by Kolin Wood
In a wardrobe he found a white, tattered-looking, bullet-proof vest. The vest smelt musty. On the front, just below the breastbone and slightly to the left, was a tear, probably attributable to a knife attack that had glanced off the armour plating. The neckline of the item was stained with a dark brown triangle that ran right down the front like a gory butcher’s bib, suggesting that the wearer had perhaps missed being stabbed in the chest, but took one to the face or neck instead. Uncaring, the General pulled it free of the hangar and slid it over his head. Then, fumbling with the straps, he secured the Velcro at either side. The vest felt tight but in a good, powerful way.
On the other side of the room, under the desk were his boots; large, steel toe capped affairs; ten holes high and menacing, with shiny black toes. He tied them tight, tucking his clean, black trousers into the tops. The drawer in front of him held a thin, wool balaclava—the type worn by riot police under their helmets. It would be stupid to take any risks. If blood was going to be spilled here tonight, he was dammed if he was going to risk getting any of it on himself. After all, nobody had explained the disease or spoken of a cure since the outbreak, so the risks were too high to ignore. He gritted his teeth as he eased the mask on over the festering lump on his face. It burned like acid on his eye, but he didn’t flinch.
Once dressed, he armed himself slowly and methodically, checking safety catches, ensuring that ammunition was accessible to him, and filling the large pockets of his heavy leather jacket, which now felt extra snug over the vest. Finally, he snubbed out the flickering light of the candle in front of him, casting the big room into almost total darkness. Now he felt ready for anything.
There was only one way in and one way out of the room unless you counted the window, which, even if it had not been sealed shut, was a good thirty foot drop to the hard concrete below and, therefore, not an option.
A bright beam of moonlight suddenly broke free from the cloud cover, illuminating the room. He looked up at the door; empty eye sockets bore down, as if searching for him in the darkness. The sight sent a chill up his spine.
The door bolt retracted with an ominous click. He waited, both hands gripping the gun, half-expecting it to burst open and for the worst type of nutters and madmen to come spilling through, baying for his head and thirsty for his blood. But nothing moved.
If the boys have turned, then you know what you have got to do, a voice said.
He felt his finger squeeze on the trigger and a snarl crossed his face. The voice was right. These weren’t his sons. If they were going to pay him back for all his kindness with treason then they were going to pay the price of his wrath. He owed them nothing.
Gently, he pulled the door open, inviting whatever evil was waiting for him out there, into the room. Nothing moved. The corridor looked empty and dark, and apart from the wind, silence reigned outside. With his finger hovering over the trigger, he turned and stepped out into the pitch black expanse.
It took a while for his good eye to adjust. He pushed forward, one step at a time, inching towards the only light source at the end of the gloomy tunnel. The thud of his heart in his ears amplified the heat from the dark mask almost unbearably. The feeling was as if a thousand ants had taken to it, running and burrowing, eating and swallowing each other.
Something to the right suddenly grabbed him tightly around his ankle. The shock made him jump and he kicked out hard, easily breaking the grip. There was a crunch followed by a low groan. With the gun now pointed downward, he gritted his teeth and pulled out the old flint Zippo lighter his mother had given him on his twenty-fifth birthday. It was bent and dull with the words Harley Davidson Original etched on one side. The lighter was one of the only items that he still owned that bore any semblance of personal value to him. He struck the flint and the trusty igniter clicked to life.
At first, dazzled by the sudden brightness, he did not register what he was seeing. A puddle of dark crimson filled the corridor from one wall to the other. In the centre of the puddle sat a boy. He was leaning against the wall, hunched over with his head hanging down over his chest. One hand was palm up in the growing pool around his legs. The other was in his lap holding onto… something. With a grimace, the General bent down, took the boy’s forehead in one hand and tipped it back onto the wall. It was Bartley, one of the tougher and more temperamental lads from the block. His blank eyes were open, staring upwards and to one side. The mouth, caught in a grotesque grimace, was down-turned at the corners, detailing his final moments of pain.
