by Adam Millard
In the end, though, the dying had not been an option, and neither had the killing.
'We're gonna get through this, Shane,' Marla said, and there was something about the way in which she said it – with honest-to-god determination – that made Shane believe her.
All he could think about was Holly and Megan, and whether they were okay. Perhaps the infection wasn't as widespread as first thought. Was it plausible that the virus might have only reached the outskirts of Jackson? Shane hoped that it wasn't too late to reach them, his wife and daughter. When he did, he knew that everything would be okay once again. Billy's death would haunt him for eternity, but with his family around he would be able to stifle the memory so that it became bearable.
Noticing that the rest of the group had slowed to a stop, Jenson placed both hands on the shotgun. 'I hope you're not making any fucking plans,' he said. 'I'll shoot you before you even have time to think about it.'
'Lower the gun,' Michaelson said; it wasn't a request. 'You're being a fucking idiot. Haven't you figured it out yet? Are you so fucking dumb that it hasn't sunk in? Everything has changed. These people aren't prisoners, not anymore, at least not until everything goes back to the way...to the way it was. Even then I think it'll be out of our hands. Fuck, we're not even guards any longer. You, me, them, we're all the same. We're just people, people trying to live through the night, and if we do, if we make it until morning, then I don't have a clue what we're going to find out there, but I promise you something: you, and me, we won't be fucking friends. You're too much of a cunt.'
Stunned silence prevailed, but Marla felt like applauding such a fine speech. Officer Jenson's face dropped about an inch; he looked like he'd been kicked in the bollocks constantly for an hour. His mouth eventually opened, but nothing fell out. In fact, he looked ashamed. When he hung his head, Michaelson didn't know whether to feel sorry for him, or give him another round.
'We need to move,' Shane said, pointing into the darkness. 'How far to the gates?'
'Not far,' Jenson sighed. He looked deflated; the shotgun hung loosely at his side.
It was a poor choice of timing to allow the dejection to hit.
Out of the shadows came the figure, screaming incoherently. By the time any of them realised what was happening, the man had relieved Officer Michaelson's holsters of their pistols.
'Watch out!' Terry cried, but it was too late; the figure was already moving through the darkness, a pistol in each hand.
Jenson hoisted the gun upwards and managed to get off a shot. The recoil sent him staggering backwards. From the darkness came a agonising cry.
The lunatic had been hit.
What happened in the next ten seconds was a blur to all of them. Shane, Marla and Jared threw themselves to the ground; Jared was whimpering profusely. Michaelson, being a few steps ahead of everyone else – and the closest to the maniac who now possessed both of his guns – didn't know what to do. He managed to fall to his knees, which was a lot harder than it sounded since every muscle in his body had seized up. Terry Lewis remained standing, for reasons only known to himself. Shane stared up at him from the ground, and could see that the man was praying silently; his eyes were closed, and his mouth moved quickly as the whispered words passed through it. Even in the darkness, Shane watched as a single tear rolled down Terry's cheek and landed on the collar of his coveralls.
And Jenson, who was a few feet in front of Terry Lewis, fired again. There was no pained reply this time, though.
The only response came in the form of bullets.
Lots of them.
Officer Jenson's body replied spasmodically as each bullet hit home. Blood sprayed out, showering the surrounding walls. The guard didn't – couldn't – cry out as he was riddled with gunfire, but from the floor Marla was screaming.
A shrill screech that seemed to go on forever, long after Jenson's lifeless corpse hit the corridor floor.
When the gunfire stopped, the ringing continued to echo through the hall. What should have been a shocked silence was, in fact, a high-pitched aftermath. Jared was still whining, Marla was screaming, Terry was silently praying, Michaelson was grumbling, and Shane was listening to the sound of his own heartbeat as it thumped incessantly inside his ears.
'Well, well, well?' the voice in the darkness said. 'What do we have here?'
*
Ahhhh, the gunfire was a message, a sign that he was on the right track. When it came, he had been contemplating altering his direction. There was a door, and he had been about to walk through it when the banging started.
