Dead World: Hero

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Dead World: Hero Page 2

by D. N. Harding


  Without realizing it, Jack found himself approaching the Main Gate.

  “Name and identification number, please,” crackled an electronic voice.

  “Jack Wages, number 146538. I’m being released today, sir.”

  The heavy electric door began to slide open.

  “Okay, step inside Mr. Wages.”

  It took nearly a half an hour to process him out of the Main Gate, but soon enough he found himself standing on the other side of the building. The gray morning sky was darkening and the temperature lowered discernibly. To his left and to his right, Jack could see the fence with its rows upon rows of stacked razorwire. Normal people would see such security as a means to keep people in. Jack saw it the other way around — it would keep him out.

  He walked to the side of the tower and looked down across the prison through the fence. Smiley was still outside smoking another cigarette. The yard was filling with men going to or from their work assignments. The kitchen workers were out on their morning smoke break. They stood in small groups wearing white scrub uniforms. Straw brooms were being worked in the bullpens, while garbage bags full of rubbish were being hauled out of steel trashcans. Then, Jack’s eye fell on Dorm 7. It had been his home for over sixteen years. His cell was 234, just down from his friend Black.

  Stifling the sense of despair that washed over him, Jack turned from the tower and walked out into the parking lot. Fifty-one years old and crying like a baby. “Get a grip,” he admonished himself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  T he parking lot was filled with automobiles of every make and model. He felt as if he’d just stepped into a sci-fi movie. As transportation goes, most of them looked as if they should fly. Occasionally, he would see a car in a year he recognized, but for the most part his short trip through this veritable field of eye candy was inspiring. Maybe there was something to this freedom thing after all. If Huck Finn could enjoy his adventure drifting down a muddy river, surely there was something better for me, Jack thought.

  A hundred yards up a drive beyond the parking lot was a bus stop. There was a woman sitting in it. The structure was a small Plexiglas enclosed bench meant to keep the weather off those who were waiting for a ride. The bus schedule was posted at the entrance. It was 8:30 AM. The next bus ran at 8:45 AM. Jack fished the small yellow ticket from his trousers that had the words “Free Ride” stamped on it.

  “Good morning,” the woman said as Jack sat down.

  “Good morning,” Jack replied after clearing his throat. She was an older woman with graying hair and a kind face. Her brown coat was long and hung open in the front revealing a red t-shirt with white words that he couldn’t read. On her lap was a large paper bag with string handles. It read, JC Penney’s.

  “Where are you heading?” she continued.

  Small talk with a woman; I can do this, Jack thought. “I’m headed for Lexington.” He offered her a smile hoping it didn’t look like a leer.

  “Really? Haven’t you heard? There’s been a riot in Lexington. They’ve had to call out the National Guard to keep the peace. The city is practically locked down, hon.”

  “No. I hadn’t heard that. It really doesn’t matter, though. I have family there. No place else to go,” Jack offered with a shrug and a smile. “How bad do you think it is, really?”

  “Well,” the woman said, her eyebrows disappearing into her bangs, “the news this morning said that lethal force was used in the early morning hours. That sounds pretty bad.”

  “It does, doesn’t it,” Jack said.

  In no time at all, the bus lumbered around the distant corner and then hissed and squealed to a complete stop. He surrendered the ticket to the overweight driver who refused to look him in the eye. The bus was mostly empty and smelled like disinfectant. He slid into a window seat about halfway back. Jerking and lurching, as the vehicle tried to find an easy medium between the two motions, Jack nestled down for the ride. Placing the little white ear buds in his ears, he switched on the MP3 player. REO Speed Wagon filled the space between as he turned his eyes out the window. He managed to shake off two strong bouts of motion sickness before finally dozing off.

  “Sir? Sir? We’ve arrived at the bus terminal. The driver says you have to get off.” It was the woman from the bus stop. She shook Jack awake and pointed to the front of the bus. The driver’s heavy frame was still draped in his seat. He was glaring at Jack through a long mirror over his head.

