Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  This place had been tossed, all right, but not by cons. Cons would’ve emptied the place of anything with a point. Which was exactly what Ronnie did, liberating a handful of scalpels and a wicked-looking pair of shears, slipping them into his pockets. He was heading for the door, scalpel in hand, when static crackled behind him.

  “Code Red, repeat, Code red. Units C, G and F, now in lockdown. Repeat, Units C, G and F now in lockdown. All personnel return to your unit stations and wait for further instructions, Sheriff’s department and emergency backup are en route.”

  Ronnie wasn’t privy to the internal workings of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary, but it sounded to him like the shit was hitting the fan, big time. A riot? Could be, he guessed. It would certainly explain some things. But something didn’t quite feel right. He didn’t know what yet, but things weren’t adding up.

  Claxons were sounding. He crossed to the door and listened. Heard the sound of booted feet hustling down the corridor. Then a gunshot.

  Oklahoma State was a maximum security pen. There were minimum-security buildings on the property, but those were newer, and both were outside the original, fifteen-hundred acre site. Add-ons to ease overcrowding. That’s where the state stuck its check-forgers and identity thieves, its insurance scamsters and bullshit artists. But H Unit was the equivalent of supermax. It housed hardcore sons-of-bitches. Inmates under disciplinary or administrative segregation. Gang-bangers who had a ticket out on them. The Aryan Brotherhood hitters, or the cartel boys. And of course, death row. All the inmates waiting for their date with the needle, and the execution chamber itself.

  No way had a riot broken out in H Unit. Not with three guards for every con, and only a dozen or so cons in the whole joint. If Ronnie remembered right, he’d been unlucky number thirteen, and the only one with an execution date this month. Crab, Busboy and Belle had carried out the order. That would’ve left only a dozen cons to take over the unit. Ronnie found the idea appealing, but quickly reached a conclusion: it wasn’t fucking likely.

  He rifled through a desk and found what he was looking for. One of the civvie’s ID cards. It had a magnetic swipe strip on the back, and he felt confident it could get him anywhere. H Unit was where ‘max’ really meant ‘max.’ Even a civvie’s plastic would be an all-access-pass, especially for medical personnel. He palmed the card and checked the security monitor over the keypad at the door. It wasn’t a great view, but to be fair, it hadn’t been put there to watch NASCAR. The hallway beyond was empty. He swiped the card, the STATUS light changed from red to green, and he was out.

  More alarms were sounding. Recorded messages about codes and lockdown and security were blaring, but he ignored them. From here, he knew his way. He’d been marched in and out of H Unit enough times. For court hearings and appeals. To testify at the trial for the guy who’d shivved him. Moving from his cell to the conference room for meetings with his attorneys. For the daily excursion to the yard for recreation time, and the every-other-day short walk to the showers. He headed for the guard station, hoping the detail left behind wouldn’t tip to his presence.

  The station was empty. Ronnie thought he must have gone crazy, but sure as shit, the door was open and the place looked like a sailor’s wallet at the end of leave. He stepped inside and checked the monitors.

  And froze.

  At first, it struck him that maybe the guards had been goldbricking, and had patched into the cable TV. He had to be watching some George A. Romero film. But as he shifted his gaze from one screen to the next, he saw locations that weren’t from any movie set. The yard. The checkpoints leading into the penitentiary. The back of C and D Units. That’s when things started to click.

  I’m alive, because they’re alive, Ronnie mused, although alive wasn’t the word he’d use to describe his current state. Nope, he wasn’t alive, and he knew it. What he also knew, seeing what was playing out on the monitors, was that he wasn’t alone. There were dozens of dead men doing battle with the guards. By the looks of things, some of the guards had changed teams. The dead ones, going after their former coworkers. Head shots were taking down some of the cons, but not fast enough. And whenever a guard bought it, he’d soon stand up and join the rag-tag group of inmates who were fighting for control of the prison.