The sign.
He continued onwards, knowing that whatever had made such a racket was close by. He could almost smell the blood, but maybe that was just a trick his new body was playing on him.
His stomach, what remained of it, seemed to lunge, as if it knew that the time was almost upon it. A tendril of intestine that had previously been hanging from his stomach slipped down and landed at his feet, but he didn't notice it, even when it wrapped around his foot and almost tripped him up.
He dragged it with him for almost five minutes before it freed itself and lay abandoned by the hallway skirting.
*
The unmistakeable stench of gunfire lingered on the air, its sole purpose to sting nostrils and make eyes water. Nobody spoke – nor could they – for the thirty seconds that followed the gunning down of the guard. Glances, fearful and confused, were exchanged, and the possessor of the pistols watched intently, trying to figure out if anyone was stupid enough to make a move.
'Well this is all nice and cosy,' Rooster said, taking a surreptitious step towards the shocked clique. As he moved, Marla flinched; Jared simply whimpered, as was his wont. 'What, did you think you could just run out on me? Leave me here to fucking die, like the rest of those things?'
Michaelson, being the only guard – and the only person with any semblance of authority – shook his head.
'Hill, that wasn't the plan at all.' The way in which he spoke was akin to that of a counsellor trying to convince a junkie not to toss himself off a seven story building. Almost patronising, but not intentionally.
Rooster turned to face the guard. 'You and your little buddies here were trying to escape, weren't you? Off to greener grass, leaving the rest of us here to rot.'
Terry Lewis, who had been standing stock-still and reciting excerpts from the bible in his head, held out a pacifying hand. 'We didn't know there were any more survivors,' he said, the tiniest hint of laughter at the end to embellish the claim. 'We were just trying to get away from those fucking things while we still had a chance. If we'd known you were here, and not infected – which I assume that you're not – then we would have come for you.'
'Bullshit!' Rooster Hill spat, and he actually did spit; a globule of phlegm landed on his chin. Nobody watching, though, was brave enough to tell him about it.
'He's telling the truth,' Shane said. 'We all met up trying to find a way out. It's not like we had a plan.'
'Well, if you did, and I'm pretty fucking certain that you did, then I'm about to toss a spanner in the works.'
Like we need any more spanners in the works, Shane thought.
'Let's not be stupid about this, son,' Michaelson said, and then snapped his mouth shut as Rooster lifted one of the pistols up and pushed it to the guard's temple.
'Stupid? I'm not being stupid. I'm the only one here sensible enough to see what's going on. Well, I'm not about to let you all go running off and leaving me here to die—'
'You can come with us,' Shane said. It was then that he realised that he was still cowering on the floor. He pushed himself up to his feet; at least he would be standing if Rooster was crazy enough to shoot him, which was a hell of a lot more admirable than crawling around like a worm looking for a place to shit.
'I could come with you?' Rooster said, clearly thinking it over. 'Yeah, I could, couldn't I. I could come with you, and then you and your merry band of fucking men could turn on me and feed me to
those things as soon as the chance arrives.' He cocked the pistol, the one that was pushed against Officer Michaelson's head. The guard closed his eyes, anticipating the shot that would kill him. 'I don't think I want to come with you, not now. In fact, I think I'll be better off on my own. Well, not entirely on my own. I need somebody for company, don't I?'
His gaze dropped. Marla Emmett's expression changed so drastically that she seemed to mutate into a completely different person.
'Leave her alone,' Shane said, stepping forward, knowing that he was apt to get his kneecaps blown off if he moved too quickly. 'If you need to take anybody, take me.'
Rooster chuckled. 'Why the fuck would I want to take you when I could have her.' He licked his lips, the blob of phlegm gathered on his chin slid across to the other side of his mouth. 'Fine piece of ass, that one. I'll bet she could suck a fucking golf-ball through a length of hosepipe, couldn't you, honey?'
