by Chuck Buda
His hunger for violence had reached a pinnacle that could never be sated. He thanked the universe for placing him in a time and place where he could maximize his talents. He was the ultimate rehabilitator. Warsaw Prison was his clinic. Muncie knew the flesh was weak. So many points of inflection to exercise.
Muncie debated who the rat might be. Jonas was weak. No doubt about. If there was a soft bun in the bunch, it would be Jonas. Muncie had liked and trusted Crawford for years. The mere insinuation by the Warden that Crawford could outrank Muncie if he played his cards right had been an invitation to suspect his second in command. After all, it made too much sense. Muncie and Gorgon had been butting heads. He slipped up and threatened the Warden. Gorgon would naturally have use of a new top dog. Someone he could trust. A person who would obey his orders without question. A body softer and more malleable than Muncie.
That man would be Crawford.
Hadn’t he seen a glimmer in the man’s eyes? Wasn’t there an extra hop in his step after the Warden dangled the carrot? And why wouldn’t the little shit that went by the name Rivera get excited? He could potentially jump a few rungs in one shot if Crawford knocked Muncie off. Rivera stood to gain a much better toe hold in the pecking order. And that meant more benefits, more information, larger rations of food. Rivera might even earn a safer place to wait out the end of the world. Unlike his current status.
Muncie gritted his teeth. The idea of so many rodents in his garden made him caustic. Someone would bear the brunt of his anger. His frustration. And soon.
He slapped the baton against his thigh, raising a quick welt. The pain reinvigorated his rage. It was time to go back on a war path. He would re-visit all his threats and continue to press the sensitive nodes until they bent to his will or caved beneath his shiny, black boots.
Muncie hummed as he stomped up the long, empty hallway toward C-Pod.
Chapter 10
Frenchie felt them. Every single one of them. Eyes. Everywhere. Some were big. In every direction, Frenchie saw eyes. The piercing, judging scan of orbs filled with viscous fluids. Searching him out. Poking his brain. Following his every move.
“No. No. No. Get away. Leave me alone now, honey.”
He swatted at phantom eyeballs which darted from the ceiling and swirled about his head. As he stepped backwards, Frenchie accidentally kicked BJ’s foot.
“Watch where you’re going.”
Frenchie smiled apologetically at BJ. “Blitzkrieg Bop. Blitzkrieg Bop, muthafucka. Blitzkrieg Bop.”
BJ grimaced. He shook his head as if he were disgusted with Frenchie’s recklessness. Frenchie didn’t care. Not really. Well, sort of. He didn’t care what BJ thought of him. But he DID care if BJ got mad enough to beat his ass. Frenchie chuckled to himself. He wondered how a pasty, white cracker could go around in these days and times with busted ass haircut like that. BJ reminded Frenchie of Joey Ramone. Same ugly facial features. Same pin-straight black hair. The difference was Joe Ramone wore a bowl haircut and BJ had the front and top shaved off.
Crackers be crazy, yo.
Frenchie wandered back toward his bunk room. He stopped and circled back to the common area. Too many memories of Melvin and Joker and 8-Ball. Nothing had been the same since they’d gone away. Leaving Frenchie alone with all these dumb-ass whiteys. Sure, there were still his people around. But they were all the fucked-up ones who shooed him away like an annoying mosquito. Or they were the ones who had taken advantage of his womanly hospitalities, never to repay him. Roughing him up with their hard, throat fucking. Or pinning him down and taking turns dumping their seed in his ass. They were hardcore niggas like his older brother used to warn him about. Skeet used to say, “Frenchie, you need to watch yo tender ass ‘round them hardcore niggas. They fuck yo shit up with no feelings or sense. Them niggas be as cold of heart as our pappy who dead and buried.” Frenchie missed Skeet. The boy kept it real with him all his life until he got busted for dealing on Martin Luther King Boulevard. That night, Skeet died of wounds from “resisting arrest” and “felony assault on an officer.” Poor Skeet.
Poor me, muthafucka!
