Stay Dead 3: The Condemned

by Steve Wands

  ***

  Rachel Lucas and Gregory Tran had agreed to meet up towards the end of the day and share notes. They’d both figured two heads were better than one, especially since they each thought the other was on the right track. Rachel, however, wasn’t feeling on track at all. She’d spent all day on that infernal computer, and for what she just didn’t know. She’d fallen asleep and had felt in a daze ever since. Information regarding Death was vague, and when you followed the traces of it back, it just became more so. Every civilization had their own personifications of the grim reaper and none jumped out at her more than any other.

  She could feel it in her gut that she had somehow ended up on the wrong track. Things just weren’t clicking. And when they weren’t clicking, Rachel knew it was time to move on. Would Tran feel the same way, she wondered, and then shrugged. Fuck him if he didn’t. He could waste his time sifting through bullshit.

  But she knew there was something in the dream. Something her subconscious was trying to work out. It was in those vivid glimpses of the dreaming world where she thought the answers would be. She wanted to go back there. Back to the dreaming world. Back to the book. Back to the blood.

  Tran strolled down the corridor and waved to Rachel who smiled at the sight of this peculiar yet still somehow endearing man.

  “Rachel,” he said softly, nodding his head.

  “Hey Gregory. Ready to share a whole lotta nothin’?” She said almost cheerily.

  “I doubt it’s nothing, but I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. Prince Pymn has called a meeting and he wants all of us whitecoats, as he likes to call us, to come.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “He called it a meeting of the minds. Wants us to all share notes—much like we were going to do anyway, but with the other research teams.”

  She wanted to say it sounded like a waste of time, but after giving it a moment of consideration, she figured it was probably a good thing to do, “Sounds like fun,” she smiled, a little too forcibly. “Lead the way.”

  “Right this way to the rabbit hole,” he smiled, almost unnerving Rachel as she realized that Tran must really be enjoying all of this.

  She followed him deeper down the rabbit hole—or rather the corridor, then down a flight of stairs to the level below.

  Most of the other whitecoats had gathered in the conference room by now. There was roughly two dozen of them. All from various backgrounds and all here for the same reason Rachel and Tran were: to find out why the dead were returning to life and to find a way to stop them. As far as Rachel knew, no one was any closer to an answer, but she hoped that she and Tran were.

  Rachel looked around the room and didn’t see many familiar faces. She’d hardly even seen some of these people in the mountain at all, but she did recognize a few friendly faces from the CDC and the ATSDR (Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry) that she’d met over the last few years as a military consultant. She figured she might know some of the folks in the room by their work, or their names, but no one was wearing any of those silly little “My Name Is” tags.

  The whole scene had that awkward feeling of a professional conference cocktail party, but instead of nicely dressed men and women drinking martinis and Manhattans, making small talk while they got their buzz on, this party was full of foul-smelling, mouth-breathing, sleep-deprived whitecoats. She hated using the term, and hated hearing it applied to herself, but that’s simply the impression she got. Looking at them, It was clear to see why Pymn coined the term. They looked like the stereotypical scientists and lab geeks that they prided themselves on being. Some tried to look hip, and to some they probably did, but Rachel found the hipster scientists to be almost desperate. Rachel prided herself and her abilities all the same, but she hoped she looked normal.

  She quickly fluffed her hair, straightened her posture, and adjusted her collar before going any further into the conference room. Tran noticed this, bemusedly, and adjusted nothing on himself. He didn’t need to. He ironed his shirt and slacks to perfection every day. Kept his shoes clean, his belt tight, and his hair cropped short and utilitarian. His nails were trim and his teeth brushed, though they’d be forever tea-stained. He followed Rachel into the room but walked stiffly, as if something were wedged high in his ass and he feared it falling down his pants leg.

  Tran looked around the room, seeking out whomever was going to be spearheading this gathering and as he did, Pymn walked into the room with his chest puffed out and his potbelly sucked in. He came unaccompanied, as he’d been doing as of late, unlike the first two weeks when he’d always had an entourage of no less than three men at his side. But as the mountain proved to be a safe and orderly place, he found something more useful for his men to do than play tag-along.

