Lights Out

by Nate Southard

  The footsteps rounded a corner and suddenly stopped. Maggot heard the guard let out a rushed, “Oh, fuck,” and then the footsteps were running away, and the swinging doors that sealed off the morgue were flying open.

  “Jesus Christ!” came the guard’s voice, sharp with fear.

  Maggot looked up, and he saw the morgue doors sway back and forth on their hinges. He saw nothing past them but the shining metal cabinets on the opposite wall. It looked no different than normal, but then he realized there was no guard standing outside the doors.

  Slowly, he approached. As the doors swung open and shut, open and shut, he heard snatches of sound, Officer Nicholas yelling into his radio.

  “...The morgue...

  “...Bodies...

  “...Right away!”

  He reached out to touch the doors as their swinging slowed to a stop. Gently, he pushed them open. He stepped through into the cool, sterile room where he worked five days out of every week, helping Dr. Wilson in any way he could. He liked the doctor, who treated him well and insisted on calling him Jim, which just happened to be Maggot’s real name.

  But Dr. Wilson did not greet him by his real name this time. The man did not say anything, in fact, and with his throat all ripped up like that, Maggot didn’t expect him to make any kind of sound. The doctor lay twisted on the floor, near the large bodies of two prisoners. They were mangled together, and there was an awful lot of blood. The other guard, the one who should have been in the hallway, lay in two torn pieces on either side of the room.

  Maggot turned to Officer Nicholas, who was looking around with eyes so wide the whites showed all around the irises. He looked funny, like a clown or something, and Maggot laughed. He could not help it. The fat guard looked like he had just seen a ghost, and the way his jaw was trembling and making both of his cheeks shake was so funny!

  Maggot let out peals of laughter that echoed through the small room, and he did not even care that there was so much blood in the room. He did not care that the only man who called him by his real name was dead. It just made everything that much more hysterical! Even stop when Officer Nicholas whipped him in the stomach with his metal baton, he did not stop laughing. He did not stop as he crumpled to the ground, fresh tears chasing each other down his cheeks, and the fat man was running out of the room and telling him, “Stop that fucking laughing, if you know what’s good for you!” Try as he might, could not seem to make himself shush, though. He just kept guffawing until his laughter turned into a chain of body-wracking sobs, and he realized that it was not funny anymore and that he was terrified of the blood-spackled room, if the cloying scent of destroyed life.

  “Help me,” he cried as a bunch of clomping feet ran into the room, bringing with them angry voices--confused voices.

  Frightened voices.

  “God, please help me.”

  Six

  They avoided the light, staying close to the shadows as they traveled through Burnham’s catacomb-like hallways. A voice called to them, telling them exactly where to go, and they moved with new speed, new grace. They felt a great new strength course through their muscles, felt warm blood boil in their bellies. None of this felt strange to them. It was just a fact of their new existence. Reborn in old bodies. The same, yet somehow different. Improved.

  They saw no more meat, not even when the alarms started going off, piercing their newborn ears like hot ice picks, so they kept moving, drawing closer to the voice. It sounded comforting, yet powerful, coaxing and commanding at the same time, and soon they found themselves in the tiny room with the hole in the floor. They crawled through the rough opening, scuttling through the earth like beetles, and soon they found their new father, the one with the voice, the great and terrible one who had made them. And they found two others with him, others who looked somehow familiar. Hunger hovered around the pair like a scent. It was dark, but they could still see, and though they had fed, their hunger was already beginning to call to them once again.

  Patience, the voice said. They listened.

  One of them, a creature that remembered the name Webber as though it belonged to somebody else from a long ago age, shuddered violently in the small cavern. Its body ached, muscles constricting not out of will, but out of pain. It remembered poisons it had long ago put into its body, and it remembered a similar pain once the poisons had no longer been available. The pain had been very bad before, but now that the creature’s senses had grown more aware, more powerful, the pain was all but unbearable. The creature mewled, allowing long, high notes of anguish to slip between its lips. Its new father ran cold and gentle fingers through its hair, and the pain receded the slightest bit. The father pressed a wrist to its mouth, and it bit with its new teeth, sucking the blood that pulsed warm and wet into its mouth. The pain almost disappeared, and it sucked harder at the wound, but its father pulled away.