  “Come on, mister. Guys like you gotta’ find somewhere else to crash. They say there’s a bridge on the riverfront where you homeless types can squat,” the driver said. He tried to smile, but it looked more like a snarl. Jack wiped the saliva from his lips and stood up. With his satchel over his shoulder, he stepped from the bus into chaos.

  The street outside was filled with people hurrying from one place to the next. Most of them were oblivious of the others around them. Cell phones were pressed to ears and the people around him chattered like chipmunks hyped up on caffeine. The street was filled with automobiles passing left and right through his vision. Trash danced about his feet as if lost in a rhythm of its own, only to whirl off into the traffic where it pirouetted into the air above the mayhem.

  Jack tried to lock his eyes on something that didn’t move and, in the visual game of Wheel of Fortune, landed on an X-rated sign that offered pleasure to any who dared enter. Spinning again, and hoping to land on the jackpot, he could almost hear the descending notes of wah, wah, waaah as Pat Sajak said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Everything seemed to move in a blur around him until he caught sight of the entrance to the bus terminal. Fighting through the crowd, Jack managed to squeeze through the door. The cool manufactured air was an anchor for his soul and he knelt breathing the familiarity of it in deep draughts.

  “You alright, son?” The voice was almost grandfatherly. It would have to be. Most people wouldn’t look at Jack and call him son.

  Jack looked up to find a pair of dark gentle eyes looking down at him. The elderly black man was probably in his middle to late seventies. He wore a tweed jacket over a black frock with a white collar.

  “Yes, Father, thank you,” Jack said, giving the priest a small smile.

  “You looked like you were having a panic attack. I’ve seen it before. You sure you’re alright?”

  “Yes,” Jack said as he pushed himself to his feet. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a bus.”

  “The name’s Father J. Davis, but you can call me Davis,” the man said offering his hand by way of introduction.

  “Jack.” The two shook hands.

  “Pleasure to meet you. Where are you heading?” Davis asked, motioning for the two of them to sit on the bench to Jack’s right.

  “Lexington,” Jack said.

  “Oh? Me, too. Have you heard about the difficulties taking place there?” When Jack nodded, Davis raised his eyebrows and then said softly, “I have family there. I haven’t been able to get in touch with them.” Davis’ folded his hands in his lap and then frowned. “It’s not like them to not answer their phone.”

  Jack watched the old man wring his hands as he spoke. Reaching out a hand, he placed it on Davis’ slim shoulder. “I have a daughter that I haven’t seen in thirty years. She lives in Lexington, too. Maybe we should travel together. I sure could use the company.”

  “Looks like you could use a guide. From the look in your eyes a minute ago, I would have to guess that you’ve been out of the country for some time. You in the military?” Davis’ voice was kind in its assessment.

  “Prison,” Jack said under his breath. “Thirty years.”

  It was Davis’ turn to place a calming hand on his new friend. “Thirty years is a long time. The world is different than it was back then. How old are you?”

  “Fifty-one,” Jack replied.

  “So you were twenty-one when you were arrested. Hmm. Well, you’ve got plenty of life left to live,” he said, offering Jack a reassuring smile. “It would be a pleasure
to travel with you, Jack. Let’s start by getting your ticket.”

  Over the next half hour, Jack cashed the check the prison had given him and purchased his ticket. He used the restroom and bought Davis and himself brunch. Davis inquired about prison life. Jack warmed rather quickly to the subject. It wasn’t until Bus 21 pulled into the terminal from Lexington that the two men paused from their conversation.

  “Bus 21 from Lexington now unloading,” barked a disembodied voice from somewhere in the ceiling.

  Jack stared at the crowd as it poured from the bus. For the last thirty years, everyone around him dressed in similar clothing — black boots and khaki uniforms. It felt strange to have his eyes assaulted with such a variety of colors. In some cases, he was embarrassed to see very little amounts of clothing at all.

