See, when the plague started, they thought a place like SuperMax would be safe, immune as it were, from the bug that brought down a third of the human race. They just cut off all visitors and shut down intake and sat there, fat, dumb and happy, while the guards went home every night like always. Stupid fucks.
One of ‘em brought the shit in and before it was over all the guards and a third of the inmates got infected and died. Then they started coming back to work. Not the inmates, the guards. I don’t know of one inmate that came back. I guess the hunting was just too good outside, man. When you get a badass motherfucker who was locked away forever and he dies, gets out and gets buried, then reanimates, you got one badass Zombie out runnin’ around. He’s havin’ himself a helluva time…why would he wanna come back to this shit?
But no, it was the guards. I guess when you reanimate, you just do what you’ve always done. Zombies are not deep thinkers, far from it. Some of the guards were not too bright, anyway. Only thing that kept them safe was their numbers. In the Max, no guard does anything alone, except use the restroom. Anything having to do with handling an inmate, there are always at least two officers, so they can protect each other. Cause guys in prison, ya know, they get clever. Clever at boiling water in a paper cup to make cocoa, or to throw on a guard…clever at lots of things. Like making shanks. That’s what a homemade knife is called. And they don’t have anything to lose. Anyway…
Guards, dead guards, started showing up back at work, and by that time, there were more already inside to let ‘em in…that’s why I say it’s not fair. Because we went from being society’s shame and society’s problem to being society’s captive food supply…only difference is, it’s a different society now…
The designers of prisons give little or no thought to controlling sounds and the typical prison reverberates night and day with banging, clanging, hoots and hollers, sobbing, screaming and a general cacophony of noise that inmates almost, but not quite grow accustomed to.
SuperMax Florence is almost silent these days. Meals are still served on time, inmates are showered, shaved and clothed. They are taken care of as well as their undead captors can manage with a limited supply of functioning brain cells. They are no longer held against the day when they will become eligible for parole or eligible for execution. They are held against the time when the food supply will run out.
And once or twice a day, screams echo through the stillness, sometimes briefly, sometimes prolonged, as the inmate count is again reduced…and in Maximum Lockdown, David McCully waits and writes his story on a tablet of yellow paper with a pencil he sharpens by gnawing on the wood and rubbing the lead to a point on the cement floor. He writes because he cannot stand NOT to write. He waits for his cell door to be opened…not just the pass-through, where he gets his meals, his towels, the single-use safety razor. He awaits the opening of the door itself. Because that will signal the end of his life. He prays that someone, someday will read his story and, in that way, he can perhaps share the horror of being stockpiled as live food…
Strangely enough, at night he does not have nightmares. When he has dreams vivid enough to remember, he is always a kid back on the farm where he grew up in Michigan and it is always spring. The creeks are swollen, the winds are gusty and he and Mikey are flying kites against the endlessly blue sky…
Tell Me Where He Lies
By Greg McWhorter
New Orleans that summer was a sweltering armpit that festered with vice and corruption. The denizens of the swamp mixed with the urbanites on the streets of the Big Easy. Bourbon Street, in the French Quarter, was the official, unofficial, heart of the city. New Orleans was a living, thriving place. It breathed the invigorating and fresh sounds of jazz, but every so often it started to wheeze and cough pestilence like a long-time smoker. This pestilence stemmed from years of pagan rites in the name of voodoo, a religion with roots in slavery and bred on soil soaked in blood.
Max Wheland had seen voodoo and blood many times over the last twenty-five years as a petty thug and grifter. The 1950s had been a great decade for his dirty work, but now that a new decade had begun, things are not quite the same. It was now harder to get things over on the cops. The grifters and the cops had each learned each other’s tricks of the trade and it was now more expensive to operate. Bribes were higher and you had to have greater investment in lucrative schemes and so on. Max was a survivor though and he continued on with the old ways, which were all he knew and the changing times meant little to him.
Max sat in a bar on Bourbon Street, sucking back a few two-bit beers as some lazy flies tried to give him a hard time. His hat and his shirt were both sweat-stained and his skin was sun-tanned. The once handsome face was now cracked with wrinkles, but his eyes still had that spark that showed he was ready for some easy action whenever it presented itself. He was a good man to know when you were in a spot. He was not afraid to cheat, steal or kill, if the money was right. He knew the habits of every local cop and he also knew which ones could be tapped for a few bucks. He also had intimate knowledge on where many bodies were buried. He had helped some bodies into their graves.
One particular day, Max had been contemplating life. He knew he was getting older and needed to figure out a big hit, but for now he was still content to take whatever might come his way. His mortality kept nagging at him though. His survival instinct was stronger than his conscience. He ordered another beer and continued to sit and dream of the big score. He didn’t notice the big black man that walked in quietly and sat down next to him. The man was clean cut and wore a black suit with a white shirt and tie. He was also wearing patent leather shoes and looked a little better off than most of his brethren.
