“Look…” Erin said, holding up a hand.
“Then, we’re supposed to call black people black. Which is cool, it’s the color they are. And then, that’s racist.”
“You’re not getting it…”
“And finally, they decide they’re African-Americans – which should be insulting to anyone who’s actually been to Africa.”
“You’ve been to Africa?” Erin asked, surprised.
“No,” Tall Bill said, shaking his head. “I watch the news, though. Does anyone really want to be from Africa?”
“Again, not what I was saying…”
“And then they go and use the word…”
Erin was on him in a millisecond. Hand wrapped around his throat. “Don’t,” he said, “Use. That. Word.”
“Who said I was gonna?” Bill wheezed.
“What word were you planning on using?”
Bill’s eyes darted around the cell as he grasped at an alternative. “Brother?” he asked.
Erin let go of his throat and Tall Bill slumped against the bars. Rubbed the sore spot a moment, eyeing Erin.
“What’s your problem, anyway?” he asked. “I was trying to compliment her.”
“That,” Erin said, and nodded at him. “You were trying to compliment her by calling her a ‘Nubian Princess.’ There’s nothing complimentary about telling a black woman she’s black. Or a white woman she’s white. Calling her a ‘Nubian Princess’ is just as racist and wrong as calling a white girl an ‘Arian Princess.’”
“Is this because you’re half black?” Bill asked.
“No,” Erin told him. “It’s because I’m half white.”
Tall Bill thought about that a moment. “You’ll never guess what just happened,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You just beat me in a debate.”
Erin smiled. “Child’s play,” he said.
Fifteen
Bowers sighed, trying to let all the pieces fall into place. He was out Sam. Chris was the next in line. But he looked like he couldn’t take much more. It wasn’t just that he needed a shave. It could have been he just needed to sleep. But there was something else. Something… off, that Bowers had never seen before in all the years he had known the young man.
Brooks was capable, but he wasn’t a leader. Pope could handle it, but he didn’t have the stones for the rough stuff. Couldn’t be trusted to keep the men in line properly.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Chris moves into Sam’s position. Brooks, you take over as my second. Pope will be your second,” he told Chris. “I’m going to alternate shifts from here out. I’ve got day. Chris is in charge at night. Six PM to six AM. I’ll take the day shift. Six AM to Six PM. Understood?”
They all nodded.
“Why am I night shift?” Pope asked.
“Because I need Chris to have the absolute best administrator he can have until he gets the hang of things,” Bowers told him. Then swept his gaze over the others. “And, because we’ll be letting the prisoners out of lock down tomorrow. Which means I need my brains at night and my brawn during the day.”
Brooks nodded.
“Why are we coming out of lock down?” Chris asked. “We don’t have the man power to run this place with them locked up, let alone out.”
“The Shot Callers are going to control the population,” Pope explained. “The Warden spoke with them earlier. They’re set to take the deal tomorrow morning.”
“And then we come out of lock down and try to figure out a routine where we all stay alive,” Bowers said.
“So that’s it, then,” Chris said, nodding slowly. “This is it. We’re stuck in here.”
“For now,” Bowers told him. “We just have to make the best of it. How many people were in those buses?”
“Seventy-something,” Chris said.
“Seventy-eight,” Brooks corrected, “including Bryce and Marshall. It started out seventy-six with Steve. Plus the two from the sheriff’s office. Steve rode with Chris, and Bryce and Marshall each drove a bus.”
“Fine.” Bowers thought a moment. “That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”
There was a light knock at the door, Bowers beckoned them in, and Mystique stepped in with Mercedes.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Bowers told them. “Sean, you’re night shift, Harold, day shift. That’s all for now.”
The guards all stood. Chris crossed around the table to the Warden. “What’s she doing here?” he asked, pointing at Mercedes.
Warden Bowers looked at him sideways. “I told you, we’re coming out of lock down.”
“And?”
“And, she’s going to be my go-between for the female prisoners. Look,” Bowers said, and sighed, “you’re exhausted, son, go get some rest. Take Watkins’ office, rack out. You’re on in a few hours. The prisoners will still be locked down tonight. Tomorrow I’ll walk you through how it’s all going to work.”
“Tomorrow,” Chris said, nodding. “Right.”
Sixteen
Marshall swung the lug wrench and connected with the temple of a creeper as it lumbered closer to the buses. There was a crack and the thing went down in a heap. Three more coming up now, getting closer.
“I said two minutes,” he quietly cursed the kid, who had introduced himself as Jack Boyd. Twenty-one and currently employed at the Jiffy-Lube, he was having trouble getting the bus back up. He was a hundred feet away and had no way of hearing Marshall, but Marshall cursed him anyway.
He kicked out and sent a creeper no taller than three feet reeling back, then brought the lug wrench around and took out the neck of what could have possibly once been the child’s father. The creeper went sideways, twitching.
