Lights Out

by Nate Southard

  “Better than nothing.”

  “Like holy hell it is. She’s got a grip like a lumberjack. She leaves, and I’m chafed all the way down to my balls!”

  Morrow winced. He felt his own testicles withdraw into his abdomen at the thought. Jesus! Some women just didn’t have all their skills in line.

  “So, is there anything you can tell me about the murders?”

  “I was wondering when this would come up.”

  “You act like I’m predictable.”

  “You are.”

  “You only think I am, Officer Morrow. It might do you some good if you remember that in the future. You only think I’m predictable. In reality, I’m like a shadow with something inside just waiting to jump out of it and yell ‘Boo!’”

  “If you say so.”

  “Right.” His voice betrayed no hint of irritation. “So, does Timms have any idea who might have been behind it?”

  “If he does, he’s not saying. Playing it real close to the chest.” He cast a glance at Ribisi. “Why? You want to make a confession?”

  “Don’t get smart, Morrow. A Nazi and a freak screwed up on crystal. What could I possibly have to gain by rubbing any one of them out?”

  “Maybe I was talking about Dunlap?”

  “Who the hell is Dunlap?”

  Morrow glared. “He was the guard.”

  Ribisi stopped cold. “I’m sorry,” he said. He crossed himself. “I meant no offense. May Officer Dunlap rest in peace.”

  They fell back in step with each other, continuing on their journey.

  “We should take a detour,” Ribisi said, and Morrow turned down the next hallway without hesitation. This new path was smaller, dimmer. Empty.

  “Good for you, Anton?”

  “Good enough. I’m hoping this situation gets resolved, Morrow. I like Burnham to be a well-oiled machine, running smoothly at all times. Situations like this, they create uneasiness--sometimes fear and anger. These emotions tend to fuck up the machine.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “It fucking-well is. You get information, I want you to bring it to me. I have methods of dealing with intelligence that the administration might frown upon.”

  “And I bet you’re anxious to give those methods a try.”

  A shadow crossed the old man’s face, and his voice seemed to come from deep within it.

  “I’m anxious for resolution. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, officer, but junk doesn’t move so well when everybody’s scared shitless. People start thinking about getting in good with the Lord and all that bullshit, decide it’s time to kick the habit. Well, all I can say is ‘Fuck that,’ and if you know what side your goddamn bread is buttered on, you’ll say the exact same fuckin’ thing.

  “Now, do we have an understanding?”

  Morrow nodded, the movement slow and just the slightest bit angry. He knew better than to piss in Anton’s face. He’d seen horrible things happen to men who had.

  “Yeah, we have an understanding.”

  “Good. I’m happy to hear that, very happy.” Ribisi looked around, making sure they were still alone. “Should we do our business here?”

  “Good a place as any. We don’t have to worry about anybody wandering along.”

  “I didn’t think so.” The Sicilian reached into his prison grays and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in a paper lunch sack. “Might want to shoot me a little more notice next time. I barely got this away from Gino before standing up in the cafeteria.”

  “You did great. Worked it just like a teenager.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me. I’m old, and I know it. Besides, a smart businessman worries about everything. That’s what makes him smart.”

  Morrow hefted the bundle. “It’s all here, right?”

  “Don’t get cute. Go make your deliveries.”

  “Just trying to be a smart businessman.”

  The slightest hint of a smile touched Anton’s lips.

  “It’s so wonderful when they finally learn.”

  “I’m sure it is. I’m assuming you can find your own way back?”

  The man tapped a finger to his temple.

  “It’s like a compass in here, you fuck.”

  “Then I’ll let you go about your merry way.”

  “Thank you, Officer Morrow.”

  Morrow turned and left, heading back to the main corridor. Ribisi watched him go, his face still hidden in deep shadow.

  “Thank you very much.”

  Five

  Dr. Edward Wilson bent over the closest of the corpses, eyeing its wounds with a curiosity that could easily be described as fascination. Three murders, three corpses, and each one’s throat had been torn out almost completely. He had never seen anything like it, and in a place like Burnham, that didn’t happen too often.