What a waste, the General thought as he let go of Bartley’s cold forehead. Below him, about three metres of his lower intestine rested in his bloody hand. It lay there, bloated like a huge and pink overgrown earthworm had bored into his stomach. Bartley was a big lad. Whoever had made a mess of him was certainly not someone to be taken lightly. Although now, it seemed unlikely that it was his own boys turning on him, not unless one of them had gone rogue. It was still possible, he supposed. The Doc, or even Mitchel perhaps
Keen to get away from the stench which wafted from the lad’s minced stomach, the General stepped backwards and stood up straight. His own lack of compassion surprised him. He doubted whether he actually felt anything about any one of them. Sure, James could hold a half-intelligible conversation but was that really cause for any sort of real compassion? The lad had slaughtered his whole family in cold blood for God’s sake.
He shut the Zippo lighter with a snap and moved to the other side of the hallway, pushing his back flat on the wall, relieved to be away from the pungent stench of the dead lad. Ahead of him were the offices that acted as the sleeping quarters of his men and, beyond that, it was only a short walk to the stairs that led to the exit.
He moved quietly through the darkened dorm room, surveying it down the barrel of the shotgun. The simple furniture was covered in crude drawings and graffiti. Underfoot, the floor was littered with junk. Assorted items of male and female clothing lay strewn about. Something moved to his left in one of the dark corners and brought him to a stop. He pulled the stock of the rifle hard into his shoulder.
On the far wall, a line of cot beds paraded in the shadows. He scanned slowly, at first, unable to make out anything of interest. Then he saw it, clothing, a shape huddled down. He stepped into range.
“Who’s there?” he asked as loudly and as confidently as he could muster.
A muffled, sobbing sound ebbed from low down.
“Stand up… reeeal slow,” he commanded.
The shape moved, obeying the instruction. It stood and turned to face him, head bowed, dark hair hung down in front.
“LOOK AT ME!” he screamed, as his nerves bit and he struggled to maintain composure.
The head rose languidly. Even in the dim almost non-existent light, it was clear that the proprietor was female. She was small and her thin shoulders shook as she sobbed. Untrustingly, the General took a small step backwards and clicked the steel on the lighter once again. As the flame lit the dark space the girl looked up at him, her dark eyes hidden behind a mass of heavily tangled, brown hair. Her misshapen face was peppered with cuts and veiled in a veneer of dried blood, but in spite of this he recognised her immediately. It was the daughter from the house, the very same one Mitchel had claimed as his own that first night against his wishes. He took a second to process.
Surely she couldn’t have been responsible for all the demise of Bartley alone! Why is she free? And where the hell is Mitchel?
A loud bang some way off, snapped him from his thoughts. The girl began to sob again, only this time louder, as her whole body physically shook. Worried that she was about to scream, the General closed the gap between them in two large strides and clamped one of his hands down over her bruised mouth. She made a pitiful squeak and her eyes rolled in their sockets; she was clearly scared out of her mind. As much as he wanted to reassure her without the force, there, in the background beneath her mewling, he was sure that he could hear something; feet slapping on linoleum. Somebody
was coming, running fast, and they were heading directly towards them.
“Don’t make a sound!” the General hissed down at her.
He would need both hands if he was to have any chance of fighting whatever it was that was bearing down on them, so he let go of her face. The girl remained as silent as the dead and didn’t move an inch. The thundering footsteps drew nearer.
He needed to think, and quickly. He had the advantage of surprise; maybe, with a bit of luck, he could get a few in first before they got a bead on him. Lowering himself to one knee, he set the rifle up over the back of the closest bed frame and readied himself.
Still closer the sound came. It was now clear that it was not just one set of steps but many; he imagined a heavy assault mob thundering down the corridor, hell bent on destruction and thirsty for blood. Sweat dripped as he looked down the sight of the gun. With his left eye swollen shut, his good one, the right, was free to aim—probably the only positive outcome from his debilitating situation.