  Enough.

  More. Please.

  No. Wait.

  It nodded in the darkness, knowing its father could see the motion. The fingers returned to its hair, no longer stroking but pulling, wrenching the creature closer before shoving it away.

  It curled in tight with the others, staying close to its father, and closed its eyes. Sleep would come any moment, and when it awoke, the safety of nightfall would allow him to feed again.

  Seven

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Timms eyed the scene, and he imagined he could feel his blood pressure rise. His pulse pounded in his temples, and his face felt flushed above his collar. He shook his head. Bullshit, complete and utter bullshit that something like this could happen right under his nose. He had to get Burnham back under control.

  “Lockdown. Throw the whole goddamn place into lockdown, okay? Do it now.”

  Morrow turned away from the blood-splashed walls to cock an eyebrow at the warden. Other officers were already stretching yellow crime scene tape across the doors.

  “Are you sure that’s the best thing to do right now?”

  “Goddammit, how fucking stupid do you think I am? We’ve got four new corpses and five missing, and three of those can’t even walk the fuck out of here!”

  The Officer held up his hands in surrender. “Fine.” He fingered the microphone attached to his shoulder. “Go to lockdown. All units.”

  The claxon screech of a siren filled the air at once, and a voice distorted by loudspeakers that were a little too old called out “Lockdown! Lockdown!”

  “You happy?”

  “No. I’m nowhere fucking close to happy, okay? As a matter of fact, I’m really pissed off. Does that answer your question?”

  “More or less.”

  “Are the press still outside?”

  “I would imagine.”

  “Goddamn it. They’re going to have a field day with this one.” He collapsed in a chair.

  “Ron, you might want to....”

  “What?”

  Morrow motioned at the chair. Droplets of blood dotted its surface.

  “Aw, shit!” Timms leaped out of the chair, trying his best to brush himself clean and only smearing the blood into streaks as a result. He cocked a leg back and kicked one of the room’s metal cabinets. The booming sound of the impact rang throughout the morgue. Ron winced, then pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing them. He found a sink and ran his hands under the cold water as he checked himself in the mirror.

  Jesus, he barely recognized himself. Thick bags hung under his eyes, and his skin was pale, waxy. It seemed to hang from his skull like old cheese. The cuffs and collar of his shirt were soaked with sweat, and his suit jacket appeared rumpled, ill fitting. He didn’t look like a warden anymore, just a joke.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Morrow asked.

  “First off, I’m going to take a fucking shower and put some clean clothes on. I can’t talk to anybody like this.”

  “Of course.”

  Timms flicked water from his hands and wiped his sweaty brow. “I guess I’d better call the Governor
soon; pray I’ve still got a job once I’m done.”

  “Best of luck.”

  “That’s real inspiring, Ray. You should write children’s books.”

  Morrow shook his head. “You’re going to be fine, Ron. You have six years of a more or less spotless record. This shit happens every now and again, okay? It’s part of the job or something. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “But it happened on my watch. My neck’s on the line for this.”

  “You’ll be fine. Try to relax. I know how idiotic that sounds, but it’s better than blowing your top.”

  Timms nodded. “Thanks.” He shrugged his jacket back into place. “Wanna walk me back to my office?"

  “Sure.”

  Morrow reached the doorway first and held the crime scene tape back while Timms ducked under it. As he passed beneath it, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The morgue’s a crime scene, Ray. If we find these bodies, where the hell are we gonna put ‘em?”

  ***

  “Lockdown!”

  Diggs moved across the floor, rolling with each step. Tree walked beside him, blocking out the light with his gigantic form.

