Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  In the dream, I was smelling gunpowder.

  In reality, I was smelling the residue from a gun barrel.

  The sharp jab to my ribs snapped me awake. My hand instinctively reached beneath my pillow, but before I could draw the Glock, the muzzle of a rifle dug into the soft flesh beneath my chin.

  "No no, sleepyhead," said Wilfredo, wagging a finger at me. He smiled and put the finger back inside the trigger guard. "Let's go, gringo, you don't wanna miss all the excitement."

  I sat up rubbing my eyes, hoping to steal a few seconds to gather myself.

  "What's wrong?" I tried, and was rewarded with another barrel-jab. This one said the time for talking was over. On the floorboard was a mostly-empty bottle of water. I grabbed it and unscrewed the cap. Wilfredo wasn’t pleased, insistent with the rifle's business end.

  "Gimme a fucking second!” I spat, glaring at him. Water had dribbled down my chin. I swiped it away, then yanked my shirttails out of my pants to wipe my hands. Grudgingly, I got out of the Ford and let him prod me towards the tin can, the rifle against my back.

  There was a commotion going on by the open trailer door. Madelyn was screaming, Greg on his knees outside, blood dripping from a split lip. I knew what was happening, and only Wilfredo's gun pressing into my spine kept me from doing something stupid.

  "Awww, what’s wrong? She don't wanna come out an’ play, Greggy-poo?" Westfield taunted, holding a bottle in one hand and his cock in the other. "What, she don't want any of this? Or is it you who don't wanna share? What’samatter, worried she might like mine better?"

  Greg lunged at him, but Franco's boot caught him on the side of the head, leaving him sprawled on his back, coughing blood. Inside the tin can, Madelyn's screech reached a fevered pitch.

  "Sounds like Esteban is willing to share with your woman," Westfield chuckled. "So why you don't wanna share with the rest of us, huh?"

  "Fuck...you..." Greg managed. Westfield just laughed. He took a long swig of booze and spat it into Greg's bloody face. Greg's eyes clamped shut and he curled into a ball.

  "What do you think, Carl? Not very nice of your buddy, refusing to share his pussy with us, is it? Not when we share our food, our bullets, our water with you miserable--"

  I wanted to make my move, but suddenly it wasn't just Madelyn screaming. Esteban’s voice rose, tortured and desperate. His shrieks carried through the Airstream’s outer skin like it was made of paper.

  Madelyn fell quiet.

  Esteban, however, did not.

  Even Westfield turned to look at the door and what was flying through it. Esteban, throwing himself onto the ground beside Greg, clutching his belly. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and a dark liquid poured through his sausagy fingers.

  "What the fuck?!" Westfield shouted, looking at his man. Then Esteban tried to stand, and a foot of rubbery intestine spilled out of him.

  "W-wal..." he choked between sobs. "Walkers!"

  "Dios mio!" Wilfredo cried, leaving me to see what had happened to his friend. I watched his horror out of the corner of my eye, easing my Smith & Wesson from the pancake holster at the small of my back. I’d caught a break—the untucked shirt had been just enough to keep the Smitty concealed. I jammed the barrel into Wilfredo's temple, and blew his brains onto the desert floor.

  Franco never got to draw. I pumped one into his chest and one into his throat and he hit the ground like a bird with clipped wings. Marco tried to run, but he stepped straight into the path of another bullet, this one meant for me. His back blew out like he’d swallowed a grenade. For a split second, I could see the fat tube of one of Westfield’s heavy-duty toys through his hollowed-out midsection. Marco's legs churned once more, but his torso bent sideways and he practically came apart.

  Esteban was still rolling around, trying to contain his unspooling innards. Unarmed, Greg grabbed hold of whatever he could and savagely played tug of war with him. A dozen feet of Esteban’s digestive system lay in the dirt before he finally lost consciousness.

  It was Westfield I wanted, but in the chaos he had disappeared, opting for retreat over a firefight. That chickenshit prick. He’d been unarmed, too. But why should it have surprised me? He hadn’t needed a gun, not with the rest of his horny lapdogs watching his back.

