Char wanted to ask where to get a copy of the rules, but didn’t. It would have been a sarcastic question that she was confident the warden would not appreciate.
“You are fed two meals. Breakfast and dinner. You begin work after breakfast, and finish around nine at night. When we are done here you will be fitted with the equipment needed to live down in this environment. You get one set. So take care of it. You will then be shown to your own personal cell. Today is your one and only day off, enjoy it. Tomorrow morning at six you will meet your foreman, be given your job assignment, and begin the labor portion of your sentence. And, Ms. McKinney, you want to hope that you and I never have to meet again.”
There was no mistaking the threat in his tone of voice. She didn’t even nod in understanding. For an engineer assigned to warden a prison, he was well suited for the position. The little creep was intimidating. He shouldn’t be. That was why it bothered her so much.
# # #
Char thought about stirring up some banter with the masked guard escorting her from the warden’s office, but decided against it. It made more sense to keep her mouth shut. She’d now been given the same advice by two people basically to fly under the radar. It was odd, but part of her felt relieved. She wasn’t going to have to deal with the infected. The idea of living in a locked cell was somewhat attractive. She’d be able to sleep at night without keeping one eye open. She really couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Working every day might be just as Hermann indicated, rewarding; it might also keep her so occupied that she didn’t have time to think about Tony, and Sam, and Grace. She would be kept so busy and exhausted that her mind might vacation from thoughts about her father, and brother. No one would be forgotten, but a break was needed. The last three years had been nothing short of hell.
Once they exited the main office area, Char was able to take in more of the mine. In a way, it was as she expected. The carved out caverns were chiseled rock. There were several guards with guns. They all resembled one another. There was no way to tell them apart. They were clad in black and masks and looked like Storm Troopers.
There were slotted metal walkways with guardrails. Char looked down and saw that the pit seemed bottomless. Powerful lights were strung up along the jagged ceiling. The odor of sulfur became stronger with each step taken. It assaulted her nostrils. Her nose kept twitching.
“I don’t see the prison cells,” she said.
“We’re still in the administrative area of the prison,” the guard said. His breathing heavy in and out while taking breaths.
Char had not expected him to reply. He did not remind her of a person in his uniform. Part of her had even considered him more of a robot.
Along the walls were mesh-metal cages. They stopped at the first one.
“We are going to fit you with a mask first,” he said. He reached out and opened the metal door. They entered the room. Inside were totes. The guard looked at her face and the sides of her head. “Have a seat.”
He opened a tote labeled small and removed two masks. From another tote he produced two round, cylindrical canisters.
“What are those?” she said.
“These connect to the mask.” He pointed to the ones on his. “They filter the air from lethal toxins. We will give you fresh canisters each morning.”
“They last that long?”
He didn’t answer, but instead screwed them in place on one of the masks. “Lean forward.”
He fit the mask over her face and fastened the straps tight on the back of her head.
“That kind of hurts,” she said.
“It is important that the mask seals to your face. Otherwise, there is no reason to wear one. You will get used to wearing this, trust me,” the guard said. “Breath normally for me.”
She breathed in and out. Now she sounded like the daughter of Vader. She wondered when she’d get a lightsaber.
The guard put the second mask back in the tote. He wrote something on a clipboard. “Okay. We’ll get you gloves and a prison uniform.”
She wondered what color the jumpsuits would be. Blue or orange. It could be worse, she could be forced to pick trash up along the side of the highway.
In the next cage was where gloves were kept. The guard manipulated a tote and handed her a pair. They were suede, thick, and a little big on her hands. Her father had always claimed she’d play piano. “With long slender fingers like that, I can’t imagine you not playing piano,” he always said.
“They’re kinda big,” she said.
“Smallest we have.” That ended that part of the conversation.
They stopped at the third, fourth, and fifth cages. The prison clothing was not what she’d expected. She was given three white tank tops, three pairs of black jeans and a heavy, black, Carhartt jacket. “This is what the prisoners wear?”
“They are for your protection,” the guard said.
Char cocked an eyebrow. She again wondered about the work. What exactly would she be doing, and just how dangerous was it?
“Change into the clothing,” the guard said.
“What, now?” Char said. She looked around. They were in the fifth cage. There were other guards on the metal sidewalks, but not near them. Anyone could see into the cages. They were more like chain link fence, the mesh was that open.
“You can’t go into the prison in your street clothing. We’ll place them in plastic and into a tote in the next cage. They’ll be safe there and returned to you when you are released in three years.”
“What about some privacy?”
“You gave up your right to privacy when you broke the law. Strip out of the street clothes and put on the assigned prison garb. I will not ask again,” he said.
Char stood still. She heard just the two of them breathing inside their masks. She held the clothing she’d been given tight to her body. She felt dirty. Embarrassed. Violated.
He wasn’t going to ask again.
There was no other choice.
She set the items down on a chair.
The guard just stared at her. His breath slightly fogged up the lower portion of the plastic faceplate and then disappeared. Then fogged up and cleared.