  “So, we gonna play with they bullshit, Diggs? Gonna keep the cappin’ low ‘til they find who killed them crackas?”

  “Shit, man. Think they can prod my ass in any direction and that’s the way I’m gonna roll, they out of they goddamn minds. I do things my way, or I don’t do shit.

  “But, hell. I ain’t got beef with nobody but Sweeny and the rest of his skinhead bitches. Nobody steps up to me, an’ I ain’t gonna start no extra shit. One thing those Mexicans and Italians got right--the quieter this shithole is, the better it runs.”

  “Lockdown!”

  He reached the stairway, Tree right behind, and began to climb. Unit C stood four levels high, walkways of concrete and iron, each lined with barred cells, surrounding the open room. Two flights of metal stairs, and they’d be right on top of their front yard.

  Cons swarmed up the iron staircases, and their footsteps thundered through the room, the noise growing to a terrible rumble. The others were really hauling ass, but Diggs and Tree stayed cool, taking their time. Why hurry when you’re just gonna get locked up once you reach home base, right? Diggs sneered. He really was the smartest motherfucker in the place.

  They reached the second level and kept climbing. Cell doors began to slam shut all around. Diggs spoke up so Tree could hear him.

  “A lockdown’s sure as shit something we don’t need, though. Gonna give commerce a real kick in the balls.”

  “I thought the priest said we wasn’t gonna go to lockdown?”

  “S’what he told me.” He stopped, gripping the rail with both hands and looking out over the unit. Cons stood at their cell doors, arms slipped through the bars, looking around. As the noise of clanging doors and rumbling footsteps quieted, a new sound rose to take its place. Diggs had heard it before--the hushed, tense sound of whispers. “Something bad musta gone down.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Somethin’ real awful. The Rev. don’t lie, least he never has before.”

  “Hey, Diggs!” It was one of the guards, staring up at him from the landing below. His eyes were angry. “Move your ass, okay? We got lockdown happening here, not recess.”

  Diggs turned to face the guard. He reached down and gave his dick a squeeze, jerked it toward the uniformed asshole. “Sure thing, officer! Maybe you come see me after lights out?”

  He turned to Tree and laughed, held out his hand for a slap, but Tree was looking past him. Suddenly, the big man yelled, “Get down!” and wrapped both arms around Diggs and twisted. Diggs flew off his feet and tumbled down the stairs, and at the same time he heard a snarling warcry from above him followed by the sharp, quick sound of a shiv piercing flesh. Tree let out a sharp grunt, and then the guard let out a yell and raced up the stairs.

  Diggs turned to find out just what the hell was happening.

  Tree’s arm was bleeding bad from three different places, and one of the wounds still had the handle of the white man’s shiv sticking out of it. Tree had the Aryan bent backwards over the rail, one meaty hand underneath his chin, and the guard was struggling to get around the bodyguard and take over the situation.

  “Get off of him, dammit!” the C.O. ordered. Tree refused to answer.

  “I said get the fuck off!”

  The guard raised his billy club and brought it down across Tree’s back once, twice. The big man fell away, and the guard pushed forward, locking the nightstick against the white man’s chin. More guards arrived, grabbing Tree by each arm and hauling him to his feet.

  “Get him to the infirmary!” the guard said, and the newcomers did as they were told. Tree didn’t struggle. Diggs knew the licks the guard had given his homeboy hadn’t done much damage, but actively fighting a guard would earn you a good stretch in the hole.

  The guard grabbed the white man by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. The cracker let out a sharp scream, and the guard pushed him down the stairs.

  “Get your ass to your cell, Diggs,” the officer said. “I’ve got my hands full.”

  Diggs stepped forward, gave whitey a smile. “You don’t fuck with me, bitch! Can’t you see I’m bulletproof?”

  His arms as wide as his smile, he climbed the rest of the stairs. He called out to the cons around him, his voice reaching over the noise.