  Madelyn stalked out of the trailer. Ramos, who’d accidentally turned Marco into hamburger, popped his head up, only to have it taken off by a .30 06 round right between the eyes. Madelyn’s face was hard as she scanned the area for Westfield’s remaining men.

  I moved toward Greg, just in time to see Heather hop off the bottom step.

  Her tiny hands and feet were black, swollen with pooled blood. One of Greg’s belts had been fashioned into a leather gag, but the four year old had been gnawing at it for some time, and had finally chewed through it. The buckle held it there, where it had bitten into her rotting flesh.

  I checked the trailer. Only Esteban had been inside when Heather had overcome her restraint. Good.

  I saw the long guns standing behind the driver’s seat, and shifted my gaze to the space where they’d been stored. The closet stood open, the panel on the inside of the door riddled with claw marks, places where tiny, four year old fingernails had worked to escape the standing coffin. I was out of bullets in my back-up gun, so I grabbed the nearest rifle and checked the magazine. It was full.

  Somewhere out there, another gunshot sounded. I heard a scream. One more gunshot and then silence.

  I tracked Westfield to the Suburban. He saw me coming, and edged toward the door, which had been left open. We were standing on the driver’s side.

  “Don’t,” I warned him. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He shifted his feet. He was perhaps two feet from the door. I raised the rifle and took aim. Westfield took another half-step, then stood and put up his hands.

  "Listen, Carl, hear me out. You guys know full well you can't survive out here without me. Put the gun down and we'll hash this out like men, all right? Don't tell me you haven't been eyeing the last piece of ass on the planet ever since—“

  I don’t know what he saw. Maybe nothing. Could be he just guessed that I was about to pull the trigger, or maybe he read something in my eyes. Whatever it was, he went for the Uzi.

  The shot tore through the side of his face, dropping the merc to his knees, keeping him from reaching it. He turned to look at me, a raw trench of missing flesh bisecting his cheek. Bone showed through. With a mighty effort, he pushed himself back to his feet, using the Suburban to keep him upright.

  "Fine, be fucking stupid," he said through clenched teeth. "Go ahead, Carl. Pull the trigger and kill me. See what happens."

  So I killed him. One in the heart, right through the breastbone. He fell to his knees, eyes rolled back, and was gone.

  I found Greg leaning against the side of the tin can. Madelyn was walking back, Heather toddling along beside her. Greg slowly took in the carnage. He looked pained when he turned to face me, and I knew it had nothing to do with what had happened tonight.

  I bit my lip, turned away from him, and put a bullet into my goddaughter’s forehead.

  Madelyn shrieked, her face sprayed with brainmeal. Heather did a slow pirouette, then fell over onto her side.

  I held my gun loose but at the ready, wary of Madelyn. She might have reloaded, I didn’t know. She dropped to the ground beside Heather, cradling her daughter’s body. Her howls sliced through me like razor blades.

  Madelyn dropped the .30 06 and snatched up one of the guns that lay scattered on the ground. It was a large caliber Colt. She waved it at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

  "How?" she demanded, looking at me with haunted eyes. "How could you?"

  I had no answer. I stood there, letting the gun go slack in my hands. If she decided to pull the trigger, to send me to join Westfield, Franco, Esteban and the others, I wouldn't have tried to stop her.

  She didn't. She shook her head, her body racked with sobs. She stroked Heather's bloody hair, then stuf
fed the barrel of the Colt in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Greg never said another word. He walked sluggishly to the Suburban, took out the shovel, hooked it on Franco’s belt and slung it over his shoulder. He scooped up both his wife and his daughter, and began walking west. I waited all day for him to return.

  I never saw him again.

  I spent the day getting things ready while waiting for Greg—when I still thought he might come back. I made sure that none of Westfield’s flunkies were going to rise, and pounded the rod Marco used to bank the fires into the ground, waiting for the mercenary to stir.

  It took about an hour. I returned to where I’d staked Westfield’s body, and watched. When his eyes found me, I gave him a good, long look. He fought against the rope, but I’d buried the stakes deep. He wasn’t going anywhere. I strolled up beside him, and stared into his dead eyes. He’d carried his hatred over with him, that much was clear. I was glad.