She undid her pants and slid them off. It was slow and humiliating. Goosebumps covered her thighs. Standing stooped over, she reached for the black jeans and quickly stuck her legs in. She pulled the pants up, zipped and buttoned them. She took off her shirt and kept one arm across her chest. The moment it took to slide the tank top over her head was the worst. She felt vulnerable, and could not stop her body from shaking. She knew he was staring at her breasts and hated that her nipples were erect.
It was over.
It felt like it lasted longer than a minute or two.
She grabbed the jacket, drove her arms into the sleeves, and immediately zipped it up. She put the gloves on last. Under all her new gear, she still felt naked.
“Grab your things. We’ll secure them in a tote,” the guard said. His tone of voice hadn’t changed.
Char’s face felt hot. She knew tears brimmed along her lower eyelids.
Fuck sleep. She no longer felt safe. She no longer thought being down here could be a good idea. She wanted to get out of here. If she had to stay a full day, it would be a full day too long.
Chapter 26
Char had been told there were a total of fifteen prisoners. She wondered how such a giant operation could be run by so few.
The prison was two levels. The cells lined three walls on both levels, in a U shape. The cells were barred, each with a locked door. The floor was cement. There were four picnic tables in the center. The guard station was at the open end of the U. It was a large office with a barred picture window. Behind it papers were posted on a corkboard, she saw a computer, and a few filing cabinets.
The guard led her up a set of metal stairs. He used a key and unlocked a door toward the center of the U. Her cell faced the office. Seemed like a prime location. She’d be able to see everything goin
g on.
“This is your home. Make yourself comfortable for the night. Your foreman will be by in the morning to give you more of an orientation.”
“And I keep this mask on all the time?”
“Hard to sleep with it on. It isn’t as toxic in here. There is a ventilation system. Nothing fancy. I’d suggest wearing it when you work at the very least.”
“So I can take it off?”
“Choice is yours, McKinney. It’s your health. Not mine.”
“You wear yours all the time?”
“I’m here twelve hours a day. I have no problem wearing it my entire shift.”
She wanted to rip it off his face and punch his nose. “Where is everyone else?”
“Working.”
He closed and locked the door. Without a word he walked away. She listened to his boot footfalls on the plank.
She stood with her hands wrapped around bars and stared at her new surroundings. She knew she was going to cry. It was the last thing she wanted to do. While she was alone, it was also the best time to get it out of the way.
The cell was maybe 8 x 8. There was a bed, and a toilet. The shelf over the john held a roll of toilet paper and nothing else. She removed her mask and gloves and set them on the shelf over the toilet. She breathed in deeply, exhaled loudly and plopped onto the bed. The mattress was a bit firmer than the one in the holding cell at City Hall. A pillow was at the head, and a blanket was folded at the foot. Bars made up the front and back of the cell. The left and right walls were solid. She mostly had privacy from the other prisoners, except for those cells across from her. Those prisoners could stare right into her cell. She looked at the toilet again, and shuddered.
She crossed her legs and sat with her back to the bars. Just behind her was the carved rock wall. Water trickled down the face. She reached an arm through the bars and her fingertip just touched the wall. The water was cold. She brought her finger to her nose and smelled it.
Sulfur.
She breathed in and out and was already tired of the sound the mask made with each breath. It echoed inside her head. She lowered her head onto the pillow. Using a foot, she shuffled the blanket up her legs, grabbed onto an end, and covered herself. The prison was lit, but held many, many shadows. The idea of sleeping seemed like the best escape for the moment, if falling asleep was even possible.
# # #
Antonio Velasquez raided other houses in the area. He did this daily. Supplies were always running out. His posse consumed everything. It reminded Char of when her Dad went shopping. She and Cash would dig through the groceries and pull out and devour the junk food. He wouldn’t buy anymore until the next time he went shopping. When it was gone, it was gone. They’d never learned to ration the chips and soda pop.
Char stayed in the mix of raiders, armed with her sword, machete and knives. She knew if she had to, she could take on any one of Velasquez’ crew easily. One on one that was. They were big men. Dangerous people. They were usually intoxicated. That added to the intimidation, but also incapacitated their reflexes, making them just slightly more threatening than fresh, fast zombies.
The house they surrounded looked vacant. They always did.
Guys barreled through the back door at the same time she and Velasquez rammed through the front.
Everyone yelled. “Get down! Drop it! On the floor!”
They weren’t zombies. Overpowered, a Mexican man, woman, and three kids fell to the floor.
Velasquez spoke Spanish. He pointed his men to head off in different directions of the house.
She stood with her sword in both hands, daring the Mexicans to move.
The woman and her two daughters were crying. They were face down on the floor, arms over their heads.
Char knew this wasn’t right.
They weren’t looting from an empty house. These people needed their own supplies to continue to survive.
“Antonio,” she said.
He shushed her. His eyes were dark, under thick eyebrows.
Some of the men returned. “There ain’t shit here, ‘Ntonio,” Juan said.