  Dr. Wilson heard footsteps approach, three sets. He didn’t bother to look up, even though he wondered where his third set of hands might be. The prison morgue’s door opened with a creak.

  “Your help’s arrived, Doctor.”

  “Excellent, Officer. Thank you.”

  “You’re one short. That Maggot guy was puking after lunch. Somebody should be bringing him along in twenty minutes or so.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’ll be outside.”

  Dr. Wilson heard the guard leave, shutting the door behind him. Almost instantly, one of his assistants let out a groan.

  “Jesus Christ! That’s some really disgusting shit.”

  Wilson smiled to himself. “You act like you’ve never seen a man with his throat torn apart, Aldo.”

  He could almost feel the Sicilian’s shudder from across the room.

  “That’s because I haven’t.”

  “Guess you need to get out more.” He picked up a pair of latex gloves and pulled them over his thin hands, gestured toward the bodies with an elbow. “Still, even I can’t quite figure out who could have done something like that.”

  The Mexican named Chale shook his head. “Forget ‘who,’ man. You need to be asking yourself ‘what.’ No person coulda done something like this.”

  “Hey,” Aldo said. “You can cut that out right now. I’m not listening to any superstitious bullshit, okay?”

  “Why’s that? You gon’ piss yourself, you so scared?”

  “No, you greasy spic. I’m just afraid it’ll ruin my appetite, and I’m supposed to munch down on your sister’s tamale later.”

  Wilson watched the two men, saw Chale shrug off the insult. The cons were always trying to act cool, prove they had a real set of balls on them. It was more irritating than anything. Chalk that up with how generally useless they were, and the pathologist earned his pay.

  “Aldo, get off your ass and make sure we’ve got a blank tape in the recorder. You’re on work detail, so at least try to act like you’re putting in some actual work.”

  The man stood with an annoyed grunt. He rummaged through a few drawers before finding the tapes, then stepped to the recorder that had been installed directly into the wall and inserted the cassette.

  “This is a Maggot job, Doc. It’s bullshit that I should have to do it.”

  “Cry me a river.”

  Wilson adjusted the microphone on its gooseneck with one hand, then worked the light with the other, setting up his workspace the way he liked it. He cast a final glance at Aldo.

  “Should be Maggot’s job,” the man said, a pout plastered across his ugly mug.

  “You don’t hear me complaining, Aldo. At least Maggot does his work instead of swinging his dick around trying to prove how big a man he is.”

  “Little fucker creeps me out.”

  Wilson nodded. “He’s an acquired taste, but he’s handy to have around, so whatever. Little guy’s had some rough shit in his past. Remember that.”

  “Hey, Doc?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why the fuck you cuss so much? Don’t seem very professional.”

  “Never did before I came to w
ork here. Guess Burnham just brought out the gentleman in me. Now quiet. Daddy’s working.”

  He turned on the mic and then bent at the waist, hovering over the wound that used to be Officer Dunlap’s throat. He coughed once, then said, “Autopsy of Correctional Officer Terry Dunlap, conducted by Dr. Edward Wilson at 1:13 PM on August Seventh, 2008.” He reached for the wound, fingers twitching, and then snapped off the mic instead. He stood straight, planting his fists on his hips.

  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What don’t?” Chale asked.

  “Your face,” Aldo answered.

  “Fuck you.”

  “This doesn’t look like a murder,” Wilson said, shaking his head slowly.

  “Bullshit,” Aldo said.

  “Whatever.”

  “I’ve been here for years, Aldo, and I’ve seen throats that were stabbed, sliced, punched, and crushed, but this...It looks like a mauling, like a tiger or something got into the solitary wing.”

  “Jesus,” Chale whispered

  “You’re shitting me,” Aldo said. He jerked a thumb at the Mexican beside him. “You’re not really saying this guy could be right, are ya? Somebody murdered those assholes. Wasn’t no animal!”

