by Adam Millard
Rooster turned to see the guard lift one leg up and slam it down onto the aluminium shelf. The blackness in those eyes was not natural; Rooster had never seen eyes so dark in his entire life.
'Quickly!'
Rooster stepped up to the table and pushed it as hard as he could. The wheels squeaked as the table shot backwards, so fast that it almost toppled over. When it slammed against the wall, sandwiching the guard, Rooster had to move his head to the side to prevent the flying ooze from hitting him in the face. The warm liquid which had spewed from the guard's mouth hit Rooster's cheek, and the first thing he thought was how warm it was.
'Hold him there!' Marvin said, who was now on his knees by the trestle table and appeared to be reaching underneath it. When he stood up, Rooster could see that he was clenching the guard's baton in his hand.
Marvin then proceeded in smashing the guard's head in until there was nothing left but a spinal cord and a few shards of skull. Rooster was sick, copiously, throughout the disgusting episode, but there was something intriguing about watching a guard's head cave in, and he found it almost impossible to divert his eyes.
The baton was dripping with grey matter and black slime; who would have thought that staring at the black stick covered with the guard's brain-matter would be the thing to tip Rooster over the edge? He began to retch so inexorably that the veins in his neck stuck out. His head began to throb from the constant retching, and he walked a few steps away from the trestle table to pull himself together.
'You okay?' Marvin asked, wiping the brain-matter off the baton using his trouser-leg. 'That was fun, yeah?'
'Fucking awesome!' Rooster gagged. 'Look forward to the next time.' Thinking there could actually be a next time was enough to start him off again, and it was almost five minutes later that he finally composed himself.
'What happened to him?' Rooster asked. 'Something was seriously fucked up with him.'
'No shit!' Marvin retorted. 'He was eating Reynolds, or at least had been. That's not normal behaviour, even for a guard.'
Then Rooster said something that was almost crazy given the circumstances. 'I'm hungry.'
'What?'
'I think I emptied my stomach,' Rooster sighed. 'I need to get something to eat.'
Marvin, despite what had just happened, began to laugh, but there was a funny taste in his mouth, which he wiped away with the edge of his hand. If he'd looked down, he would have noticed the blood that wasn't his smeared across his palm.
*
Outside, the darkness was intermittently broken by the sweeping searchlights. They were out there now, the things, wandering aimlessly towards the twenty-foot high fences. When they got there, they turned and walked back. If a searchlight neared, the creatures seemed to recognise it and follow, if only for a moment. As the light fell on them, it became clear that some of them shouldn't even be standing, such was the extent of their wounds; one of them, a prisoner by the name of Martin Jukes, was dragging himself along the floor with one bloodied knuckle. His legs had been torn from his body, fibrous flesh dragged along the floor from the waist down. His right arm had been severed somewhere around the shoulder; a stub of a bone was all that remained. As he pulled himself inexorably forward, the gravel of the yard digging into his face, embedding itself, Michaelson couldn't quite imagine what it would be like to suffer so much and yet still exist.
'Poor fuckers,' the guard muttered. Jenson was standing beside him, watching fervently.
'You wouldn't be saying that if one of them got you,' said Jenson. 'Would you?'
'I'd be blowing the top of its fucking head off,' Michaelson spat, using his left pistol to show how that might go. 'I hated them when they were just inmates, but I think I pity them a little bit, now.'
'How?'
'I don't know,' Michaelson said. 'It's just that, the way I see it, this is the most human a lot of them have ever been, and they're dead. There's something innocent about them now, something new. They're like fucking children, starting from scratch.' He laughed when he realised the irony of his words. 'I'm not making any sense at all, am I?'
'Not really,' Officer Jenson replied. 'The way I see it, they're more dangerous now that they can't be easily put down. Before, they were just murderers and rapists, but now they're demons. Almost impossible to kill, twice as likely to kill us.'