  Esteban had carried a machete. It was a nicked up, savage thing, and I used it to take Westfield’s head off. It took three swings—none of that one-shot bullshit you see in jungle movies. Then I dragged his corpse over to the rod, and jammed his head down so the sonofabitch could watch himself rot.

  I unhitched the Ford from the tin can late that afternoon, and loaded up most of the guns and the rest of the ammo. I emptied the remaining food from the Airstream, leaving Greg enough to last a week, maybe a little longer. I jammed the Suburban’s keys into the ignition, where he couldn’t miss them, assuming he came back. But I didn’t think he would.

  I could probably get all the way to the canals on the stuff I had, and that was my plan. Our plan, from the beginning. Get to the shipping lanes, maybe find someplace the plague hadn’t reached.

  It still seemed ridiculous, but I started the Ford and threw it into drive.

  I stopped after only a few yards, put the truck in neutral and hopped out. I went back to the Suburban, and used a chunk of Wilfredo's skull to leave a message on the windshield.

  Dallas.

  I threw the scrap of bone into the dust and bowed my head.

  I prayed for forgiveness.

  And I prayed for a chance.

  EX ROW INMATE

  The last few things Ronnie James could remember weren’t very clear, but details were slowly coming back to him. The fuzzy, dreamlike quality was fading, the storyline resolving itself. It started with needle pricks. Two of them, one in each arm. Then hands, strong ones, manipulating his arms, accompanied by the ragged sound of tape being torn off a roll. Then nothing for a few moments, before the burn and tingle as the IV lines were flushed. There was conversation, but he didn’t participate. It was chatter, nothing more. After someone in charge voiced their approval, men stationed on each side of the gurney began tightening the straps that would keep him immobilized for the procedure.

  “The procedure.” That’s what they called it. Ronnie James couldn’t help himself. He smirked, shaking his head at how absurd it all was.

  The straps were fastened. Two across the legs, one across his chest. When the injection sites had been deemed satisfactory, the wrist restraints were cinched and buckled. The entire process took seven and a half minutes. This was, “Not bad,” according to a man whose job it was to record such things. Ronnie wondered if there was an employee incentive for promptness.

  He tried to keep his breathing steady. He refused to give Crab and Busboy the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. Not now. Especially not now.

  Walter Crabtree and Des Peters wheeled 57-C511 into the execution chamber, trailed by Eddie Belle and Doc Halliday, who seemed a little superfluous to Des. Father Keenan, the chaplain, kept pace, even though 57-C511 had dismissed him, saying his services wouldn’t be required. But 57-C511 had listed a religion on his inmate admittance sheet and had never bothered to remove it, so the man was approved to attend, in the event 57-C511 had a last-minute change of heart. Neither Walter nor Des expected that, but you never could tell. They’d seen harder men crumble standing at death’s door. Besides, having the preacher on hand meant no time would be wasted should 57-C511 suddenly desire the solace of clergy.

  Des, Walter and Eddie knew Ronnie by name, of course, but today was different. Protocol called for a clinical, detached approach. They were to avoid speaking to the inmate if at all possible. Some huggy-feely type who’d been on the board when the state’s execution guidelines were revised was under the impression it would help guards deal with the trauma of participating in the taking of a life. Des wasn’t sure about Walter, but he and Bell were on the same page where all of that was concerned. That page fell under H—for Horseshit.

  Des had been working at the prison for eight years, the past two on a rotation for carrying out executions. The twelve men in the pool for such assignments got a nice bump in their take-home for the occasional extra shift, which they referred to amongst themselves as Trash Detail. As in—‘taking out the trash.’

  Feeling like Boris Karloff in The Mummy, able only to move his head from side to side, Ronnie looked through the window into the observation room. On the other side sat four reporters. Ronnie recognized none of them. They appeared disinterested, as if they’d seen this all before. Maybe they had.

  Ronnie turned away. Noticed Keenan thumbing through his bible, his heart not really in it. He wondered what would happen if he asked for a rabbi, saying he wanted to convert to Judaism. Didn’t it take months to go Jew? Had anyone who’d come before him ever tried that? Probably, he decided, and gave up on the idea. Besides, he had no use for God. It seemed hypocritical to use Mr. Make-Believe to try and buy himself a little more time.

