by Fleet, Ricky
“Was it that bad in there?”
“It’s a den of psychopaths. Dozens of prisoners were murdered when the screws let their guard down and the different wing bosses vied for power. I was lucky, or unlucky depending on your viewpoint, to be on the side of Craig Arater.”
“What were you in for? Are you a ‘psycho’ too?”
“I’ve killed men, I won’t deny it. But they’ve all been worse than me. Far, far worse. I’ve never hurt a kid or a woman, though. Even I have my limits.”
“So you’re a murderer?”
“I was an armed robber.”
“Bank?”
“Armoured car.”
“I see.”
They stared at each other in silence for a while. Matt with eyes that wanted to close and allow him to sleep. Sarah with cold calculation. What would Kurt do? Kill him, most likely. Would he really, though? Kurt was a murderer too, so the mere fact that the drugged up Scot had killed people wasn’t in itself a capital offense. He’d specified men in his earlier statement, and the agony he must have endured to secure the young girl’s safety earned him a few brownie points in Sarah’s narrowed eyes.
Seeming to know her thoughts, Matt said, “Are you going to kill me?”
“Could you blame us?”
“Not at all.”
“Pesci failed as well.”
“Pesci? What did he do?”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve no idea. I was sent out to get some boats from the marina on the coast.”
“Well, if that’s the case I’ll tell you. He tried to crash a lorry through our gates and kill us. In the end it only killed him.”
“I figured Craig would try something like that.” Matt sighed. In the big scheme of the universe, Craig’s capture and his own agonised leg seemed to be the beginning of a karmic realignment. Please don’t let my family suffer for my acts, he begged anything that would listen.
“And you had nothing to do with it?”
“No. All I’ve ever wanted is to protect the people inside those walls.”
“But you’ve killed people inside those walls.”
“As I said, I did what I had to. This isn’t civilisation anymore, it’s the apocalypse, the end of days, dog eat dog, survival of the fittest.”
Sarah slumped into a chair and let out a snort of indignation. “I guess you’re right.”
“It may not be nice to hear, but it’s the reality of our lives now.”
“Clarissa said something about bad people coming. You wouldn’t talk about it before. I want to know what you were talking about.”
“It’s not your problem. I don’t want to involve you people.”
“We’re invested in the civilians in the prison. It affects them.”
“Why? You don’t know them.”
“No, but every good person we save works in our favour. I don’t want people like Craig taking dominion over the world.”
“There are worse than Craig out there in the darkness,” said Matt, shuddering. It might’ve been the opioids but by the look on his face, the hard man was terrified.
“What’re you so afraid of?”
Matt looked at the no nonsense, dark haired lady. Clarissa was safe in her care, he was certain. “You can’t help us. You can’t help them. I’m probably going to end up dead by going back.”
“We can help you.”
“Not against these people,” Matt replied. Seeing the increasing frustration on her face, he relented and decided to come clean. “They’re Gypsies. Well organised, well-armed, and without mercy. They’re… evil. Or at least their leader is. She burned my friends and laughed while doing it.”
“You’ve fed people alive to the undead. Burning doesn’t seem all that dramatic.”
“You didn’t see how she burned them,” Matt whispered, like a child afraid the bogeyman might hear.
“Who’s she?”
“Claire Hampton, the Gypsy queen.”
“How many are there?”
“A few hundred at least.”
Sarah nearly fell from the chair. “A few hundred? Dear God.”
“I think we could do with His help right now. I think they plan to attack the prison.”
“It was bad enough when we were trying to rescue them from your people. Now you’re saying there’s a pack of worse lunatics out there.”
“Like I said, survival of the fittest. Or the best armed. And they’re definitely the best armed.”
“Fuck.”
“Once I’m healed a little I’ll do what I can. You have my word.”
“What can you realistically do on your own?”
“Not much. If the Fowler brothers have somehow managed to stop her from killing everyone, they’ll hand me over in a heartbeat.”