Frenchie saw Jack Turk looking him up and down. He spun away; afraid Jack would come towards him. He knew what that nasty ass honky thought of him. Muthafucka wanted to eat him. Take bites of him and pass him around to the others instead of starving. Racist muthafucka told them all they were going to die in here and he wasn’t gonna do a damned thing about it. He said they were on their own. Muthafucka snag a different whitey tune when Mel was around to keep his cracker ass straight. Mel wouldn’t let crazy Jack Turk hurt him. And 8-Ball would get in Jack’s face. He was one mean nigga just like Mel used to call him. NWA. Nigga with attitude. 8-Ball was so nasty he musta been raised by a pissed off possum living in a filthy shithouse.
Frenchie shoved his memories away. He needed to find a way to escape. He couldn’t allow the whitey to eat him or the zombies to bite him. Frenchie was all alone now with nobody to look out for him. The walls looked tighter, closer to the center of the room than they had been in the past. He struggled to breathe fresh air. The room around him cloyed and choked away his oxygen like a shrink-wrap around a pallet. Frenchie got more desperate with each passing hour. If he couldn’t get out of C-Pod soon, then he would have to take matters into his own hands.
Killing was high on his list of things he enjoyed. But Frenchie would bludgeon whoever he had to in order to survive. And the only way to survive was to get free of C-Pod. Could there be a better pod? Would the guards move him to a different pod, giving him a fresh chance? Frenchie shook his head profusely. No way. The other pods would be the same. There was no way out. Only escape was death or killing. At this point, he would take either option.
No, you faggot-ass faggot. You’d kill. Ain’t no way you would lie down and die.
He’s right!
Frenchie battled the voices off each shoulder.
More eyes upon him. Voices too. The whispers swam near his ears. They called him crazy. Done-for. The words taunted Frenchie, adding to the violation of the eyes upon his flesh.
He scratched at his forearm. His jagged nails tore a corner of skin up like a blister pack of medicine. The pain of a fresh wound fleeting, barely noticeable above the din of accusations and judgment.
Frenchie ran backwards. He watched all the condemnation tracing his path to the bunk room. He’d dare not turn his back and run. No. They would see him as prey and they would pounce to feed on his bones. Frenchie slipped into the bunk room utilizing muscle memory to navigate a safe trail without seeing where he was going.
The faces leaned closer. Several steps in his direction. He wished the prison came with doors on the bunk rooms. Every room wide open to access for anyone at any time. No privacy. No safe haven. No hiding.
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it, I swear. Muthafuckas!”
Frenchie soaked in the echo of his shouts. Nothing left in his bunk room but flea-bitten mattresses and gray walls. He felt the age of the building slithering up his leg, hunting a moist opening to crawl inside him and take root. Controlling. Feeding.
“No. No. No.”
Frenchie sprang up to the top bunk. He curled the stained mattress over his body to cradle him against the cold wall. Frenchie stuffed the flat pillow into the side of his head to drown out the voices. And hide his face from all the evil, prying eyes. The eyes of the dead who wanted to swim inside his mind.
Frenchie cried and prayed the end would come soon.
Chapter 11
The results were unmistakable.
Dr. Shipley pressed his tired eyes into the microscope lens. He had to be sure he had succeeded where he had previously hoped for a miracle. As much as his mind labored with validating the evidence, his vision revealed the truth of what he found.
“It worked.”
Footsteps rushed up behind him. Dr. Shipley clenched his butt cheeks, hoping his remark had not been the cause of the new company.
“What worked, Doctor?�
�
So much for that.
Shipley removed his glasses, fogged them with his breath and began cleaning them with a cloth.
“Um, oh. Nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.” Dixie attempted to near the microscope she could spy what he had been excited about. His dilemma was keeping the truth from Dixie. Shipley knew Dixie wouldn’t be secretive about any discoveries if she knew it could save their lives.
Just my luck that Dixie would find out. Why couldn’t it have been Samantha?
“Sorry, I meant it is nothing to get giddy over. But it’s still good news.” He prayed her line of questioning would end there but figure it would be unlikely.
“We could use some good news around here.” Dixie took a deep breath. Her breasts swelled beyond their already exorbitant capacity. Dr. Shipley tried to glance quickly and failed, lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Dr. Shipley wandered to the other side of the lab, hoping for a new interruption by Muncie or anyone who would stop the conversation in its tracks. He chuckled to himself. Shipley hated Muncie and found the man’s presence to be revolting. Yet, in this one instance, he wished Muncie’s intrusion would come at a more timely juncture.
