DEAD CELLS

by Adam Millard

  What is it? What the fuck is all of that black stuff?

  He took a few more photos and placed the camera down on the table. Still speechless, he stepped closer, gazing again down into the horrible chasm of black sludge and unidentifiable viscera. The stench seemed to be worsening, too; the entire room now smelled like a trucker's sock. For a few seconds, Doctor Jacob Strauss thought that he would vomit, but he closed his eyes and eventually the nausea subsided.

  Glaring down at the dead man's open chest cavity once again, he decided to examine further. He reached across and picked up his scalpel. Not knowing where exactly to cut – and not being able to see clearly – he opted to just aim for the heart and see what happened.

  His own heart was racing.

  He allowed the blade to slide across the black lump that had replaced the heart. In his ears, he could hear the terrible hush-thump of his own heart beating.

  'Fuck it,' he said.

  He pushed the blade into the darkened organ.

  Immediately, a sickening geyser of dark slush erupted from the glob. Strauss had no time to close his mouth, which was instantaneously filled with the putrid liquid. He tumbled backwards, crashing into the table, sending tools and equipment clattering onto the mortuary floor. The noise was immense, deafening, but the doctor was spitting and choking, trying his damnedest to rid his mouth of the vile substance. It tasted like off milk. Its warmth made him want to vomit.

  When the equipment had settled, and the room once again fell into silence, Strauss managed to pick himself up off the floor, pulling at his tongue with his gloved fingers, trying to get every ounce of stinking fluid out of his mouth. He thought, right there and then, that he would never get the taste of it out, that his tongue would forever smack of it.

  After a few minutes he allowed himself to swallow. He ignored the dead cadaver, and made his way to the sink, where he drew some cold water and polished it off greedily.

  'Nasty fucking shit,' he spat. His ass was sore from the fall, and his elbow had hit the aluminium table with such force that there was a small pool of blood soaking through his smock.

  Composure regained, Doctor Jacob Strauss took a few more photographs of the body before beginning the tedious task of embalming.

  The top of the head, though, would be impossible to stitch back on.

  'Not like he's gonna get any viewers, anyway,' Strauss grinned, before going about his day without further calamity.

  *

  That night, after lights out, Jimmy “Gentle Rapist” Kelly sat on his bunk, gripping his stomach.

  'What the fuck's the matter with you?' Dennis Hart asked, with all of the compassion of a Gestapo thug. 'You've been whining now for a fucking hour.'

  Jimmy looked up. Sweat poured down his face, and his eyes were sunken, as if he'd taken a particularly bad hit of crack.

  'I don't feel good, Den,' he said, breathlessly. 'Ever since that fucker puked on me, I've felt bad.'

  Dennis Hart smiled. 'I don't blame you. If some spic blew chunks all over me, I wouldn't be feeling none too good either.'

  Putting his newspaper down – he wasn't reading it, but looking at the fine pair of tits some model had dangling off her – he stood. 'At least it saved us doing the job, though. I've already got a twenty stretch; another ten for whacking some Dago and I'd be in here till my fucking balls were no good any more.'

  He laughed. Jimmy Kelly didn't.

  'Oh, fucking liven up, you pussy,' Dennis snarled. 'Anyone'd think you were dying. Let me tell you something, Jimbo: nobody ever died from being puked on.'

  Jimmy straightened up, even though the pain was still almost all he could bare; it wasn't wise to ignore Dennis Hart. If he tells you to liven up, you'd better jump out of bed and dance the fucking Macarena for him. It was one of the downsides to sharing a cell with such a man. Most people thought it a privilege; Jimmy Kelly would disagree.

  'See that fucking spic's head come off, Den?' Jimmy smiled through gritted teeth. 'I ain't never seen anything like that in my life.'

  'I wish I had one of those cannons,' Dennis said. 'I'd show those guards how to fire it properly. Tyler, Michaelson and Jenson. Then I'd go up to that fucking fancy office and blow Charles Dean a new asshole.'

  Charles Dean, the Governor, had treated Dennis Hart with all of the integrity he deserved. Years of shakedowns, and beatdowns; drug-planting and organised rape. Warden Dean reserved a distaste for Dennis Hart, more so than any other offender in the prison.

