by Adam Millard
'I wouldn't say that he's well enough to do anything just yet,' Marla said. 'He's running a really high fever, which means that he isn't lying, and he seems to be in substantial pain.' She began to scrawl in her notes; the sound of the pen scratching the paper was the only sound for a few seconds. When she was done, she tore off a piece of paper and handed it to Officer Michaelson. 'Make sure you come and pick these pills up for him later on today. He needs to take one every four hours until the pain subsides.'
Michaelson wasn't happy. He practically snatched the script from her. 'Do you want me to wipe his ass for him as well?' he snarled. Marla suddenly felt uncomfortable. She sat down behind her desk and glared up at the officer, who was obviously perturbed.
'I think you should make sure that he gets those tablets every four hours,' she said. The officer seemed to nod along with every word that she said, but deep down he had no intentions of taking orders from a fucking doctor. 'I will need to see him again tomorrow, check his progress. If he informs me that you haven't been providing the pills, then I will make a formal complaint and hand-deliver it straight to Warden Dean. Do I make myself perfectly clear?'
Michaelson didn't know what hurt the most: the way she was speaking to him, or the fact that she had every right to make a complaint if the prick didn't get his medicine. As much as Charles Dean hated the prisoners, he didn't piss them off for no good reason.
'He'll get the fucking pills,' Michaelson grunted. 'Do you hear that, Nancy Boy? You'll get your pussy medicine to make your tummy-ache go away.' He was pushing Cyrus Clay towards the door as he spoke. 'The nice doctor here will tell on me if I don't give you what you need.'
He left the office, slamming the door so hard that the entire room appeared to tremble.
Marla leaned forward in her chair. She picked up the phial of blood and stared at it. 'Let's get you sent off,' she said.
Officer Michaelson could be heard cursing all the way down the corridor.
*
The prisoners were finally allotted some yard-time, which was good news for a few of the ones who had already started to go stir-crazy. Four walls did that to a person, especially when those four walls were all that you were going to see for the rest of your natural life.
It was overcast, and as Shane made his way out onto the basketball court, a few drops of rain had already hit him. Small flowers of water bloomed on the shoulders of his coveralls.
'Decided to let us out and we're gonna get fucking pissed on,' Shane said, accepting the basketball from Billy Toombs. 'Should have known there would be a catch.'
'Just be grateful we're out here at all,' Billy said. 'From what I heard, the guards took a vote. I don't care if it's hailing golfballs so long as I can stretch my legs.'
With visiting on the afternoon, Billy had nothing else to look forward to. He had had, as far as Shane could recall, no visitors since they had been celled up together. When Shane had questioned Billy about it, he'd simply said, 'I have my friends right here,' and pointed to the pile of books on the table in front of him. For a man to discard the people in his life – or in this case, accept that they had discarded him – and turn to literature was a tough thing to do. To Billy, though, words were all that he needed to get through the day. As long as he had a constant supply of reading material, he was happy; the days simply rolled into one another.
'Is Holly coming to see you today?' Billy asked. He tossed the ball across to Shane, who leapt up and guided it between the chain net. 'Nice shot.'
Shane scooped up the ball. 'She said she was,' he said. 'I hope she does, but I'm not sure I want her turning up here if there's some kind of nasty virus going around.'
Billy received the ball from Shane. 'I heard Cyrus is pretty bad with it,' he said. 'Whatever it is, I don't want it. People have been talking all kinds of crazy shit. You know how it is in here, the way stories get out of hand. The last I heard, Clay was pissing blood and praying to God. That fucker's the least religious person I've ever met, so if it's true, then he must be in all kinds of pain.'
'Who did you hear that from?' Shane asked. He stopped jumping around, his breathing was laborious.
'That new kid, the one working the spoon. I don't think he's the type to start rumours.'
'He's the type to believe any old shit he hears,' Shane said as he held out his hands. Billy bounced him the ball; he grabbed it and launched it in the direction of the net, and it almost fell in. After three bounces on the wire, it hit the backboard and bounced off to the side.
The rain was now hitting the ground and jumping back up.
'Fucking typical,' Shane grimaced.
The yard was emptying; the prisoners had stretched their legs and were heading back inside. Family and friends would be along shortly to bullshit about the outside world. Shane would be seeing his wife again, possibly for the final time before his release.
'Let's get back inside,' Billy said. 'You look like a drowned rat.'
*
Warden Dean was pissed off so badly that he wanted one of his officers to make a mistake just so he could fire their sorry ass.
He loaded the remains of Carlos Silva into Old Bessie, and searched the control panel for the button that took care of the fire. He was expecting to see a big red switch, or even a button with a picture of a flame on it – like a gas cooker – but there was nothing of the sort. Whoever had designed this piece of shit had not taken into consideration that somebody without a PhD in engineering would occasionally need to use it. Warden Dean was a smart man, at least he thought he was, so how could an Austrian, or German, or whatever the fuck Strauss was, operate the machine with such finesse? It was almost embarrassing.
'Sick my ass,' he muttered under his breath. 'He'll be sick when he gets back to work; I'll make pretty damned sure of that.'