  He returned his attention to the observation window, to the four bored reporters and the six empty chairs. No family, no friends. Tanya, his ex-girlfriend, wouldn’t be able to make it, either. Couldn’t blame her, though. That one was on him. He’d stabbed her twenty-nine times and left the knife, fingerprints and all, buried in her right tit, before collapsing onto the couch to watch The Simpsons. Two blocks away, Tanya’s sixteen year old cousin and her good-for-nothing half-breed mother were sporting some holes of their own. Eight and seventeen, respectively. Unfortunately, eight hadn’t been enough, not for the little bitch. She’d lived long enough to dial 9-1-1 while he zoned out in front of the tube a few feet from Tanya’s ripening corpse.

  Bad decision, as it turned out. He figured by the time the show was over, he’d have come down a little. He’d smoke some meth, get his ass out of the apartment and head for San Antonio. Easy. No problem.

  He never even made it off the couch. A year and a half later, he went down for triple-murder, a pair of sexual assaults in Norman, and a shooting which had left some barfly with only one lung. Hell, he hadn’t even remembered that one, not until the charges were amended before trial. DNA connected him to both rape victims. The same knife he’d left sticking out of Tanya had been used on the cousin and her mom. An Oklahoma City jury took exactly forty-three minutes to convict him of capital murder, six counts of rape, aggravated assault, drug possession and grand theft. The bailiff had been more than a little enthusiastic with the cuffs prepping him for transport. Ronnie tried to picture him, but couldn’t. He struggled to remember the bus ride, who was sitting next to him. Couldn’t. All that came back to him was the screw they called Busboy, giving everybody the stink eye and acting tough with the stun baton. Busboy… Yeah, he was coming through clear as day. He’d been one of the screws manning the syringes.

  Must’ve gotten a promotion, Ronnie remembered thinking, just before the warden gave the go-ahead. There was no last-minute stay from the Supreme Court. No eleventh-hour reprieve from the Governor.

  And so, as expected, Ronald Eugene James had been put to death by the state, unable to avoid the hot shot despite two escape attempts and one near-miss with a shiv while awaiting trial.

  Waking up, now that had been a twist. Ronnie didn’t believe the world had any surprises left for him. He’d been wrong, though. That much was clear the mi
nute he yanked the sheet off and found himself in the cold storage locker in H Unit’s tiny morgue.

  The morgue. He didn’t have a toe tag, but there was no doubt about where he was. The fact that he was naked, his face covered by a sheet, without restraints engaged was proof enough. He raised his right arm and saw the bruise where the IV line had been. Smelled disinfectant on his skin and knew he’d been washed down. Undoubtedly because he’d shit himself when death came a knockin’. No shit on him now, though, just the faint hint of something that smelled like Handi Wipes.

  It was cold in the morgue, but he couldn’t feel it. He threw the sheet off and was amused to find that he had a raging hard-on. Would that go away, he wondered. If not, he’d have to find some seriously baggy pants to walk around in, like those wigga kids that hung around the hip hop clubs. Fucking little posers. At least he’d have a reason.

  He found some scrubs in a locker and pulled them on, along with a pair of sneakers. They were a size too small, but good enough to get by for now. He did a quick check, but found nothing that might be useful. The drawers were all locked. The cabinets with Plexiglas panels contained nothing but sutures and gauze and kidney-shaped trays and cotton balls and latex gloves and solutions and slides and specimen jars and enough to bore him out of his fucking mind if he kept wasting time. He needed to get moving. He’d stuck around too long once before and gotten burned. He wasn’t about to make that same mistake twice.

  He opened the morgue door and stepped into the examination room. What he found there he couldn’t quite comprehend. Drawers hung open, exposing scissors and scalpels and all sorts of fun toys. Cabinets stood ajar, their contents strewn about like somebody had ransacked the place. Bandages were everywhere. Open containers of one CC syringes. Triage kits. Ronnie remembered the clinic in holding, where he’d been taken after getting shivved in the back by some greaser who didn’t like it that Ronnie had taken liberties with Tanya’s half-breed cousin before putting the blade to her. The beaner had done a number on him with the crudely-fashioned knife before the guards had intervened. Now, Ronnie flashed back, remembered the medics running around like headless chickens in an examination room much like this one, trying to save his life.