  “You bitches hear me? Diggs is fuckin’ bulletproof! You white muthafuckas better read that shit loud and clear! You can’t kill me! Crackas can’t even hurt me!”

  The brothers cheered, banging against the bars of their cells in approval. The whites bellowed their rage at him. The rest didn’t seem to care, probably just grateful for the show.

  Diggs strutted across the walkway, turning in slow circles and soaking up the attention. He stopped in front of his cell.

  “Y’all want to try again, you’ll find my ass right here!”

  He stepped inside and threw his head back.

  “Close my muthafuckin’ cell!”

  The bars slammed shut with an echoing clang!

  The cheers continued for a long time.

  ***

  Across the block, one level up, Sweeny hung on his bars, looking down at the nigger who thought he was immortal. His poker face was perfect, an impenetrable mask of calm. No one watching him would think he was the slightest bit interested. One thing Sweeny had learned long ago, cover your ass.

  Behind him, Hodge kept muttering. “Bullshit, man. Fucking bullshit.”

  “No way. Coon’s bodyguard is gone. He doesn’t know it yet, but as soon as this lockdown’s over, his ass is mine.”

  Hodge grinned. “That’s what I like to hear, man.”

  “Know what else?”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re gonna take care of that little bastard Hall, too.”

  Sweeny climbed onto his bunk and laid his head back. He had a suspicion he was going to sleep just fine.

  ***

  Anton Ribisi lay on his bunk, reading the morning edition and trying to ignore the sounds of alarms and slamming doors and riotous cheers. He looked up once, only half-interested, when his own door closed, but he didn’t see any reason to quit reading. The lockdown was a real bite in the ass, a pain he didn’t need, but he could handle it as long as it needed handling. Sooner or later, his people would come by, Morrow and a few others. None of them knew each other, and he liked it that way. You never showed your hole cards. Either together or on their own, his people would see the lockdown finished. At least, they would if they knew what was good for them.

  He stretched his legs, rolled his shoulders. His neck felt sore. His back, too. Some days it felt like his entire body was starting to break down on him. He’d seen it happen to others before him, but he wasn’t afraid. Maybe the rest had been, the ones who’d gotten by on the strength of their arms and
their hands. Anton Ribisi didn’t need that, however. He had balls, and he had brains. Between the two, he would do just fine for many years to come.

  He turned the page, the crinkle of newspaper barely audible over the sounds of violent men. Grumbling the slightest bit, he shut out their noise and concentrated on his paper. The words on the page mingled with his own thoughts, a dance of ideas in his head.

  The lockdown might last a few days. It would slow down business, even with his gentle prodding and poking, but it wouldn’t do any lasting damage. He had ways of moving product, heroin mostly, when he couldn’t send his soldiers out to make the deliveries. Morrow still had errands to run, cash to collect from his customers. The guard could move a little more product, pick up the slack. Hell, in a lot of ways the lockdown made it easier. When the C.O.’s moved junk for you, you didn’t have to worry about your soldiers getting pinched. It was almost a sweet enough deal for Anton to ignore the decreased revenue it caused. Really, the dip in profit was the only flaw in the situation, and he maybe could have handled it if he didn’t like to maximize his cash intake so much.

  Anton finished his article and folded the paper. He checked his watch, a Rolex--smiling that his status allowed him such jailhouse luxuries--and saw that he still had two hours until lights out arrived. Oh, well. He climbed to his feet and moved to the sink, where he began brushing his teeth. The other cons had to share cells, and they might have to wait their damn turn to do simple things like brush or take a shit, but that was just another of the many things that didn’t concern him. He had a business, a good one, and he had his own cell. If he wanted, he had family, soldiers, and enough juice to run all of Burnham. All he had to do was tighten the reins.

  He spit, rinsed, and smiled, admiring himself in the mirror. His face, though showing more than a few wrinkles, was still handsome. No matter what his wife said, he still had a lot to offer a woman.