A shape suddenly erupted from the darkness. It crashed into the wall with a thud about ten feet from where they were crouched. From behind, a second shape, moving at equal speed, slammed into the first. There was an ooompf as breath was knocked from lungs, followed by the sound of a scuffle; skin and clothing slapped against the cold, hard linoleum. A raw, terror-filled scream filled the room, and underneath the screaming, a wet, squelching sound.
The General aimed low and squeezed the trigger on the shotgun. He was not taking any chances and, at that point, he did not give a damn who he hit. The gunshot was deafening in the tight space, masking the sound of impact. The sharp tang of gun-smoke crept through the mask and into his nose, stinging his good eye, but he squinted against the pain and listened. Unbelievably, the shape continued to move.
He reloaded and fired again, then again, mindful of his ammo but intent on putting down whatever threat was there. Beside him, the girl began to shriek hysterically.
He stopped shooting. His ears rang loud with the aftermath of the violence. With his legs slightly shaky underneath him, but thankfully still holding his weight, the General stood.
“Quiet!” he ordered behind and the screaming stopped. “Stay here.”
Moving a step at a time he inched towards the shape on the floor. The mask was suffocating, heavy and wet around the mouth and nose, and he paused, reaching up to yank the tight, cotton garment from his head in one sweeping movement. The pain from its removal felt distant and not his own. Blood pumped in his ears and fed the lump on his face, stinging in the cold night air.
“Who’s there?” he asked as aggressively as he could.
Nobody replied.
He continued forwards, the gun heavier than ever in his fatigued arms. In the distance, more screaming sounded but he ignored it and pointed the muzzle down. One at a time.
“Last chance…”
Still nothing. He reached into his pocket. The Zippo clicked to life, illuminating the deathly space in a flickering orange glow.
Next to his right boot was a hand, out-stretched and ghastly with blood. As he looked at it the bony fingers suddenly curled inward. The unanticipated movement caused him to jump back, and it took all of his control not to empty the two new cartridges down into the bodies at his feet.
Once composed, he moved in again.
In amongst the tangled mess of clothing and body parts, he was able to make out a face he recognised; Tristan, a tough but fair lad from the block. His eyes were screwed tight with pain and his skin was flecked heavily with black dots of blood. It was quite clear that he was dead.
On Tristan’s back, slumped face first, lay a far larger person. A greasy mop of wild hair hid his face. The filthy clothes that he wore were prison originals and each bore a number on the back. Dread unfurled in the General’s stomach as recognition took a hold; One Six Two. He stared down in disbelief at the body.
How could it be possible? Who in their right mind would do it?
Lying there, inanimate at his feet, was the bloated corpse of one of the ‘numbers’. Somebody had let one of the prison’s worst inmates loose. His mind thought back to the bloody face print on the panel of his door, and his blood ran cold in his veins. No, not just one of the numbers—all of them. And that meant that prisoner One Six Four was loose too.
He glanced around, suddenly aware of how open he was in the large, draughty room. The Zippo stuttered in his hand and emitted a hissing sound in the darkness. There was no time to waste; he had to get moving.
Belonging to an age of entertainment and insular living, the General had seen more than enough horror movies to know the oldest trick in the book–--play dead and attack when the questioning party’s guard is down. There was no way he was going to fall for such an easily avoided mistake. Reaching into his overcoat, he pulled out the heavy, silver pistol and cocked the hammer, before aiming it at the side of prisoner One Six Two’s head. He then turned his body sideways to avoid any back-spray and pulled the trigger.
The bullet thudded into his target’s cranium just behind his left ear with a sharp thwack, snapping the thin neck to one side and exposing a ghostly white face. The mouth was twisted open and glistened with fresh blood, lumps of pink flesh wedged between the gaps of his decayed teeth.