“The Fowler brothers?”
“George and Fred. Two insane Liverpudlian gangsters.”
“This just gets worse.”
“Not for you it doesn’t. You’re safe here. When I say there’s nothing you can do, I mean it. The prison is too well guarded and even if you got inside, the normal folk are locked away.”
Sarah nodded contemplatively, as if this information was new to her.
“You need to look to your own. Those poor fuckers are stuck between Hell and a worse Hell.”
“So why go back?”
“I… I just have to. I made a promise.”
“To Clarissa?”
“And others.”
“Killing yourself won’t help them.”
“Perhaps not, but it’ll stop them finding me here. That way you can keep out of the war that’s coming.”
“Jesus, what a mess.”
“The joys of the zombie apocalypse,” Matt grumbled.
Chapter 35
“Has anyone seen Patricia?” Denise asked.
“Not for an hour or so,” replied Jodi, looking up from the fashion magazine that she’d read fourteen times and counting.
More negative shakes of the head confirmed her long absence.
“Would you mind getting Sarah for me?” she asked.
“Sure,” Jodi said, merrily, tossing the magazine. “It’s not like this stuff is apocalypse appropriate anyway.”
“Thanks.”
Hefting her favourite weapon, she hurried off through the other end of Baron’s Hall. Glancing around the sleeping quarters, everything seemed calm. People were dozing, reading, or playing cards. The ostracised members of the group were sat in a small huddle, discussing rebellion or regret, she wasn’t sure which. Their bedding and gear had been placed well away from the glowing embers of the huge fires. It worked as both a punishment, and a badge of shame for their betrayal. The loss of their ringleader, Jasmine, and several of their friends had hit them hard. Tough, Denise thought bitterly. Where once she had been quick to forgive, she now found herself glaring at them venomously. Her times on the streets of Buffalo were eventful, with a mix of scumbags and innocents requiring her attention. Compassion for the victims was without limit, and she often found a certain amount of pity for some of the perps too. Not many, mind, but a few.
“Are you ok, love?” asked Gloria as she entered, seeing the look of consternation on the ex-law enforcement officer’s face.
“I’m not sure.”
“Can I help?”
“Have you seen Patricia?”
“I’ve just come back from the wall and I didn’t see her up there. Is everything ok?”
“I don’t know,” Denise replied, frowning. “It’s probably nothing. Go and get warm.”
“I trust your instincts, young lady. With what’s happened, I don’t want to leave anything to chance. Let’s go and find her.”
“Thanks.”
Unlocking the door and moving out of the room, the stark change in temperature was highlighted by their instantly fogging breath.
Securing the exit, Gloria said, “I’ll take the top floor and check all the bedrooms. Then I’ll work my way down.”
“I’
ll start in the dungeons and storerooms and meet you in the middle. Be careful!”
“I will,” Gloria nodded, flicking the safety switch on the shotgun.
Denise moved left, towards the set of stairs that led down to the servant’s quarters. Shoes clapping on the varnished wooden floor, her mind returned to her old job walking the beat. The familiar clop, clop, clop of gleaming black leather on grey, littered sidewalks. Observant of the comings and goings of those around her. Seeing the tics and body language that set alarm bells ringing inside her head. It was exactly the same tingling, or ‘street sense’ as veterans called it, which had her so worried. The inner warning system had never failed her in the past, inevitably resulting in an armed standoff or shooting.
“I hope I’m wrong,” she whispered to the faces of dead aristocracy that watched her pass.