  7 DOWNWARD SPIRAL

  (back to top)

  He was sitting cross-legged in the corner of his cell, drawing spirals in his own blood and stool on the cold, hard floor. He smiled a madman’s smile and giggled like a stoned teenager. He bit his lip till it bled, reaching his filth-covered finger to it like an artist’s dip pen to an ink reservoir. His lips were swollen and chewed, as if he’d been eating thorn-covered rose stems.

  “It’s coming!” He proclaimed.

  Another spiral. Another dip of the finger to his bleeding lower lip.

  “Haha! You’ll see, you’ll all see! …and you’ll all bleed!”

  One of the guards banged on his cell door, “Shut the fuck up already! Don’t make me come in there again.”

  “It’s not me, Officer Friendly. I’m just a noble prophet. Spreading the word, you see? The Unwinding is coming, no matter how hard you beat me. Sticks and stones!”

  “You’re lucky my shift is almost over you freak-bag. Three days where I won’t have to listen to your crazy bullshit.”

  This had become his ritual. Garth Cane, just another scumbag—a one-time murderer—months ago started drawing spirals. He drew them on his body, on the walls, on his books, with his food, and then over the last few weeks with his own semen, shit, and blood. In no particular order, mind you, just whatever was at hand. That’s what put him in solitary confinement.

  “You’d better hope I never see you again, Officer Friendly,” Cane said with a bitter disdain dripping from his ragged mouth. “Sleep well tonight, for tomorrow…” he hesitated, wondering if he should even bother warning the oaf. Deciding it didn’t much matter, he continued, “…tomorrow, the world you know will tear itself apart.”

  Ted Ennis, or Officer Friendly, as Cane liked to call him, tried to control his breathing and to keep his anger in check. There was something about Cane that set the man off. Generally Ted was mild-mannered, especially when compared to some of his fellow officers, most of whom took great delight in fucking with the inmates. While many of them would spit in food and piss on pillows and just plainly torment the inmates from the beginning of their shift till the end—not to mention some of the real asshole guards who spend their lunch breaks raping and beating some of the more difficult residents—Ted just did his job and kept his mouth shut. Except with Cane. For Cane, Ted transforms into an animal, sometimes breaking down and going into Cane’s cell to beat on him. Cane doesn’t seem to mind much, Ted seems to think he actually enjoys it, which lessens his guilt over it. Yet, every now and again, Ted breaks down and gives in to his base impulse to beat on the filthy, wraith-like man.

  “How are the wife and kids?” Cane asks.

  “Block him out,” Ted mutters to himself, “just block him out and walk away.”

  “Do you hit them like you do me?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Does Officer Friendly go home and hit his kiddies with the baton?”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

  “I bet daddy used to hit you, didn’t he? I bet he used to take his belt off and slap the leather together making that snapping noise, right? Snap! Snap! C’mere Teddy, you’ve been a bad boy! Time to take your medicine. Snap! Snap!”

  “Shut the f
uck up, Cane. Or I swear to God I’ll come in there!”

  “Come on in, Friendly, mi casa es su casa,” Cane said excitedly, his eyes wide with anticipation.

  There was silence.

  Then…

  Crrreeeeeeaaaaaak. The cell door slowly opened and Officer Friendly looked as grim as could be. The oaf was thick in the waist and broad in the shoulders. He hunched over as if his anger weighed down his shoulders and made his stomach ache.

  “There he is!” Cane said in a high-pitched whine as he clasped his hands together.

  “Aren’t you a handsome man? Big strong guy! Love me…?”

  Though Ted was in the cell physically, mentally he was elsewhere, and in his place came forth Officer Friendly, clutching the baton in his right hand, gripping it so tightly his knuckles went white.

  Cane waited on his knees, looking up at the man almost affectionately, “Love me,” he pleaded.

