Authors: Adam Millard
'It's not funny,' Holly said, and then she started to laugh too. 'Shane, stop it. She might not last for much longer.'
'Then tell her that yoga is a bad idea,' Shane sniggered.
They laughed together for a while. Glossing over the problem seemed to have done the trick, and although Holly was worried sick about her mother, making a joke about it made the problem seem less important.
'You and Holly started to pack your things up yet?' said Shane.
Holly looked surprised. 'What do you
mean
?'
'At your
Mom's?
' he said. 'Have you got all of your stuff together for when I get out?'
She frowned. 'Shane, we have nowhere to
go
. You'll have to come stay with my parents for a while until you get back on your feet.'
The anger that Shane suddenly felt course through him was almost unbearable. The whole reason he was in prison was because of his stubborn refusal to accept any help from Holly's mother, and yet here he was, on the brink of freedom, and he would be forced to just set up home with the in-laws.
'We talked about this,' Shane said.
'
You
did,' Holly said. 'It's easy for you to talk about it, stuck in here, but we had nowhere else to go, and until we get set up, and you get a job, we'll have no choice but to stay with my mom and dad.'
Great
, Shane thought.
I could have avoided a three-stretch all along, and by now we'd be sorted, with
a place of our own again.
Arguing was not what Shane wanted; there was nothing worse than falling out with Holly and then being shepherded back to his cell where he would have nothing to mull over except for all of the bad things that they said to each other. It was enough to drive a man insane. He smiled.
'You're right,' he said. 'I'll get a job as soon as I get out. Who knows, huh? Might even go for a job as one of these.' He nudged a finger in the general direction of Officer Tyler. He turned in his chair. 'How much do you make after tax?' he said to the guard.
'Not enough to look at
your
ugly face every day,' Tyler said, but there was something strange about the way he said it: breathless.
Pained
, even.
When Shane turned back to the table, Holly asked, 'What's wrong with him?'
'Some virus doing the rounds,' Shane said. 'Let's just hope that I don't get it before I get chance to have a proper munch on Megan.'
'I'll tell her you said that,' Holly smiled. 'That'll make her day.'
For the fifteen minutes that followed, they talked about how Holly had taken an art course at college, and was hoping to even showcase some of her work at the local gallery; they discussed Holly's father, who had built yet another shed in the back garden, taking the tally up to four in total. Shane wondered if he was planning on renting them out to immigrants to make a bit of extra cash. They talked about Holly's newly discovered interest in all things Justin Bieber, who Shane had never heard of before, but would be having a stern talk with Holly about when he was released. Talking about these things made Shane realise that he was about to embark upon a new chapter in life. He was going home,
finally
, and although certain things had changed, the two most important people in his life remained exactly the same.
As the siren sounded to announce the end of visiting time, Shane didn't feel the usual sinking feeling he usually did. He kissed Holly, not noticing Officer Jenson standing against the wall and admiring Shane's wife as if she was his own.
'I'll see you soon,' Holly said as she was ushered out of the door, a tide of less significant visitors following her through it. She blew him a final kiss before she was edged out of sight.
The prisoners left behind in the visiting room watched as Officer Tyler staggered, banged his head on the far wall, and hit the deck with a thud.
'Holy shit!' cried Officer Jenson. He reached for his two-way and called for help.
With the taste of Holly still on his lips, Shane watched as the guard writhed and spasmed, cheered on by the rest of the prisoners, who thought it was the best show they had ever seen.
Something, Shane thought, was definitely not right.
*
'I have a home to go to,' Marla said, although Warden Dean simply could not grasp the concept. 'I know there's something going around, but I'm not a
witch
; I can't just make it all stop.'
'Then why the fuck do I employ you?' Charles Dean snarled. 'You don't seem to have the slightest clue what is happening here. All I know is that one of my men was
bitten
yesterday, and now he's stretched out unconscious with some sort of superbug that, stop me if I'm wrong, you should be aware of.'
'I'm not in the CDC,' Marla retorted. 'When was the last time you noticed me wearing a biological suit? Huh? Never, because I don't deal with superbugs. I patch up your prisoners when they get stabbed; I make sure they get their Aspirin if they get a migraine. I never said I could prevent the plague.'
'That's what you think this is?' Charles asked with an expression that suggested he had already thought about it himself. 'Some sort of
supervirus
?'
Marla took a step back. The room, all of a sudden, didn't seem big enough for both of them. 'I'm not suggesting anything,' she said. 'All I know is that I have a life out of work, and I would like to live it. You know the protocol. Those infected should be taken to the hospital under guard. There is nothing more that I can do for them.'
'
Protocol
,' Charles grunted. 'What the fuck do
you
know about protocol. You just walk around here, prick-teasing and then complaining when somebody takes you up on the offer.'
Marla didn't know what happened, but before she could do anything about it, her hand was already connecting with the side of the warden's face. His head jolted backwards, and his eyes bulged with the shock that followed.
'How
dare
you!' she said. 'You
know
that your fucking guard was out of line.'
Charles didn't speak; he
couldn't
. He was still mortally offended that she had slapped him. He had gone a peculiar shade of red, too, which made him look as if he might explode at any given moment.
'If you don't put the call in to transfer Officer Tyler and Cyrus Clay, then I will.' She said it knowing that it would prompt a response from the man, who would never let her do such a thing.
'I'll make the call,' he said. 'But if I were you, I would start to look for another job, because I believe that you are of no further use to this facility.'