  Hart regarded this as a compliment.

  'You thinking of getting hold of one of those cannons any time soon?' Jimmy asked. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose and landed on the cell floor. Dennis Hart looked down and noticed that the drops of sweat had formed a small puddle.

  'Never gonna get the chance,' Dennis said. 'Although, if I managed to somehow come across one, you know, by chance, then I'd fucking put it to its best use, and I ain't talking about blowing the top of those pricks' heads off. I'd go on the rampage of all rampages.'

  'I'd be with you, boss,' Jimmy grimaced, clearly in a certain amount of discomfort. 'All the way.'

  'I know you would, Jim,' Dennis said, once more glaring at the puddle of sweat forming on the floor. Perhaps he was ill; maybe that fucking spic had given him some sort of disease – which he knew was possible because they didn't wash and they were always fucking around with farm animals and shit. 'I wouldn't have anybody else by my side.'

  That night, Dennis Hart slept with one eye open.

  *

  Governor Charles Dean poured himself another whiskey and downed it; the warmth as it hit his stomach was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that he poured himself another glass immediately.

  He reached for the wooden box that had always lived on his desk, opened it, and removed a cigar, one of the finest cigars he had ever smoked. Lighting it, he lounged back in his chair, blowing out a satisfied plume of smoke.

  The record-player was currently churning out Beethoven's Symphony number five in C-Minor, one of Governor Dean's favourites. His record-player was a vintage Dansette, not one of those new-fangled, all singing, all dancing CD things. The one thing Charles Dean hated more than criminals was pointless technology. What was the point in a device that could store hours of music, when you couldn't even see the music that you owned? He was more of an owner – he liked to feel the books, to see the record slips, to have a complete library, not just a fucking miniature device that could be completely wiped of its storage if you accidentally dropped it down the toilet.

  As Beethoven spread throughout the office, and smoke rose in a blue miasma, Governor Dean realised that life could have been a fuckload worse. Sure, he'd has his troubles, and he had been divorced for almost ten years, but to be completely honest, as he sat reclined in his leather chair, sipping whiskey, he realised he had never been as happy – even when that bitch of a wife was still around.

  It had been a bad day at the office

  (or so the cliché went)

  and one of the new fish had been blown away – perhaps overzealously, perhaps not – but he was relaxed now. The man, Carlos Silva, had been kinless, which made the whole situation a helluva lot easier to deal with. No immediate family meant no awkward phonecalls; Carlos Silva would disappear from the face of the earth, incinerated by the end of tomorrow, and that would be that.

  Charles Dean smiled.

  He almost fell backwards off his chair when the phone rang. He was caught mid-draw on his cigar, too, which meant that he had to cough it out of his system before answering. Once he had composed himself, he placed the cigar in an ashtray and picked up the receiver.

  'Hello?' he said, still a little gruff. 'Governor Dean. This better be important.'

  The man at the other end of the line cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice trembled. 'Governor, it's Doctor Strauss. I've, erm, I've sorted our body out, you know, got him all stitched back together and all that—'

  'Oh, Doctor Strauss,' Dean said, smiling,
'that's very good news, although unfortunately you've wasted your stitching skills on that there particular body. Turns out there is no next of kin, no persons to come view the body in state.' He paused, took a drag on his cigar, exhaled the smoke, and continued. 'That poor boy ain't even gonna get a proper send off, I'm 'fraid. Straight in old Bessie for him.'

  Old Bessie was Governor Dean's nickname for the crematory. Bessie was also the name of his estranged wife. He had named the crematory after her because they both sucked the life out of you, as painfully as possible, and left you the shell of your former self. He found it comical, although nobody else in the prison understood it.

  'That's a shame,' Doctor Strauss said. 'Imagine dying, and nobody even knowing, let alone caring.'

  'I'm sure that when it comes to it, Doctor, neither you or I shall have such worries.'

  There was silence, apart from a slight rustle, which Charles Dean figured was a nod of assent coming from the doctor. 'I'm sure you're right,' Strauss said, finally. 'Do you want me to fire her up tonight, Governor, or can it wait until the morning?'