The next was almost within range. Marshall paced himself. It could barely see him anyway, he remembered. Took a step sideways and brought his right foot down on the base of the fallen creeper’s skull. Crushing it. Then one forward, bringing the third in range and heaved the wrench up in an uppercut. The heavy tool split the throat open, blood erupting and running down the female creeper’s shirt, soaking her flowered dress.
Came back around and put the wrench just behind her ear, sending her sprawling.
The kid was back now, running at him. He waited until it was just a fraction of a second away and then sidestepped. Letting the small creeper run past him, diving. He gave it an extra push as it passed, slamming face first into the concrete barrier. Slid down, a streak of red left in its wake.
“Ten more minutes,” Marshall whispered. “And my bus is moving. With, or without the others.
Seventeen
“I don’t know why you’re pushing this so hard,” Erin told Tall Bill. “It’s obvious Jessie’s into you. She painted that for you.”
He pointed at the painting of Tall Bill, triumphant over the guards. Jessie draped over him.
“So, why are you trying to hook me up with Mercedes?” he asked.
“I’m not,” Bill told him. “I just offered up the idea of you maybe being interested in a Nubian Princess, and you defended her honor. Which makes me think that you’re very interested in the gorgeous inmate whose skin happens to resemble your complexion. Only darker.”
Erin shook his head. “I didn’t ‘defend her honor,’” he said, “I just said that she’s a beautiful woman whether she’s black or white. It makes no difference.”
Bill smiled at him. “I could ask Jessie if she’s into you. You know, just hint around about it.”
Erin looked at him balefully. “This is prison, Bill, not fucking high school.”
Bill laughed. “I’m just saying,” he said.
Harper, the overweight guard that had originally taken Erin to Pope to be taken to Warden Bowers, approached the door. Waved to another guard. The door started to open. “Warden wants to see you,” Harper told Gibbs.
“Again?”
Harper nodded. “Again,” he said.
Eighteen
Chris sat down in
Watkins’ chair and sighed heavily. Spun it around, snatching up the remote as he did, and flipped on the television. There was nothing on. Literally. Just fuzz. He switched it off and tossed the remote in the trash can.
Spun again and looked out the window. It was so bright outside. He got up and crossed the office to the window. Looked out a moment, the female yard spread out below. Pulled the blinds and shut out the sun.
Went back to the chair and sat down. The room dark and quiet.
He just needed rest, he told himself. A good night’s sleep. Watkins’ had a couch. If he just curled up on that couch, he’d be fine. Get a good few hours. How long did he have until six? He checked the clock. Not long. But if he could just really sleep, instead of lay on cold concrete, it would help. It had to.
“It won’t help,” his voice whispered.
“Shut up,” he told it.
“It won’t save you.”
“I said ‘shut up.’”
“When were you bit?” it asked. “Two days from when? Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
Chris tried to ignore the voice, but he couldn’t deny the point. When had it been? Almost dark. Two days before.
But he was fine.
He had a bit of a cough. His arm was fucked. He was hearing voices. Sweating all the time. Tremors. Muscle spasms. Hallucinating…
“I’ll be seeing you soon,” the voice whispered.
Nineteen
“Have a seat,” Bowers told Mercedes.
She shifted a bit in her orange prison uniform, and then walked around the Warden – where he was seated on the corner of the long conference table – went to the chair furthest from him, and sat down. The Warden chuckled into his fist, and then spun on the corner so he was half-facing her, only able to look in her eyes by turning his head.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “It won’t sound right for me to come out and say it. Sounds crazy. So let me try and start from the beginning:
“There was a virus,” he began, “called the four-seventeen-B, and it was killing people. A lot of people. The CDC requested entry to Brennick to check on the health of the prisoners. I refused. With me so far?”
She nodded.
“Shortly after the last phone call I received from the CDC, everything went offline. TV, phones, internet, everything. I sent a team of men to figure out the problem. They didn’t come back.”
He paused. “I sent a secondary team out to find the first team,” he explained. “Four men. One came back.”
Mercedes stared at him.
“The man who made it back, Chris, told one hell of a story. It seems that after the virus killed these people, they came back. Not necessarily ‘to life.’ They’re… Oh hell,” he huffed, “they’re zombies.”
Mercedes laughed at him.
“What?”
“You’re right. It sounds fucking stupid. You really expected me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth,” he growled at her.
“Sure. Whatever.”
There was a knock at the door. Warden Bowers said, “Perfect timing,” and got up. Crossed to the door and opened it.
“Mercedes,” Bowers said, “let me introduce Erin Gibbs. He’s a friend of mine.”
Twenty
Marshall snapped the head of a creeper dressed in a white lab coat. The body dropped to the cold pavement atop two others. He was getting tired. But, most of all, he hadn’t liked the business from the beginning. Marshall was tough because he had to be. Had to be if he wanted to protect his sisters growing up. He learned to fight to protect people, not bully them.
Not kill them.
He heard a bus engine turn over and spun. A boy ran up to him.
“Jack got it going,” he said, breathless. “We can go!”
