Lights Out

by Nate Southard

  He finally began to curl himself into a defensive ball, his entire body singing with pain, and then hands found him, big hands that grabbed his shoulders and yanked him off of the floor as easily as a scrap of litter. He felt himself hang suspended for a second. Then, his legs uncoiled and he found himself standing. He wobbled on his feet, and a hand flashed across his face. The slap brought him out of his stupor like a bucket of ice water.

  “You okay?” Tree asked.

  Rocha nodded. His jaw didn’t feel like it was ready to work yet.

  “Good,” the giant said. An instant later the big man was gone, fighting his way to the front of the line.

  Rocha hesitated a moment. Almost the entire pack was in front of him now, leaving his stranded in the rear, forgotten. He could he hear the screaming over the cheers of the inmates, but he couldn’t see anything but the backs of other men. Hugging his injured arm tight to his chest, he staggered backwards a single step. A second wave of rage swept through him, and he pressed forward once more.

  Then something flew over the crowd, drawing his eyes upward. He couldn’t make any sense of it at first, but then he realized the thing in the air wasn’t flying but leaping. A second before he saw the monstrous face, he recognized the torn and filthy guard’s uniform. He followed the monster as it sailed over his head and landed in a predatory crouch behind him.

  Rocha whirled to face the creature, as did a few other inmates around him, but the monster was already charging. He went to raise his weapon and found it was gone. Staring at his empty hand, he realized he must have dropped it when he was being trampled. He raised both arms to defend himself, despite the agony in his elbow, but the creature was already on him. Hot slices of pain drew screams from him as the vampire’s talons ripped at his skin, and his screams fell silent when he felt the sharp stab of agony as the creature bit into his neck. The world grew dark as a ball of cold nestled in his throat and began to spread.

  Rocha felt the monster drink him, the suction at his wound incredible, and then the vampire was gone. He looked around, trying to see anything through the dark haze that clouded his vision, and found three men--two gangbangers and a Mexican--fighting the creature. The bangers slammed the bloodsucker against a cell’s bars, and the Mexican--was it Ramirez? --plunged a wooden stake into the beast’s heart. The vampire let out a terrible cry and pitched forward, landing limp on the floor, the stake punching through its back.

  Rocha smiled, then collapsed and died.

  ***

  Diggs threw himself at the monsters without a second thought, his stake plunging deep into the heart of the first creature he saw. He wrenched the weapon free as the vampire fell backward, clutching the pumping hole in its chest, and used it to slap the next creature across the face. The thing hissed at him through bared teeth, and he darted in, slamming his fist into its nose. The bloodsucker grabbed his arm, yanking him off balance, and came at him fangs bared. Diggs grabbed his stake with both hands and thrust it under the monster’s jaw. The vampire’s teeth clacked together inches from his face, and Diggs got a good whiff of its breath, dirty and stale.

  “You awful fuck!”

  Diggs shoved the creature back, ignoring the cuts it tore in his arms and torso, and let out a roar. The vampire cried back at him, screeching like a broken siren. It lurched forward, buckling his arms, and again its fangs slammed shut inches from their goal. He looked into the vampire’s eyes, refusing to turn away. If this thing was going to kill him, he’d make sure it knew him first. The vampire darted forward again, but a booted foot came out of nowhere and cracked against its temple, snapping its head to the side and sending it tumbling away. He saw the monster writhe on the ground, its head bent at a strange angle, and then he saw Tree rush past to continue his attack.

  He clambered to his feet and waded in again.

  ***

  Darren saw the first vampire leap over the crowd and kill Rocha, saw the trio of men pin it down and exterminate it. A second later, another creature sailed over the sea of bodies. It landed and leapt again, and Darren watched in awe as it came down on the third floor landing. The men up there were scattered, largely unarmed, yet several still attacked the monster.

  Darren froze for an instant as he saw the vampire drink one prisoner, then another. It cast the dead man aside and grabbed a third, and Darren came to his senses and left the guard station. He dashed to the staircase and started up, calling out to the men who waited nearby with buckets of holy water.

