by Adam Steel
‘That’s the warden!’ Saxby gasped.
Saxby ran over to her – adrenaline lending his tired body strength. Tibbs was hurrying to catch him up and together they rolled the massive body over.
Clarke’s eyes were clamped shut, and several of her teeth were missing. Sweat trailed down her forehead (which was scorched with old blackened burn marks). Her breathing was shallow. Someone had sprayed a picture in white paint over her torn and matted uniform. A large broken needle stuck out from her neck.
‘Is she dead?’ Tibbs quipped.
Saxby shook his head. Saxby leaned down close to cradle her head and then removed the long needle from her neck. It plopped out making a ‘squelching’ noise.
‘No, but damn. She’s a mess. We need to get her inside fast,’ Saxby replied.
Clarke’s breathing became heavier. Her chest was rising and falling in erratic leaps, but they failed to notice.
‘At least she looks better than usual,’ Tibbs smirked.
Clarke’s eyes snapped open: locking onto the man’s face standing over her.
A hand grenade went off in her brain. The full force of a massive overdose of Louis’ ‘special recipe’ exploded in her brain like a thousand, ruby, fireworks. A single thought reverberated madly around her mind and settled in the front.
Kill.
Her arm shot upwards with all the force of a fully loaded freight train hitting a brick wall. Her hand gripped Saxby’s face in a vice-like crushing motion. Her fingers sunk deep into his eye sockets. They made a sickening, squelching noise. A stream of jellied gunk, splattered across his cheeks. Saxby fell backwards, arms flailing. He was making incomprehensible, gaggling noises as he went down. Her fingers came loose from his head with a slurping ‘pop’ leaving two, dark red spots of ruin, trailing a transparent mucous substance.
Tibbs could barely register what he was witnessing. He scrambled backwards, fumbling for his weapon, or his radio, or both. He tripped and fell down hard. Saxby writhed on the floor opposite. Clarke was twitching in spasmodic movements. Tibbs could only watch in raw horror, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish as Clarke began to move. Her body was wracked by huge shudders as her muscles came to life. Tibbs could hear the crack of her bones when she stretched and flexed. An insurmountable strength filled her veins. She rose up - a huge, bloody handed God - movements slow and uncoordinated at first, but becoming stronger and more refined.
A killer cyborg was being reactivated.
Her immense frame towered over him. She was so massive that her silhouette blocked out the blazing sun overhead. Tibbs could see her eyes. They bulged out of her head and appeared to be burning with a bright, inner fire. Her face was fixed with an insane grin. A stream of drool was running down one side of her mouth. It splattered on the ground. Tibbs held his hand over his face as he cowered. Please - Please, don’t. It was his last thought.
Hendrickson let out a long, tired, yawn. The sunlight was stinging his eyes. Mentally he went over his salary increase in his mind, working out the math over and over, to try and keep him awake. It helped him forget about Cooper, Jones and the others, who had been shredded by gunfire, on the outer walls, the day before. A distant rumbling noise made him look up towards the perimeter fence. He could see the chain link fence rolling back in the distance.
‘Strange,’ he said, to Rufus the guard dog, who sat next to him impassively licking its fur.
‘Perhaps they are finally allowing the relief staff in. At last - Eh boy?’ he said affectionately, and petted Rufus.
He checked his watch. It was just past 9:30 a.m. He had been on duty just over twenty four hours.
A lone figure was striding up the path towards him. Hendrickson squinted. In the hot sun, it looked like a mirage. He looked again: thinking that the sun must be getting to him, or perhaps he was dreaming. Rufus let out a low rumbling growl.
Warden Clarke was coming up the path. Fast. His first thoughts were that her hair was a terrible mess, quickly followed by a reality check that Clarke had actually been abducted in the breakout and couldn’t be walking up towards him. But this figure wasn’t the warden. This was some monster raised out of a hellish nightmare. The figure he saw was coated in a slick layer of blood which was already drying in the hot sun. Its eyes blazed pure hatred and seemed to glow as if some supernatural force had occupied it. In one hand it wielded a stun-baton. The other was trailing something resembling pieces of red string. He could make out the prison uniform. It was torn, burnt and sporting a huge, smiley-face which had been applied with white paint across the chest.
