by Buda, Chuck
Caged 1
Prison life is about to get harder.
The inmates of Warsaw Prison are safe from the virus outbreak beyond the walls. For now.
Warden Gorgon wants to use the prison walls as a barrier against the infected. But he knows the walls will only last so long. If only he could figure out a better plan...
Jack Turk and the prisoners in C-Pod are about to learn their fate. It’s a death sentence. One that was added to their time served, without the proper adjudication. And Jack is not about to take what’s given.
The walls are closing in. Who will survive? Who will be sacrificed?
This is a suspenseful tale of post-apocalyptic horror.
Caged is the first novella in the Zombie Lockup series by Chuck Buda. It is approximately 25,000 words and contains adult language, scenes of horror and a cliffhanger ending. Reader discretion is heavily advised.
Caged 1
By Chuck Buda
Edited by Jenny Adams
Copyright © Chuck Buda (2016).
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any semblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The author has taken great liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought this book, or telling your friends or blog readers about this book to help spread the word.
Thank you for supporting my work. Without you the story would not be told.
Cover art by Marc Gonzalez / mggdstudio.com.
Contents
Caged 1
Copyright
Dedication
Special Thanks
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Continue the Thrills
Inside the Hole
Join C-Pod
About the Author
I Need Your Help!
My Other Series
Dedication
Dedicated to Armand Rosamilia and Jay Wilburn.
You taught me how to love zombies again.
Special Thanks
I would like to thank Christopher Zingaro. You have nerves of steel.
Prelude
“So who are we going to eat first?”
The men looked at each other. Nobody said a word, afraid to answer the question.
Jack Turk knew he would have to take the lead. The other prisoners wouldn’t be able to handle such a weighty decision. Besides, Jack figured if they could make such a decision, there were two main reasons to stay mute on the subject. The first reason, choosing a prisoner to eat was akin to ratting out a man. By saying the name out loud, you would be committed to nominating that person to die. Same as ratting to the warden. But Jack knew the real reason involved fear. Fear that you would hear your own name called.
“I vote for Frenchie.”
“Fuck you, man! Is it because I’m a fag? You hate gays. I knew it.” Frenchie looked pissed. In his outrage, the knot holding his tee shirt in the shape of a brazier came undone.
Jack just stared at Frenchie. He was calm and had expected an outburst for his nomination. “Has nothing to do with you being a fag. It’s cause you annoy me.”
The other men watched the drama unfold. Frenchie paced back and forth, huffing. Jack just leaned against the wall with his arms folded. Jack liked to observe the behavior of his fellow inmates. Everyone was so tough out in the real world. Sure, it was easy to shoot someone in the head from behind or knock over a small mom and pop liquor store. But, on the inside, shit got real. Even the toughest of the tough pissed themselves when the gloves came off. In here, everything was for keeps.
“Anyone else have an opinion?” Frenchie stared at each of the men individually.
Melvin stood up and shifted his eyes between Jack and Frenchie. “Nobody has to do nothin’ yet. Let’s be cool now.”
“I am cool. Frenchie is the one with his panties in a wad.”
“Muthafucka, I’ll kill you, bitch!” Frenchie lunged for Jack but Melvin grabbed his arm and Swede stood up between the men.
Jack stared at Frenchie. He knew Frenchie had made two mistakes. One, he had just challenged Jack. And that was grounds for a beating. Two, he had called Jack a bitch. Calling somebody in the slammer a bitch is like calling a dude’s mother a whore. It was the universal signal for a fight in the pen. Jack stood up off the wall and took a step toward Frenchie.
“Hold it, now. Hold it. We made it this far. We can work through this. If we turn on each other now then what has it all been for? Why have we helped each other?”
Jack liked Melvin. As much as he could like anyone, he supposed. Melvin was an old man. He’d been in prison most of his adult life for killing his wife’s lover in a fit of passion. But that was nearly thirty years ago. Poor bastard was close to getting out when all the shit hit the fan. Jack felt bad for Melvin’s situation. But he wasn’t about to let the old dog take over.
“We gotta eat. And I’m not eating my own shit. So one of us is going to become steak tartar.”
Melvin turned to face Jack. His wrinkled skin sagged around his tired eyes. Jack stared at Frenchie over Melvin’s gray afro. “Jack, I’m begging you to be reasonable.” Melvin whispered close to Jack’s face. Jack just grinned at Melvin.
Chapter 1
Jack was sick of staring at the ceiling. But it beat staring at the other prisoners in his pod. He reclined on his bunk with his hands folded behind his head. The gray ceiling was about two feet from his face. As a long-term prisoner, Jack had chosen the top bunk. He liked to maintain the high ground in all situations.
“All I’m saying is give love a chance, baby.” Frenchie was the pod queen. He made no bones about showing his love of men. Most prisoners did what they had to in order to survive in the pen. Not Frenchie. He outright enjoyed that shit.
