Kurkow Prison (Berkley Street Series Book 5)

by Ron Ripley

  Yet even as the words came out of his mouth, Ollie saw it wasn't Frank that Pete had been pointing at. It was the ghosts rushing towards Frank.

  There were three of them, huge apparitions. Monstrous in the illumination of the Jeep's headlights. They attacked Frank, and he fought back.

  When Shane came through the front doors, though, Frank collapsed.

  "Oh Jesus, Ollie," Pete said. "What are we going to do?"

  Ollie could only shake his head.

  He didn't know, and his attention was focused on Shane and Mason. Ollie watched as the shotgun-toting Mason stepped past Shane, bringing the weapon up and firing off three quick shots. Each ghost disappeared.

  Behind Mason, Shane managed to close the doors, and he was threading a length of chain through the handles while Mason was reloading.

  And more ghosts arrived.

  Not many, perhaps four, if Ollie counted right, but Mason hadn't been able to reload.

  One of the ghosts punched Mason in the side of his head, and the man howled with fury. The other two rushed at Shane. The bald man twisted around and defended himself with his knuckle-dusters, all the while his left arm was limp.

  "We need to do something," Pete said, and Ollie looked at his brother in surprise.

  "What?" Ollie asked, shocked.

  "We need to help them," Pete said, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of the prison. "They're going to die."

  "Oh well," Ollie said. "You think I'm going to risk my life for them? Hell no, Pete and neither are you. I offered financial assistance, and this was the best plan they could come up with. Oh, that and renting some hotel rooms to help whoever happened to survive the assault on Mulberry Street. Get a grip, little brother. We are not going down there."

  "Ollie," Pete started to say, and then he was cut off. A pair of hands reached into the Jeep and grabbed Pete on either side of his head.

  Ollie watched, dumbfounded, as his brother shrieked. Pete's head was smashed into the glass, shattering it, and then he was dragged out of the vehicle, legs lashing out awkwardly.

  A ghost slid into Pete's recently vacated seat and looked at Ollie. He was a young man, his throat cut and his shirt dark with blood. The ghost gave Ollie a winning smile and said, "So, who are you, my fine-looking man?"

  Ollie struggled a moment to find his voice, and when he did it was low and cracked. "Ollie."

  "Ollie," the ghost said with a grin. "Short for Oliver, I assume?"

  Ollie nodded.

  The ghost glanced out the broken window, Pete no longer screaming.

  "Friend of yours?" the ghost asked, his tone light and conversational.

  "My brother," Ollie whispered.

  "Your brother?" the ghost asked, eyes wide in surprise. "Well, I do apologize for the inconvenience. Terrible thing, having to witness a sibling's death. But then, you really didn't see him die. Just the abduction, so that's alright, I suppose. Then again, you don't have to worry about it, do you?"

  "I don't know," Ollie said in a low voice. "Do I?"

  "No," the ghost said, winking. "You don't."

  "Why?" Ollie asked, even though he didn't really want an answer to the question.

  "Because," the ghost said, "we're going to kill you next."

  Chapter 58: Moving

  "Shane," Mason said. "We need to move."

  Shane nodded, stumbling away from the door.

  They reached Frank and found the man unconscious, black marks on his face and neck from where the dead had struck him. In silence, they grabbed hold of Frank and pulled him to his feet. His head lolled from side to side.

  A scream caught his attention, and he and Mason looked simultaneously at Pete's Jeep. They watched as something dragged Pete’s body out of the driver's side window, and a moment later, Pete's screams were silenced.

  "Damn it!" Shane spat. He went as fast as he could through the snow, Mason beside him. They hadn't gone more than half the distance along the walkway before another scream erupted, this one from inside the Jeep.

  The vehicle rocked back and forth for a moment and then stopped.

  Shane and Mason continued on towards the Jeep.

  A ghost slid out of the driver's door and waved at them. Mason let go of Frank and put a round into the ghost, the prisoner vanishing.

  Grunting, Shane managed to hold Frank up until Mason took up the other side again.