  Love was a baton across the face, a boot to the gut, and a series of blows to Cane’s filthy body. The baton vibrated in his hand as it bounced off Cane’s body. He begged for more in between bouts of laughing and crying.

  When the fury ended, Officer Friendly receded into the dark corners of Ted’s mind and there stood Ted, looming tall over a barely conscious Garth Cane in the shit-covered cell. He hung his head in shame; again he had caved in. Again he proved himself no better than his peers, no better than the incarcerated, and no better than Cane himself. He was just another animal. In a way, Ted felt as if he too were serving a sort of sentence in this place, and with that thought he walked away.

  Cane reached out with his arm, “Don’t…go…”

  Ted paused, not turning back but waiting for the man to finish his thought.

  “…I…I hate it…when we’re apart.”

  8 STORMING THE PRISON

  (back to top)

  The UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter circled around the Gothic structure that was the West Virginia State Penitentiary. It looked as eerie as its history would leave one to believe. Its stone structure combined with turrets and battlements gave it a castle-like appearance, making it seem all the more daunting. The prison yard was shaped like a parallelogram, and its stone walls were eight feet high and topped with razor wire.

  As Niko looked for a place to land the bird, she spotted the prison cemetery and noticed that all of the graves had been dug up, or worse, something had dug themselves out. She’d often had nightmares where she’d get buried alive, and after clawing to no avail she’d wake up screaming. Seeing those mounds of dirt pushed up from the graves gave her nightmares substance.

  “Why don’t we just go in through the front?” Dusty asked with a smile on his face.

  Torrent smiled back, “Yeah, we’ll just walk right in—” but then his words were cut off by the sound of bullets slamming into the helicopter.

  “What the fuck?!” Niko yelled, “We’re taking fire! Repeat, we’re taking fire!”

  Dusty and Sigo grabbed the mounted machine guns and looked through their viewfinders to spot where the enemy fire had come from.

  “There!” Dusty yelled, aiming his machine gun at the large central tower to the building, “Center tower!” Dusty returned fire, the casings clanging to the floor as the large machine gun rattled off round after round.

  Niko could see the rock and dust breaking into the air as the bullets dug into the stone tower walls. Prisoners in bright orange jumpsuits were slammed backwards by the impact of the high caliber bullets. Wounds bloomed like roses as they collapsed.

  Torrent hollered for Niko to land the bird near the cemetery. She began lowering it immediately. She had to turn, momentarily offering a wider target, while still taking on fire. The enemy fire increased. She was losing control of the bird and feared that she might just slam it into the stone walls that confined the yard.

  “Get us down!”

  Harburn fired wildly, his shots ripping into the air and only accidentally hitting anything. He could see inmates in orange jumpsuits, some in riot gear, and even what looked like officers. But he was spinning around so fast it all crossed his vision with the brevity of snapshots.

  Dusty, on the other hand, continued firing at the main tower. Niko had regained control of the bird, but was still going down hard and fast.

  “Everyone brace for impact!” She yelled. The bird landed hard, rocking everyone inside.

  Despite the seatbelt the hard landing slammed Harburn into the gun mount knocking the wind from him. Niko whipped forward, immediately she felt something pull in her neck.

  Torrent was knocked to the ground from the impact, just slightly scraping his cheek on the way down and banging his knee on the floor. Terry unfastened his restraints and helped him up.

  “What’s the plan now, Sarge?” Terry asked, jumping into action, before the bird had settled.

  “Terry, you and SIGO stay here till I flag you both over. SIGO, stay on that gun, shoot anything that isn’t us once we’re clear. Niko, kill the engine and the rest of you on my twenty.”

  Everything was happening too fast now. They were in the shit, and it looked to be deep. Dusty slapped SIGO on the back, and said, “Don’t forget to breathe.” The kid looked as pale as skim milk.

  Terry situated himself just behind the door as Torrent and company readied to leave. He unslung his M24 sniper rifle, and as First Sergeant John Torrent opened the side door he scanned the area. They were out of the line of fire from the towers.