Rufus began barking frantically. A stunned Hendrickson watched, mouth agape, as the demon stormed out from a bad dream and appeared in front of him. The scream failed to materialise in his throat as the Clarke-Demon swung the stun-baton with massive force directly into his face: caving in his features and blocking his vision with a mangle of blood and cartilage. Hendrickson’s last working sense relayed the barking and snarling of Rufus through his undamaged ears. Then his world went dark.
Clarke didn’t get the same chance with Rufus. As his master fell, the large Doberman lunged at her snarling. He tore into the flesh on her arm as she prepared for a second swing. The Doberman’s vicious teeth, sunk into her baton arm: ripping and tearing. Blood and drool went flying as Rufus savaged her. Clarke yelled with rage. She felt no pain. Pain had ceased to be.
Kill…Fuckers…Kill them all
With a grunt of effort, the Clarke-Thing lifted her arm in a hydraulic jack action. The dog was hanging off it, attached by its fangs, which were imbedded into her flesh. The huge beast was lifted clean off the ground, leaving its legs flailing in mid-air. The baton clattered to the ground. Rufus snarled: bit and clawed at her arm. Clarke's other hand swung round in a jerky motion and grabbed Rufus’s upper jaw in a vice-like grip. Blood poured from her fingers and mixed with Rufus’s drool as she dug them in under the dog’s teeth. Rufus’s eyes showed their white rims, and all three of the dog’s eyelids, strained open as the Clarke-Thing began to ply the dog from her arm. Rufus struggled, kicked and snarled furiously. Her arm broke free. There were savage, red puncture marks in it. The torn flesh was the only lasting indication that Rufus had been there. Clarke lifted the dog upwards by its upper jaw: squeezing hard around its snout. The muscles in her arm bulged. The dog squirmed like a landed fish. The Clarke-Thing gripped Rufus’s lower jaw in her other hand and forced the snapping jaws far apart. A loud ‘crack’ marked the breaking of Rufus’s jawbone. His lower jaw was torn downwards, leaving his mouth lolling open. Streams of blood were pouring down his lolling tongue as he struggled for freedom. In one final motion, Clarke held the dog to her chest, and pulled upwards with all her strength on his upper jaw. Time stopped, as the two ‘crazed-dogs’ wrestled with each other. A fountain of blood drenched Clarke when the dog’s neck was ripped open. Its broken spine was laid bare. Clarke roared at her triumph. The dog’s head was forced backwards. Rufus’s darkening eyes captured their last image. He saw his own tail, as they lay upside down along his broken back.
In the prison reception one of the girls behind the desk looked up absently.
‘Did you hear something?’ the receptionist asked the girl beside her.
The girl didn’t reply. She was looking at the computer screen which monitored the outer doors.
‘I could have sworn I heard that dog outside,’ the receptionist continued, returning to painting her nails.
She didn’t notice the confused (then horrified) look on the girl’s face, as she watched the scene on the camera monitor.
A huge crash of broken glass followed by a splattering thud stopped everything. The body of a massive dog was sliding down the outer glass of the door. It had created a spider-web of broken glass, and a wash of red, where it had impacted only a second or two before. Rufus’s dead eyes stared at them as he slid down the door. His head was flapping at an obscure angle and was hideously torn back, almost touching his tail. Both the girls screamed. The move
ment-sensitive doors opened and closed; trapping Rufus’s blood-splattered corpse in the corner.
One of the girls slammed her hand down on the alarm button on the desk, before something ‘in-human’ came through the opening door and entered the room. It almost looked like a CURE Prison Warden. Half-dressed guards, burst into the reception area. They came from the direction of the changing rooms. Some of them looked half asleep. They were wielding their stun weapons in readiness.
The siren call of the alarm system blared out behind them.