From behind, there came a cough. The guards turned from the window and were met by the beautiful eyes of Marla Emmett. She was holding two glasses, which were filled with a golden fluid that looked instantly welcoming. 'Thought you might like a drink,' she said. 'I know how thirsty sentry work can be.'
She handed them the glasses; Jenson stared down at his dubiously.
'I haven't put anything in it,' she sniggered. 'We need you and your guns, don't we?'
'That you do,' Michaelson smiled, drinking the whisky down and savouring the entailing burn. 'Jenson here doesn't really trust anybody, especially women who are being polite to him.'
'Fuck you,' Jenson said, barging the other guard playfully. To Marla, he said, 'I have no problem with women. Ignore this fool; his mom's probably at home right now, wondering why he hasn't rung to let her know why he's late.'
Marla laughed, and for the first time in a while it came naturally, a genuine laugh that sounded as good as it felt.
'There's plenty more in the governor's globe,' Marla said, 'but I reckon you want to stay sober?'
'Correct,' Michaelson said, jabbing a finger at her as if to say: Got it in one, Missy.
Jenson sipped from his glass, and then asked, 'What are they talking about?' He pointed surreptitiously across to where Terry and Jared were sat. 'More silly theories?'
Marla shook her head. 'Terry seems to think that there should be an antidote, or maybe a preventative should you get scratched or bit. Jared doesn't think so. He says that the government probably created the virus for modern warfare, you know, as some sort of biological weapon?'
'He's been reading too many comics, that one,' Jenson said, taking another sip of whisky. 'They haven't been trying to concoct a plan of escape, then?'
'Not that I'm aware of,' Marla said. 'But why would they want to escape from the men with the guns? You're probably their only means of survival, and I'll bet they just hate you for it.'
'Let's hope so,' Michaelson grinned. 'Wouldn't want to let down the fans.'
There was a moan from outside. The guards turned back to the window, creating enough space for the doctor in the middle.
The creatures were fighting over something in the centre of the yard; there were five of them, gathered around something indistinct.
'They're not having a game of cards,' Marla sighed. 'What's got them so worked up?'
The answer came almost as soon as the question was asked. The circle of creatures separated just enough to allow a glimpse of the object of interest, and Jenson slapped a hand to his head in disgust as soon as it became apparent.
'One of the dogs,' he said. 'They've got one of the fucking dogs down there.'
'There's nothing we can do for it,' Michaelson said, placing the flat of his hand on the other guard's shoulder. 'All we can hope is that it's over quickly.'
As they crowded the animal, there was a yelp. The German Shepherd growled a few times, and then fell completely silent, and then it was the turn of the creatures to growl.
'They make me wanna puke,' Marla said, averting her eyes. 'How can they do that to a fucking dog?'
'I don't think a few hairs bothers them,' Jenson said, trying to sound unmoved by what he was witnessing, and failing miserably. 'They're beasts, fucking monsters that will stop at nothing to sate their needs.'
'I hope they choke,' Marla sneered, and then realised that they were already dead and choking would probably have no adverse effects.
A few minutes passed before the things dispersed, leaving a bloody mess in the centre of the yard. There was very little remaining to suggest that a dog had once been there; all that was left was a few bones and a pelt
of fur. It turns out that the creatures didn't like the hair as much as Jenson had reckoned.
'I need another drink,' Marla said. 'That warden of yours did have his uses, after all.' She walked across to where the globe sat, open, bottle necks jutting out invitingly.
Marla was about to reach down and pick up one of the bottles when the door banged. Her heart leapt into her mouth. Across the room, Terry and Jared jumped to their feet. Michaelson and Jenson snapped their guns in the direction of the door, distrusting the emergency blockade that held the door shut.
'Hello,' came a voice from the other side of the door. 'If there's anyone in there, we'd really appreciate some help.'
*
There was a moment where nobody spoke, an uncomfortable few seconds where fearful and confused expressions were exchanged. Michaelson signalled Jenson to move forward using one of his pistols, and the guard did, never allowing the shotgun to drop.
