Death Row Apocalypse

by Mackey, Darrick

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  Prolog

  Chapter - 1 - A Close Call -

  Chapter - 2 - The early years -

  Chapter - 3 - Sevens my lucky number -

  Chapter - 4 - CIA Sanctioned Murder #1 -

  Chapter - 5 - Every Good Man -

  Chapter - 6 - Eddies Turn -

  Chapter - 7 - CIA Sanctioned Murder #2 -

  Chapter - 8 - A Zombie is Born & Its Twins -

  Chapter - 9 - Sanctioned Murder - IKSM Terrorist Cell -

  Chapter - 10 - Video Nasty -

  Chapter - 11 - Sanctioned Murder - Last of the IKSM -

  Chapter - 12 - Picked Up & Locked Up -

  Chapter - 13 - My Execution -

  Chapter - 14 - Hotel Hell -

  Chapter - 15 - Escape from Death Row -

  Chapter - 16 - The Monsters my friend -

  Chapter - 17 - Slippery When Wet -

  Chapter - 18 - A walk alone in to the dark -

  Chapter - 19 - Lemmings -

  Chapter - 20 - Heads or Tails -

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, products, manufacturers, and things that go bump in the night are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events. organisations, locales, or persons living, dead or undead is entirely coincidental.

  Dear Reader,

  My story starts with my death—well, almost my death. This was not the first time I had ever come close to dying, and it would certainly not be the last. In fact, one may say that if coming close to death were a job, then I was about to embark on a most glorious and profitable career. The only downside of careers like mine is that most of the time you’re as likely to live a long and fruitful life as you are to win the state lottery without a ticket.

  Think of this story as one which you will remember, and one which will subtly modify the manner in which your synapses fire. Immerse yourself and enjoy.

  Who knows where evolution will take you . . .

  Enjoy.

  Blaine Wilken, a.k.a. the Blender Butcher

  Chapter - 1

  - A Close Call -

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Jesus Christ! I thought.

  The pounding in my skull was worse than any hangover I’d ever had before. Even as a teenager, with all the all-night parties that a budding young alcoholic could handle, and even when partaking in a little weed now and again for that extra little buzz, I’d never come anywhere close to feeling this bad . . . ever. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a migraine, but for the first time I could really imagine what they feel like.

  The sledgehammer pounding in my skull was matched only by the glaring white flashes burning into my retinas, blinding me on every impact. Dear God, what I wouldn’t give for just one Aspirin! I thought. As if the combined agony of the headache and blinding lightning strikes in my eyes wasn’t enough, I could also feel my heart thumping so hard and fast against the inside of my rib cage that I thought it would burst from my chest. It wasn’t beating in time with the sledgehammer; it was beating more in time with the wings of a hummingbird.

  I don’t tend to complain or exaggerate much—well, I don’t think I do—but this was really starting to annoy me. Putting aside my headache and racing heart, my hearing was totally screwed. I could hear screeching and wailing, which was eased only slightly by a rhythmic, fading in-and-out effect, something like an elevator full of banshees where the doors repeatedly try to close. All this was effectively rendering me blind, deaf, and immobile. Immobile?

  It was then that I felt the restraints at my wrists, ankles, and chest. Indeed, I appeared to be securely tied down, allowing only my head to move and fingers to flex. It was at that moment that I felt a really familiar sensation brewing deep inside me. I had to retch, so I turned my head to the side, just in time to avoid soiling myself. With each spasm my body endured, burning fluids erupted from my mouth, along with the remains of my last meal. The foul smell of the fluid burned the interior lining of my nostrils. I mused that perhaps it was even strong enough to burn away the hairs. I gasped in shock as the last of the vomit ran over my lips and seeped into the dry cracks that had formed during my sleep.

  As the minutes passed, my memory began to return. Normally a good thing, you may say, but in my case and in this situation it was like getting to know someone intimately for the first time. So along came the memories; then came the personality. The process was more akin to the programming of a device, where function and features are downloaded and then the operating system is updated. For me, I guess it was a complete system rewrite. For a second or two I thought I had died and gone to hell and all that was missing was the devil himself, some fire and brimstone, and perhaps a pitchfork or two. Funny thought.

  I’m pretty sure there would not be a gaggle of virgins to welcome me to the afterlife for two reasons. One, I’m in no way religious at all, and secondly, my crimes against God, if he exists or has ever existed, are innumerable. But before I go on, you men out there think for one second, perhaps one very long second, and let the following question really sink in: Would it really be heaven to have so many wives to “help you” throughout eternity, telling you what to do and how to do it? I’ll leave that little nugget with you to mull over, as I carry on.

  It was those returning memories that gave me the biggest clue to where I was and what was going on. When earlier I said “innumerable crimes against God,” I was not kidding. In fact, they were the direct cause of my current predicament.

  The disco-like interference that was playing havoc with my senses was gradually receding, and with it the clarity of thought and memory returned fragment by painful and horrifying fragment. Then, without warning, darkness came and enveloped my mind utterly in its warm embrace.