  “Up one more! There’s one up there! Move!”

  The two closest convicts grabbed their buckets and started up the stairs, trying to look ahead to see where the hell the monster had gone. Darren continued his charge, his feet ringing like hammers on the metal steps. He reached the second floor and kept climbing, just as one of the men he’d sent ahead came sailing over the railing to die on the concrete below. Sparing a single glimpse at the man’s twisted and bleeding body, he raced up the remainder of the flight, clutching a stake in one hand and his rosary in the other.

  When he reached the landing, he found the monster fifteen feet away from the staircase, standing amidst at least six dead bodies and facing off with a final man. He saw an overturned bucket nearby, its contents running over the walkway’s edge. The second bucket sat in the remaining inmate’s hands. Snarling, the monster charged in, and the man tossed the water, hitting the creature full in the face. The thing’s scream was terrible, a wail of never-ending pain and misery, and the stench hit Darren almost immediately, a smell like burning garbage and feces. The vampire clawed at its own smoking, bubbling face. It had lost all of its instincts in a single, painful instant. It stumbled near the railing, and Darren rushed over to help the inmate. Together they shoved at the creature, and it tumbled over the side. Darren watched it fall two stories to the ground below, where it burst like a gore-filled balloon upon landing.

  The inmate staggered back from the ledge, holding his stomach, and then shuffled away, looking back long enough to give Darren a thumbs-up. Darren leaned against the wall, catching his breath, and then heard a growl. A second vampire landed on the walkway less than ten yards to his left. It hissed and then bolted for him. Darren let out a scream, but then instinct took over, and he thrust his rosary out at the beast.

  The monster shrieked and shrank back, averting its eyes. Darren stepped away from the wall and pursued the monster, forcing it back with the power of his cross. The creature reeled away, arms pinwheeling as it fought to escape the holy symbol, but then it suddenly stopped. He watched the creature with burgeoning fear, but then he saw the sharp tip of a wooden stake pierce through the vampire’s chest. The thing pitched forward, black blood gushing out of its chest and back, and Albright found Marquez smiling at him.

  “Good work, Padre. Way to herd the fucker.”

  ***

  Morrow watched Ribisi order the Sicilians forward and was not surprised to see how blindly they obeyed. The muscled men waded into the fight like boxers, and one of them was dumb enough to try knocking out the first vampire he encountered. The man caught the monster with a hard right cross, and the abomination didn’t even bother to clear its head before darting in and biting the man’s throat. Trembling with pain, the big man fell backward, and the monster was up a second later, twisting the Sicilian’s head around like a lid. Morrow heard the vertebrae snap in rapid succession, and Ribisi’s soldier dropped like a bag of wet garbage. The vampire tore into a second throat with its teeth, sending a jet of blood into the air, and the man’s scream pierced through every other sound, vibrating in Morrow’s ears.

  Something clicked inside Morrow, and he sprang into action. He fought his way toward the dying man and the monster sucking him dry. A vampire charged him from the left, and he spun toward it, swinging his baton as hard as he could. The metal cracked against the thing’s jaw, shattering its mandible and sending the entire creature spinning to the ground. He saw it scramble to its feet in an attempt to come for him, but there were already oth
ers blocking its path.

  Morrow took another dozen quick steps, and then he was at the Sicilian’s side. The man was already dead, his eyes blank and staring, but the vampire still clung to his neck, ignoring the two prisoners who tried to pull it away.

  He raised the baton over his head with both hands and slammed it into the back of the beast’s skull. The bloodsucker reared back, roaring, and he gave it another blow, this time to the temple. Screeching, the creature fell away from the dead Sicilian, and Ray stalked after it, smacking its face with his weapon again and again.

  The monster went on the offensive, hurling itself at him, and he cracked another grand slam across its skull. It shook off the blow and came again.