“Isolating the mitochondria of the healthy blood cells, specifically Warden Gorgon’s, I was able to replicate the symbiosis of the parasitic culture with the steroidal serum.”
Dixie nodded like she awaited the punch line of a joke.
“In a word, efficiency. A quicker regeneration of the fighter cells and a watered-down base. Requires fewer transfusions of the Warden’s blood and a speedier production of vaccine.”
“The Warden will be happy to hear that.” Dixie started cleaning up some dirty beakers and a graduated cylinder.
“Um, listen, Dixie. I’d prefer it if we kept this under wraps for the time being.”
Dixie placed the glassware on the counter. “But why?”
Shipley thought fast. He created a plausible excuse for tempering the discovery.
“Well, first of all, I’d like to be absolutely sure that I’m correct. You know how temperamental the Warden can be if he thinks we failed.”
Dixie nodded.
“Second, I think there may be wolves in the hen house.”
Dixie scrunched her expression. The confusion etched upon her face.
“What I mean to say is...I am not sure who we can trust. Completely trust. And this knowledge could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Or worse. The wolf might try to kill us off if they want to limit what we’ve created.”
“I don’t understand. Why would someone wish to limit a life-saving vaccine? You think the Warden wants to kill us?”
Shipley pinched the bridge of his nose. The tell-tale signs of Dixie’s delicate emotions surfaced.
“Not exactly, no. Just trust me when I say we hold the key to some powerful information which could benefit us if it were...divulged carefully instead of blurted out to the public.”
Dr. Shipley wanted to end the discussion. It had already gone on longer than he had intended.
“Do me a favor? Can you summon Samantha and begin to prepare the vials for storage? Use the secure box in my office for this batch. We’ll need to be extra cautious about protecting this precious cargo.”
“Okay.” Dixie’s mouth hung open like another question was coming. However, she pivoted to go about her business as requested.
Dr. Shipley sighed with relief. He was glad the inquisition was over. Now the real work could begin.
A plan to save his own ass from the vultures at the gates. Muncie and Gorgon. Shipley didn’t trust either man. One was delusional about using his own plasma to control a race of undead rotten flesh. The other was sociopathic deviant with a taste for human suffering. Both men probably deserved to be incarcerated along with the souls they were charged with caring for. Instead, both men attempted to stake a claim on ownership into the new world order.
Muncie scared the living shit out of Dr. Shipley. His intentions were clearly duplicitous. Muncie would play nice only long enough to get his evil hands on whatever edge he could jam into his twisted arsenal. And if he ever gained dominion over Warsaw, God forbid, Shipley knew very few stood a chance of escaping Muncie’s terror.
Especially him.
Muncie hated Shipley as much as he hated Gorgon. He tried to hide it but it was blatant how Muncie salivated at the opportunity to destroy all that lived within the endless dreary walls of the prison.
Shipley planned to reveal part of the findings. He’d tell Warden Gorgon how he had been able to stretch the plasma further so the Warden would donate less blood. Fewer donations kept the Warden away from the Infirmary, giving Shipley more time to hatch his scheme to play the various parties against one another for his own benefit.
Why shouldn’t he do the same thing they were all doing to him? If he was going to die anyway, then he might as well take a few cheap shots on the way out.
He would keep the fact that the replication was occurring faster quiet. Hopefully, the hidden information would buy him more time to keep the prisoners alive. If the Warden succeeded at turning everyone into zombies then there would be less need for guards or doctors. Shipley’s hopes lie in the necessity of his knowledge. The perpetuity of his skills.
Dr. Shipley had something that was in demand. Something many people needed, regardless of the various reasons each needed it.
He bent down to the lens and increased the magnification.
“Show me what you’re made of.”
His own words shocked him in the silence of the dreary lab.
Chapter 12
Bo made strong eye contact with each of the women. She understood the ramifications and seriousness of their predicament. These were decisions she hadn’t taken lightly. And she wanted to be sure her friends were aware of her concerns for their well-being.
“It’s not an option.”
Maria stood up as her frustration manifested through her body. Bo remained quiet, allowing the others to have their say as well.