  Charles Dean finished his whiskey and grimaced as the heat struck the back of his throat. 'No, you go on home, Doctor. I'm sure it will be there waiting for you when you return tomorrow.'

  Strauss feigned laughter. Of course it fucking would! Bodies don't just get up and walk around. 'It will be the first job on my list, Governor.'

  'Very well, Doctor,' Dean replied, and then hung the receiver back in its cradle.

  He smoked cigars, listened to Beethoven's Symphonies one-to-nine, and finished the bottle. By the time he fell asleep in his chair, he hadn't a care in the world.

  When he woke the following morning, it appeared that he had all of the troubles in the world hanging over him.

  *

  'What do you mean he's called in sick?' Governor Dean asked. 'He had a very important job to do today, and to be honest he sounded right as fucking rain when I spoke to him on the phone last night.'

  'I don't know, Gov,' Officer Michaelson said, taking a step back from Charles Dean; it didn't pay to stand too close to him when his mood was so unbalanced. 'He couldn't even call in himself. I just spoke to his wife. She sounded really concerned about him.'

  'She should be,' Dean snapped. 'The prick might not have a job to come back to.'

  Michaelson knew that this wasn't an empty threat; he had seen Governor Dean fire at least five people in the last two years alone. One of them – a guard by the name of Carson – had been caught sneaking pornography in for some of the prisoners. It hadn't even been good pornography, either. It was the kind of shit that the models kept their knickers on, or just pretended to be in the throes of an orgasm, even though off camera they were more likely to be finishing the daily crossword. Carson, the poor asshole, had been summoned to the Governor's office after a tip-off from one of the more, how should we say, religious prisoners. Charles Dean had been waiting with the softcore magazines spread out on his desk, as if he'd been about to embark upon a masturbation-fest of his own. When asked to explain himself, Carson simply had no answer, and was escorted from the premises by guards Tyler and Jenson. Governor Dean had reminded the remaining officers that any contraband, soft-as-shit no pussy on display or otherwise, was not allowed within the prison walls, and that anyone who failed to comply with the simple rule would receive the same punishment as that “pervert” Carson.

  Michaelson had guessed, though, that once the Governor had the office to himself again, he would be spanking his own monkey over the laid-out magazines and centrefolds.

  'So what else is happening today?' Governor Dean asked.

  'Other than visiting this afternoon,' Michaelson said shrugging his shoulders, 'not a great deal.'

  Oh shit, visiting. It had completely slipped Charles Dean's mind. If there was one thing that Dean hated more than prisoners, more than pointless technology, and more than his ex-wife, it was fucking visiting day.

  'Make sure that you keep a vigilant eye on that pack and their so-called visitors,' Dean grimaced. 'I don't want any more weapons exchanging hands.'

  The pack he referred to was, of course, Dennis Hart's lot: Rooster Hill, Marvin Manson, and Jimmy Kelly. Governor Dean was suspicious – actually, pretty certain – that their visitors had been sneaking in all kinds of shit. Although there was no evidence of illegal substances or weaponry, quite a few of the stabbings occurring in Block D were definitely not perpetrated by a shoddy blade knocked up in woodwork classes. The size of some of the wounds suggested a professional weapon, and somebody was bringing those shivs in.

  'I'll keep my eyes peeled,' Michaelson said, trying to reassure the Governor, even though he knew that he couldn't keep his eyes peeled on all four of the pack.

  'You do that.'

  As Michaelson made his way out of the office, Charles dean could only think about one thing.

  The decaying, headless corpse waiting to be burned in the mortuary.

  Only a few hours later, Governor dean would wish that Carlos Silva was the only dead thing in the prison.

  *

  Cyrus Clay sat in the infirmary, waiting for that fit piece of ass Emmett to emerge from the adjacent room. He looked around the room, and realised that he had never set foot in the infirmary before; he'd never been ill, nor shanked. But now, he was here, and he felt like shit warmed up.

  His stomach was fizzing, almost as if he'd been slipped a suppository, and his head pounded so hard that he could see white spots dancing before his eyes.

  He had never felt so sick in his life.