  Unconscious again, I drifted in eternity. When next I woke, I felt more like the man I knew I was. I was gaining in strength, and my physical world was coming back into focus, each piece coming together like an ornate jigsaw puzzle. The execution, waiting in my cell, the car journey early that morning, and the last moments leading up to my unconsciousness. I could still hear the wailing sirens, though they seemed distant, as if coming from another world.

  It wasn’t long before I drifted off to sleep. This time it was a gentle transition, where I felt myself fall through the back of my eyes into a peaceful oblivion. Though the difference between passing out and drifting off to sleep was a little difficult to discern then, I would later come to remember the distinct sensations.

  For my crimes against man and God, I had been sentenced to execution by lethal injection. I suspect my employers and at least one sheriff I knew personally had made the arrangements. Here in Florida, I would normally have had the choice between injection and electrocution. Needless to say, injection was for me the most attractive choice—I’ve seen enough deaths to realize that croaking through asphyxiation really sucks. However, I hadn’t been given the choice. I hadn’t even seen the inside of a courtroom, let alone stand before a judge. Maybe it was dumb luck or perhaps fate that the decision had been made for me. All the same, it seemed as if I got my wish after all. At first I would say rightly so, but as my memories returned, so did my personality. I was tempted to use the word “soul” instead of “personality” in my previous sentence, but I sense that perhaps I am lacking this supposedly God-given gift. And so, with the return of my self, a colder, darker, and more malevolent personality took hold and pushed the initial untainted self into the oblivion of nonexistence.

  I woke once more, not even realizing that I had fallen asleep again. My vision had returned, and I could make out the blank white ceiling tiles above me. The small room was lit with evenly spaced diffused f
luorescent ceiling panels and reminded me more of a hospital private patient’s room than an execution chamber, except of course for the one-way mirrored window above and behind me. To my left, high on the wall was a round clock, white in color with black hands and a red second hand, which made a mechanical ticking sound on each elapsed second.

  In the silence of the room, where only the ticking of the clock could be heard, I noticed that the sirens had finally stopped. The only sounds I could make out were the second hand ticking away each second and the faint electrical humming coming from the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Looking at the clock face, I recalled that I was due to be executed at 6:00 p.m. It was now 3:00 a.m. the following day. Nine hours had passed, and obviously the execution process had been interrupted in some way, as I was still sucking on air and I’d not seen Peter or Satan yet.

  To my right I could see the reinforced-steel door that I had entered at 5:30 p.m. yesterday. Straining my neck, I looked to my feet and saw that the viewing gallery was lit and unoccupied. There were four rows of tightly grouped chairs, which were empty, but several had been knocked into disarray. It wasn’t the sight of the irregularly spaced chairs that caught my attention though; it was the smears of blood on the walls and gallery window that piqued my curiosity most of all. Whoever had been in there, was now spread over many of the visible surfaces.

  Bringing my attention back to my predicament, I noted that my right arm ached really badly. Turning my head to view the source of the irritation, I saw that the IV was still attached and was held securely in place by white surgical tape. It was this IV’s sole purpose to deliver the killer chemicals to my veins and remove me from this life forever. A clear plastic tube ran from the needle down, and though I could not see it from where I was, it disappeared into a small hole just under the mirrored window behind me. The room where this tube led was the executioner’s room. This is where the executioner would inject the poisons one at a time until the prisoner died—that is, me. From his location, the executioner could operate in relative anonymity, hidden from view behind the one-way mirror, which also allowed him to watch the complete process from beginning to end. The IV tubing was now a ruby red, having partially filled with my blood. The saline solution had presumably run out hours ago.

  I tested the restraints that held me in place by struggling and twisting every which way I could, then by trying to pull and push against them, but sadly the prison guards had done a first-class job in ensuring that I was secured to the gurney, and the restraints would not budge. I was set firmly in place and was not going anywhere very quickly. Exhausted through the effort, I exhaled and relaxed back into my static position. The short burst of effort had been enough to cause a thin film of sweat to form and create a small droplet on my forehead. It ran down the side of my head, disappearing into my hairline. I relaxed and tried to focus on the problem at hand and figure a way out of this predicament.

  The sound of movement so close to me shattered my concentration, forcing my eyes open in reflex. Something then knocked into the gurney I was currently tied upon. I quickly looked around the room and saw that no one had entered the chamber and wondered briefly if I had imagined it. From what seemed like below the gurney, I heard a low-pitched moan, guttural and inhuman in nature. Pretty sure that I had not made the sound, I remained as quiet and as motionless as possible as I focused all my senses. The moan slowly evolved into a growl, and then the gurney was shoved suddenly to the left with enough force to move it in spite of the wheel brakes. The sudden motion yanked the IV from my arm. I almost yelled out in pain as the needle tore itself free, but I managed to suppress the urge, as I had no idea what was in the room with me.