  Morrow’s arms began to feel tired and heavy from the fight. He dodged the vampire’s next charge and set himself to deliver another blow. Whirling, he searched the floor for a stake and saw nothing but bodies and blood and the burning remnants of magazines and mattresses. The monster’s cries of rage filled his ears, and he raised the club with an arm that ached with fatigue.

  The vampire leapt at him, and Ribisi appeared out of nowhere, jamming a stake into the creature’s chest with both hands. Coughing blood, the bloodsucker curled up like a dead spider and dropped to the floor.

  Morrow let the club fall to his side, relief flooding through him. Ribisi gave him a smirk.

  “Thanks for the assist, officer.” The contempt in his voice was unmistakable. “Looks like you’re useful for more than just slinging dope.”

  And then the old Sicilian was gone, faded back into the throng.

  Morrow eyed the spot where the mob boss had stood a second before, feeling his rage burn within him. When he felt energized again, he went off to find something else to hit.

  ***

  Sweeny steered clear of the battle, hovering at its edge. He kept a stake in one hand and a shiv concealed in the other. His brothers battled their way through the crowd, bashing heads and killing monsters, but he kept his eyes peeled for Diggs and his nigger friends. If somebody could just get close enough for him to stick.

  One of the gangbangers rushed past him, ready to get in there and whoop some ass, but the mass of bodies clamoring to get to the vamps stopped him dead. Sweeny seized on the opportunity. He darted behind the nigger and started stabbing. Before the coon could even cry out, Sweeny had put close to a dozen holes in his back, piercing his lungs and kidneys. The banger tried to cry out, and blood bubbled out of his throat. He collapsed to the floor, and Sweeny was already somewhere else, edging closer to Diggs.

  “Here I come, nigger,” he said under his breath, and as he closed in he forgot all about the monsters he was supposed to be fighting.

  ***

  The sounds of battle, the roar of combat, reached Timms and those stationed outside the gate. He turned to Brass, saw the look of awe and dread in his eyes.

  “What the fuck is that?” he asked the officer.

  “I don’t know,” Brass replied. “Sounds like they’re in there killing each other.”

  And it made sense. Get them here before sunset. Now that the sun had dropped behind the horizon, whatever had been killing prisoners and staff for the last three days had returned. And it appeared to be pissed.

  “We need to go in,” he said.

  “What?”

  “They’re getting killed in there. People are dying!”

  “There’s nothing we can do, Warden!”

  Timms stomped away from Brass, looking for the Officer in charge of the State Police. He found the man --a sturdy man with a black moustache who’d introduced himself as Perkins--standing near the riot tank, dispensing orders while sipping coffee from a paper cup. Ron shoved the officers Perkins was talking to aside and pointed to the prison.

  “You have to go in. You have to send everything in right now!”

  The man stepped forward, looking down his nose at Timms and puffing his chest out like an ape. “This is my operation, Warden, and we will not send men in until we are goddamned good and ready!”

  Ron stared at the officer for a second, blood boiling, and then rushed forward, grabbing the man’s shirt collar and shoving him back against the tank.

  “You asshole! That is my prison, goddammit. Mine! And if I tell you to get off of your motherfucking ass and save the lives of my staff and inmates, then you fucking-well do it!”

  A pair of police grabbed his arms and dragged him off of Perkins, who looked at him with wide, hateful eyes.

  “You asshole!” the officer shouted. “You will be charged for that!”

  “Get in there!”

  Perkins rolled his head once on his thick neck, then grabbed a nearby officer. “Mount up. Five minutes, and then we roll.”

  The police looked to Perkins, who nodded. They dropped Ron’s arms and walked away.

  “Happy now, Warden?”

  “Five minutes? Do you know how many people can be killed in five minutes?”

  “It’s nothing compared to how many will die if we charge in blind.”

  Timms watched Perkins turn. Then, he jogged back to the gate. Brass cocked an eyebrow at him, and his lip curled up into a smile.

  “Got some balls after all, Warden.”

  He ignored the man. Instead, he watched the dark structure of Burnham, squeezing his hands into fists at his sides, and wondered what awful things were happening inside.