Her final months in the job had been the toughest. The streets were changing, both demographically, and in attitude. An upsurge in sensationalist media headlines had started to create a physical barrier between law enforcement and the public they were sworn to defend. Denise had always prided herself on the ability to look past colour and circumstance to judge a person solely on their merits. One of those people was José, the Mexican kid who’d worked his ass off on a daily basis to take care of his sick mother. She would pass him in the mornings, lunchbox under one arm, tools in the other. It was a highlight of her day to see him trudging along, a smile on his face as he passed. But things changed. The shy nods and greetings disappeared. He started to study the concrete, refusing to make eye contact. After another week, he started to scowl at her surreptitiously from the corner of his eye. Chalking it up to the steady breakdown in community relations, she was saddened, but rolled with it. Then, suddenly, he was gone altogether. No lunch, no tools, no nasty looks. Several days passed until Denise had to know the reason for his disappearance. Calling in a favour, she found out that he’d quit his construction job without notice.
Concerned for his welfare, she took a patrol car to the neighbourhood. They weren’t streets that a cop walked, even in daylight. The Mexican cartels were flexing their muscles locally, with the Los Zetas gang the top dog. Knocks at the front door went unanswered and the windows were all curtained beneath security bars, concealing the rooms within. Shouting through the letterbox, all that came back were coughs and wheezes, probably from the cancer-stricken mother. José was nowhere to be seen. Slipping a card through the flap, she climbed back into the car and drove away under a dozen mistrustful glares.
The nightshift that changed everything a few days later was etched into her memory like a red-hot brand on cow hide. A call came in about a small gang of pushers operating out of the eastern part of Delaware Park. Cruising slowly down Parkside Avenue in the unmarked car, she searched the darkness for the group in question. A black SUV with tinted windows was tucked in a dark corner of the Buffalo Zoo parking lot arousing her suspicions. Over the next hour, twenty-two people of dubious character and hygiene approached the vehicle from the shadows of the park itself, glancing around nervously. An exchange was made at the open window, and they quickly scurried away to take their hit. Calling for backup, Denise waited patiently as the marked cruisers converged from neighbouring areas. Careful not to tread on anyone’s toes, she asked the officer in charge to run the sting past narcotics before moving in. The detectives were after bigger targets that evening and gave their approval.
Charging in, she and the other officers didn’t have time to order the occupants to show hands before barrels appeared at the windows. The bullets hit her car with a spang, spang, spang, and she wrestled the wheel to the left. Jumping from the vehicle, the officers returned fire and the hidden driver floored it in reverse, punching through the bushes and into the park. One of the marked cars tried to pursue, but the axle got hooked on a thick, broken trunk, stopping them in their tracks. The eye in the sky tracked them for several blocks before it veered into an underground garage, where the four by four was abandoned. Except for a single occupant. José. Still clutching the illegally adapted automatic weapon. A single gunshot wound to his head drizzled blood and brain matter onto the leather upholstery.
“Damn you, José,” Denise muttered, hurrying down the worn stone steps.
The expansive dungeons were empty except for the remains of Jasmine and the others. A cremation was due to be held over the weekend. A brief exchange of words about burying them with John, Maura, and Greg in the royal tombs was quashed with a threat to simply toss the bodies from the walls. Simpering cowards didn’t deserve to rest alongside heroes. Denise showed her own anger by spitting on the stone floor. A most unladylike gesture, but perfectly adequate to show her contempt of the dead. Passing the other cells, she peeked inside.
“I wonder what the reoffending rate would be if people had to spend a few years inside here?”
Dashing back to the servant’s quarters, their rooms were little better than the dank, cold cells below. A tiny, barred window, and a cursory lick of white paint were the only differences. That and the locks were on the inside, for privacy, rather than the outside, for security. The bedframes were barren of mattresses which had been claimed and secured against the massive windows of the hall to try and minimise heat loss. Drawers and belongings had been tossed aside by someone searching for goodness knows what. Summer clothes were scattered indiscriminately, and anything thick and warm already on a grateful body.