The scene that greeted them was like something straight from Dante’s Inferno. The white polished reception desk had been ‘repainted’ in crimson red – so had the walls. What looked to them, like a pile of mangled fur, was splattered against the outside of the main door. Something stood in front of the desk. It held the receptionist in one hand, having dragged her up from her seat. The creature’s hand had throttled the receptionist. Her eyes bulged outwards, and her tongue jutted out from between bloated, purple lips. The other chair had toppled over and all that they could make out was a pair of limp, blood-stained legs, which were draped over it. The creature dropped the lifeless corpse and turned to face them. Clarke’s eyes shone eerily. They were full of hate. She was doused in blood and grinning insanely.
‘Who’s next?’ the Clarke-Creature hissed.
The group of half-dressed, and unprepared guards, gathered their courage. They were struggling for reason in the face of the awful scene. The electric whine of their stun-batons were charging and building up to a disabling crescendo. One of the women at the back of the group was wearing only her jacket and panties.
Red lace panties
The Clarke-Thing screamed in blind rage. The noise was like something out of a horror movie where wailing Banshees and Zombies slaughter each other. It bulldozed its way through the group on a lethal course towards the dash of red lace.
Governor Taskin was sitting at his desk in his office with his head in his hands. A half empty bottle of bourbon sat unceremoniously on his desk, along with an old fashioned service revolver. He had been passed out at his desk for most of the night. His lips were parched, his hair was unkempt and his face was full of misery. He had been looking at his computer terminal the night before. He had followed the listings of the staff records as they were updated from Fin-Sen. He had seen that the reports on the bodies from the jailbreak, that had been processed through F.R.E.D. at an external facility. He had seen Cooper’s face, smiling from the screen. That had been quickly followed by an update as being:
DECEASED.
He remembered Cooper. Cooper had been one of the wall guards on duty at the time of the jailbreak. He recalled the day, when he had personally appointed Cooper. He remembered seeing Warden Clarke’s image on the screen. He had watched and waited for the inevitable update. He had expected to see that her mutilated corpse had been found. It had not. He had been waiting for the chance to make her leave, but not like this. The guilt he had felt, waiting for the evitable updates, had been unbearable.
Taskin sighed miserably. He had done what he could – given the situation. As soon as the gang’s wall-busting truck had been sighted, the alarms had been raised, but it was too late. Taskin had armed and scrambled the guards from Alpha Wing into the fray but by then, it was almost over. The ram-raiding gang had withdrawn: leaving a trail of destruction and corpses in their wake.
Taskin had immediately locked down the prison, and informed Fin-Sen. They had responded by dispatching TALOS to the facility. They had not been interested in hearing Taskin’s report on the incident. They had said that they already knew all they needed to know. They had arrived (and assumed control) leaving him completely out of the loop. They told him nothing, other than to order all the remaining staff down to administration for debriefing. The staff were told to remain at the facility. Nobody was being allowed to leave until they were satisfied the facility was secure.
TALOS followed Henson’s directives and used the opportunity to take charge of Beta Wing. They had sealed off the entire section and now had their own personnel in place. Most of the transfers that had been due to go to Beta Wing had been killed in the breakout. Initially, Taskin had thought that having heavily armed, military personnel on his site had been reassuring. He had requested their support in repairing the facility, and improving security, but no confirmations, or help, had yet been offered. The ‘reassuring’ feeling, had soon passed. All his requests to find out what was happening down in Beta Wing had gone unanswered.
Late in the night large black trucks and other TALOS vehicles had arrived and surrounded Beta’s loading facility. He had watched with mounting horror from his offices. He had sensed that something was terribly wrong: down there in the darkness. But there had been nobody to ask: nobody to question. The recreation ground lighting system had been shut down. He had taken out the bourbon and the service revolver. He had been gifted the service revolver when he had been appointed the governor of Vigilance. He had stared at them for a long while. He had known then the extent of Henson’s directives, that had arrived three weeks ago. He had had a feeling that he would never have to worry about the Beta population again and neither would anyone else. In the gloom of the night, he had seen shapes moving, down below, around Beta Wing. He had lowered the blinds on his window and sat at his desk: sinking back the bourbon. He had attempted to access some of the Beta prisoner’s files. He had stared at the computers response for a long time.