  A hand stretched upwards and gripped the gurney’s edge, and, as I watched in fascination, a prison guard brought himself to a standing position facing me. He staggered slightly to his right, then released his grip on the gurney and slowly turned around. His prison-issued tan shirt was ripped at his right shoulder, and his right sleeve was drenched in blood. It looked dry and clung to his skin in places. A generous helping of what looked to be fresh vomit decorated his neck and spread down to the small of his back. It seemed I must have inadvertently thrown up over this guy earlier while he lay almost directly beneath me. Sadly, even the powerful aroma of the vomit was insufficient to mask the smell of urine and feces that emanated from his soiled trousers. I know a dead man when I see one and this one, though animated, was more dead than the famous parrot from Monty Python.

  His back was toward me, and he had begun sniffing at the air like a dog or big cat would do when hunting their prey. Not sure whether I was his prey, I remained silent and motionless. He turned and looked straight into my eyes. Our eyes locked. His were cold and lifeless, with a milky hue. At their centers, the pupils were completely dilated, like jet-black coals in a sea of white paint. I briefly wondered what he saw when looking into mine.

  The overall appearance of his eyes reminded me of an early victim of mine. She was an albino, and in death her eyes were almost identical in appearance to those of the zombie before me. In her case, confusion was written in her eyes, as I had not given her enough time to understand that I had extinguished her life, but in any case the resemblance was uncanny. From my position I could see that his right forearm was hanging lifelessly by only a few remaining tendons. Something—or perhaps someone—had chewed right through his arm.

  I was both amazed and curious, as he was seemingly able to smell me in spite of the powerful scents that must be flooding his olfactory senses. He turned to face me and began to growl, low at first but very quickly the sound evolved into a feral-like roar. Somewhere deep in whatever it used to think with, it had finally decided that I was its prey. With its mouth now fully open, the thing began to drool uncontrollably. A mixture of blood and saliva, combined with a greenish fluid, came forth and ran over his lower teeth and lips, then down the front of his shirt. He raised his left hand, forming it into the shape of a claw. His right hand would have done the same, I guess, had the forearm enough tendons and a working elbow joint. Instead, it hung there, swinging. He took a step toward me . . .

  Suddenly the door to the execution chamber was flung open and slammed against the wall. Another prison guard—half running, stumbling, and yelling—fell through the doorway, landing on his hands and knees, slipping on what I could only imagine was blood that presumably once belonged to the drooling guard before me. The one-armed drooling guard spun in the direction of the noise to face our new visitor. Loud but barely intelligible, the panicking guard kept repeating “Fuck! Shit. Fuck! Fuck. Shit. Fuck!,” and though he used only two words, the meaning was plain and simple: he was running for his very life, and subsequently cared very little for his command of English.

  I was still immobile but had not lost my humor as I watched with amusement as he finally managed to scramble to the door and lock it closed, just as the first of his pursuers reached the doorway and slammed against the now-impenetrable entrance. The door shook only slightly as his attackers collided with it. The guard’s vocabulary was reduced by 50 percent to simply “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” each time the door shook. I couldn’t see much more than this from my prone position, but judging by the sounds coming from outside, there must have been dozens of them. I could only imagine, so assumed that a mixture of guards and prisoners infected or affected by some exotic virus were now attacking every living thing in the prison.

  According to Hollywood, it usually starts with a bite from a monkey or fruit bat, if my memory serves, that is. Perhaps if had I known how close to the truth I was, I would not have found it so amusing. For the time being I was pretty sure that they would not be able to force the door, because like I mentioned before, it was comprised of reinforced steel, which would probably stand up to pretty much everything short of a tank or an RPG.

  The guard was young, perhaps in his twenties, and sported a mustache and short-cropped hair. He was probably ex-military, or more like a military wannabe. He obviously worked out
, as he was missing the normal pot belly that many of the Florida State Prison guards and officials strut around with. At about five foot eight and 160 pounds, he was certainly no linebacker. He was built for speed rather than strength, which is most likely the talent that had kept him alive until now. Covered in blood and sweat, he was now bracing himself, palms against the door, pushing at it. His legs still pumped away as he slipped this way and that on the bloody floor, fearing that the door could possibly give way to the onslaught coming from the other side at any moment.

  Our new arrival, now with his back to us, had obviously not taken note of the current room’s occupants, as he remained oblivious to our presence. (I’ll refer to these infected people as zombies for the simple reason that it’s the closest matching description that I or probably anyone else could come up with.) The zombie guard had spun around so quickly that in spite of the serious situation, I had to hold back a laugh as its swinging appendage—that is, his right forearm—continued in its motion, due to the laws of physics, specifically inertia and momentum, and bitch-slapped him on his left cheek. The young guard managed to turn to face the new threat, while the zombie looked for the source of the recent bitch slapping. With his back against the door and with nowhere to run to, the younger guard stood seemingly rooted to the spot. His face twisted into a picture of fear as the zombie guard then refocused its attention on him, having been unable to identify the source of the recent assault to its face. The zombie charged, and as he charged, so its growl and roar repeated once more, this time loud enough to drown out even the noises coming from behind the door. Astonishingly, the guard seemed to come to his senses, stepping forward and to the side and thus avoiding sliding on the slippery surface. As he did so, the zombie instead slipped on the blood, landing on his back and slamming the back of his skull onto the floor with a loud, wet thwack, and sliding feet-first toward the guard.