  One woman entered the terminal swathed as if it was the dead of winter. She staggered through the door in much the same fashion that Jack did, he presumed. She, too, fell to her knees upon entering. Jack rose from his seat to go help her up, but a young couple beat him to it. They seemed nice enough. In their mid-twenties and slightly overweight, the couple looked like they were returning from vacation. Their rich, dark tans speaking much about the amount of time spent in the sun. They tried to help the woman to a bench.

  Jack couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was evident the woman didn’t want to be bothered and spoke in hushed tones through a scarf she used to cover most of her face. Her movements were jerky and awkward. She tried to stand a couple of times and found that she couldn’t do it without collapsing. The couple eventually left her to herself. The woman just sat on the floor and rested her head against the wall. She closed her eyes.

  “Bus 21 will be loading in ten minutes,” the official voice announced. Jack cocked his head and scanned the ceiling searching for the source of the announcement. Having no luck, he turned his attention back to Davis.

  “What do you think? Should we get in line?” Jack asked.

  Davis looked out through the glass windows at the rows of buses and raised an eyebrow. “Your life isn’t about lines anymore, my friend. Take a deep breath and enjoy the moment.”

  “But, don’t you want to get a good seat?” To Jack, the question seemed logical.

  “It’s a bus, there are no bad seats,” Davis said, his voice tinted with humor.

  “Oh,” Jack replied feeling a little stupid.

  Soon enough, the loud speaker announced that bus 21 was loading for Lexington. Jack and Davis found themselves approaching an empty bus. There were no lines. Jack looked knowingly at his elderly friend when they passed through the glass doors into the warm afternoon air. The sky was still overcast, but the wind had died down to a gentle breeze.

  He hadn’t noticed it before, but the air was tainted by a blend of smells that left his nose rebelling against the onslaught. With gasoline fumes mingling with the smell of restaurant grease pits, and topped with a myriad of fast food aromas, Jack was absolutely sure that if his nose had free reign, it would have ran behind his ear whimpering in an attempt to escape its torture.

  “What’s wrong?” Davis asked.

  “Having spent all those years out in the country, I’m a bit overwhelmed by the stench of the city. It’s too much all at once,” Jack explained.

  “Try—,” Davis began, but was interrupted when something crashed hard against the glass behind them. Muffled screams came from inside the terminal. The world seemed too still as faces turned to see what was going on.

  The woman who had previously stumbled into the terminal with the scarf around her face and who had ended up seated on the floor resting her head against the wall, was now gnawing on the shoulder of a young man in an orange ball cap. His mouth was stretched open in a scream as he tried to pull himself away from the crazy woman. A crowd gathered to help the young man and eventually managed to tear the woman off his back. The rescue was successful, but the rescuers found themselves victims of the woman’s bite as well. It wasn’t until a janitor managed to stuff a towel in her bloody mouth that the terminal found itself in a lesser state of chaos.

  Jack and Davis found themselves a seat near the rear of the bus and sat quietly watching the aftermath of the attack with great interest. It took almost a half an hour for the police to arrive and even longer to get all the blood cleaned up. The woman was taken away in one ambulance and the young man in another. Apparently, she took quite a chunk out of him. The others who were bitten needed various levels of aid, but most were bandaged and told to see their physician first chance they had.

  One man, who sustained quite a nasty bite, climbed on the bus with Jack and Davis and sat upfront whispering with the driver.

  “Must not have been too bad,” Davis said. “Surely, they would have taken him to the hospital if it was.”

  “Probably,” Jack offered. His opinion of medical professionals stemmed from his experience while in the hands of the Department of Corrections. He used the word “professional” loosely. There were times when the line between “medical department” and “torture chamber” became fuzzy.

  A couple of passengers climbed on the bus as people started losing interest in what had recently transpired. To most, it was clear that the woman had serious psychological issues. One speculated that she’d probably escaped from a mental institution, while another thought that she might have simply forgotten to take her medicine. Jack wasn’t so sure. When he watched her, he thought she looked sick — really sick.