  When they reached the Jeep, Shane and Mason found the Dawson brothers dead. Pete's neck was twisted around to an unnatural angle, and Ollie, it seemed, had been strangled to death. There were black handprints on his neck, his skin burned from the touch of the dead.

  Shane had seen a great many dead men in his time, and it was never easy. His jaw tightened at the sight of the brothers. He hadn’t cared for either of the men, but like so many others, neither Peter nor Ollie had deserved to die the way they had.

  Shane glanced into the interior of the Jeep, the smell of urine and excrement rank thick in the air. Ollie, Shane saw, had fouled himself before he died.

  Shane shook his head and he and Mason stepped away. They opened the back door and put Frank in, Mason bending over to check his pulse. After a moment, Mason said, "We're still good."

  "Good."

  Mason glanced at Shane, closed the door and shook his head.

  "You can't drive with that arm," Mason said, stepping over Pete and getting into the driver's seat.

  "No kidding," Shane said. He went around, opened the passenger door, hesitated, and then he dragged Ollie's body out. He stripped the dead man of his jacket and spread it out over the seat. Shane felt the old disconnect in his mind, the little box where he put away his horrific acts, and those that he had seen. He put the images of the Dawson brothers in that place, and got into the Jeep.

  "You know where this Mulberry Street is exactly?" Mason asked.

  Before Shane could answer, Frank did from the back. His words were slurred, but understandable. "Left. Second right. First right. Left."

  "Good enough," Mason said, and he shifted the Jeep hard into drive.

  Shane gritted his teeth as the Jeep climbed over curbs, slammed through snow banks and made its own path under the ungentle guidance of Mason. The man drove like they were in a combat zone, and Shane realized that they were.

  The whole damned place is, Shane thought. And we're going to another fight.

  The Jeep's headlights illuminated a street sign, and Shane saw the name on it.

  Mulberry.

  Mason cut the wheel hard, and the Jeep plowed into the deep loose snow on the street. The first object to catch Shane's eye was a State Police Interceptor, and the body that was near it.

  Mason jammed on the brakes, pointed and muttered, "Holy Christ, Gunny. Look."

  Shane looked.

  At the end of Mulberry Street, a swarm of ghosts was ripping apart a house. Board by board and brick by brick.

  Chapter 59: Getting Out

  At first, Merle had argued with George. She hadn't seen any logical reason to leave the house. Not until he told her about Laura's ghost, and how the dead officer had come back to warn them.

  After the explanation, George and Merle had worked together in silence, Alison and Rachel asleep on the couch. While the two adults gathered all the supplies and clothing they could, George had to fight down a growing fear that Jess would come home.

  He had a perfect mental image of her attempting to drive down Mulberry, and of being attacked by the dead. The anxiety caused his stomach to twist into knots, his movements jerky and unsure.

  George jumped when Merle put a hand out and touched his arm.

  "Are you alright?" she whispered.

  George nodded, forced a smile and said in a low voice, "I'm worried. That's all."

  She patted his hand, then went back to putting a bag of goldfish crackers into a backpack.

  Within a short time, they had packed what food they felt they could bring and still carry the girls. George went to his bedroom and took out the last of t
he blankets from the closet. As he carried them back, he wondered if they could escape from the house. If the dead would ignore them.

  He and Merle would each have to carry one of the children, as well as a weapon. And they would have to put the sisters down in order to defend them.

  George shuddered at the thought, set the blankets on the floor and pulled on his jacket, then his backpack as Merle woke the girls up.

  He watched as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes, yawned, and listened to what Merle had to say. The girls nodded once they were told what they had to do, and George was amazed at the calm demeanor that each child possessed.

  "They're resilient," Merle said, smiling over Alison's head at George. "Children always are."

  George could only take her word for it as he held out a blanket and wrapped Rachel up in it. The girl snuggled against him, yawned again and closed her eyes.

  Time to go, George realized, and he turned to face the front door with growing trepidation.