“M-m-m-mister barman! B-b-b-bring me a beer. T-t-tap.”, was what the dark black man stammered out. Max took a quick look at him and realized that he was not a local boy. Max figured that the old ways of Jim Crow were falling away to the new Civil Rights movement and he better damn well get used to it. The barman brought the beer and the black man guzzled it down quickly and asked for another. The black man had such a terrible stuttering problem that Max had to listen and translate in his mind what the man was saying, which turned out to be;
“Yes sir. Sure is hot. That beer is mighty good. Really uplifts the spirit.”
Max decided to talk for the sake of diversion from his thoughts, “The beer’s okay buddy, but I don’t know about the uplifting of spirits part. Usually beer seems get most people laid out on the floor around here.”
The two men exchanged a quick chuckle.
The black man smiled and stuttered out, “My name is Obediah.” Max had to continue translating the stuttering in his head.
“My name is Max, partner. Are you new in town?”
“Oh yes. I’m here on business.”
“Yeah? What kind of work do you do?”
“Ha ha ha…I don’t mean work. I’m here to find my brother’s grave.”
“Find your brother’s grave? That sounds unusual. Can’t you just go to the cemetery and ask an attendant where he’s buried?”
“No. I know he must have been buried where he was killed. He was laid to rest in unconsecrated grounds. He comes to me in my dreams. He does not rest. I need to find him and end his unrest.”
Max had now turned to face the black man, deciding that he was an interesting diversion after all.
“Okay Mac. I get that your brother was iced and planted somewhere, but what do you mean by his ‘unrest’?” Max realized as soon as he asked that this man must believe in voodoo. It was practiced by many blacks around town and even out into the swamps. He knew they usually kept it to themselves and didn’t interfere upon white people with their silly superstitions. Max found himself intrigued that this man was so open about his beliefs.
“Well Sir. I’m sorry. Forgot myself.”
“Naw. It’s alright with me, bud. Every man has the right to his own religious beliefs. That’s what makes America unique right? We got freedom of religion. H
ell, I was raised Methodist myself. Haven’t been in a church since I was a kid, but I believe you got a right to believe what you want.”
“T-t-thank Y-you sir.” stammered the man before drinking more beer and sitting in silence.
“So what was your brother’s name, maybe I knew him.”
The black man lowered his head and almost whispered, “Manny Gumms. Manuel Jacque Gumms.”
Max knew the name alright, but not a flicker of recognition crossed his face. He was a good poker player and never gave away a hand. He knew that one never knew where or when an opportunity might present itself.
“Name sounds familiar. Was there something in the paper about him?”
The black man started stammering out a story of his brother’s corruption. Max didn’t listen. His mind was going over what he already knew. Manny Gumms was a petty bootlegger. He came from the swamps and set up a still in town. He tried to compete with the bigger gangs. He tried to expand into prostitution and drugs and had been pretty successful servicing the black population. His mistake had been in realizing that the big money lay with the white population. He started squeezing in on the big boys and got chopped down one night. Max knew all this. Max was with the gunman that night. He had been paid to hide the body quickly. Max knew where Manny’s body was. He planted Manny.
The black man ended his story by saying that since Manny’s body had not been found and buried properly, his soul would not lie at rest until a special token was placed in the grave with him. Max’s attention came back to the man.
“And what is this token that you need to put in his grave?”
“T-t-this.”, said the black man as he took a small wood box from out of his suit coat pocket and opened it toward Max. The glow almost stunned Max at first. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was a huge gold nugget. It must be worth an easy thousand or more he thought. It was almost the size of a human heart. Then he realized that it wasn’t a gold nugget. It was gold molded into a replica human heart. Max realized that this must be some sort of pagan icon and didn’t want to press for details. After all, he had just told this man that everyone had the right to their own beliefs.
“Is that for real?”
“Yes Sir! Cost my family everything. Manny will not be at peace until he has this token to ease the obsession that he faced in life.”
At least this was a close approximation of what Max had been able to translate through the stammering and spitting.
Max realized his luck. This wouldn’t be the big score that he dreamed of, but it would put him on easy street for a while. The whole plan only took seconds to sink in. Max would take Obediah to his brother’s grave and help him slip the gold in. Max would then come back later and dig it up. Max figured that he would get a cool thousand for just a little digging. It was too good for him to pass up. Max also realized that the best part was that he wouldn’t have to kill Obediah.
“Tell you what, Obediah…I’m gonna help you. Families and their religious beliefs are important. I get that you want to ease your brother’s suffering in the after life. That’s what I call noble. Yes sir. A gentle act of kindness for a departed loved one. I’ll help you find your brother. We’ll find his grave.”
Obediah had a naïve and somewhat shocked look on his face as he stammered out, “H-h-h-how? I-i-i-is it possible? C-c-can you r-r-really tell me where h-h-he lies?”
“Sure.”
Max told him that he was a freelance reporter and that he had access to the paper archives and could tap the police files too. He told Obediah that he might not be able to find the exact burial spot, but with some luck, they might get close enough to find some clues. He quickly added that in his investigations of news stories, he sometimes made contact with gangsters and that maybe they might tell him something. Obediah listened intently and appeared thankful and stunned. Max realized that a white man helping a black man for nothing might seem odd to Obediah so he asked if he could do a full report on his brother’s death and use any information he got. Max let him know that he didn’t want any compensation other than the story. Max told Obediah that he would of course leave out the part about the gold heart so that no one would disturb his brother’s rest. The day wore on and Obediah and Max made their arrangements to meet around eleven o’clock that same night.
