Death Row Apocalypse

by Mackey, Darrick

  One of the Channel 42 News crew was now applying a handkerchief to Lucy’s wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. I would take care of Mike later, I thought, and I’d make damn sure it was final.

  When I’d been institutionalized, the doctors had explained that I had a tendency to overreact to situations that supposedly normal people deal with by talking and trying to understand and do so without inflicting physical pain. I initially disagreed with them, as this concept was totally alien to me, and try as I did I could not make them see my point. I even used their inability to see my point as actual proof that the discussion of issues was not possible in all cases. They didn’t want to accept that my black or white method of dealing with problems was in any way effective. My arguments were logical and well posed; my solutions were absolute and usually terminal for those involved. The doctors simply would not accept that removal of the individual causing the problem was an acceptable solution.

  And yet we have a prison and corporal punishment system here in the USA that does exactly that, I argued. The most dangerous individuals in society are simply put to death. Eventually, though, I had to go along with what they preached purely as a means to an end—that is, I had to get the hell out of there.

  With a lot of scraping and grinding, two of the group returned my thoughts to the present as they appeared manhandling a double-door refrigerator toward the kitchen door that I now was wedged against. Perfect, I thought. The refrigerator should have the weight and strength to hold up against our would-be zombie intruders. Dragging the fridge across the tiles and into place, we quickly realized that it was not going to be wide enough to fill the gap fully. Ideally we needed it to be ten inches longer.

  “Here, take the weight for a second while I look for something to fill the gap,” I said to Joe.

  The zombies continued slamming themselves into the kitchen door without rest, not even for a second. Their incessant howls were accompanied with ferocious roaring. With the added mass of the fridge against the door, it certainly made the job of keeping the door firmly shut much easier, and only needed one person to keep it in place. Joe put his back against the fridge, while I grabbed my bar and walked over to cowering Mike.

  “Mike, no hard feelings, but you’re an asshole!” I said.

  My hand shot forward and took his throat in its grasp. My intent was not to scare or even to warn him; my intent was to take his life then and there. Gripping his throat, I found the outline of his trachea. Circling it with thumb and fingers, I closed my fist. Both my thumb and fingers penetrated the skin and met deep within his neck as they now fully encircled his windpipe. I continued to close my grip and crushed his only means of breathing as easily as crushing a ripe pear. His hands had come up to flail and claw at my hand, but far too late, for I had already pulled my fingers and thumb from his neck. I watched as his face turned from a healthy pink to red, then blue and finally to white, whereupon he collapsed to his knees as he tried to suck in air against the blockage. He fell forwards onto his face, quite dead.

  ***

  When Blaine struck Mike in the throat, the strike had been a mere blur. As fast as it had started, suddenly it was all over. The only evidence something had actually happened was the seemingly impossible appearance of several holes in the side of Mike’s neck and the choking form of Mike as he suffocated, then collapsed and died at Blaine’s feet.

  ***

  “Blaine! No, don’t,” Joe started, but his reaction to Mike’s death was way too slow to have done any good at all.

  The remainder of the group backed away a little as Mike struck the floor. The shock and perhaps realization that they currently shared the same space with a serial killer hit home.

  Bending over, I wiped my hand on Mike’s shirt, then dragged his limp form to the refrigerator, laid him out, then bent him over at the waist, folding him in half. The sound of popping and crunching bone was followed by a loud snap as his spine broke as I wedged his folded carcass into the gap with my foot. With the barricade completed, I glanced up and saw that our group was now huddled together yet further still, with Joe foremost, holding his bar in a defensive posture. One or perhaps two of the group turned their heads away and had retched as Mike’s body crunched and popped, while some of the others expressed their disgust vocally.

  “Ah, Jesus, no!”

  “Fuck no!”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “Aghh. God, that’s just wrong, man!”

  In retrospect, perhaps folding him backwards was a mistake.

  I could clearly see the fear in their eyes as they looked at me nervously while occasionally allowing their gaze to flit to Mike’s folded corpse.