'Who are you?' Michaelson asked as he too moved towards the barricaded door.
'Inmates Toombs and Bridge,' came the reply.
Jenson turned to Michaelson and arched his eyebrows. They were, as far as the guards were concerned, non-violent prisoners; neither of them had really been a problem, even during past riots. Jenson shrugged his shoulders, Michaelson grimaced.
'Have either of you been scratched or bitten?' asked Michaelson.
There was a loud sigh from the other side of the door, followed by, 'No. Toombs is injured, but that was from an accident down in the boiler-room.' A pause, then, 'We're just trying to figure out what to do here, and those things are on their way. I can fucking hear them.'
Michaelson took a further step. From the corner of the room, Jared whined.
'You're not just going to let them in here?' said Jared, his eyes full of fear, his breath heavy and inconsistent.
'You think we should just leave them out there in the corridor?' Marla said. 'You heard what he said. Those things are coming. We leave them out there, then we'll have their deaths on our conscience. Is that what you want?'
Jared was about to say he didn't give a shit about his conscience when Terry interrupted. 'Of course not,' he said. 'Clear the doorway.'
The guards moved the barricade and took a step back. With weapons trained at head height, they waited with bated breath as Terry pulled open the door.
'Slowly,' said Terry, allowing entry to the two inmates. 'These guys have guns, and I'm pretty sure one of them at least knows how to use them.'
The guards exchanged a glance before turning their attention back to the newcomers.
'That looks pretty nasty,' Marla said, pointing to the makeshift bandage wrapped around Billy Toombs's shoulder. 'How recent?'
'Less than an hour,' Billy replied. 'Feels like shit, but I don't think it's infected.'
The barricade was replaced just in time. A horde of the creatures flung themselves into the wood, sending the cabinet forward an inch, but no further. The top of the doorframe splintered, sending two shards of wood down onto the office floor. Michaelson pushed the cabinet back into place and waited for a few seconds. The creatures must have realised that they couldn't get in. The pressure from their pushing subsided, and their groans trailed off as they headed away, off down the corridor, perhaps in search of an easier meal.
With safety restored, at least for the time being, the atmosphere relaxed a little. Marla peeled the sodden bandage from Billy's shoulder and began to clean the wound with expensive vodka.
'You should count yourself lucky,' she said. 'This is Dean's alcohol we're wasting, you'll be glad to know.'
Billy sniggered. 'That does make me feel better,' he said. A sheen of sweat coated his face, and he was looking a little more pallid than he had on his arrival. His eyes were sunken, surrounded with blackness, and his hair was dripping with sweat. 'How bad does it look?' The question, of course, was a test; he wanted to know if it actually looked like a bite. If the doctor couldn't identify it as such, then he was safe. If Marla discovered teeth-marks, however, beneath the blood and grime, then he was screwed, apt to take a bullet to the head from one of the guards, who seemed to be very keen on using their weapons on anything suspicious.
'It's nasty,' she said, 'but once I get it cleaned up properly, you should be fine.'
He knew that he wouldn't be fine, not at all. He had been infected, and he knew it. He could almost feel it coursing through his veins, a virus intent only in turning him into a walking predator. He knew that he must keep a close eye on his own behaviour, monitor himself until he could no longer control his urges, and when the time came, when all was lost, he would either take care of himself, or ask Shane once more. It was unfair, of course, to charge someone with such a dreadful task, but in his tribe back home it was forbidden to commit suicide. An eternity traipsing the afterlife in lament was all that awaited such people, and he had had enough lamentation for one lifetime.
'Are you okay, buddy?' Shane asked, pulling up a chair in front of his cellmate, who was obviously not okay and was almost as white, by now, as he was. 'The good doctor looking after you?'
Marla looked up and smiled. It was a nice smile, sincere. Shane noticed that the doctor had the same colour eyes as Holly, like emeralds surrounded by lightning. He couldn't look into those eyes for too long, though. It felt like he was cheating on his wife, who was still out there, somewhere. She had to be.