Swede stared at Frenchie with a blank stare. Nobody knew Swede’s real name. He was nicknamed by the guards who walked him into C-Pod. He was the spitting image of the character from the Clint Eastwood movie, Heartbreak Ridge. Swede was tall and extremely muscular. And he hardly ever spoke. Jack tended to think of Swede as a big dummy.
“You know you wanna hit this, sugar.”
“Shut the fuck up, Frenchie.” Jack barked at the queen without taking his eyes off the close ceiling.
Frenchie shot Jack a dirty look. He threw up a hand as if to mime he had had enough. Then he huffed out of the bunk room. Swede and Jack exchanged glances in silence. Then Swede laid back on his bunk.
“Knock, knock, motherfuckers.” Melvin Davis, the elder statesman of the crew, entered the bunk room. “Anybody interested in betting some commissary on the upcoming fight?”
“Whose turn is it?” Jack rolled over onto his side to speak with Melvin.
Melvin chuckled. “That skinny redneck is going up against 8-Ball.”
<
br /> Jack raised his eyebrows. “How did it come about?”
Melvin leaned against the bunk and folded his arms. “NWA got his nose outta joint when redneck accidentally stepped on his foot.”
“What is NWA?” Swede sat up to engage in the gossip.
“Nigger with attitude.” Melvin stated bluntly. Swede looked confused since Melvin was black and still chose to use a racially derogatory term.
Jack laughed. “Aren’t they all in this place?”
Melvin screwed up his face. “A brother that didn’t know any better would think you was being a racist just now.” Then he smiled and laughed too.
“In here, we’re all niggers, Melvin. You know that.” Jack swung down off the top bunk and patted Melvin’s shoulder. “What are the odds?”
“Four to one for 8-Ball. Ghetto beats white trash every time.” Melvin held out his hand to shake.
Jack eyed Melvin’s hand and then shook it. “I’ll take those odds. But I want redneck. Where I come from, we always root for the white trash over the ghetto.”
Melvin grinned. “She-it. You crackers always stickin’ together.”
“I just want to reap bigger winnings is all. I hate everyone equally.” Jack joked but his tone suggested he told the truth.
“How ‘bout you, Swede? You in?” Melvin worked his way over to the huge man.
Swede shook Melvin’s hand. “I’ll take 8-Ball. I always bet on black.”
Melvin slapped his knee and laughed harder. His laugh turned into a hacking cough. “See that, Jack? Even the big man on the right side.” He laughed some more and exited the room.
Jack rubbed his dark stubble. He knew he should shave but he didn’t feel like it. Swede watched Jack, lost in thought.
“Why would you give away your shit for that scrawny redneck?”
“Cause I like underdogs.”
“Melvin is your friend but commissary is commissary, man. Shit makes men greedy inside.” Swede stood and stretched his arms in front of his chest.
“Melvin ain’t gonna get my commissary.”
“You think 8-Ball is going to lose? You’re dreaming.”
Jack turned to face Swede. “8-Ball is all style and no substance. I had a run-in with him when I got in the joint. He tried to take my bunk and threatened to introduce me to his famous “8-Balls.”
“And what happened?”
“I called his bluff. He danced around, making a lot of noise about how he was going to do this and that. I laid him out with one punch. Douche has a glass jaw.”
“Yeah, but Jack, you’re stronger than you look. And everyone has learned not to fuck with you. But 8-Ball is a...”
“Pussy.” Jack finished Swede’s sentence. “Trust me. You just gave up your commissary. Not me.” Jack punched Swede’s shoulder and walked toward the door to the pod. Swede watched Jack as he stood in the doorway, observing the activity in the main pod room. “Besides, there’s ways to improve the odds.”
“You mean like cheating?” Swede stepped closer to Jack.
“I wouldn’t call it cheating. I’d call it...taking care of investments.”
Swede shook his head. “That ain’t right, man.”
Jack faced Swede and stepped within inches of the large man. Jack’s nose was level with Swede’s pecs. “What are you going to do about it?”
Swede backed up a step. Jack saw a bead of sweat form instantly on the big man’s upper lip. “Nothing. Nothing, man. I’m just saying.”
Jack smiled. “It’s all fair game. How do I know that somebody isn’t looking after their own investments the same way I am?”
Swede nodded in understanding, if not in agreement.
“So what are you going to do?”
Jack rubbed his stubbly chin and circled Swede slowly. He stopped at the doorway and looked at his large bunkmate. “I’m gonna teach redneck a few things about winning in the ‘hood.” A Cheshire cat grin spread on Jack’s face. Then he strode into the pod and left Swede alone.
“Shit.” Swede punched the top bunk above his own bed. He rested his head on his muscled forearms, chastising himself for not going along with Jack. After spending the last few years with him, he should have known better than to bet against Jack Turk. On anything.
Chapter 2
“Pod sweep! Pod sweep!”