[ACCESS DENIED]
He had slowly raised his gun to his head and sat there looking at the screen for what had felt like hours. The noises from the strange trucks below, loading up had made his trigger finger itch. He had passed out around 2:00 a.m. The gun had fallen from his hand and clattered onto the desk, next to the half empty bourbon bottle. In his drink induced sleep, he had been plagued with nightmares of dark trucks and strange men that answered to nobody. When the sun had risen, he had woken up to see that the trucks had gone and that the recreation ground was quiet. There were no communications waiting for him. He eyed the gun and the bourbon in front of him, again. His miserable thoughts were unexpectedly interrupted when the prison alarm started to blare out, from behind him. His office lit up from the flashes of the siren’s lights. Taskin looked up. What now? The Marseilles gang have a tank? He tried to bury that thought because at this point in time it seemed almost possible to him.
He buzzed his secretary, ‘Julie, what is this?’ he queried in a tired, defeated voice.
‘I don’t know sir. Reception – nor’ front gate is picking up,’ Julie said in a flustered voice.
She was trying multiple lines of communication. Taskin hung up and turned around to face his terminal. He started battering the keys on his computer in an attempt to access the security grid. Images streamed in from the cameras which were dotted around the prison. They flashed across his screen. All the Beta feeds were missing. A riot? he thought. Impossible. He had the facility on lockdown. He looked bemused and scratched his head. He could see that the cell areas and recreation ground were all clear and that the Alpha Wing prisoners were all in their cells looking confused and angry. Then, the gate camera’s images flashed across the screen. His insides went cold and loose, his mouth dropped and his eyes widened with fear. The screen was now showing the trail of devastation that went from the outer gate, up to and inside the reception. He stared dumbly at the blood splattered scenes and the shattered corpses lying at awkward angles. It looked to him, like the prison had been attacked by a horde of werewolves. Holy God. Taskin jumped out of his seat. He frantically thumbed the intercom that connected his office with Beta Wing. It hadn’t been disconnected yet.
‘HELLO! HELLO? – any one there? - this is the Governor - we need immediate assistance! he said in a terrified voice.
The pause was agonising while he waited for the response.
None came.
‘Whoever’s in charge there, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! We need armed support! - Repeat…’ he cried desperat
ely.
Taskin was cut off by the intercom disconnecting. He stared at the microphone in disbelief. He was rendered cold and dumb by the idea that he was alone, and whatever had done this to his staff, was making its lethal way towards him. All he knew was that the TALOS in Beta Wing were not responding. The horrible truth dawned on him. They were on their own. Vigilance had become some kind of personal hell. It was ruled over by dark shadowy men, who he had allowed to come, and now, whatever demons festered within it, were coming for them. He gibbered in fear, and snatched up the service revolver on his desk. He could hear some distant, ‘crashing’ noises approaching.
‘It’s coming! It’s coming! I’m sorry, so sorry! Forgive me! I didn’t know!’ he mumbled to himself, as he placed the gun to his forehead.
He closed his eyes tightly, and pulled the trigger.
“Click.”
Nothing happened.
Taskin flew into a panic when he realised that the weapon was not loaded. He struggled desperately with the weapon, and the desk drawer, which held the bullets that would free him from the hellish prison. He was interrupted by a shrill ‘shriek’ from the next room. It was followed by a crashing noise. He stopped dead for what seemed like an ocean of time. The shriek was cut short with a terrifying finality. Taskin panicked and jammed the intercom again, without him consciously thinking about his actions.
‘Julie! Julie what’s…’
Taskin's door exploded inwards in a shower of splinters and glass shards and Warden Clarke stood in the doorway grinning like a death’s head. She was on fire.
Taskin froze.
Her hair was burning. It was scorching the skin around her bruised face. Places on her uniform were alight from the strikes of the stun-batons. Smoke drifted up from her body where other recent fires had extinguished. Two streams of grisly blood ran from her nostrils and joined with a steady flow from her mouth. Her eyes were stained red – fixated on one thing.