'Fuck you!' Marla grimaced. She thought, for a few seconds, that she was actually going to be sick; she managed to swallow it down.
'I'll bet you will, too,' Rooster smiled. 'Now, sweetie, I want you to get to your feet, and don't be trying nothing stupid, 'cos I will shoot you where you stand. I'll shoot you, and then I'll fuck you.'
Marla didn't know what that meant, but didn't want to question his intentions, not while he had a gun pointed towards her chest.
'Slowly,' Rooster said, licking his lips again. 'If you move too fast, I might slip with my little friend here.' He nodded to Michaelson, who still had his eyes shut tight.
Marla manoeuvred herself carefully, trying not to give the gunman an excuse to blow the top of the guard's head off.
'That's nice,' Rooster said. 'Nice and slowly, hmmm-mmmm, just like Momma used to do.'
When she was on her feet – feet which felt like they were liable to crash beneath her at any moment – Rooster told her to move towards him, then threatened to shoot the next man who moved.
'This isn't going to get you out of here,' Terry said. 'Son, believe me. There are other ways we could do this.'
'Do your ways get my dick wet?' Rooster asked. 'Didn't think so.'
'I'm not gonna get your dick wet, either,' Marla said, and she meant it.
'Oh, you will,' Rooster replied, shoving the pistol forward to emphasise his point. 'You will, and it will be sooo fucking good.'
Jared, throughout the exchange, had been backing away. The darkness of the corridor made it almost impossible to see, but Rooster did, and that was enough.
He removed the gun from Michaelson's temple and sliced the air in front of him with it. 'Don't!' he snapped. 'I promise you, it'll be the last thing you fucking do!'
Jared dropped to his knees and began to beg, crying uncontrollably. It was almost embarrassing, but Shane felt sorry for the poor guy, who clearly wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. It made him wonder what Jared had done in the first place to end up in prison.
'We're gonna go, now,' Rooster said. 'Make our way out of this hellhole together. If any of you try to follow, I will shoot you. And you, missy, had better behave, otherwise I won't be gentle with you when it comes to it, and then you'll wish that I'd shot you to begin with.'
He grabbed Marla by the hair and spun her around. She squeaked, and then stifled it. Shane thought about lunging for them, but there was no way he would make it in time. Rooster was definitely unhinged, and not lying about shooting people.
Rooster dragged her backwards, through the darkness of the corridor. Her feet shuffled with recalcitrance, but she had no choice; she had to do what the prick with the guns said.
'Bye-bye, boys,' Rooster laughed, and then he was gone, disappearing in the direction from which the group had just come.
Marla yelped as the sound of a pistol slamming against flesh reached the group.
'Well, I wasn't expecting that,' Terry Lewis said. 'We are going after her, aren't we?'
Shane shook his head. 'I am, but the rest of you should get out of here while you have the chance.'
Jared, from the floor, breathed a heavy sigh of relief and began to cry again.
'I'm coming with you,' Michaelson said, rubbing at the reddened area on his temple where the gun had been pressed. 'That fucker needs a slap.'
'Terry,' Shane said. 'I want you to take Jared and get out of here. You know the code, right?'
Terry nodded. 'Seven-four-seven-one,' he said. 'But that's no good. What about the fingerprint scanner?'
Shane scratched his head, and then said, 'I've already thought about that.' He glanced down at the bullet-riddled body of Jenson. 'I'll do the honours.'
He dropped to his knees, pulled out the blade – Billy's blade – and began to carve the fingers off the dead guard's hand.
*
'You're going the wrong way,' Marla sneered, wiping away the blood that had started to dribble from the corner of her mouth. 'They have the codes to get out of here.'
'Whatever,' Rooster said, pulling Marla's hair so ferociously that some of it snapped off in his hand. She yelped, but that was all. 'We're going to get out of here my way. That, of course, is after. First, me and you are going to get it on, and if you know what's good for you, you'll do what I say. If you want to live, and a pretty little thing like you should wanna live, then best behaviour, please. I promise you'll enjoy it. Probably not as much as me, but you will.'