The prison guards funneled into C-Pod with authority. The prisoners lined up immediately. They had learned that inspection time was serious business. Most prisoners were afraid of unannounced shakedowns. They were scared of the guards finding their contraband. Or worse. Planted contraband, courtesy of the crooked guards.
Muncie was the top dog. He had the warden’s undivided attention and could do no wrong. Muncie looked soft, weighing in at a gelatinous three hundred pounds, most of which spilled over his belt. But the prisoners had seen the real Muncie up close and personal on multiple occasions. And what he lacked in muscles or strength, Muncie made up for with cunning and baton skills.
A line of prison guards stood opposite the prisoners. They were dressed in riot gear with helmets, shields and AR-15s. The rest of the guards, the ones who would perform the inspection, were armed with Tasers and batons.
Jack glanced to his right. He watched Crawford pat down the prisoners on his way up the line. Crawford was right behind Muncie in the pecking order. He handled anything Muncie or the Warden didn’t want to do themselves. Jack turned further and made eye contact with Muncie, who smiled in his direction. Jack rolled his eyes and faced the dreary wall.
As the guards got closer to him, Jack could feel Muncie’s presence. One of the things that had helped Jack survive for so long in prison, was his sixth sense. He had a knack for figuring things out before they happened. Whenever Muncie was around, Jack’s sixth sense was on full alert.
“I’ll handle this one.” Muncie stopped Crawford as he prepared to pat down Jack. He handed his baton to his second-in-command.
Jack remained quiet, even while Muncie poked and squeezed him hard. He closed his eyes and imagined a medieval torture chamber. Muncie was stretched out on a rack while Jack kept turning the dial.
“I’m surprised at you, Turk.” Muncie brushed against Jack’s back. He smelled Muncie’s noxious breath as the guard invaded his personal space.
“Why’s that?”
Muncie spun Jack around. “I expected to find you with some shit you shouldn’t have. I know how much you like ‘alone time’ with me.”
“Last time you didn’t use lubrication. So I figured one date was enough.”
Muncie put his hands on his hips. “I only roll out the works for high-class bitches, Jack. You know that.”
Jack ignored the trigger word. “It’s not nice to stalk your exes. I understand one can find themselves with a restraining order or even...jail time.” Jack grinned in Muncie’s face. Muncie smiled back but his eyes were cold and treacherous.
“If I’m hearing you correctly, and I believe I am, it sounds like you want to visit the hole today.”
Jack folded his arms. “Not your hole, Muncie. I don’t think I would survive the darkness. Or the smell.”
A few snickers caused Muncie to glare at the prisoners within earshot. Muncie grabbed Jack’s shirt and slammed him backwards into the wall. His breath came out in gasps as Jack knew Muncie was losing his temper.
“Don’t fuck with me, Turk.” A few more snickers sounded as Muncie realized he had inadvertently continued the sexual innuendo at his own expense.
Jack couldn’t let it go. “Remind me to pick you up some breath mints next time I get commissary.”
More snickers and then Muncie screamed at everyone to shut up. He shoved Jack again and took his baton back from Crawford.
“Toss this place.” Muncie gave the order through gritted teeth.
Jack knew they were going to tear up the pod.
***
“Which one of you does this belong to?” Crawford held up what looked like a joint in front of the bunkmates.
The
four men remained resolute in their defiance. Crawford stood before Melvin. He glared into the old man’s face until he was compelled to answer.
“I’m too old for that shit.”
Crawford seemed to believe Melvin. He stepped in front of Frenchie who responded immediately.
“Nuh-uh, ain’t nothin’ small and white goes in my mouf.”
Crawford stayed in place for a few extra seconds before moving to Joker. Joker, the wise-ass of the pod, remained uncharacteristically quiet under Crawford’s gaze.
“You have nothing to say, huh?” Joker shook his head. “First time for everything, I guess.” Crawford stepped in front of 8-Ball. The short man shifted on his feet. Crawford picked up on the nervous sign.
“Not mines, honky muthafucka.”
Crawford tilted his head at 8-Ball. Two guards stepped up and whacked 8-Ball in the stomach with their batons. Jack stepped forward as he watched the whole thing go down.
“Hey. Leave him alone. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
Almost as if the stage had been set to nab Jack, Muncie choked Jack from behind with his baton against Jack’s throat.
“I don’t believe we asked anyone for their input, Jack. Maybe you could use some quiet time after all.” Muncie spoke through gritted teeth, his rancid breath finishing the choke job on Jack.
Muncie knocked Jack to the floor. He gasped for air as he rubbed his neck. Muncie grinned over Jack. Crawford signaled the men to haul 8-Ball off to the hole. The guards scooped up 8-Ball and dragged him out of the pod as he screamed that it was a set-up. Muncie winked at Jack.
“Until next time, Turk.” He pushed his cap up with the night stick and followed the rest of his men out of C-Pod. The locks and tumblers clicked loudly in the stunned silence.