  “You really think so? Come and look at this.”

  Aldo’s face went white, seemed to curdle on his skull. He shook his head.

  “Don’t be a pussy. Come over here and get a good look. These folks are dead. You’re not going to offend them or anything.”

  “No fuckin’ way.”

  “Chale?”

  “Uh-uh. You shittin’ yourself, Doc.”

  He frowned. “While you’re both working for me, you might as well try and learn something. Might help you when you get out of here. Now, get over here before I call for the officer and tell him you’re trying to fuck each other.”

  The cons glanced at each other. They sauntered over--trying to look casual, but failing.

  “Come on. Closer.”

  They inched forward until they could grimace down at Dunlap’s body.

  “Thanks for joining the party,” Wilson said. “Door prizes are in an hour.”

  He turned back to the corpse and gestured at the ruined throat.

  “Look at this. It wasn’t a weapon that did this, not unless that weapon was a bear’s paw. See how the flesh is torn, how it looks like it was just ripped? Nobody’s gonna be able to pull that off unless they’ve got some sharp fucking fingernails or a truly ridiculous set of choppers. And even then...”

  “What?” Chale’s voice sounded very small.

  “Well, the wound appears too large for it to be a human mouth, and it tears inward on both sides, so I don’t think somebody did this with their hands.”

  “What are you sayin’?” Aldo asked.

  Wilson shook his head. “I’m saying--and understand I’m just saying this. I’m not crazy enough to really mean it. I’m saying Chale might be right. I don’t think a human being could have done this.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Aldo muttered.

  “And yet it’s what the evidence suggests.”

  “The fuck?”

  It was Chale’s voice, but it was almost a gasp. Wilson looked up at the man. The Mexican was staring past him at Dunlap’s body.

  “What is it?” Wilson asked.

  Chale could only point, his finger coming up slow and trembling. His jaw dropped and quivered, and his breath wheezed out of his mouth in a low, horrified note.

  Wilson followed the man’s finger, and he found himself looking at Dunlap. He blinked, let out a short breath, and felt his balls draw up into his abdomen even as his stomach dropped.

  The wound that had been the officer’s throat was closing. As he watched, the flesh began to knit itself back together. Tendrils of skin reached, found each other, and intertwined. They thickened into cords, then flattened, becoming sheets of tissue. The flesh made a sound like crumpling newspaper as it repaired itself. The process seemed to take forever, and the men could only watch, transfixed.

  He heard a voice from far away, a single word so soft it could have been a breath.

  “Doc?”

  He couldn’t tell if it was Aldo or Chale, and he didn’t really care. He watched Officer Dunlap’s new throat, fascinated. It showed no sign of damage. Where there had only seconds ago been a ragged mess of butchered tissue, now there was perfect skin, as smooth and clean as fine porcelain.

  “Doc!”

  He shook his head, looking up. It was Aldo; he could tell now. Terror sat thick in the man’s voice, a trembling note of sheer horror.

  “It’s happening to the rest!”

  Wilson eyed the remaining bodies and saw that, yes, their wounds were healing, as well. The room, which was always kept unnaturally cool, seemed to heat up until it was sweltering. His head spun, and he realized he was near fainting. As the last throat, Webber’s, sealed itself shut, the doctor realized he might best be served by thoughts of escape rather than diagnosis.

  “Officer!”

  The doors swung open at once, and the guard bolted inside, ready for action. A look of puzzlement fell over his face, however, when he realized Aldo and Chale weren’t beating the doctor to death. Wilson opened his mouth to explain.

  And a cold hand gripped his wrist.

  He screamed, and as three corpses opened their eyes and peeled their lips back to reveal teeth that were far too sharp, the others joined him.

  ***

  “Yeah. You like this, Maggot? Maggot the Faggot. You like what I’m doing to you?”

