“Wait,” I said, “just a few more seconds.”
“Why? What good . . . ?” Joe started to say.
I could hear the zombies outside the door, some staggering, some running. With some I could clearly hear the slap-slap of skin on tile as they went past the gallery door. I turned to look into the execution chamber. The first zombies were now streaming into the chamber, and as they entered they were literally falling over each other in anticipation of their next meal. Their wails, roars, and moans filled the small rooms, making it almost impossible to hear beyond the gallery door. I loosened my grip on Joe. He seemed to drop a couple of inches as I did so. I grinned at Joe.
“Get ready. This is gonna be fun!” I said.
Joe’s face sagged even more as the color completely drained from his face.
Turning back to the zombie horde, which had now filled the execution chamber and executioner’s room, I yelled as loud as possible, “Hey, fucknuts. Dinnertime!”
Still holding Joe, I pulled him away from the door toward the horde so that they could see him clearly, and shook him.
“Ahhhh!” Joe screamed. “Noooo! Please, man, noooo!”
I grinned warmly and yelled at him, “Open the fucking door . . . Now!” and pulled him back to the door.
The zombie horde had been scrambling around the chamber in a literal frenzy, looking for us. They somehow sensed that we had been there and were now stumbling over each other in their eagerness to locate us. I had their complete attention. As soon as I had started yelling at them, they stopped and turned to look at me. They reacted quickly, heading toward the dividing window. As the horde began their stampede aiming for our position, the zombie overflow poured into the vacant space left for them by their kin in the execution chamber. The leading zombie was an inmate. He was over six foot tall, white, and built like a brick-shithouse and matched one’s mental image of the typical death row inmate. With his jaw clenched and his lips drawn back to the gums, he displayed blood-encrusted teeth with several small pieces of flesh trapped in his obvious diastema. His drool—a combination of saliva, blood, and green ooze—flowed over his bottom lip and down his chin, dripping on the floor. The growl coming from deep in his throat was in every way as menacing as his appearance.
The inmate’s tattooed neck, arms, and chest were covered in bites, and a large section of skin covering the left side of his rib cage was torn away, exposing a good portion of his meaty rack. The skin flapped at his waist as he climbed through the gallery window frame and headed straight for us.
The gallery door was opening, and I’d already performed the mental calculations figuring that the inmate would be upon us well before the door was fully open. I left Joe with his back to us, still busy opening the door, and quickly stepped up to meet the oncoming hulk that was the zombie inmate. For reasons that would become known to me much later, the massive zombie inmate now moved as if he were underwater; “slow” and “sluggish” are the terms that immediately come to mind.
With uncanny speed, I struck hard, bringing the steel bar swinging down in a two-handed grip. With sheer brute force the bar struck the inmate on his forehead. I would’ve preferred a crown strike but lacked the necessary height advantage. With fascination, I watched as I carried the strike through and down. It met his skull and penetrated as easy as cracking eggshells. The bar passed through his skull and deep into his brain casing. Blood and brain matter jettisoned to the sides, spraying myself and the room with the inmate’s festering remains. His face seemed to collapse in on itself, his features being pulled down and inward by the bar’s progression through his head, much like the effect of melting a wax mask. Pulling the bar from the collapsing zombie’s face, I turned in time to see that Joe had managed to open the door, and we both as one rushed for the gap, closing the door behind us just in time as the pursuing horde hurled themselves against it ineffectually.
More from luck than judgment, the corridor immediately outside the gallery was now empty, save for the gratuitous blood and gore. My eyes landed on the decapitated remains opposite our position. With my right foot I knocked the head to turn it over. I rolled over and I came face-to-face with the jawless face of the warden. I guess sometimes wishes do come true.
I had anticipated that at least a few remaining zombies would be in the corridor, but they had all headed for the execution chamber, leaving this part of the building vacant. My initial plan was to have thinned out the zombie horde just enough so that when I then pushed Joe into their open arms, I would have the opportunity to make my escape. With a completely clear corridor, Joe’s sacrifice could be postponed now until its necessity was required.
Over the pounding on the gallery door, I heard the faint sound of a door opening from a little ways down the hallway. With our attention drawn to the source, both Joe and myself raised our bars ready to strike. Through the opening door I saw the blood-splattered face of a woman peering out. A woman that I thought I knew.
Chapter - 15
- Escape from Death Row -
The woman in the doorway peered out and saw Joe and I exit the second gallery only a few yards away.
“Have they gone?” Lucy whispered.
Joe turned his head to me, and we both lowered our weapons.
“What the fuck did you mean, ‘dinnertime,’ fucknuts?” Joe asked.
I grinned back. “You know why,” I responded.
Joe once again realized who he was talking to and took a step to his rear, inadvertently bumping into our recent exit. I turned my attention to the woman. By her appearance, she had gone through hell and back, and now I was sure I knew her.
“They’re behind us in the gallery,” I responded. “We’re going make a run for it before they get out. You’re welcome to join us or just stay here and get eaten. Your choice!”