  Chapter 60: Sights on Mulberry Street

  "We've got people coming out," Shane said, leaning forward in his seat.

  "Where," Mason started, then he said, "wait, yeah. I see them."

  "Can the Jeep make it?" Shane asked.

  "So long as the others don't try and stop us," Mason said, and he down-shifted.

  "How bad is it?" Frank asked, sitting up, his voice thick.

  "Bad," Mason answered.

  Wincing, Shane unzipped his coat, pulled his injured arm across his chest and stuffed his hand under his armpit. Stars exploded around the edges of his vision, but he ignored the pain and closed the jacket.

  "You hurt?" Frank asked.

  Shane nodded.

  "Can you handle a weapon?" the former monk asked.

  "I've got my right hand," Shane said. "I'll use the knuckle-dusters. What about you?"

  "No," Frank said. "I'd shoot someone. I'm useless right now."

  "Can you help someone through the snow?" Mason asked.

  "What?" Frank said, confused.

  "Screw it," Shane said. "We're close enough. Frank, you're with me. Mason, shotgun, protect the Jeep. It's the only way we'll get them out of here."

  The Jeep ground to a halt and Shane got out, his arm sending sharp bursts of pain into his skull, which vibrated from the same pain. Frank stepped out a moment later.

  "Come on," Shane said, as he started through the thick snow towards the people. He could see two adults carrying large bundles.

  "Damn," Frank said, "they have kids with them."

  Shane could only nod. The cold was making his injuries throb. Each step and every breath was a challenge. Beyond the people, Shane could see the house, the dead continued to destroy it.

  "There's someone in that house!" A woman shouted, pulling the scarf in front of her face down. "There's an old man who lives there."

  Shane glanced at Frank and saw the man wouldn't be able to help him. The distance was too far.

  "Get them back to Mason and the Jeep," Shane said. "If you see me fall. Don't come for me. Let me go. Get them to Asa."

  Frank didn't argue. Instead, he focused his attention on the people in front of them.

  "This is Frank," Shane said, walking towards the strangers. "He's going to bring you to the Jeep."

  With that said, he passed by them and made his way towards the end of Mulberry Street. In the crisp stillness, he heard the house being torn asunder. He saw prisoners doing the damage, a swarm of them ripping every shred they could off the frame. On the outer edge of the crowd, forming a cordon, there was a thin line of guards. They watched all of it and the idea that the destruction was condoned, and monitored, sent a new tendril of fear into Shane's heart.

  A high, sharp scream punctured the air, a gunshot following.

  The prisoners surged forward in silence and Shane tried to hurry forward.

  One of the guards stopped, turned and faced him.

  "This isn't your concern," the dead man said. "We need to be avenged."

  "You can't kill him," Shane said. "You've killed enough people."

  The guard shrugged. "And how will you stop us?"

  Another scream cut off Shane's response.

  They had dragged the old man out, his arms and legs stretched. Fear was etched on the man's face, and Shane stepped forward. The guard shook his head, reached out, and Shane slashed the man, the ghost vanishing.

  Even as Shane pushed forward, the prisoners began to kill the man.

  Chapter 61: Edmund has a Discussion

  The cold on Edmund's face was a blast of hot air compared to the hands of the dead.

  Anger bubbled at the edges of his thoughts as he remembered his failure. He had sought to save himself the agony of a slow death, and to deny the dead any sort of satisfaction.

  Will they expect me to be sorry? Edmund wondered. Will they demand me to beg for forgiveness?

  He wouldn’t of course. And he couldn’t. Lying was impossible, and he had never, ever felt badly about the accident.

  The only event he regretted, was not being able to pull the trigger fast enough when the dead had broken into the house. They had ripped the pistol out of his hands, a single shot firing as his finger broke in the trigger guard.

  Edmund kept his expression impassive as they held him steady.

  With slow, maddening movements they stripped his clothes off him, his skin blackening with every touch. Soon he was naked, the dead pressed close around him, and he felt sharp, hideous pinching. He shrieked until his throat was raw and felt as though it was going to burst.