“About damn time,” Marshall said, and kicked a creeper in the gut. Brought his wrench down on its skull as it was bent over. “Let’s go,” he told the boy, and took his hand.
They ran back to the buses.
The occupants of Marshall’s bus still inside, cowering. Jack had the door to the first bus open and was ushering people in.
“You can drive this thing, right?” Marshall asked him.
Jack nodded quickly. “No big deal,” he said.
“Alright,” Marshall said. “Now, I’m going to pull around you and take the lead. You just follow me close and keep your eyes on the road. I’m not stopping again.”
He squinted at Jack.
“Understood?”
Jack nodded again.
“These people are depending on you,” Marshall reminded him. “Their lives are in your hands.”
“Understood,” Jack said, and climbed into the bus.
Marshall walked back to his. Stopped at the door and looked at the closest creeper. Long, blonde hair, now matted to her pale, purple skin. Dried blood across her face. Flowing night gown, once white, now bruised with blood and dirt. He watched it, as it came across the street. All the way on the other side of the highway. Drawn by the screams. Looking for food. Searching for prey.
It was his youngest sister: Samantha.
Twenty-One
“Chow time,” Jessie said when she got to Erin and Tall Bill’s cell. She looked inside, and followed with: “Where’s that hunky cell mate of yours?”
Bill shrugged. “Warden wanted to talk to him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jessie asked, scrunched up her face. “That guy’s popular today. Sadie’s up talking to him right now, too.”
She shrugged. “Anyway,” she said, and slid the tray in, “I got him his bottle back.”
She passed the bottle of scotch to Tall Bill, who smiled.
“How’d you manage that?” he asked.
“Mercedes isn’t the big bad bitch she pretends to be. Besides, she shouldn’t be drinking.”
Tall Bill eyed her. “Is that so?” he asked.
Jessie sucked in a breath and covered her mouth. Bill smiled at her and settled onto his bunk. Scotch bottle on the bed next to him. His tray on his lap.
“How’d that happen?” he asked.
Jessie snarled at him, “If you tell anyone what I just told you, I’ll…”
“What?” Bill asked, acting shocked. “That she shouldn’t be drinking? I know lots of people who shouldn’t drink for lots of different reasons. Like me, I really shouldn’t be drinking, but I’m going to do it anyway.”
He picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Held it out to her. “How about you,” he asked, “should you be drinking?”
She took the bottle. Had a taste. Handed it back.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“I would never break your trust. You own my soul.”
She laughed. “God,” she said, “you are the lamest guy I’ve ever met, you know that? If we were out in the world, I wouldn’t even let you buy me a drink.”
Bill looked hurt. “Why?” he asked. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You’ve got no game,” she told him. “You can’t just spout off shit you saw in movies. Just because it worked for Harrison Ford doesn’t mean it’ll work for you.”
He frowned.
“Look,” she said, “you’re cute enough, in a puppy dog way, but not in an ‘I want to sleep with him way.’ I’m not saying that to be a bitch, but if you want to get into my panties, you better figure out something better than ‘you own my soul.’”
“Like what?” He perked up at the mention of her panties. “Like poetry?”
“Holy fuck,” Jessie said, and shook her head. “I’m a convicted murderer, does it seem like poetry would work on me?”
“You’re an artist,” he said. “You’re supposed to be a romantic.”
“Like Gibbs,” she told him. “Act like Gibbs.”
“But I’m not Gibbs. I’m Tall Bill. I don’t want to act like anyone but Tall Bill.”
“See,” she said, and po
inted at his chest, “that was good. Back bone. That’s more like it.”
Bill frowned again, totally confused.
“You know, flirt. Like he does with Mercedes.”
“You mean like with the poison?”
“Exactly,” she told him. “I mean, I don’t know how you ever got a girl on the outside.”
“I was always drunk,” he explained. “It made me confident.”
“Probably made you an asshole, too.”
He shrugged. “No more than normal,” he said. He thought a moment, and then asked, “What did you say?”
“When?”
“A minute ago. About Gibbs flirting with Mercedes.”
“I said ‘like he does with Mercedes.’ Like with the poison and all of that. How he calls her Miss Mercedes and stuff. He’s always giving her stuff, or getting up closer to her. Like when he pushes you out of the way to come sit there.” She pointed where Bill was sitting now. “To be closer to her.”
“And that tells you he’s into her, right?”
“Hell, yes. And she never pulls back. She gives him shit, but never tries to get further away from him.”
Bill laughed.
“What?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just, they’re both in the Warden’s office.” He looked Jessie in the eyes. “I was just thinking if she wasn’t already pregnant, she probably would be soon.”
Twenty-Two
Marshall watched her approach. She was moving so slow. Lumbering along. Her hands limp at her sides. Fifty feet away. Just coming off the shoulder.
He didn’t know what to do.
He couldn’t kill her, could he? Never. But, how could he leave her like this? Marshall had checked the houses of both his sisters, and they had been empty. Totally devoid of life. Part of him had been glad for it. The lack in closure of never knowing. Leaving some hope there.
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