their bodily fluids.

  The frame was now starting to fall away from its brick and mortar securing.

  “Joe!” I raised my voice. “Get to the gallery now!”

  The next impact resulted in a fully loosened frame. I let it go and ran across the chamber to the gallery window. I turned to check the door. I had expected to hear the door crash to the floor well before reaching the window, but instead it was now only halfway through its downward travel. Weird, I thought. Had time actually slowed? But before another thought could pass across my mind, time seemed to return to normal, and as it did so the door crashed to the floor with an almighty metallic clang. Joe was now in the gallery and heading toward its entrance. I clambered through the destroyed window, carefully avoiding the remaining glass edges.

  “Don’t open the door yet!” I said.

  He turned. “What?” he responded and added, “They’re coming!” He pointed to the execution chamber’s door.

  Like a thermometer measures temperature, Joe’s face was a thermometer for his fear—a fear-o-meter, if you will—and in his current state I could very well imagine that he could faint at the slightest surprise.

  I’d been mentally timing the impacts to the chamber’s door. So far they’d occurred roughly every thirty seconds. By my figuring, the zombies would be close, very close to entering the chamber. As the door was no longer stopping their pursuit of us, they would be on our tails immediately. Indeed, the zombies were on the move and approaching the doorway at a rush. I’d reached Joe now, and we stood in the gallery, surrounded by the warden’s remains. Joe was shaking and he wanted to run. Flight was his winning method and had kept him alive and well during this apocalypse. He reached for the gallery door handle to open it. Intercepting his hand, I pushed him against the wall and gripped the front of his shirt. His fear of me was only slightly greater than his fear of the zombies and was enough to stay his hand.