  After nearly a two-hour delay, the bus pulled out of the terminal heading for Lexington. There were four people on board besides the driver. Jack was looking forward to spending a couple hours watching the countryside roll by. There were sights he hadn’t seen in a long time and needed to be reacquainted with even the smallest and most mundane things. A knife and a fork, light switches, and glassware were just a few things he’d been restricted from using. He almost couldn’t remember what it was like to open a fridge and see the light miraculously come on or to adjust his own temperature in the shower. He looked forward to standing outside in the deep dark night and looking at the stars.

  “This is really happening,” Jack whispered to himself. Tears welled in his eyes. Davis patted Jack’s knee and said nothing.

  Laying his head back on the seat, Jack thought of Black, his big Jamaican friend. His gaudy smile and his deep baritone laugh that could be heard across the yard was enough to make Jack grin until his cheeks hurt. He was a true friend. Making friends in prison was something akin to making friends during wartime — the struggle of the situation bound the friendship tighter than any knot.

  The smirk drained from Jack’s face as he recalled that there were no scheduled parole board meetings for Black. He was in for life. No second chances. That laid-back, monster of a man, who would gladly give you the shirt off his back, would never be going home. He would expire in prison and someday be buried on Chicken Hill with the rest of the unclaimed.

  Jack sat up in his seat, gripped his knees and lifted his chin. There was one thing he could do for Black, if nothing else. He would live free for the both of them. He would make this life beyond the walls of prison work and dedicate his success to the greatest friend he’d ever had — Cassias Domingo. I won’t forget you, bra’, Jack thought to himself, remembering the black man’s thick accent.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “L ook,” Davis said pointing out the other side of the bus.

  The westbound lanes of the interstate were jammed. Traffic was at a standstill. People were standing outside their vehicles looking further west. Others shouted and waved their arms frantically at the bus as it passed.

  “You think they want a ride?” a woman in a red blouse asked.

  “I’ll stop when we get to our destination. Not before,” the driver said looking back at no one in particular. “Hey, will one of you check this guy out? He doesn’t look so well. Hey, Bub, you okay?”

  Jack couldn’t see the man who had been bitten. He was lying in the seat behind th
e driver covered in a light jacket. His legs protruded out into the isle with his white tennis shoes resting on the floor. The woman in the red blouse stood up and stepped into the isle. She braced her hands on the back of the seats as she moved toward the front.

  “It’s alright. I’m a registered nurse,” she said, her voice taking on a no nonsense tone. The motion of the bus made her stumble twice before she slid into the seat behind the man lying down. Jack watched her reach over the seat.

  After a moment, she said, “He’s dead!” The surprise made her voice squeak.

  “Dead?” the driver repeated. “How can he be dead? We were talking just a minute ago.”

  “Hold on a minute,” the young man wearing a knapsack and glasses exclaimed. “I am not riding a bus with a corpse. Pull over and let me out!” He began to stand, but fell backward as the bus shuddered.

  Davis tsked, at the tone of the boy’s voice and looked at Jack. What happened next surprised everyone. Apparently, the man was not dead because to everyone’s surprise he sat up, snarled and attacked the bus driver. The bus began to swerve wildly to the left and then to the right as the driver attempted to defend himself while keeping the vehicle on the road. The nurse leapt on the attacker and was rewarded for her effort with a nasty bite on her forearm. The driver, bleeding from his neck, hit the brakes tossing the man into the windshield, down the steps and against the folding door. The nurse stumbled to the floor behind him. The young man fell into the isle on his face and swore.

  Before Jack could run forward to help, the driver yanked the folding door open long enough to let the deranged man fall to the pavement outside. With a hiss, the doors closed, locking the assailant outside.

  “Are you alright, miss?” the driver asked. His own hand pressed to the bite at his neck.

 

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