'In answer to your first question,' Billy said, gritting his teeth so hard that they crunched inside his mouth, 'I've never felt better. Wish I could feel like this all of the time.' He laughed nervously, but stopped the instant Marla poured neat vodka onto the wound. He hissed in pain, rolled his eyes up into his head, and waited for the agony to subside. It felt as if someone was drilling into his shoulder, but with one of those gigantic boring machines that are used on oil-rigs. When he could finally speak again, he said, 'Yes, the doctor is my new best friend,' he said. 'She's a much better friend than you, and she's prettier.'
'You don't mean that,' Shane laughed. 'Not after all of those long night we've shared on our bunks.'
Marla chuckled. 'You two should be on stage,' she said, sardonically. 'Now, can I get this wound clean, please, before I have to stitch up my own sides from laughing so much?'
Shane allowed a fist to drop onto Billy Toombs's thigh. 'You're gonna be fine, bro,' he said. 'Just like I promised.'
Billy shook his head. 'If you say so,' he grimaced, fighting another pang of agony. 'Just make sure that you're ready for those fucking creatures. They're sly bitches.'
Shane nodded. He knew exactly what Billy was saying, but with the doctor there couldn't.
Make sure you're ready if I turn.
Shane left the doctor to finish cleaning Billy's wound, and secretly hoped for a miracle.
*
The car was parked next to the kerb, as it always was. The engine was running, and so the car trembled, almost in anticipation, as it steadily ticked over. Shane looked across to the liquor store, and was half-tempted to ditch the whole idea and drive away.
The radio was blaring out some sort of melodious rock, but Shane couldn't place the song. It wasn't actually a song at all, but a mixture of several. Combined, the noise was unfathomable, and it was all Shane could do not to scream out loud.
Sweat dripped down his face; it puddled in his lap, and for a moment he thought he had pissed himself. He stared down, only for a moment, and realised that it wasn't just sweat any more.
It was blood.
Watery blood, diluted with the ever-increasing sweat, dripped from his head. His pores seemed to be producing it quicker than he could wipe it off, which he did frantically with the bottom of his shirt. It was useless, though. The shirt was drenched, and the car seemed to be filling up with crimson water quicker than it was physically possible. His feet splashed around as he fumbled to remove the seatbelt.
Had he been wearing one a moment ago?
He wasn't sure.
The radio began to splutter; the combined roc
k songs were now playing as if underwater, which they weren't. Not yet, anyway.
Shane tried to open the door, but the locks slammed down on him just as he did so.
He tried to curse, but nothing came out. Not even a whimper.
With the door locked, and the car filling up with bloody water, Shane panicked and began to smash at the window with his elbow.
The window had been open...it was always open.
But not now. He hit the window so many times that he lost count, but still it didn't shatter. He knew that it should have, that he was strong enough to break a simple car window with his elbow, and yet it just wouldn't.
Then, he saw them; a small army of the creatures walking towards the car. Some of them emerged from the liquor store, the very place that he had been about to rob to save his marriage and house. They struggled towards him, groaning, teeth bared, bloodsoaked.
As they surrounded the car, Shane realised that the water was now up to his neck. He could smell it – coppery and stale – as it lashed around with his struggles.
The things began to slam open palms down onto the car. They rocked it, and before Shane had time to think the car was pushing from side to side enough to change the directions of the waves within, which lapped up and filled his nostrils and mouth. He spat, trying to get rid of the putrid water, but more and more of it swept into his throat, and he began to choke.
As the darkness began to take him, he saw faces; the faces of his wife and daughter, the face of Billy Toombs, and the face of someone who looked remarkably like himself.
They were rocking the car. Holly and Megan were looking in through the flooded vehicle, grinning, black ooze dribbling from the corners of their mouths as Shane thrashed around to no avail.
When the darkness finally came, Shane closed his eyes and tried to erase the visions that he had just seen, but could not.
Shane...
*