From behind our recent exit, the groans coming from our pursuing zombie horde grew in intensity, and as they did, so did the violent impacts against our exit. We hadn’t long before they would smash through the gallery door and devour us like chili fries at the end of a bachelor party.
The woman took a step to her side and exposed a group of about eight people standing immediately behind her.
“Gotcha,” she said as her eyes flitted from me to the gallery entrance behind us and back again. “Lead the way, sugar,” she added.
Turning to face the security gates, we then as a group made our way along the corridor’s length. From time to time I’d turn to check our six o’clock. It wouldn’t be long before the horde broke through the gallery door and began their hunt afresh. We hadn’t come far, so their hunt would be a short one. We had just passed the security gates when I noticed that two of the group were already falling behind. The old couple would be the death of us, I thought, and seriously considered ignoring their struggles to keep up. However, there was a strong chance that I’d need to create diversions along the way, and to be perfectly honest they fit the bill in every way.
Each of the cells we passed was more or less a duplicate of the previous cell. Inmates in the Row generally had very few personal possessions to speak of, so each cell looked identical. In any case, we gave each one a quick once-over, looking for anything useful. High on the list was, of course, weapons, which understandingly would be the rarest of articles we’d uncover.
I felt a hand on my arm and turned to Joe, who was trying to get my attention.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The woman. She says to wait a minute,” Joe said.
Before I could reply, he continued: “She needs to pee, I think.”
“Tell her to hurry.”
Joe turned and was about to tell her to hurry, but she’d already vanished into one of the cells. If that wasn’t bad enough, four more of the group split off and entered the cells, uttering quietly:
“Don’t look, man.”
“Don’t be a freak.”
“You got a fetish or what?”
One by one they eventually returned to the corridor, look
ing a lot more relieved than before.
“Have you all been holding it, all this time?” I asked them when finally they had returned.
The embarrassed looks on their faces gave me the answer that I’d presumed.
“Amazing,” I said, and returned to leading the way.
I noted that the corridor was surprisingly clear of any and all signs of zombies, and as we approached the junction I motioned for the group to stay back while I checked to see if the coast was clear. I edged up slowly and took a glancing look in both directions. To the left at the end of the corridor, I could make out the multiple forms of zoned-out zombies. They stood statue still, just like I had seen before outside the execution chamber. They had to be a good hundred yards distant. I then noticed the right turn to the kitchen only about five yards distant. If we were quiet, there was a good chance we would be able to cross the corridor undetected.
Pulling my head back from the hallway, I turned to face the group, and as I did so the group jumped in shock when an almighty crash and slamming of wood on concrete echoed through the corridor. The gallery door must have been breached, which gave us very little time now, if any.
“You three,” I yelled at three of the men. “Grab the old couple and follow me. The rest of you follow me now, and run!”
One of the three I had just ordered placed his hands on his hips. “Who the fuck put you in charge?” he said. “You’re just a con who deserves to die anyway.” He then turned to Joe. “You’re a prison guard—why aren’t you in charge? Come on, have some balls and put this low-life in his place!”
Without any warning, the short woman stepped up to the outspoken guy and bitch-slapped him good and hard on the right side of his face. She then spun him around so he could see what was now rushing head-on to meet our group. Already I could make out the grisly features of the foremost members of the zombie horde.
“Run. Now!” I said.
Darting out into the hallway, I headed at a diagonal toward the turnoff that led to the kitchen. The once-stationary zombies at the far end of the hallway were still no more; they were now running at full tilt toward us. There were now two groups of zombies hell-bent on our destruction and who could potentially converge on our position with horrifying effect. The time remaining for us to avoid becoming the filler in a zombie sandwich was dwindling away quickly. Two of the three men I asked were now helping the old couple; the rest were keeping up with me.
“What now?” Joe said.
“Get them to the kitchen and get ready to close the door as soon as I give the word,” I said.
The old couple and their helpers were struggling to keep up. I stopped and held back for them, while Joe continued to lead the group to the kitchen. The old man stumbled and fell to his knees. He then collapsed to his chest. His helper immediately went to his aid but chanced looking back over his shoulder. Though the oncoming horde could as yet not be seen, their howling and growls grew ever louder as they echoed down the hallway.
Joe was at the kitchen door and held it open for the group to enter. They all ran in without a second glance, except for the old woman, who had just arrived with her aide. Not seeing her husband close by, she looked around in panic.
“Henry? Hen-ree!” she cried.
Turning to look back down the hallway, she saw to her horror that the asshole reporter, Mike, simply dropped Henry to the floor, then ran toward the kitchen.
“Noooo!” she half screamed, half shouted. “Hen-ree!”