Max rested up for most of the day. He later put a couple of shovels and some flashlights in the trunk of his car and found some old clothes that he could wear and not worry about getting dirty while digging. Max thought to himself that when he met up with Obediah later, he would tell him that he spent all day searching the archives and talking to various street toughs. Max couldn’t help thinking how easy this job would be and even made a mental joke about how appropriate was the nickname for the city, The Big Easy.
At eleven O’clock Max was already waiting at the rendezvous spot. Obediah picked the front gate of the Saint Louis Cemetery on the outer edge of the French Quarter in what used to be Storyville a few generations back. He told Max that he wanted to pay his respects at the tomb of Marie Laveau, the first high-priestess of voodoo. Max waited for a few minutes at the gate before Obediah appeared. He told Max that he had marked three X’s on Laveau’s tomb so that she would grant his wish of finding his dead brother and placing the token in his grave. Max pretended to be interested, but he was just acting. Max thought to himself that this whole night will take a bit of acting, but it should be a snap.
Max told Obediah that it took a lot of digging around and asking the right people, but he thought he knew the location of his brother. They would have to take his car a few blocks south to Decatur Street. On Decatur there was an abandoned warehouse with the name “Spivey’s” at a certain address. Inside they would find that the basement had only a dirt floor littered with old junk. In the basement is where they would find the resting place of Manny Gumms…If the information Max got was correct, that is.
They got in Max’s car and Obediah produced a brown grocery sack. He told Max that this would have to be done right. Candles would have to be placed and some chants would have to be said before they could place the gold heart and leave. This irritated Max, who wanted to just get this over with as quick as possible, but he knew that he would have to play it Obediah’s way in order to get this to work and thus resigned himself to it.
They arrived quickly at the warehouse, but Max drove past it once on purpose to make it seem that he didn’t know the area too well. He let Obediah point out the faded sign that bore the name “Spivey’s”.
“You’ve got good eyes Obediah. No one seems to be around, but let’s park in the alley, just to make sure that we are not followed inside. You never know what kind of thugs might be around. Winos are one thing, but petty crooks might try to mug us.”
Max was happy. All was going well. Just another hour or so of work and then the gold would be his. They parked between some dumpsters and got out. Getting in was easy as the old building was almost all skeleton now. Years of neglect had found it stripped of anything of use and now all that remained was for the wrecking ball to come and do its job. They found the staircase and descended with their flashlights on. This just happened to be one of the few buildings in town that had a cellar built in it as most of New Orleans was below sea level. Max had picked this building for that very reason when he brought Manny here a few years back.
They landed on the basement floor and saw that it was an all dirt floor. There may have been some tiles, or floorboards, at one time, but not now.
“Okay Obediah. Take your flashlight along the right wall and I will go along the left. We’ll meet at the other end and decide how else to search from there.”
Max was no fool. He knew that Obediah would find the grave along the right wall. He knew he would find it because he had marked the spot with an empty whisky bottle, shoved upside down in the ground, marked with a black “X” which was a little joke of Max’s. He always left his burials with a marker of some kind.
“M-m-m-Max sir! I-I thin
k I found something!”
Max suppressed a chuckle as he ran over to see what Obediah found. And as Max had suspected, Obediah had found the bottle marker with the “X.”
“Obediah! This must be it. That has a gangland look to it alright. Some bastards joke I guess. Let’s try here.”
They each took a shovel and started digging. It wasn’t long before they found the decomposing remains of Manny Gumms in his shallow grave.
“Okay Obediah. Now’s your chance. Place the gold and let’s cover him up to resume his rest.”
“No Max. R-r-remember that I must light the candles and say the chant o-o-or else this m-means n-n-n-nothing.”
Max cursed silently to himself as he knew he was stuck for the duration and decided to sit down on an old crate and wait.
“W-w-what time you got M-m-max sir?”
“11:50”
“Uhm hmm,” was all that Obediah uttered as he quickly took candles out of his sack and lighted them. There were thirteen tall candles that he propped up around his brother’s remains. The sneer that Manny wore in death was highlighted by the flickering light of the candles. Obediah produced a small red flannel bag that Max knew he kept his ‘mojo’, or voodoo charms in. Max knew that his ‘mojo’ bag would be filled with disgusting things like animal parts and other unsavory ingredients.
The large, black man reached down and placed the flannel bag on Manny’s rotten skull. He then lit some incense and chanted. The chants were in dark and somber tones in a language that Max did not know. Like many men that stutter, Obediah did not stammer while chanting and singing.
At a certain point in the ceremony, Obediah got quiet. It was so quiet that Max thought he could almost hear his own heart beating. Obediah slowly turned to Max and asked for the time again.
Undead War (Dead Guns Press) Page 14