  One of the dead held up a piece of bloody meat, pressed between forefinger and thumb, and Edmund knew it was his own flesh.

  He closed his eyes against the horror of it, but someone pried them open, finally ripping the lids off in frustration.

  When hands reached into his body and broke off a rib, Edmund felt his heart stop. And while the pain continued on for a moment, he relaxed, for he knew he was finally dying.

  Chapter 62: A Frenzy of Dead

  Shane tightened his grip on his knuckle-dusters and looked at the dead around the shattered house. Some of them turned and focused their attention on him, the remainder were still intent upon shredding the body of the old man.

  Adrenalin surged through Shane and he knew he had reached the end.

  He wouldn't survive the fight, not with so many of the dead in front of him. Not with only a single piece of iron for defense, and an arm that was next to useless.

  Shane grinned and took a step forward.

  A prisoner came in from the right, and Shane cut him down. As the ghost vanished, the others hesitated, suddenly wary of the knuckle-dusters. Yet even as they hung back, still more turned around.

  Shane was now the focus of attention.

  Who really wants to live forever? Shane asked himself, and he lunged forward. Dead hands struck him, each blow painful as cold shot through his clothing and into his flesh. Shane found himself laughing, great billows of white issuing from his mouth as he attacked and defended.

  The ghosts formed a circle around him as they had the old man, and for a moment, Shane wondered if he, too, would be stripped down and gutted.

  The thought was obliterated by the sound of shotguns being fired.

  Ghosts vaporized around him and something tore through Shane's left ear. He let out a howl of pain mixed with rage. Blood rushed down his neck from the wound, soaking into his undershirt. A ghost stepped in and Shane snarled as he thrust his hand through it.

  The ghosts pressed in closer while Shane continued to fight. Again the shotguns were fired, this time towards the ghosts on either side of him.

  "Shane!" Frank yelled. "Drop!"

  Shane dropped into the snow, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. The shotguns roared, then another one sounded again.

  "You good, Shane?" Frank asked.

  "Yeah," he said. "Fantastic. Which one of you meatheads hit me?"

  "Not it, Gunny" Mason said.

 
"Probably me," Frank said. "Still out of it."

  Before Shane could answer, the dead rushed at them.

  He didn't have time to get out of his sitting position, and he was forced to remain where he was. Fear gripped him as the cold of the snow and the winter air worked into his flesh.

  A curious silence fell over him, and Shane heard nothing. Not even his own heartbeat. The world seemed to hesitate, as if someone had pressed pause on a movie. Each ghost moved a fraction at a time, and Shane watched the battle unfold around him.

  The shotguns were silent as they fired, the only sign of their existence being the vanishing of ghosts in ones and twos and threes.

  Shane forced himself back to his feet, grinding his teeth at the pain in his arm. To remain on the ground would be his death, and Shane found he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of dying on Mulberry Street.

  A short, thick prisoner, looking more like a sickly toad than a poisoned dead man, delivered a blow to Shane’s injured arm, and Shane screamed. Furious, he struck the ghost with the knuckle-dusters, causing it to vanish. Even as he did so another ghost appeared, latching onto Shane’s left hand and tearing off his glove.

  The sudden cold sent a fresh shiver through Shane, and he punched the iron through the ghost’s face. Shane’s stolen glove dropped to the churned snow at his feet.

  A prisoner and a guard attacked, and before Shane could react, the guard had hold of his left arm, while the prisoner secured his right. The guard held up Shane’s left hand, gripping it by his coat, and a second guard arrived. This man was taller and wore captain’s bars on his collar. A sense of power emanated from the new ghost, as he whispered, “You shouldn’t have tried to interrupt us.”

  Shane fought against the ghosts holding him. The dead captain reached out and took hold of Shane’s exposed left pinky finger.

  The pain was immense, and Shane would have collapsed to his knees if the dead hadn’t held him up. His vision blurred and when it returned to focus, he saw the captain had let go of the pinky, that particular digit black.