“Fuck this.” Harry muttered under his breath, and he unholstered his pistol, and started firing. He started shooting at the nearest inmates, but the gunfire attracted the attention of the rest of them, and Harry quickly ran back out. The other guard buzzed him back out, and the gate slid shut behind him. Arms reached out at him through the bars, and he watched them, stunned.
He shoved his baton in one inmate's face, breaking the jaw. It spit out a mouthful of teeth and blood, and kept growling at him,
outstretched hands reaching for him. He took another swing of his baton, and laughed again at the sound of snapping bone.
“ Hey, what are we going to do?” The other guard yelled at him through his safe little cage.
“ Well, I'm going to the armory. You can sit here.”
“What? Don't leave me here!” The guard pleaded.
“ What are you so afraid of? It's like shooting fish in a barrel.” Harry pulled his pistol out, and shot one prisoner in the face. “Or, should I say, like shooting monkeys in a cage.” He chuckled at his own joke, and started heading down the corridor. The guard behind him screamed for help, and Harry just shook his head as he walked off.
The walls of the hallway were a pale, sterile gray. So bland. But they were home for Harry, and he didn't mind them. Besides, more important were the job's other perks. He smiled, thinking of all the inmates he had beaten and abused. They were animals to him, and animals lived to serve humans.
He continued his leisurely trot, and ignored his radio, filled with panicked distress calls and cries for help. It was obvious this morning that something was wrong, terribly wrong, and reports from the outside revealed that it was not just at the prison.
Some sort of sickness was doing it and most everyone was infected. But as long as he wasn't, he didn't care. And now the prison was his, all his. There were other living guards, but he knew they wouldn't last long.
He finally reached the armory and found it abandoned. Fumbling with his keys, he unlocked the door and stared at the weapons before him. An admirable collection of guns and they were now his. Pistols, shotguns, sub-machine guns, rifles, not to mention the smoke grenades, stun grenades, tasers, batons. All for him.
First things first, though; he needed to clear out a base of operations, some place to call home. The nearest choice would be Cell Block Four.
He grabbed a rifle and a couple boxes of ammo, and headed to the cell block. The guard was missing from his desk by the door, but it didn't matter. It was better that way, anyway. Nobody to interfere with him.
Stopping at the gate, he shouldered his rifle and aimed. Man by man, he started executing the inmates, infected and uninfected alike. It took him over an hour and two trips back for ammo, but he finally got the job done.
Afterwards, he started clearing out the corpses using large laundry carts to haul them out, several at a time. Once clean, he ported the entire contents of the armory to the cell block.
From the guard perch up top he stopped to survey his handiwork. His domain. His home. He smiled and prepared himself for the coming day. He had a lot of work ahead of him, but he didn't mind. Didn't mind in the least.
Vincent swore under his breath as he pulled into his parking space.
This is bullshit. It was his day off and he had been working overtime for weeks straight. He needed the break. But, there were some problems at the prison and all personnel got called in.
Marching up the front steps, he flashed his ID to the guard at the entrance. “ Shit, thank god. Hurry up and head to Solitary, we got nobody up there. We need all the help we can get.”
“What's going on? What's the problem?”
“The whole fucking place has gone nuts. We got rioting, all sorts of shit. Get moving!” The guard buzzed Vincent in and he started running towards Solitary Confinement. He barely got through the doors when he stopped. Standing in the corridor, mutilating the body of a guard and an inmate, were half a dozen prisoners covered in blood up to their elbows. They turned to face him with grim eyes and started heading towards him.
Vincent whirled around and turned the corner. Fifty feet ahead was Death Row, he'd be safe there. He ran down the hall and frantically swiped his keycard at the door. It slid open and he darted inside, closing the door behind him just as the first of the inmates closed in. It slammed into the door hard and pounded futilely at the thick, metal door.
Death Row. It was empty, and had been for a month now. He looked down at his shirt, and realized he forgot to turn on his radio. He flicked it on, and it was filled with the sounds of screaming guards. He listened in horror for a few hours, unable to do anything else, until it gradually went silent.
When the pounding on the door faded, he went over to it and peered through the slot. The hallway was clear. He reached out and swiped his keycard. Nothing happened. It was then that he noticed the electricity had gone out and the only light was the fading sunshine pouring through the high, barred windows.
He flopped down on the nearest cot and fell back, staring at the cement ceiling. Trapped. There was no way out without electricity. The doors were sealed and required a signal to open. Panicked thoughts filled his head, before he finally calmed himself down.
No use getting upset. If the entire prison was overrun, then surely the Army would get sent in to restore order. He just had to wait them out. His stomach grumbled and he hoped that it would be sooner than later.
Chapter Six
Stiff Drink
James slammed a shot of whiskey and waved over the bartender. “Yo, 'nother shot here.”
Ben looked over at the man and continued sipping his drink.
“Hey, some service over here!” Ben glared at James. “When I feel like serving you, you'll know.” He took another sip and turned back towards his friend on the other side of the counter. “You know what, Dante, I'm willing to bet you that -”
James threw his shot glass at Ben, narrowly missing. It shattered the mirror behind him and Dante and Ben both turned towards him.