The maze of corridors and random passages that served no useful purpose were unending. Coming to the huge kitchen, everything looked normal. The cooking utensils were stacked on the draining board, drying from breakfast. A mop had been run over the dirty floor. Whoever had done the job had left streaks, but at least most of their group were finally starting to work together in a cohesive unit. A hissing sound caught Denise’s attention and she moved around the corner into the second part of the L shaped kitchen. The kettle was boiling, and by the look of the water running down the windows, it had been for some time. Using a tea towel, she lifted it from the surface of the roaring range cooker. A mug sat on the worktop, filled with two spoons of coffee and a pair of small sweeteners sitting on the black granules. It was just the way Patricia took it.
“Patricia?” she called.
No answer came.
As the dense, moisture laden air dissipated, another scent took over. The pungent stench of bleach was far too strong for the mop bucket or largely dry patches of floor that had been cleaned. This was either a spillage or someone dosing it around liberally. Following the growing stench towards its source, Denise spied a few drops of blood by the pantry door. Pulling her pistol, she switched the safety off and kept the barrel low. A trickle of thick bleach had run under the door, tinged red.
“Patricia? Are you in there, sweetie?”
Kicking the door twice, she waited for a voice or a groan to reply.
“Shit.”
Keeping the gun aimed low, she reached out with her free hand and flicked the latch. Taking a step back, she pulled the door wide and raised the firearm in one fluid motion. In the shadows, she could see the food strewn across the floor. Tucked in the darkest corner was her friend, eyes closed and still.
“Tricia?” Denise gasped, ignoring the overpowering smell of the toxic liquid.
Stepping over the tainted fare, her foot slipped on the slimy layer and she was forced to cling to the shelves.
“Stay with me, sweetheart!”
In her heart, she knew it was already too late. There was no perceptible movement in the chest, and the colour of her pallid face indicated blood pooling in the lower extremities. Clutching her under the arms, Denise pulled Patricia from the wall and laid her down. As her head lolled, something clattered metallically against the hard ground. Feeling underneath the lifeless body, Denise’s fingers came across a protruding knife.
“Oh, sweetie,” she sobbed, gently turning the face away.
A short paring knife was buried to the hilt at the base of her skull. Strands of hai
r were pulled free from the tight bun, hanging around her serene face. The culprit had snuck up behind her, grabbed her by the hair and stabbed violently upwards. Death had been instantaneous. The lack of suffering made no difference and a controlled fury ignited in her soul.
“Denise?” shouted Sarah.
“In here,” she called back.
Sarah appeared with Gloria and Jodi following closely.
“What the fuck happened?” Sarah raged, kicking things aside to get at her fallen friend.
“Someone’s fucked us. They killed Patricia and poisoned the food.”
“What? Why?”
“To starve us out, or to death.”
“Fuck!” Sarah shouted, staring at the opened tins. Bleach trickled from the cans, pooling on the floor.
“Can we wash it?” asked Jodi.
“Some of it, possibly,” Gloria replied, looking at the pasta. “Anything in sauce is ruined.”
“Who would do this?” Sarah demanded of no one. Her fury was boiling no less than the teary eyed officer.
“Shall I get Kurt?” offered Jodi.
“No. We’ll deal with this ourselves.”
“Help me lift her,” Denise asked, the sadness winning against the anger for the moment.
“Wait, let me get a broom. I’ll sweep some of the crap out of your way,” offered Jodi, rushing off.
Clearing a narrow path through the poison coated meals, they carefully lifted her out and laid her on a clean patch of floor. Denise knelt down and pulled the weapon free. The blade made an awful scraping noise as it withdrew from the skull and the grieving women grimaced.
“I’ll bet it was Jasmine’s group. Revenge for our treatment of their friend’s bodies.”
“I’ll kill them all if they did this,” Denise spat.
“Let’s go and find out.”
Marching back to the hall, their emotions were shattered. It was one thing to fall against their undead foe. It was another thing entirely to be backstabbed by a fellow survivor. People she had fought to protect! Filled with a righteous fury, the door went crashing against the wall as they burst in. Confused faces peered at the sudden ruckus.