“We already lost Claudia. No way we can take another blow like that.”
They began to talk over each other as opinions and fears were brought to light. Bo continued to maintain her eye contact with each speaker, waiting for her time to counter their arguments.
“I am the strongest, which is why I nominated myself. If push came to shove, which one of you would volunteer to go instead of me? Hm? You Diandre? You Maria? Or Luna?” Bo gave pause so the weight of her words could simmer amongst the group. The women avoided looking her in the face now that she had called them out.
“See? Nobody wants to sacrifice themselves. Nobody wants to condemn somebody else to death. But you all have opinions on who SHOULDN’T go first.”
Maria slouched back to her bunk. The fight and passion had deflated instantaneously. Bo decided to move to the next point of order. “So we can agree that I will be the one to go next if they throw someone in the cage. Who will be the ass?”
Nobody responded so Bo clarified her question. “Who is willing to munch carpet when Janie comes calling in her chips?”
More silence.
“I guess I will take that one too.” Bo huffed. Her friends had become useless in strategizing for the future. The thought crossed her mind to forget the others and focus on looking out for herself. Why should she bear the pain when nobody else was willing to shoulder the load?
“How do you know it will be only one of us?” Diandre raised the question.
“Yeah, and do you think Janie will wait for us to pick someone? Hell no. She’ll come in and point at somebody and then say, “Eat my pussy, bitch.” Shanika jutted her pelvis forward to add dimension to her words. A few giggles sounded.
Bo nodded. “You may be right. I think it would behoove us to plan ahead in case we can divide and conquer. If everyone takes a responsibility, then it will be easier on all of us to deal with the stress. Does that make sense?”
Shanika tsked.
“Ain’t nothing make sense when you throw big words in there.”
Bo smiled. “You bring up excellent points. We really might not have any say in who she picks for sex or who is chosen to go to the cage. And if that’s the case, then we need to prepare ourselves two-fold. Prepare for the loss of a good friend.” Bo exhaled as she beckoned to the heavens. “Or prepare to fight to the death in that cage.”
The bunk room fell silent. The reality of their situation played like a reel-to-reel movie before their eyes. Horrific images reflected in the expressions that painted the faces around the circle.
“It’s obvious who can handle themselves in a fighting scenario. Shanika and I stand the best chances. I hate to say it but the most likely candidates for sex would be Tracee, Maria and Luna.”
“Hey, what am I chopped liver?” Diandre scrunched her huge breasts upward to show she had as much sexuality as anybody else. A couple of snorts from the peanut gallery drew Diandre’s ire.
“We can see your ample...attributes, Diandre. It’s just that Tracee and Luna have young, slender figures. And Maria is a goddess. The rest of us are attractive too. Just not “Wow” material.” Bo touched her upper lip with her tongue. “Plus, that bald scalp makes it difficult for Janie to direct your tongue.”
Diandre stomped her foot as Tracee pulled Maria’s hair down to direct her face into her crotch. They all laughed as they enjoyed the brief comedic gag. Diandre snickered along with them.
After some extra horse play and mocking, the room quieted down once more. Bo rounded the room. She grabbed Luna and Shanika by the arms and tossed them into the center of the room. “Okay. Now let’s see what you can do. Shanika, you play the big bad zombie. Luna, you show us how you would fend off an attack. Everyone pay attention because we are all going to get a turn practicing our skills. And there might be a pop quiz at the end.”
A unified groan echoed in the room. Shanika hunched over and growled as if she were going all out for a casting call. Luna stood with her hands up like a boxer. Bo interrupted the proceedings to point out her observations. She told Luna the zombies wouldn’t set up in a boxing fashion. Bo demonstrated how a zombie would shamble toward her and attempt to bite her neck or head. She taught Luna the proper method for countering a direct attack from the front, make sure to use her hands and arms to fend the creature off, without providing a corn-on-the-cob meal of forearm. Bo watched as the women sitting on the outer edge nodded, impressed with her deft fighting skills. Most women in prison only experienced “hood” fighting. A serious of wild haymakers punctuated by some kicks to the ribs or head once the foe was on the ground. True fighting skills, offensive and defensive, were not part of the standard repertoire for these ladies.