  “Really?” I said.

  “You gave me your word, Blaine! No killing!” Joe said with a mixture of fear and anger.

  “Joe, I gave my word I would not kill you. Be serious, man. I’m a cold-blooded killer without any conscience. This asshole Mike was in his own way much more dangerous than me. He would sacrifice your lives in an instant to prolong his. His mistake was to threaten mine, and I have a tendency to eliminate threats.”

  From behind the group a frail but clear voice was heard and became louder as they allowed the small frame of Violet to pass through their midst.

  “Get out of my damn way. Lanky piece of . . . Simmer down, people, I got something to say,” she said sternly.

  She turned and faced our small band of less-than-merry men.

  “Wait just one cotton-picking minute. This man helped us when no one else could. He stopped and went back for my husband, and I don’t give a shit if he’s a rapist, murderer, or Yankee. He saved my dear husband, so leave him the hell alone, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

  Violet walked back to the group and struggled down to a kneeling position beside the still-limp form of Lucy.

  “And look what that asshole did to poor little Lucy . . .”

  Henry, her husband, went to her side and placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed ever so gently. “There, there, pumpkin. She’ll be okay. You’ll see. She just needs a little rest and she’ll be right as rain.”

  Violet gently brushed aside the hair from Lucy’s face, then made an effort to get back to her feet with the assistance of her husband. She then walked up to me without even the faintest sign of fear and pulled on my shirt in an effort to bring my head to her level. Giving in to her efforts, I leant forward.

  “Thank you, deary,” is all she said before planting a dry kiss on my cheek.

  Henry came forward and stood beside her. Placing his hand on my shoulder, he regarded me with warmth, kindness, and glassy eyes. Whatever this man felt was indeed honest and heartfelt, I thought.

  “Thank you, son,” he said, and smiled.

  Henry’s smile was not only with his mouth but also his eyes, and they shone with a light that struck me with an emotion I was unfamiliar with. Love.

  Violet turned to Henry, smiled, and then winked. “Look at you. Getting all talkative, hmm? You old softy, you,” she said with genuine warmth.

  “Honey,” Henry said to his wife as they walked off. “I’m so hungry, my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  “Don’t worry so. Ain’t no kitchen exists that I can’t navigate.” Violet chuckled.

  I ignored Joe and the remainder of the group as I walked past them toward the food preparation areas. My main goal was to find some effective weapons, food, and water. From behind me I heard Joe direct the group to where the food was stored. The small band spread out and began exploring the kitchen, hunting for anything that we could eat or defend ourselves with.

  After around ten minutes of searching, I’d turned up some useful items. Amongst my collection I now had three meat cleavers, two very sharp steak knives, and a couple of what I can only describe as machetes, as they were so long.

  As kitchens go, this one was relatively large. To the back I could see two doors, one centered, while the other was off to the right side. The one to the right ha
d a thermometer mounted at head height beside a large steel locking mechanism, leading me to reason that the room beyond was in fact a cold room. The other had a small window and looked more like an access way. I guessed this led to the dining area. As I looked on, I watched the old couple, Henry and Violet, push it open and disappear into the adjoining room.

  The kitchen had now become oddly quiet. It had gone from the group’s banging of pots and pans as they searched for anything of use, to the now-absolute quiet that currently engulfed the room. I’d only seen the old couple leave the kitchen through the doorway. Lucy was out for the count, with one of the news crew looking after her. Mike was bent on keeping the door closed, pun intended, which left four. And they were nowhere to be seen or heard. Something was up.

  Walking quietly through the maze of cookers, work surfaces, and aluminum cabinets, I made my way across the kitchen. As I turned into a small alcove, I was faced with the reason for the deathly silence. Before me on the tiled floor lay two of the news crew, quite dead. Their warm blood pooled from the still-fresh wounds, one from a large gash extending ear to ear, while the other from a meat cleaver splitting his skull all the way down to his nose, exposing a neatly cleaved brain for all to see. The massive inmates held the two cameramen like dangling puppets. They danced on the tips of their toes as razor-sharp filleting knives were pressed into the sides of their necks. The inmates grinned broadly, each displaying only a partial set of teeth. Ill-timed though it was, an amusing thought hit me that perhaps together the two inmates had just enough in the pearly-whites department to outfit one standard mouth. My whimsical thoughts were rudely interrupted when I had an irresistible urge to duck.