  No, check that. It wasn’t just cons and guards. There were other people out there who didn’t fit either category. Visitors? Could be, but some of them…some of them looked in awful bad shape. They were dressed nice, but…

  That’s when the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. Him. The guards who’d been a little too slow on the trigger. They were dead, and apparently, a whole lot of other dead folks had departed the cemetery, looking for a late-night snack. Ronnie hadn’t smiled so much in one day in a long, long time.

  The dead were coming back…all of ‘em.

  Ronnie wanted to join in, but still didn’t like the odds. There were plenty of guards on the grounds, and reinforcements were on their way. He had nothing more than a couple of pig-stickers, and wasn’t immune to a bullet in the head. It was damn near time to be gone.

  First things first, though. Ronnie found the control panel, made some educated guesses, started hitting buttons. The view on the main monitor changed, and gave him what he wanted, a look at the occupied cells on the ‘row.

  He’d been in cell four. The camera dedicated to it showed it to be empty. He toggled his way down the line, getting a look into each eight-by-eight. Some of the guys were pacing, getting antsy. Some were kicked back, listening to their radios. One was reading a book. The bitch was busy knotting up strips she’d torn from the pillowcase.

  For a moment, he thought about leaving the block in lockdown and taking her with him. She was the only woman on the ‘row, and a sweet piece of ass, at that. But he’d seen what she could do when no one was looking, and that settled it. He didn’t need any distractions, hard-on or no hard-on. He’d find another one out there, somewhere, once he put a couple hundred miles between him and the Hotel Greybar. He toggled back to the view of her cell. Watched her jiggle as she started tearing up the bed sheet.

  Ahh, he thought ruefully. What might have been. His cock strained against the scrubs. No matter. It was time to go.

  He was about to leave the station when something occurred to him. He returned to the console, swiped his access card and opened eleven of the cells. The heavy clatter of locks disengaging echoed down the corridor.

  The bitch, he left penned. Either the boys would figure it out and get her, or the dead would. Simple as that. He could see her looking through the bars. Waited for the look that would tell him she got it—that she knew what was happening to her.

  Five months ago, he’d been on his way back to the cage after a meeting with his attorney when he made a move. The bitch was standing near the bars, doing stretching exercises. Ronnie lunged, shot a hand into her cell and tried to cop a feel.

  It hadn’t even been close. She’d hammered his arm against the bar, nearly dislocating his elbow. Before she could do any serious damage, he jumped back, tripping over his own two feet and winding up on his back, Crocker’s gun in his face. The asshole was trying not to laugh.

  “Aww, guess she don’t like ya’, RJ. Guess it’s just you and the fists of fury again tonight,” Crocker sniped, before grabbing hold of Ronnie’s bad arm and using it to haul him to his feet. He tried not to squeal, but she’d nearly busted his arm. Everyone on the ‘row let him have it.

  But not the bitch. She’d just stared at him, not even backing away from the bars.

  He’d hated her ever since.

  She’d get hers now, though, that was for damn sure. It was a shame he couldn’t stick around to watch. Or join in.

  He took solace in knowing that it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Nope, wasn’t worth it if you had to taser some broad just to fuck her. Choking her out while doing her from behind? That was a different story. But a firecracker like this one? That was just asking for trouble. There were plenty of other s
luts out there, chicks who hadn’t earned their way onto the ‘row. In a couple hours, he’d find himself one.

  She stood there, watching the others go. A few looked back. One of them must have said something, because Ronnie saw her stare the guy down, one hand balled into a fist, ready for action.

  When the corridor was empty, she looked right, then left, then right again. Finally, she stared straight into the camera.

  And he understood. Knew that she belonged there. Knew she wasn’t just some bitch who’d killed her old man or conned some pussy hound into offing his wife so they could run away together. Not her. She’d done things, all right. Done what some of the guys said she had, whispering about it in the dark, after lights out.

  Ronnie beat feet. He didn’t want to be around if one of the others made the mistake of letting her out. That boy would be in for more than he could handle, Ronnie was sure.