  The door swung inwards, and Marla Emmet strode confidently into the room. She held in her hand a thick brown file folder, the kind that cost a buck-fifty for a hundred. Cyrus Clay wondered what could be in such a fat folder, since he'd never even visited the infirmary before.

  Probably a pile of shit about how many tattoos he had, and pictures of old wounds sustained before his incarceration. Paperwork was such a waste of time.

  Doctor Emmett opened the folder, and sat silently reading for a few minutes before speaking. As she read, Cyrus Clay glanced down at those pert breasts of hers, and wondered what it would feel like to stick his dick between them. And even though the pain was almost unbearable, his stomach seemed to jump inside him, he struggled to hide his forming erection.

  'I said,' the Doctor snapped, 'how long have you been feeling like this?' Judging by her abrasiveness, it wasn't the first time that she had asked the question.

  'Erm. Ever since yesterday, Doc,' Clay said, gripping his stomach as if to further convince the woman of his pain. 'Ever since that prick spewed in the canteen.'

  Marla Emmet glared at Clay; it was clear that he was running a temperature. Sweat had formed a sheen on his forehead. His eyes were dark, too, almost as if he had been punched in them hard enough to leave a mark.

  'Okay,' she said, 'I'm going to give you some pills, take some blood, the usual.'

  Cyrus Clay wondered whether the usual involved putting his dick between those beautiful pert breasts. The funny thing was: he could, if he so desired. With a hand tightly pushed against her mouth, he could do what he wanted to her; he could fuck her seven ways from Sunday, and the guards wouldn't even know about it until he let go of her. He was a lifer, anyway; what could they do? Add another life sentence on? If he was going to die in jail, then he may as well get his dick wet while he was doing it.

  She started to take the blood. Cyrus watched the top her head while she did it. He had an urge to just clamp down on her scalp and bite as hard as he could. For a moment, he thought that he might do it, and then she spoke, which distracted him just at the right moment.

  'Are you having the pains right now?' she said.

  He looked away, suddenly aware that he was going to bite her fucking head off; where had that come from?

  'Constantly,' he replied. 'Feels like somebody's poisoned me. That dirty fucking dago must have been really fucked up.'

  It was true. The pain that Cyrus was fee
ling was enough for him to sympathise with Carlos Silva. Last night, in the cell, Cyrus had raped the spic so hard that his dick had been covered with blood. Clay wasn't the kind of guy to feel remorse, but he understood now why his cellmate had simply accepted his fate.

  He hadn't the strength to fight back.

  'Must be some sort of virus going around,' Marla said. 'Let's just hope it doesn't spread through the whole system. I haven't got the time to test everyone.'

  Cyrus Clay bit down on his tongue as the doctor drew his blood. 'Good job I got in here first,' he said. Again, he felt the inexplicable desire to lean across and tear a chunk off the doctor's face. Her ear, in particular, suddenly looked rather tempting.

  When they finished, Marla called for the guards, who had been standing guard just outside, yet seemed to take forever to show up.

  'Is he done?' Michaelson asked. 'You didn't hurt him too much, did you Doc?' He was grinning.

  Marla smiled; Cyrus didn't. 'Officer, it's not in my best nature to cause unnecessary pain to your prisoners.' She said this, and then thought back to Tyler and the way he had squealed as she cleaned his wound. Not in my nature, she thought, but sometimes, it's in my best interests...

  'That's a shame,' Michaelson sniggered. He pulled Cyrus to his feet and began to cuff him. Cyrus felt the pain again; his stomach seemed to wrench, deep down, as if he was going to be sick but there was nothing to bring up.

  'Don't you dare be sick,' Michaleson said, noticing the strange way that his prisoner was bent over. 'And don't be getting no ideas, either. Just because you say you're ill doesn't guarantee you easy treatment. You've got shit to do, boy, and if she says that you're well enough to do it, then you're well enough to do it. In my book, the best thing for sick pricks like you is work. It'll help take your mind off the pain.'

  It wouldn't. Cyrus didn't think that anything could take his mind off the pain. He tried to recall when he had ever felt so bad, and couldn't. This was terrible, almost to the point that he wished for death.