  Torrent took off with a hard jog, running a straight line to the stone wall of the building, navigating through the small cemetery, which he too noticed had been unearthed. Niko, after giving the bird a quick inspection, followed with Dusty right behind her. It was at that moment when the madness started.

  From the far corner of the yard charged what had to be no less than a hundred men. They ran screaming, some in full riot gear, others in their dirty orange prison pajamas, some even buck-ass naked. A variety of weapon reports volleyed wildly from the charging horde. Torrent could hear shotguns, sidearms, and rifles, and he knew they must have taken over the prison and acquired all the weapons in the armory. He couldn’t help but think they were deep in the shit now.

  “Follow me,” he yelled as he dove into the closest unearthed grave, thankful that whatever had been in the cheap pine box had vacated.

  The others dove in with him and were now all returning fire at the army of madmen that charged at them.

  Inside the hawk, SIGO Grant Harburn unleashed the full fury of the mounted machine gun on the attackers. The barrage of bullets that sprayed across the frontline of madmen ripped them to shreds, tripping up the men in tow. Dusty trained his rifle on attackers that were equipped with guns and took them down one by one, as Harburn continued his machine gun assault.

  From the cover of the open grave and the mound of dirt topside, Torrent, Niko, and Dusty took down anyone that escaped the pulsating machine gun. The makeshift attacking army now became a retreating one as the ground became soaked in the blood of their fellow fallen incarcerates.

  “This has really turned to shit quick,” Dusty huffed.

  “No kidding, I figure we only have a few minutes before those fucks reanimate. Let’s get the hell out of here before this becomes our resting place.”

  “I really hate having to kill something twice,” Dusty said as he pulled himself out of the damp earth. “Just ain’t right.”

  Niko wiped dirt from her face and stared at the bodies that littered the grounds of the small cemetery, “How many prisoners did the dossier say this place housed?”

  “The place is capable of holding four thousand, but the dossier had info from the last survey which said it held a thousand… give or take a few hundred. Plus anything we put down, we’ll most likely have to put down again.”

  “It’s like they were waiting for us,” she said.

  Torrent waved over Terry and Harburn and then led the way into the prison.

  9 GARTH CANE FINDS HIMSELF A THRONE

  (b
ack to top)

  Through the years the guilt from his first murder eventually faded, and all that remained was regret at his own recklessness. He was no longer sorry he’d taken a life, but sorry that he’d been so eager to do it, that he’d made so many foolish errors. He thought of that time fondly now. It’d been nearly a decade, maybe more. He hadn’t been very good at keeping track of the time and really didn’t care too. Time was nothing more than another type of cell. Another way to punish him.

  Now he walked the halls of his prison home freely, making up for lost time, killing other inmates he simply didn’t care for without a second thought. Remorse wasn’t part of the act. And why should he have remorse for killing his fellow incarcerates? He was a prophet of blood. A prophet for the darkness in his heart. He had purpose where once there was none.

  The Unwinding was upon them and he needed to be worthy. He needed to kill everyone in this place. To serve as a tribute and an offering. After so many years of fascination and inspiration by the all-stars of serial murder, he wanted to pay them tribute. Ed Gein had skin masks, John Wayne Gacy was a clown, and Gary Ridgway made Jack the Ripper look like a puppy dog. Cane did his best to kill in the name of each of them, though he was having a lot of fun with a drill—in the name of Dahmer.

  He explored the flesh of his fellow incarcerates in the ways of his forefathers.

  As a prophet, full of a new confidence and purpose, others were drawn to him. They wanted to be a part of the new world he spoke about. To be rewarded for their actions and their desires rather than to be punished and locked away.

  The prison was in full riot. The prisoners were hours away from claiming the facility as their own, and this was only the second day of the apocalypse. Garth engineered the whole thing and now, with three of his disciples beside him, he walked into the tourist section of the building where “Old Sparky” sat on display for all the Halloween thrill-seekers to see.