“Si,” Velasquez said. He jabbed the barrel of his rifle into the man’s back. He spoke more Spanish at the resident.
The man didn’t look up, but instead lifted his hands off the back of his head and raised them as high as he could. He was crying, and talking, and despite speaking a foreign language, Char could imagine what he said.
“We should get out of here if they don’t have anything,” Char said.
Velasquez jabbed his elbow into her arm. It was a powerful blow that sent her reeling. She lost her balance and landed on a sofa. A plume of dust rose and lingered in the air, sunrays spiked through it. The cloud danced in the light.
When Velasquez banged the butt of his rifle into the man’s head, blood sprayed across dirty hardwood floors.
The women screamed.
The wife spoke fast. Her R’s rolled constantly.
Char knew the mother begged for her daughters to be spared.
“That’s enough, Antonio!” Char jumped to her feet.
The men were in a frenzy. Char knew they were making comments about the teenaged girl on floor. She was in a long white nightgown. She didn’t like the hungry look on their faces. Velasquez was getting riled up, too.
He’d protected her from the men in his company. They never laid a hand on her. She knew if Antonio wasn’t around, she’d of been in trouble. They’d have ravaged her relentlessly. Nightmares of an assault that never happened filled her dreams. She often woke in cold sweats and screaming from the torrid scenes that played on the screen behind closed eyelids.
Juan and Perez placed the rifle straps on their shoulders and bent down to scoop the teenager up. They had her under her arms. She struggled, kicking out.
The mother got up onto her knees. Tears fell from her eyes as her hands shot in the air and she screamed over and over, “Deténgase! Deténgase!”
Char felt bile rise in her throat. “Velasquez, this has to stop!”
When she stepped forward, Antonio grabbed her arm. She shrugged free. She raised her sword.
Something slammed into the back of her head. Juan, Perez, and the teen went cloudy in front of her. The floor raced up at her.
Laughter filled her ears, pounded around loose inside her skull as her eyelids fluttered. She knew she couldn’t black out.
Three gunshots erupted from somewhere.
The bangs were close to her head. She waited for the pain from searing hot bullets passing through her flesh.
She never felt the pain.
Her eyes closed.
Part of her was thankful.
She fought to stay conscious. She forced her eyes open. It felt like weights hung from her lashes, opposing every ounce of strength left inside her and making the attempt futile.
She placed palms on the hardwoods and pushed up onto her knees.
She closed her eyes against a spinning room. When she opened them again, the sun was gone. No. Not gone. Just in a different place in the room. Not as bright.
The woman was dead, her skull shattered by a bullet.
The two young kids beside her were dead, too.
Bullets through the skull.
“They were not zombies,” Char said, and she cried as she crawled toward them.
She heard them.
The noises came from upstairs.
It took effort to stand. She got up slowly, using a coffee table and the arm of a recliner to get to her feet.
She stood at the threshold leading from the family room to the foyer and looked at the bodies sprawled on the floor.
The people were dead.
Kids.
Holding her sword, she heard the rhythmic horror and shuddered as she climbed the stairs. Antonio and his men were animals.
She knew she had to stop them. Doing so would cost her life. It was an easy sacrifice, considering.
They howled. Beasts.
# # #
They howled like beasts, like animals . . .
Char sat up. The blanket fell off her.
The howling did not stop. The nightmare was not over. The prison was filling. The laborers were back from work and entering their cells.
Barred doors rang out as they were slammed shut.
She was thankful for the walls on either side of her cell. She could only imagine the monsters living beside her.
She grabbed the blanket and hugged it close to her body.
She wanted to go home, wanted her family back, wanted the infected gone, and life back to normal. Burying her face into her drawn up knees, she tried to muffle her crying. Tried.
Chapter 27
Char never fell back to sleep. It seemed like hours before everyone else was out cold. They’d worked all day. She didn’t think they’d stay up long. She wanted to find some kind of inner peace, but every time she tried to concentrate her tattoo itched. Her skin felt a bit raw where the work had been done. All she wanted to do was scratch at it. The itch stopped, but started all over again the minute she focused on focusing. It was odd and annoying.
Once the lights went out, she sat curled on her bed, hugging the blanket tight, and squeezing her eyes closed.
They had taunted and cried out in the darkness. They knew she was here. Word must have spread.
When the lights came on, she waited. Prison life was about to begin. She wasn’t ready for it. Her stomach muscles ached. She had to pee, but didn’t want to be watched while urinating. She’d hold it as long as she could.
She heard footfalls on the walk and climbed off the mattress. Her mask sat on the shelf over the toilet, staring at her. It was her identity now.
“Rise and shine.” The guard stood outside her cage. “I’m Kyle. Kyle Newstead. The second floor is mine from six until six. I get the luxury of escorting you to breakfast, to work, and to dinner. Lucky me. Grab that mask, those gloves and let’s go,” he said.
Arcadia (Book 1): Damn The Dead Page 18