James' face paled, and he cringed as the pair grabbed him with rough hands and threw him off his chair. He thudded against the wall, and his friend Keith stood up and punched Dante in the jaw. Dante merely shrugged, wiped the blood from the corner of his lip and laughed. Ben looked at the short, wiry man, and joined Dante in his laughter. The pair continued laughing hard and Keith looked at them confused. Dante doubled over and wiped tears from his eyes.
“You punch like a girl!” He shook with laughter.
James started to stand up and they paused. Ben fixed Keith with a firm stare and smiled grimly. “You two picked the wrong bar to fuck around in. I'm tired of you assholes coming in here, buying the cheapest liquor in the joint, and acting like you're doing me a favor. You both are about to get the beating of your lives.”
Dante and Ben closed in on Keith and grabbed him, throwing him against his staggering friend. The two collided hard and collapsed back on the dirty bar floor. A flurry of punches landed on them and by the time it stopped, they were a battered mess. James and Keith crawled out the door and Dante and Ben resumed laughing, toasting each other with a shot of rum.
A brick flew threw the window and an angered Dante ran to the door, kicking it open. What he saw made him freeze and he slammed the door back shut.
“Fuck, Ben, we got a situation here. Everyone out of the bar, now!” The few remaining patrons grumbled and left. One man, sloppily dressed in a sports jersey and sweatpants, ran back inside, and only left when Ben hopped the counter and stomped towards him.
“What's the problem?”
“It looks like a bomb went off out there. The whole street is trashed. Wait, turn up the radio, I hear something...” The radio crackled with static and Ben turned the volume knob up full blast. “ - overrun. The downtown district is also destroyed. This station will be going off air, shortly, so I repeat: massive rioting has swept through the city. The police have been overrun. The downtown -”
The power flickered and t
he lights dimmed. They looked at each other.
“I'll start barricading the doors and windows, you grab the guns.” Dante started heaving stools and tables against the door and Ben ran upstairs to the owner's apartment. By the time he got back downstairs, he was carrying a pair of rifles, handguns sticking out of his waistband, and a cardboard box rattling with bullets. Dante had already secured the door and was busy nailing broken pieces of wood across the window.
The two finished the work quickly, long before the first sign of the rioters arrived, with a rapid pounding against the solid wooden barricade. They toasted each other again and aimed their guns at the door, waiting.
Night fell, along with the power. A handful of candles and an emergency pair of flashlights provided the only illumination in the dim apartment upstairs. They played cards, occasionally pausing silently at the sound of movement outside.
So far, eleven uninfected people had attempted to enter the bar. They shot them anyway. No mercy. And no food or ammo to share. They had no idea how long this thing would last for, but they were unwilling to take any risks. Four years in the Marines and fifteen as a mercenary taught them too much about the value and challenges of survival. “Flush.”
“ Shit. Pair of jacks.” Ben dropped his cards, while Dante scooped up the small pile of ammunition and set it beside him. They gambled for bullets, even though they had no intention of using them for anything but killing.
Dante shuffled the deck and started dealing out their hands, when the crinkling of paper in the alleyway caught their ears. He nodded to Ben and gave him a hand signal: I got the window, you head downstairs. Ben nodded and silently crept down the staircase, rifle in hand.
Dante peeked his head out the window and saw a dark figure creeping through the shadowy alley. He lined up a shot and fired. The bang echoed loud and his eardrums rang with sharp pain. He shook off the pain and confirmed the kill with a second shot. The shot hit and the body didn't so much as twitch. Bingo.
He stomped on the floor twice, giving Ben the all-clear signal. His comrade came up the stairs, carrying a bottle of rum.
“I think another couple drinks is in order.”
Dante frowned. “We've had enough. Gotta keep our wits.” “ Well, screw it, I'm having another. You don't have to, if you don't want to.” He poured himself another drink, and downed it in two long gulps. “That hit the spot, just right.”
“Don't get drunk, 'cause I'm not gonna nurse your sick ass all night if you do.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He poured another, and slammed it back just as quickly. Dante eyed his friend impatiently and turned back to face out the window. He was going to survive this disaster, and he wouldn't tolerate anyone stopping him.
Chapter Seven
Looting
James and Keith crawled out of the bar, bodies aching all over. Keith got to his feet first and helped his friend up. They looked at their wounds briefly, before the carnage outside caught their attention. Wearing shocked expressions, they saw the ruined stores, crashed cars, and occasional corpse lying in the street.
“What in the...” They took a few uneasy steps, the sound of broken glass crunching under foot. Ace Electronics stood before them across the street, the front window broken in, a few televisions on display flickering static. Turning towards each other, they grinned.
“Let's get us a fucking big screen.” “And a DVD player.”
The darted towards the store, and poked their heads inside. Nobody there. “ Hey, watch this.” James picked up a brick off the floor and flung it through the Geronimo's window. The glass shattered inwards and they ran inside the store. Keith grabbed a DVD player and stacked it on top of a large, 42-inch TV.