  The yard was like a war zone. Lead rained down from the towers and gunfire spat from ground positions the outnumbered guards were trying to defend. Despite the firepower, they weren’t doing so well.

  A hot chip of stone punctured Ronnie’s cheek. The sound of a bullet caroming off the wall rang in his ear. He turned in time to see a guard drawing down on him. It was Belle. He’d been standing just out of sight, at the corner of H Unit. There was no time to act. The distance between them wasn’t one he could cover before Belle got off another shot. Ronnie pulled the brick shard out of his face and tossed it aside. The jagged edge carried with it a chunk of bloody flesh.

  He hadn’t given Belle the satisfaction before; he wasn’t about to now. He wouldn’t run like a coward. He would stand his ground and die like a man. Die again, if that’s what was going to happen. But it didn’t. Before Belle could pull the trigger, as the two men glared at one another, he was taken from behind by a pair of flesheaters. Two-on-one, they brought him down like pack animals, ripping at him with gore-crusted teeth. He tried to pull free, but was no match for them. One of his fellow guards tore out his throat. The other guy—probably an escapee from the cemetery—shredded his wrist. Crimson fountained. The dead were bathed in a spray of arterial blood. Belle dropped the gun. His shrieks were ear-piercing.

  The desire to join in and feed slowed him, but he didn’t give in to it. He made for the motor pool, his bloodlust held in check by his desire to escape. The others were slaves to their baser instincts, which was why they’d eventually be beaten, overwhelmed by the brute force of the authorities. Right now, the element of surprise was giving them an advantage. They were winning. But they’d still be here when the big guns arrived. Maybe SWAT teams. Or the National Guard. Hell, the Army would run school buses off the road to get in on something like this. And that would be that. They’d be picked off like ducks in a shooting gallery. This would be their last stand.

  Ronnie wouldn’t be with them. Wouldn’t be put down like a dog.

  He considered his options, and helped himself to one of the SUVs. It was low profile, without a roof rack but with the prison emblem on the tailgate and government plates. He considered both a bonus—they ought to keep Johnny Law off his tail, at least until he could change vehicles. The keys were in the ignition and the fuel gauge read: F. He shifted the truck into gear and rolled toward the bay doors.

  “Hey!” someone cried, pointing at his chariot and gesturing wildly. Two screws appeared, armed with rifles. They didn’t seem to know what to make of him, dressed in scrubs, the ID tag hanging around his neck. Still, he was stealing one of their vehicles, and they had enough on their plates already. Both began to take aim.

  Ronnie timed it perfectly. He began to slow down, and the men eased off the triggers. Then he floored it, catching them both by surprise. He was practically on top of them when he stomped the accelerator, and ground them into pulp beneath the knobby tires. As if on cue, the dead flooded into the garage, trapping the screw who’d spotted him and swarming over his fallen comrades with a hunger that could never be sated.

  Ronnie tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel, keeping time to—what else?—Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy doing Jailbreak. He bumped across the yard, avoiding the worst of the skirmishes, and aimed the truck at one of the sixteen foot high fences.

  An explosion shook the ground, hurling a fireball a hundred feet into the air, lighting up the night sky. Ronnie used it to judge the best spot to punch through the fence, and mashed the accelerator.

  The grill buckled the fence, and the heavy-duty engine popped the welds without trouble. A huge section folded out, snapping the razorwire and leaving it like two halves of a coiled slinky.

  Ronnie kept the pedal to the metal, fishtailing the SUV as he rumbled toward West Street, the penitentiary shrinking behind him. Pumping his fist, he turned on the radio and cranked the volume.

  He glanced into the rear view, checking to see if anybody was following him. At first, there was nothing, but a second explosion rocked the compound, and something caught his eye. A small glow flickered along the fenceline. He tried to follow its progress, but in an instant, it was gone. A motorcycle? Had one of the screws bailed out on his buddies and used his personal wheels to make his escape?

  He didn’t waste time on it. Would have been one nightmare ride, though, given the chaos in the yard. He hadn’t been sure he’d make it in the SUV. To take a bike through that battlefield…?