  A third inmate had been as stealthy as a cat in a dog pound. He had come up from behind me and would have taken my head clean off my shoulders with his machete had I not ducked at the very last moment. The now-impotent machete swung harmlessly over my head, and once again I could swear that the motion around me was taking place underwater and time was running slow once more. As I turned, still in a ducked posture, both my hands found the cutlery from my recent search. I brought in my left hand, gripping the knife in a reverse hold, and sliced upwards. Starting from inmate number three’s groin and bringing myself to an upright position, I sliced upwards, cutting through the thin prison fabric until I reached his neck. Already the man’s intestines had begun to release themselves from his abdomen. Withdrawing the blade, I started my turn anew, this time with my right hand, and with its knife I drew a horizontal line across his throat. Without a break in my stride, I leaped forward, extending both knives, now aiming for the left eye of inmate number two and the right eye of inmate number one.

  In slow motion I watched as the tips of the knives came in contact with the targeted pupils. Fascinated, I saw the momentary resistance of the delicate pupils’ membranes, before they split to allow entrance of the sharpened steel. In wonder I saw with absolute clarity the travel of the serrated blades as they penetrated each eye. They cut through the corneas and finally, with a satisfying crunch, passed through the delicate orbital bones located at the base of the socket. I continued the insertion until both knives were buried to the hilt.

  The steak knives found their final targets, slicing through delicate brain tissue, instantly ceasing all brain activity. The inmates’ arms dropped to their sides, and their massive bodies fell forward, knocking the newsmen to the side, and as they hit the floor like two sumo wrestlers their momentum pushed down on the embedded steak knives, causing them to be pushed fully into their skulls. The tips of the knives broke through the backs of their skulls with a wet crunch.

  I was surprised that the inmates hadn’t reacted immediately by slaughtering the two men. Had it been me, I’d have sliced my captives’ throats instantly. The first of the three inmates I had attacked continued to gurgle on his own blood. As he gripped his throat in desperation, his intestines oozed out of his gut and hit the floor with a wet slap. The doomed inmate looked down at his innards, then collapsed, joining them on the floor.

  The two news guys just looked at me in what I could only assume was shock or fear, or maybe both. Perhaps they too were unsure of what they felt. The two dead men from our group must have inadvertently stumbled across the inmates in their search for food. Unfortunate. Life can really suck. The alcove where we stood showed signs that the inmates must have been hiding there since the start of this madness. Plastic wrappers and drinks cartons littered the immediate area, along with several large pots that had been used for them to defecate in.

  “You didn’t smell them?” I asked.

  I shook my head in disbelief. Not really caring what they had to say, I turned and walked away from the scene. Heading toward the door that Henry and Violet had taken earlier, I found them both sitting together at one of the dozen or so metal tables. Before them was spread a sizable picnic assortment, occupying a significant portion of the four-person table. I guess Violet indeed managed to navigate her way around the kitchen.

  “Take a seat, son,” Henry said, motioning to one of the vacant chairs.

  “Sorry, we need to—” I began.

  “Nonsense,” Violet interrupted. “Come now, sonny. When was the last time you ate, huh?”

  “Er, yesterday,” I replied.

  “Sit!” said Henry with a warm smile, and pushed a plate to the vacant place. “We got some cheese and pickles.”

  “Bread, butter, and OJ. Dig in!” Violet said. “Here, let me make you a nice cheese and pickle sandwich,” she offered, and took back my plate, giving me not even the slightest chance to object.

  She proceeded to build a truly formidable cheese and pickle sandwich, the likes of which I’d never seen before.