“Help me lift this.” James got on the other side and they lifted the large, awkward box. Stepping slowly and carefully, they walked out the front door. Outside, a police cruiser whipped past and they stopped to laugh.
“ Fucking cops didn't even stop us! They must be too busy with this shit.” James threw his head back and laughed, shifting the heavy box in his hands as he did so.
“This town'll be ours, for the next few hours at least. Let's run this home and come back for more.”
James nodded and started walking, before he stopped and dropped his end of the TV. It fell hard and Keith grunted as he lost his grip.
“What the fuck, man? What are you -” He turned to face where James was staring and stopped. A surging crowd of people were running in their direction. He only hesitated for a moment before he took off running, James following closely behind.
An apartment complex stood to their left, just a block down and Keith swerved towards it. He flung open the door and ran straight up the stairs. He heard his friend's footsteps behind him, but didn't dare chance even a brief glance back. Turning a corner, they continued running, feet pounding against the cheap red carpet. Some of the apartment doors were open, but they just kept on moving.
Another staircase came into view and at the top stood a locked door, labeled “Rooftop Access”. Keith kicked the door open and ran through, sunlight greeting him again. James came up from behind, hunched over and panting heavily.
“What... the fuck... is going on?” James wheezed out between breaths. “ I don't know. Something is seriously messed up, though.” He walked over to the edge of the roof and looked down at the street below. The crowd had passed and continued their run. Flopping down on the gravelly floor, he laid back and stared up at the clouds.
James joined him and the two lay in silence for a few minutes. Crunching gravel caught their ear and they bolted upright, turning to the entrance. Standing in the doorway was a tall, wiry thin man, wearing a blood-caked shirt and torn pants. He took a few staggering steps towards them before hissing and charging at full speed.
The two men scrambled to their feet just as the crazed man collided with Keith.
“Get 'him off of me!” He shrieked, as the bloodied man swiped at him. James lifted the man off and Keith rose to his feet. They grappled with the man for a moment before lifting him up and flipping him over the ledge. The body bounced against the brick wall and tumbled through the air before hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Blood pooled around the body and they watched it for a moment before sitting back down.
They stared at each other and sighed. Something was wrong and they didn't know what they were going to do. All they knew was that inaction would be a surefire way to end up dead. So they would act, and act fast. They briefly discussed their plans and finished catching their breaths, turning to cautiously descend the stairs, leaving the rooftop far behind.
Chapter Eight
An Ending
Nick looked out the window and sighed. The setting sun was beautiful, the sky painted with bursts of red and violet and orange. It made his eyes tear up. This will be my last sunset.
He sat slumped against the wall for several minutes, sobbing hard. Finally, he dried his eyes and grabbed the scattered bottles of pills at his feet. He took a mixed concoction and washed them down with a bottle of expensive red wine. Maybe thirty minutes, he guessed, before unconsciousness would take him, and maybe a couple hours after that before death followed.
Rising to his feet, he walked over to his nightstand, and opened the drawer. Beside the used tissues and a worn copy of
Baudelaire, sat a well-used journal. He pulled it out, and walked back towards the window, dragging his favorite recliner behind him.
He positioned the chair so that he would have a clear view of the sunset, and sat down. The journal felt strangely small in his hands, and he looked at it for a few moments, before he opened it. It somehow seemed like a good idea, to read through his final entries. Something to remind him of why he had to die, he supposed.
Nick flipped through the pages, and stopped at the first entry since the outbreak. His handwriting was sloppy, but he didn't mind. He started reading, with a heavy heart.
Friday, June 13 I killed someone today. It's not murder if it's self defense, is it
? The man attacked me outside the deli. I thought him a mugger, at first, but I realized something was different, something was... off.
I smashed his skull into the cement. It only took one hit. Never realized humans were so frail. I can't shake that sensation, the feeling of his head in my hands, how it shook and how the bone crunched as I smashed it against the ground. It makes me sick to think of it.
The blood splattered all over me. I knew he was dead, but I was overcome with this violence, this rage, and I kept smashing his head into the ground, over and over and over again. I've never known such hostility, and it disturbs me deeply.
Always thought of myself as a pacifist. As someone who was above such petty things as violence, and hate. Thought I was civilized. I was quickly disabused of that notion, today. I'm no gentle intellectual, just another animal.
I ran home after it was all done. A small crowd had gathered, and at least a few people I knew recognized me. The look of shock and disgust on their faces...
I've never been so ashamed. And so, dear journal, this may be my last entry. Surely the police will come anytime now, and arrest me for my brutality. It may have been self defense, but how can I justify what I did to that poor man, that poor man who was clearly ill? I should have helped him, not... what I did.
If anyone finds this and reads it, please know, that I am truly sorry for what I've done, and I meant no harm. Please forgive me.
Saturday, June 14 No one has come for me yet. I'm too scared to leave the house, for fear of arrest. Even more so, I fear seeing someone who saw my heinous act, fear the look on their face, that mixture of hatred and disgust.
I don't have much else to say. I've not slept yet, my mind just keeps racing with thoughts, and I can't get the image of the dead man out of my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see him, bleeding, staring up into space with those dead, vacant eyes.
The Outbreak Page 3