  A half mile, give or take, and he turned onto Carl Albert Parkway, losing sight of the prison altogether. The sign for US 69 was just up ahead. It was time to make a decision. Get outa Dodge, or grab himself some companionship, first.

  What the hell.

  He nosed the SUV onto the ramp for exit 63, the county seat. Small town, but it had its share of bars. He could scrounge up a little trim here for sure. And he deserved to. He’d spent eight years behind the walls. Long years. Lonely years. The SUV’s headlights lit up the sign like a billboard:

  Welcome to Atoka

  A city committed to the future!

  Pop. 4,121

  Future, thought Ronnie. Here I come…

  NO, WE’RE NOT QUITE DONE HERE…

  Welcome to the bonus section. Kind of like the Sunday night football game going into overtime, when you’re not quite ready to kick your friends out. Or call it a night. Or there’s just enough chips left in the bottom of the bag to keep going a little bit longer.

  Well, here you go.

  Are these truly zombie stories? Good question. Personally? I’d say one definitely is, while the other might not fit the standard definition. But…who cares, right? You didn’t pay for these two anyway.

  There’s a story behind the tale: No Kind Return, and it’s possible you may have seen it before—and have questions. If so, head on over to www.joemonks.com and tell me if you want to know what went down with this one. Who knows? Frank and I might cop to it if enough people ask.

  —The Blind Guy

  Cape Coral, Florida

  October 17, 2012

  CHASERS

  The phone rang. Chris hesitated, staring at it quizzically, the trill cutting through the silence and his concentration like a buzzsaw. A glance around confirmed what he already suspected—the cube-farm was a ghost town. The wall clock showed 7:10, well past closing. For a moment, he thought about letting the call—probably a wrong number—roll to voicemail. Showing up in the morning to find his message light blinking was less than a rare occurrence, it was a non-occurrence. Nobody called the office after five, certainly not on a Friday night the week before Christmas. Voicemail, he decided, was the way to go.

  The phone fell silent. Chris waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Half a minute. No blinking light. No voice mail. He allowed himself a smirk, satisfied with his deductive prowess.

  He was about to get back to ignoring the McKinley P&L report when the phone began ringing again, the cheap handset rattling in its scarred, putty-colored base. He was surprised to see line 3 pulsing. His direct line. Whoever was calling had bypassed the switchboard and catch-all message system, looking
specifically for him.

  He paused, thinking, as the phone fell silent. After hours on a Friday, and somebody’d punched his four digit extension. What were the odds of that? Someone stabbing four numbers at random and hitting a cubicle that was still occupied?

  Million to one, he decided, lifting the receiver and cutting the third ring short. He made a halfhearted effort, but couldn’t keep from allowing just the tiniest spark of hope to flicker inside him. Maybe, just maybe, it was—

  “Wellwyn Harper, financial analysts,” he announced. “Chris Farini speaking. How may I help you?”

  He opted for his office voice. The professional greeting. He tried to sound bored, nonchalant. He’d answered ten thousand calls the same way. Even so, he wasn’t certain he pulled it off. Had his voice sounded a little shaky there at the end?

  “Hey, goombah,” the caller said by way of introduction. “Me an’ a couple o’ wise guys from Canarsie are down at Casey’s. Your guinea presence is being requested by some less-than-savory characters at the bar.”

  The phony Italian accent gave his friend away as surely as if he’d announced himself by name. Denny O’Keefe, as Irish as a redheaded kid from Dublin. In the background, Chris heard the boisterous sound of the Casey’s crowd unwinding, celebrating the end of another work week and the upcoming holiday. He could hear music coming from the jukebox, though he couldn’t make out the tune. The telltale thump-thump-thump of darts hitting cork, punctuated by a cheer. Pint glasses being shuttled down the full-length bar as patrons called for refills and bartenders greeted regulars by name.

  “Heya, buddy,” Chris said, hoping Denny could hear him over the din. “What’s going on?”