  Chapter - 17

  - Slippery When Wet -

  It struck me later how strange it was that Violet and Henry had three plates in the first place, and in the second place they had obviously expected company. Had they really expected me, or was it just another coincidence? To compound my disbelief in the situation further, we sat there eating cheese, bread, and pickles . . . in the middle of a zombie uprising. I repeat, we actually sat there having a bloody picnic! Forgive the intended pun!

  Lucy came to gradually. Her world came into focus, with several faces filling her vision. Names attached themselves to their owners as her bruised memory rebooted itself into full consciousness. Lucy raised one hand to her head, where for some reason a jackhammer was hard at work.

  “Joe? What the . . . ?” Lucy said.

  “Good to have you back, Lucy. How are you feeling?” Joe said, then continued: “That was some knock you took!”

  “Mike pushed me. Where is that asshole?” Lucy said.

  “He’s dead. Blaine killed him shortly after we got here.”

  “Serves that pig right. Is Henry okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Everyone else is fine. They’ve headed into the dining area. I think they’ve got some food. Here, let me help you up.”

  Joe took Lucy’s hand and, supporting her elbow, he helped her to her feet. She swayed a little as she corrected her balance. Looking to the entrance, she saw the refrigerator jammed up against the door. The grisly remains of dismembered fingers and forearms lay twitching on the floor, and the faint groans of the zombie pursuers could be heard from the corridor.

  Lucy took an involuntary step backward, bumping into Joe, and brought her hand to her mouth, covering it when she saw Mike’s folded corpse wedged between the refrigerator and cabinet. Apart from the fact it was once a living and breathing Mike, the shocker was the inhumanly weird position it now lay in.

  “He didn’t deserve this,” Joe said.

  “Are you kidding, Joe?” Lucy said. “The man was a prize asshole. He nearly killed Henry and me.”

  “Blaine’s on death row for a reason, Lucy,” Joe said. “He’s a killer. He’s the Butcher . . . and he’s killed m— ”

  “I don’t care,” Lucy said as she made her way toward the dining room. “So far he’s been looking
after us, even from ourselves.”

  Mike groaned to himself and followed.

  The door to the kitchen opened, revealing Lucy. She held a blood-soaked handkerchief to the side of her head, and she winced from time to time with obvious pain. Supporting her was Joe. He helped her to one of the larger tables and put his bar on the table beside them as they sat.

  She looked over to me and smiled as I bit into the sandwich that Violet had prepared, and I wondered if I should tell her about our previous encounter. I decided against doing so. As I continued to tuck into the sandwich, I soon discovered just how hungry I had become. In fact, the last meal I’d had was some twenty-four hours earlier.

  Lucy watched Blaine as he ate and realized beyond any doubt where her best chances of survival lay. Somehow this death row inmate was going to be her key to surviving this insane nightmare. Mike had referred to Blaine as the Butcher, and Lucy wondered briefly if he was the same Blender Butcher that had decimated the members of a terrorist cell operating in Florida and had been the man responsible for saving her from certain death at the hands of the terrorists only a couple of weeks ago.

  The last of our band, the two news guys that I had liberated, entered through the kitchen door. They looked as pale as ghosts and tried to avoid all possible eye contact with me. With them they carried items that they had discovered in the kitchen, including several large knives, which I was sure were not intended for the cheese. I guess after their close encounter they felt safer with the large implements. Perhaps if they could stop shaking for long enough they might have actually been able to do some harm. Together they all sat and shared their loot with Joe and Lucy.

  Conversation started slowly. Before long, most of the group had something to say about the situation we were now faced with.

  After thanking Violet for the sandwich, I excused myself from the table and headed to the double doors at the far end of the dining room. Behind me the remaining news crew were talking heatedly about staying here and waiting for a rescue. However, they were currently unable to agree on any particular tactic. Both Joe and Lucy listened intently to the passionate conversation but were more interested in sating their hunger than discussing where and how to hide until their theoretical rescue. Stefan stood to leave the table while suggesting that his colleagues should go and fuck themselves.