There were laminated instructions nailed to the wall at the side of the incinerator, but they might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all of the good that they were. There was something about pressure-checks, and then something else about temperature gauge. In the end, Charles Dean decided that it would be best to wait for the mortician to return. It was not a good idea to play with fire in his own prison; might end up nuking the place.
He decided to leave Carlos Silva's body in the incinerator, though, mainly because he couldn't be bothered to get it back out. What would it hurt? He wasn't going to stink the place out; not if the door was kept shut.
After making sure that everything was securely locked, the warden headed back upstairs.
'Fucking visiting,' he grumbled. 'I hate fucking visiting.'
*
They were led out into the room by Jenson and Tyler. The latter was limping still from his leg injury, and with every step that he took the pain was visible on his face. Shane almost felt sorry for the guard, but not quite.
There was a loud siren, which meant that the half hour visiting had begun. Shane hadn't even taken his seat.
'How's life treating you?' Holly asked. The gorgeous smile that stretched across her face lit up Shane's insides. It was a smile that said, Everything will be fine soon.
Shane pulled the seat out from the table and sat. 'You look beautiful,' he said. 'I wasn't sure if you would come, you know, the weather being so shit.'
'It would take more than just the weather to keep me away from you,' she said, gripping his hand across the table. In the corner of the room, Officer Tyler watched like a hawk, making sure that no contraband had exchanged hands, although he knew Shane Bridge and had never had an issue with him. The man was coming to the end of his term, so the chances of him trying to smuggle into the prison were slim, unless he was really stupid.
'How's Megan?' asked Shane. 'She still doing well at school?'
The last time Holly had visited, Megan had been named as class-prefect, which Shane thought was odd for a seven year-old, but everything was different now. They even had there own prom...at seven!
'She's doing great,' Holly nodded. 'She misses her daddy, b
ut she knows that you'll be home soon.' She laughed. 'She gets really excited when she talks about it. Sometimes I have to tell her to calm down.'
Shane grinned. 'Really?'
'I swear,' Holly said. 'She's written songs about it, and everything.'
In that moment, Shane forgot that he was in prison; to hear that his daughter was already celebrating his release was amazing, and he couldn't wait to get home now, and hold her, the way he should have been holding her for the last three years. He had missed her growing into the girl she had, but he could at least be happy that she didn't detest him for it.
'How's your mother?' Shane asked.
'She's not too well at the moment,' Holly replied, the smile dropping from her face. 'The doctors think that she may have emphysema. I told her she should have quit smoking a long time ago, but would she have it? No, and now look.'
This was the first that Shane had heard of Holly's mother's problem, but it came as no surprise; the woman smoked thirty a day, and had done since she was twenty. It was only a matter of time before it caught up with her.
'She'll bounce back,' Shane said, although he doubted it.
'Shane, she's sixty and has to inhale steroids. What do you think she's going to do? Start yoga?'
He shouldn't have, but he laughed. The sight of Holly's mother bending into unnatural positions with a fag in one hand and a glass of wine in the other was too much.
'It's not funny,' Holly said, and then she started to laugh too. 'Shane, stop it. She might not last for much longer.'
'Then tell her that yoga is a bad idea,' Shane sniggered.
They laughed together for a while. Glossing over the problem seemed to have done the trick, and although Holly was worried sick about her mother, making a joke about it made the problem seem less important.
'You and Holly started to pack your things up yet?' said Shane.
Holly looked surprised. 'What do you mean?'
'At your Mom's?' he said. 'Have you got all of your stuff together for when I get out?'
She frowned. 'Shane, we have nowhere to go. You'll have to come stay with my parents for a while until you get back on your feet.'
The anger that Shane suddenly felt course through him was almost unbearable. The whole reason he was in prison was because of his stubborn refusal to accept any help from Holly's mother, and yet here he was, on the brink of freedom, and he would be forced to just set up home with the in-laws.
'We talked about this,' Shane said.
'You did,' Holly said. 'It's easy for you to talk about it, stuck in here, but we had nowhere else to go, and until we get set up, and you get a job, we'll have no choice but to stay with my mom and dad.'
Great, Shane thought. I could have avoided a three-stretch all along, and by now we'd be sorted, with a place of our own again.
Arguing was not what Shane wanted; there was nothing worse than falling out with Holly and then being shepherded back to his cell where he would have nothing to mull over except for all of the bad things that they said to each other. It was enough to drive a man insane. He smiled.
'You're right,' he said. 'I'll get a job as soon as I get out. Who knows, huh? Might even go for a job as one of these.' He nudged a finger in the general direction of Officer Tyler. He turned in his chair. 'How much do you make after tax?' he said to the guard.
'Not enough to look at your ugly face every day,' Tyler said, but there was something strange about the way he said it: breathless. Pained, even.
When Shane turned back to the table, Holly asked, 'What's wrong with him?'
'Some virus doing the rounds,' Shane said. 'Let's just hope that I don't get it before I get chance to have a proper munch on Megan.'
'I'll tell her you said that,' Holly smiled. 'That'll make her day.'