Confident that he was now dead, the General pushed the body aside with his boot. Below, Tristan’s shirt had been torn open, as had the skin from the lower part of his back. A huge hole now resided where one of the kidneys should have been. Hints of white ribs and sections of the spinal cord were starkly visible amongst the bile and blood.
The sight caused the General to balk and lower himself to one knee. Hot, thick vomit rose sharply in his dry throat.
It can’t be true. He fought back the urge to be sick and took a deep breath.
Even after everything he had seen, after every moment of sadism and cruelty that he had witnessed; to know that the boys had resorted to eating one another was a level so base that he could not even comprehend it. Pock had tried to tell him; the bags of bloody meat, the apparent communication between the cells. But he had chosen to ignore it.
He swallowed hard, standing slowly on his now-shaky legs. The game was well and truly up. Looking around, tears blossomed at the corner of his good eye. He was the only person that had ever cared about them. He was the only person to even think about them, lying there, starving in their cells. No chance of a reprieve, no choice but suicide by self-administered braining or starvation. He could easily have left them to die, and claimed the whole prison for himself, but he hadn’t, instead choosing to share his food, his clothing, his weapons…
The girl looked up as he approached her and the General struck her hard across the side of her forehead with the butt of his pistol, moving to catch her as she slumped in an unconscious weight by his knees. It was not his intention to kill her, but if she did die as a result of the trauma then it was a risk he was willing to take. He’d still get a price. It was better than the option of her screaming and giving their position away. He lifted her easily, throwing her over the same shoulder as his rifle strap, careful not to bash her face on the upturned barrel.
He now knew what he had to do. His time here was done.
The New Capital beckoned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Juliana could see the locked exit door from where she was crouched under the desk. A chair, complete with a body in the sat-up position, was pulled in front of her, leaving her cramped and tangled amongst the feet of the dead occupant. The legs were cold and now as rigid as the branches of a tree. She breathed through her mouth, slowly, controlled. She would not risk the odour that she could sense around her, for fear of inhaling death. It would make her gag or, worse, be sick and possibly give away her position. The gunshots had stopped and the prison had fallen silent, eerily so, permeated every now and then by a distant wail from somewhere deep within its putrid bowels.
Shuffling awkwardly and slowly, Juliana lifted her bottom off the floor. The adhesive
power of dried blood surprised her. She had been sat in it for hours, unable to move, as the poor sap above her bled out, stuck to the desk that was to act as his transport into the netherworld. He had been dead when she ran into the room, dead enough anyway. The body, still warm, had twitched a little. Tears had spun a film over his glazed eyes and his hands clutched at his front, poorly attempting to staunch the blood loss from the hole in his belly with a flimsy cotton bed sheet.
Juliana shut her eyes, trying to ignore the stickiness all around her. What she had expected, she was not sure, but the speed with which the prison had fallen had come as a shock. She had been hoping to make it a bit farther towards the exit before the carnage had ensued. Sadly, that had not been how it played out.
***
The situation outside the cell that they had hidden in had turned to utter pandemonium. It sounded as though the prison was under full attack. They had made it as far as the second corridor unseen, hidden by cold shadow, but it had not been far enough. Now they found themselves trapped. Juliana pushed her face to the small window in the cell door..
“What are we going to do?” cried Sarah from behind, but Juliana ignored her.
A boy’s blood-splattered face crashed into the door, his eyes turned upwards as if searching for answers as he slid down and out of sight. Juliana shrieked, momentarily overcome with hysteria, hitting the heavy metal door with her fist.
“Take that, you little fuck… not so big now, are ya!” Juliana turned to her friend, who was hunkered on one of the beds with her knees drawn up around her.
“One way or another, it’s over, Sarah. That evil bastard is gonna pay for everything he’s done. It’s over!”
Sarah held onto the bed frame with white knuckles. Fear was painted like a mask across her pretty features. It was clear that she thought that she was going to die.