  Maggot squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through grit teeth. He kept his hands braced against the corridor’s wall so he would not get slammed face-first into it. Behind him, Officer Nicholas pounded away, grunting and groaning with each terrible thrust.

  “Tell me you like it. You better tell me before I get pissed.”

  “I like it,” Maggot whimpered. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Through the years he had spent at Burnham, he had been raped countless times, and each violation was awful, worse than the last. But no one was as rough as Officer Nicholas, the fat man who always smelled of sweat and meat. Maggot had learned long ago to do whatever he was told, or else Nicholas would either beat him down with his billy club or sodomize him with it.

  “I like it so much.”

  Nicholas let out a shuddering breath. “Oh, yeah. This is what you get for not making your work detail on time, you worthless little fuck. You gonna be late for work again?”

  “No.”

  A fist slammed against the back of Maggot’s head. Stars burst in his vision, and pain sang through his entire skull. He let out a hiss.

  “Can’t hear you, asshole!”

  “No!”

  “That’s right.”

  He tried not to scream, tried to stay nice and quiet so the guard could finish. The thrusts grew quicker, more violent. Pain that was all but unbearable laced his entire body. Nicholas always made sure it hurt. A meaty paw gripped his hair, twisted, and the scream almost escaped. An instant later the guard paused, went rigid, and finally gasped and pulled out.

  Maggot wiped his eyes and pulled his grays back up.

  Officer Nicholas smiled as he tucked himself back into his pants. “I’m not ever gonna get tired of you, Mags. You always feel like a virgin when we get together.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You better keep yourself clean, though. I ever catch some queer disease off you, your skull will be a greasy smear before I have my first appointment with the doc. We have an understanding?”

  Maggot nodded. He kept his eyes on the wall in front of him, refusing to look away for any reason. More than anything, he did not want to see those piggish eyes, the ugly smile.

  “C’mon,” Nicholas said. “We gotta get you to the morgue.”

  Maggot followed the officer by sound, his eyes glued to the corridor’s concrete floor. The clicks and clacks of Nicholas’ polished shoes told him where to go.

 
“This is your fourth time in the infirmary in two weeks,” the guard said. His voice took on a different tone when he wasn’t raping Maggot. More playful, but just as hateful. And he always acted as though he had not just pounded Maggot’s ass like he was trying to bury a tent stake. “You ask me; it sounds like you’re just trying to cut work detail.”

  “My stomach hurts sometimes.”

  “Boo-hoo. You know the drill; everyone works. No exceptions.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t give a damn how many tummy aches you have.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s good to hear. Now, am I going to have to walk you to work detail late again anytime soon?”

  “I do not know. My stomach hurts sometimes.”

  Nicholas stopped short, and Maggot followed his example. He kept his eyes down, examining his worn shoes. A hole marked the top of his right sneaker. As he watched, he wiggled his big toe. It looked like he was waving hello to himself, and he almost smiled, but then Officer Nicholas placed an open palm on his chest.

  “Are you being cute with me, Maggot? I’m not sure I can handle cute right now.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry? I couldn’t really make that out?”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, sir. I am not being cute.”

  “Happy to hear it.” The officer’s hand slid upward to touch Maggot’s cheek, a gesture that was both tender and terrible. “We’ve got a good thing going, you and me. I don’t want you to go fucking it up by getting me mad. Now, are you going to be okay?”

  Maggot shook his head, looked back down at his shoes. He gave his toe another wiggle, and again he fought off a smile.

  “I am okay,” he said.

  “Mags.”

  “I want to go to work now.”

  He heard another sigh, this one longer, annoyed. One of his hands curl into a fist, his nails digging into the skin of his palm, and he forced it open again, demanded his muscles relax as they were told.

  “Good, let’s go,” Officer Nicholas said.

  The clacking of shoes rang out again, and Maggot followed the sound down the corridor. He followed Nicholas around one corner, two, never raising his eyes. Instead, he examined the dirty floor as it flowed past, and he thought about what he had in common with it.