For the fifteen minutes that followed, they talked about how Holly had taken an art course at college, and was hoping to even showcase some of her work at the local gallery; they discussed Holly's father, who had built yet another shed in the back garden, taking the tally up to four in total. Shane wondered if he was planning on renting them out to immigrants to make a bit of extra cash. They talked about Holly's newly discovered interest in all things Justin Bieber, who Shane had never heard of before, but would be having a stern talk with Holly about when he was released. Talking about these things made Shane realise that he was about to embark upon a new chapter in life. He was going home, finally, and although certain things had changed, the two most important people in his life remained exactly the same.
As the siren sounded to announce the end of visiting time, Shane didn't feel the usual sinking feeling he usually did. He kissed Holly, not noticing Officer Jenson standing against the wall and admiring Shane's wife as if she was his own.
'I'll see you soon,' Holly said as she was ushered out of the door, a tide of less significant visitors following her through it. She blew him a final kiss before she was edged out of sight.
The prisoners left behind in the visiting room watched as Officer Tyler staggered, banged his head on the far wall, and hit the deck with a thud.
'Holy shit!' cried Officer Jenson. He reached for his two-way and called for help.
With the taste of Holly still on his lips, Shane watched as the guard writhed and spasmed, cheered on by the rest of the prisoners, who thought it was the best show they had ever seen.
Something, Shane thought, was definitely not right.
*
'I have a home to go to,' Marla said, although Warden Dean simply could not grasp the concept. 'I know there's something going around, but I'm not a witch; I can't just make it all stop.'
'Then why the fuck do I employ you?' Charles Dean snarled. 'You don't seem to have the slightest clue what is happening here. All I know is that one of my men was bitten yesterday, and now he's stretched out unconscious with some sort of superbug that, stop me if I'm wrong, you should be aware of.'
'I'm not in the CDC,' Marla retorted. 'When was the last time you noticed me wearing a biological suit? Huh? Never, because I don't deal with superbugs. I patch up your prisoners when they get stabbed; I make sure they get their Aspirin if they get a migraine. I never said I could prevent the plague.'
'That's what you think this is?' Charles asked with an expression that suggested he had already thought about it himself. 'Some sort of supervirus?'
Marla took a step back. The room, all of a sudden, didn't seem big enough for both of them. 'I'm not suggesting anything,' she said. 'All I know is that I have a life out of work, and I would like to live it. You know the protocol. Those infected should be taken to the hospital under guard. There is nothing more that I can do for them.'
'Protocol,' Charles grunted. 'What the fuck do you know about protocol. You just walk around here, prick-teasing and then complaining when somebody takes you up on the offer.'
Marla didn't know what happened, but before she could do anything about it, her hand was already connecting with the side of the warden's face. His head jolted backwards, and his eyes bulged with the shock that followed.
'How dare you!' she said. 'You know that your fucking guard was out of line.'
Charles didn't speak; he couldn't. He was still mortally offended that she had slapped him. He had gone a peculiar shade of red, too, which made him look as if he might explode at any given moment.
'If you don't put the call in to transfer Officer Tyler and Cyrus Clay, then I will.' She said it knowing that it would prompt a response from the man, who would never let her do such a thing.
'I'll make the call,' he said. 'But if I were you, I would start to look for another job, because I believe that you are of no further use to this facility.'
Marla smiled. 'First thing tomorrow,' she said, and turned to head for the door. She managed two steps before an alarm went off. It wasn't the fire-alarm, which she had heard on numerous occasions. This one, she didn't recognise.
She turned to find Charles Dean looking slightly anxious.
'Looks like you won't
be going anywhere just yet,' he said.
*
'Can you see anything out there?' Billy Toombs asked. He was still clenching his book, aware that the chances of an actual riot were slim.
'I can see a few of the guards running around at the end of the row,' Shane said. 'Apart from that, everybody seems to be in their cells.'
He looked out at the cells across the landing. Prisoners were pressed against the bars trying to get a better look. A few of them were shouting obscenities towards the guards, who ran past with baffled expressions. The alarm seemed to go on forever, and after a while the shrill scream that filled the prison was enough to give everyone a migraine.
'Probably a suicide,' Billy said, picking up where he had left off with Vonnegut.
'Maybe,' Shane replied. 'But they try to keep suicides quiet, don't they? Why would they be raising the roof with that fucking racket if someone had hung themselves with their own bedlinen?'
No, something was happening, and Shane knew that it was something to do with the people falling sick.
*
'Is he dead?' Dennis Hart spluttered, grasping at the open wound on his neck to prevent the blood from squirting out so freely. 'Make sure he's fucking dead this time.'
The body of Jimmy Kelly lay outstretched just outside the cell. Jimmy had attacked Dennis, ripped a chunk out of his neck, and kept on coming until the guards arrived. Michaelson had been the first on the scene, and wasn't sure what was happening until he opened the cell door. It was then that Jimmy turned, growled, and leapt for the guard, his eyes filled with darkness, his throat filled with the blood of his cellmate. Luckily, for Michaelson, the baton had met the crazed man's face quite cleanly; a few teeth shot out and clattered against the cell wall. But even that had not been enough to deter Jimmy Kelly, who had clambered to his feet and started after the guard once again.