The elderly woman tried to make her way back to her fallen husband but was held back by Joe. Unable to fight against the young guard’s strength, she couldn’t help but release a flood of tears, which poured down her cheeks. In sheer anguish, she outstretched her arms, seeking to hold him one last time before it would be too late. She flexed her fingers in grabbing motions. Ignoring the pain in her arthritic joints, she gripped at the air ineffectually, wanting and needing to hold on to Henry and never let him go. Her frail old heart was breaking harder than she could physically manage. Her aged legs gave way to emotion, and she collapsed.
Joe was quick and caught her in midcollapse. Supporting her delicate frame, he then took her into the kitchen, while reassuring her that Henry would be okay.
Fear had taken a strong hold on Henry’s helper, and his flight or fight mechanism had kicked in on overdrive. He decided to drop the half-raised pensioner. He abandoned the old man to the merciless nightmare and flew from the scene, choosing self-preservation over the impending doom that the zombie hordes brought.
As Mike sped with all haste toward the open kitchen door, where Joe was currently supporting the old woman, he called out as he passed me, “The old bugger’s dead!”
I looked to the old man’s fallen form and was about to turn and follow Mike to the kitchen when I saw the old guy’s head raise and look my way. His right hand unfolded from his side and reached out toward me in a desperate request for help.
For reasons that I still don’t understand, I chose to help him. Perhaps it was the way I was raised, or maybe I’d picked this up from the many examples of compassion my mother displayed as I grew up. That was sarcasm, for those of you who hadn’t noticed. Maybe I was indeed a freak lacking in the compassion that mankind was supposedly gifted with. In any case, I feel no compunction to help anyone, and in my entire life I have never felt that emotion. I use the term “supposedly” because I’ve never seen an act of compassion take place without some kind of repayment or reward given in return, but that’s me I guess. Later, when I had time to mull over my decision to help Henry, I would still find myself unable to understand what made me do it.
Pushing my legs hard, I raced to where he lay, and as I helped him to his feet I saw the two hordes collide with one another at the end of the corridor. Instead of a neat joining of zombie forces flowing into this corridor, the two hordes collided with an inelegance that worked to lend me a few additional precious seconds. The fallen zombies brought themselves to a sprint with a desperation fueled by our close proximity and the need to feed. The speed at which they recovered was appalling. I partially lifted Henry, supporting him with my arm around his back and under his armpit. Half walking and running, we made our way toward the kitchen door. The howls behind us grew closer with every foot we covered.
***
Joe had watched Blaine hurtle down the corridor to Henry’s aid. The effect was like watching a video playback switching from low speed to high, then back to slow, as Blaine reached the old man. Joe blinked several times in case there was something in his eye causing this effect. With his final clearing blink completed, the blur that was Blaine had gone, Withd now with a view missing the blur of motion.
***
Joe and Violet had disappeared into the kitchen, and Lucy was left holding the door open. As Mike reached her, he couldn’t help but notice the scornful look she gave him.
“What?” Mike said, raising his voice at Lucy.
“Violet’s right. You are an asshole!” Lucy said while standing in his way, blocking the kitchen entrance.
Mike shoved Lucy squarely in the chest, sending her sprawling on the kitchen floor, causing her to crack her head against one of the many aluminum cabinets. Lucy lay there unmoving but still breathing, and blood slowly seeped from the open wound above her right ear. Mike ignored her unconscious form and closed the kitchen door, leaving Henry and I in the hallway still en route. As the door swung closed, Mike sealed his own fate forever.
The closing zombies were literally only a few yards from our heels as we approached the closing kitchen door. The door latched closed with an audible click just as we arrived at its foot. With Henry supported under my right arm, I slammed my left shoulder into the door, sending splinters flying in all directions as it sprang open, allowing our entrance. We entered, whereupon I turned with all the speed I could muster while encumbered to close it as many outstretched, gnarled arms entered the gap between the door and frame. Blood and tissue flew in all directions as I slammed down on tor
n and shredded arms again and again. Our group backed away from the flying gore as I continued to pummel the intruding arms. The growing mass of zombies attempting entry, making the task of sealing the kitchen an almost-impossible one.
Chapter - 16
- The Monsters my friend -
It was only when Blaine came crashing through the kitchen doorway with Henry that the blurring effect began again. The effect had been real. Blaine was moving unnaturally fast. In many ways the view before Joe resembled the early kung fu movies, specifically the scenes where the moviemakers accelerated the kicks and punches for dramatic effect. The difference here was that this was real, and it seemed to be far quicker even than those old effects.
***
“Quick,” I shouted. “Get something to wedge this door closed!”
While I waited for the group to grab something to bridge the gap between the door and the closest cabinet, I wedged myself in the gap and took the strain with surprisingly little effort. It must have been due to the increase in adrenaline, I thought. I looked down and noticed the streak of fresh blood leading to the unconscious form of Lucy. I looked up into the guilty eyes of Mike, who was standing off to the side, cowering away from the limp zombie arms hanging from the door frame. He looked back with a mixture of fear and guilt. I knew then that he had been the one to close the door on Henry and I. He was also the one responsible for the now-limp form of Lucy.
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