Marla smiled. 'First thing tomorrow,' she said, and turned to head for the door. She managed two steps before an alarm went off. It wasn't the fire-alarm, which she had heard on numerous occasions. This one, she didn't recognise.
She turned to find Charles Dean looking slightly anxious.
'Looks like you won't be going
anywhere
just yet,' he said.
*
'Can you see anything out there?' Billy Toombs asked. He was still clenching his book, aware that the chances of an actual riot were slim.
'I can see a few of the guards running around at the end of the row,' Shane said. 'Apart from that, everybody seems to be in their cells.'
He looked out at the cells across the landing. Prisoners were pressed against the bars trying to get a better look. A few of them were shouting obscenities towards the guards, who ran past with baffled expressions. The alarm seemed to go on forever, and after a while the shrill scream that filled the prison was enough to give everyone a migraine.
'Probably a suicide,' Billy said, picking up where he had left off with
Vonnegut.
'
Maybe,' Shane replied. 'But they try to keep suicides
quiet
, don't they? Why would they be raising the roof with that fucking racket if someone had hung themselves with their own bedlinen?'
No, something was happening, and Shane knew that it was something to do with the people falling sick.
*
'Is he dead?' Dennis Hart spluttered, grasping at the open wound on his neck to prevent the blood from squirting out so freely. 'Make sure he's fucking
dead
this time.'
The body of Jimmy Kelly lay outstretched just outside the cell. Jimmy had attacked Dennis, ripped a chunk out of his neck, and kept on coming until the guards arrived. Michaelson had been the first on the scene, and wasn't sure what was happening until he opened the cell door. It was then that Jimmy turned, growled, and leapt for the guard, his eyes filled with darkness, his throat filled with the blood of his cellmate. Luckily, for Michaelson, the baton had met the crazed man's face quite cleanly; a few teeth shot out and clattered against the cell wall. But even that had not been enough to deter Jimmy Kelly, who had clambered to his feet and started after the guard once again.
It had taken at least fifteen more hits from the baton to put him down, which was not right at all. One should have been enough, especially to the skull, which is where the guard had concentrated his attack.
It was then that the alarm had been sounded.
Dennis Hart struggled to his feet and began to approach Michaelson, who was breathless and confused and leaning against the cell wall for stability.
'Make sure he's dead,' Dennis managed, but white lights began to dance in front of his eyes, and he almost toppled over.
The guard straightened up and took a deep breath. He glanced over to where Jimmy Kelly lay, still and destroyed. 'He's fucking
dead
,' he said. 'Look at his head.'
Indeed, there was a hole big enough to put your foot through on the back of Jimmy's head; bits of brain and grey matter dangled out through the hole like some foreign cuisine.
Dennis shook his head. 'I can't believe he fucking
bit
me,' he said. 'Just came for me for no reason. I swear to
god
, if I find out that someone's got a contract out on me
—
'
'Shut up,' Michaelson roared. Dennis took a step back; the guard, although fatigued, was still clenching the baton in his hand and still wore the expression of somebody willing to use it. The noise of the alarm was making it impossible to think, and in that moment, Michaelson needed to get his head together long enough to figure out what had just happened.
In the cell, Dennis stumbled and fell onto the bottom bunk of his bed, cracking his face on the wooden frame as he went. He had lost a lot of blood; he knew that, and it was still spurting out of him like a geyser, spraying the bedclothes, covering the wall. The cell would take forever to clean, Dennis thought as he lay motionless on the bed, his legs hanging over the edge.
'If I find out they got a contract...' Dennis said, but unconsciousness came before he had a chance to finish.
Between the bars of the cell, Officer Michaelson waited for backup.
*
Charles Dean marched up the steps to the second floor, grunting to himself occasionally. If someone was trying to escape again, he was going to make an example of them. He couldn't understand why one of his prisoners would even attempt to break out, though. This was one of the most secure prisons in the world; the chances of succeeding were about as likely as breaking out of Alcatraz.
He reached the second floor and turned right, past the first row of cells. A few of the inmates backed away at the sight of the governor, not wishing to put themselves in the line of fire. Rooster Hill yelled, 'Go get 'em, Boss,' which made Charles quicken his pace.
He reached for his two-way and called for backup, which was apparently already on its way. By the time he reached the third floor there would already be a small army of guards waiting, some of them off duty, but that didn't make a blind bit of difference to Charles Dean. He wanted as many of them as he could get a hold of, and if that meant that they forfeit their smoking break, then it was a small price to pay for the continual success of the prison's reputation.
He was at the end of the second floor row when he heard the grunt. A low, animalistic growl that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand straight up. He turned to make sure that nobody was behind him, and was about to ignore the noise entirely when it came once again.
This time he had to take a look. Someone was fucking with him; not a good idea.
He looked into the first cell, the one on the corner of the row. Two prisoners stared back at him. One of them shrugged, which meant that they had heard the growl above the noise of the alarm, too.
He moved across to the next cell, his hand creeping ever-so-slowly towards the gun on his belt. Again, confused prisoners stared back at him, only this time one of them pointed through the wall to the next cell.
Cyrus Clay, Charles thought. Should have
known
it was that piece of shit.
He stepped across, expecting to find Cyrus grinning back at him from his bunk, but he wasn't there. He was hunched up on the floor of the cell with his back to Charles. The floor glistened as a pool of darkness spread outwards from the huddled figure.