  ***

  Darren paused, Marquez at his side, to peer down at the scene below them. The corpses spread across the floor and balconies appeared too numerous to count, but the men were turning the tide. Nine of the monsters had been killed already, and the inmates continued to wade in faster and faster, eager to prove their mettle against the remaining creatures. As he watched, two gangbangers held a creature still as a third dumped holy water on it from above. They let go as the monster began to smoke and bubble, and the vampire barely managed to stagger five steps before collapsing and liquefying.

  “Holy shit, Padre,” Marquez said. “Looks like we just might win this one.”

  “Good. I didn’t like your plan.”

  “Well, it looks like we won’t need it, so be thankful.”

  “I am. Don’t worry.”

  “We need to get down there. I feel like a puta up here.”

  “Okay. Let’s--”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  He turned to ask Marquez what was wrong, but the Mexican was already pointing down at the floor, to where several men suddenly flew through the air as if they’d been shot out of a cannon. They crashed against the walls and fell to the floor, their bodies limp, dead. An instant later, another trio of prisoners soared through the room. One of them landed on the bonfire. The poor bastard screamed as he went up like a matchstick.

  “What the hell?” Darren asked. The answer appeared a second later, and it sent terrified chills through his body.

  This vampire didn’t look like the others. It didn’t wear filthy grays or a guard’s uniform or any sort of clothing. This one was naked, and its skin was the color of a dead fish that had lost its scales. Tight muscles rippled beneath the flesh. The head was bald, almost too big for the body, and the face was a monstrous landscape of crags and valleys. Blood smeared its maw, which opened impossibly wide before snapping shut again.

  “That’s the first one,” Darren whispered.

  “Father?”

  “Get to the cafeteria.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do it now, Omar. Wait for me.”

  “Okay.”

  The Mexican crossed himself, then darted along the walkway. Darren didn’t bother to watch him leave. He had faith in Marquez. Now, he had to worry about fulfilling his own end of the plan. He swallowed hard, ideas still forming in his head, and bolted for the staircase.

  Then the lights went out, and shadows fell over Unit B.

  Eight

  Jim--who will one day be called Maggot--reaches into the tub to test the water. Perfect. Warm, but not too hot. He pulls up on a stopper,
and the water starts shooting from the showerhead. He strips himself naked and steps inside.

  The water feels good on his skin, waking him up and calming him all at once. There is a lot to wash off, and Jim wastes no time. He reaches for the soap and builds up a strong lather, rubs the bar his hands over his chest and face a throat. The grime there is thick and tough to cut through, but he scrubs until he feels the soft skin beneath.

  He moves on to his arms.

  More dirt there. A lot more. It amazes Jim that something could become so filthy, even if his father has already told him so dozens of times. Still he had never seen it, never really believed it. He managed it, though. Standing in the shower, he wonders if he can possibly scrub away all of the filth. It takes a lot of soap and a lot of hard work, but soon his arms are clean, too.

  Then his legs.

  The feet.

  He is humming one of his favorite songs by the time he moves to his crotch, always the last thing he washes. After soaping himself up, he starts tugging on his shaft. He keeps humming, and he does not hit a wrong note until he sprays his semen on the shower tiles. His body shudders, and the tune goes a little sharp. It does not occur to Jim until he has finished wiping himself clean that he hates semen, despises the way it feels when it lands on his face, sprayed by his father. He hates the way it sticks as he wipes his face clean. It feels different, though, when it leaves his cock. Then, it feels amazing.

  He shuts off the water.

  Jim throws open the shower curtain and grabs the towel off the rack. He dries himself after spending a moment reveling in the feeling of cold air against his wet body. The sensation almost makes him hard again.

  As he leaves the bathroom, he returns to his humming. He has found the melody again, and he will not lose it this time. For the first time in his adult life, he feels calm, at peace. He has not felt this way since he was a child, maybe a baby. A smile crosses his face like an alien lifeform.