The thought of the crazed lunatic penetrating her, forcing himself on her, made her sick to her stomach. Why was it that all men, the ones that she had met recently, anyway, just wanted to rape or molest her? Was she giving off some sort of signal, something that she was completely unaware of?
Fuck no!
She was in a prison, filled with incarcerated murderers and rapists; some of that must rub off on the guards, who had been almost as revolting as the inmates – Tyler certainly was, and Marla wasn't sure that Jenson had been the full ticket.
'Ahh, here we are,' Rooster said. They had reached a door, glass-panelled, and as Rooster turned the knob there came a click. The door swung inwards. 'Perfect. A place to call our own,' he sniggered. 'After you.'
Marla may not have been panicking on the outside, but her insides were turning over like a cement-mixer. She knew that she was going to vomit ten seconds before it actually happened, but it still came as quite a shock.
'That's no way to behave,' Rooster said, brushing the hair away from her face. 'Anyone would think that you didn't fancy me anymore.'
The rawness of her stomach, and the pain from the retching, served to make it almost impossible to prevent further projectile vomiting, but she somehow managed to control it; Rooster's hand, brushing gently across her cheek as if he were her mother trying to soothe her, made her angry, and it was all that she could do not to smash him in the fucking face and hope for the best.
'Better?' Rooster asked, taking a step into the room. He extended his hand and provided Marla with a curtsey. 'Shall we?'
This wasn't happening. This couldn't be real. She could believe all of the other stuff – the fact that there were people walking around out there, or what used to be people, trying to eat humans – but somehow, knowing that she was about to be raped by an inmate seemed almost too far-fetched to be true.
She stepped into the room, not having any other choice. 'Promise me one thing,' she said, wiping a tear away from her eye.
'Sure, sweetie,' Rooster said, licking his lips as if they had been coated with sugar. 'Anything for you.'
Anything for me, fuck you, you fucking gimp!
'Please don't hurt me.'
As soon as she said it, she realised how pathetic she sounded. She might as well have asked him to lie back while she did all of the work. Her mind began to run diagnostics, trying to figure out why she had said something so utterly demoralising, but couldn't reach a suitable conclusion.
'I won't hurt you,' Rooster said. He pulled her gently into the room by the wrist, a massive grin stretched from one ear to the other. 'Do you like chess?'
&nbs
p; Marla had no idea what to say, but the longer the conversation went on, at least nothing bad was happening to her – well, nothing worse.
'I love chess,' she gasped, hoping that it would evolve into a full-blown conversation about the game, preferably with a rundown of the rules and a few anecdotal exchanges.
'Then you're gonna fucking love this,' Rooster said, and then he was on top of her, his hand fumbling between them, searching for the button of his coveralls. He was licking her face, trying to push his tongue into her mouth, but she clenched her lips tightly, promising herself that whatever happened, whatever he did to her body, he wouldn't be getting past her lips.
He grunted as he released himself from the trousers. She could feel him, savage and hard, as he pressed against her leg.
She wanted to bite it off. Chew it off, even, the way one of those creatures would.
He panted, his tongue slipping down to her neck. She felt like she was going to be sick again, but knew that if she did he would make her pay for it. As he tore at her clothes, yanking her skirt across and breaking all eight buttons of her blouse simultaneously, she tried to push her mind to somewhere else...somewhere safe. She couldn't. All she could think of was the conversation with Charles Dean, the one that practically terminated her contract with the prison.
How she wished that she had done that yesterday, or the day before. She would have been out of it, safe, untouched.
Rooster writhed around on top of her. She could hardly breathe as his full weight collapsed down, forcing any air she had amassed out of her lungs. Rooster must have mistook her forced exhalation as an aroused whimper.
'You like that, huh?' he said, licking her neck, trailing his slimy tongue up and down as if he were painting a fence with it. He grunted, pushed her legs further apart, and was about to enter her when he was pulled backwards.