Authors: Adam Millard
Michaelson grimaced, then shook his head. 'We're on our own here, man,' he said. 'At least until we get to the radio.'
The radio was in Charles Dean's office, an old UHF number that could reach the Jackson Police and Fort Neill with the push of a button. Its usage had, over the years, been limited to two occasions, one of which had been a riot, the other a trio of escapees.
'We need to get up there and call for help,' Jenson said, brushing a hand through his hair, which was already greasy with sweat and worry.
'We will,' Michaelson said. 'If it's just the two of us, though, we need to watch each other's backs.'
'That's for fucking sure,' said Jenson. He swung his shotgun across his shoulder.
They grabbed up their ammo from the benches and left the armoury.
*
Dale McCarthy pushed himself up from the floor. For a moment, he looked confused, staring this way and that, trying to figure out what was happening and where he was. His right leg was missing a lot of flesh, and the back of his neck, if he could see it, was stripped of meat to the point where is spine was visible. Only three fingers remained on his left hand, and two on his right. Somebody had gone to town on him, that was for sure, and yet he felt no pain. He glared down at his leg, at the hole that seemed to take up most of his left thigh, and it meant nothing to him. The missing fingers were not a problem, either. What
was
a problem, however, was his hunger. It was the only feeling he had; a hunger so intense that he would do whatever it took to satiate it, if that was possible.
He sniffed the air, and he could smell them, hiding, somewhere nearby.
He drooled and groaned, not too loud, but loud enough for the concealed bodies to know that he was there, and he was hungry. He could see further down the row, a figure lurching away; a man also in search of something to put an end to the painful hunger.
Cyrus Clay stumbled through a gate and disappeared from sight, but Dale wasn't aware that it had been Cyrus, the man who had only a few moments before been feeding upon him. What he
did
know, though, was that he needed to follow the man on his search for food; the bodies that were hiding nearby were perhaps not there at all, but there would be others where the man was heading.
He took a step forward and let out a roar. His leg didn't hurt like it should have; everything for Dale McCarthy was fine, as long as he found something to eat.
He took another step, and then something smashed into the back of his head.
*
'Hit it again!' Jared cried.
Terry Lewis lifted the makeshift bat – something he had been hiding in his cell for almost a month, just in case – and slammed it down on Dale McCarthy's skull once again. There was a
thud!
Like the sound of meat hitting the counter at the local butchers. Dale was face down, but he was trying to turn himself over; his hands were grabbing out at anything they could get a hold of. Jared took a step back, not wanting to be caught by the flailing arms.
'Fucking thing!' Terry said. He lined himself up, then kicked the creature in the stomach. It lifted from the floor and came back down again with a sickening squelch. The black drool that had been dripping from the mouth of Cyrus Clay was now pouring from every hole in Dale McCarthy's face.
Slamming the bat down, and this time connecting with the side of the creature's face, Terry felt liberated, happy that he was finally using the bat he had forged to protect himself from scummy inmates. Instead, he was using it on a scummy demon, the kind which he was pretty sure he had studied at Bible Class.
'Watch its teeth!' Jared called out, and he was just in time. The thing had managed to get up to one knee and was about to snap at Terry's leg.
Terry stepped back and delivered a glancing blow to the face of what was formerly Dale McCarthy. The snapping teeth flew from its mouth, clattered against the rails of a cell a few doors down, and came to a stop like the roll of a dice on a casino craps table. Dark ooze spewed from the creature's mouth, and Jared almost felt sorry for it when it let out a moan, not of pain, but as an admission of defeat.
Terry Lewis began to pray. Not silently, like he had done whilst they had cowered in the cell, hiding from Cyrus Clay, but as loud as he could.
'Most glorious Prince of the heavenly armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our battle against principalities and powers.'
Dale's skull split open as the bat came down again; Terry Lewis took a deep breath before continuing.
'Against the rulers of this world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.'
He slammed the bat down; there came the sound of bones cracking. The creature slumped to the floor, growling and grunting, still snapping with whatever teeth remained.
'Come to the assistance of men whom God has created to His likeness.'
'Fucking thing!' Jared snapped, spitting on it and giving it a cautious kick in its backside. Terry lifted a hand and told his cellmate to take a step back, which he did.
'And whom He has redeemed at a great price from the tyranny of the Devil.'
He pulled the bat high into the air and drove it down with such force that it hit the concrete beneath the creature's face. The bat stood up, sticking out of the back of Dale McCarthy's head like a candle on a birthday cake. Both of the prisoners took a step back now; Terry's hands were shaking.
'What was all that about?' Jared asked. 'I didn't know you were a religious nut.'
Terry wiped the sweat from his brow. 'I
was
,' he said. 'A long, long time ago.'
They watched as the creature continued to twitch for a few seconds, and then stopped moving completely.
*
'How many times?' Shane said to Billy, who was laughing. 'I've never dressed as a woman. That's just your fantasy.'
'My fantasy,' Billy said, 'is to get out of here one day, track you down, and teach you how to fight like a man.'
'You've never seen me fight,' Shane said.
'Exactly,' said Billy. 'Which leads me to believe that you fight like a girl.'
Their banter was immediately silenced as something crashed against the cell door. Shane jumped to his feet, ready to hit anything that tried to penetrate their fortress; Billy backed up against the wall and reached into his boot. A small knife, although big enough to kill someone if you stuck it in the right place, came out. Shane offered Billy a silent glare; he wondered where Billy had managed to procure the weapon, and why he needed it at all.
Something slammed the cell door again, but neither of them could see who, or what, it was. The wedged furniture had worked so well that their view of the outside was compromised.
'Get the fuck out of here!' Shane yelled, but he knew that whoever was hitting the gate was unlikely to listen. These were hardened criminals they were dealing with, not impertinent children. Telling them to back off was about as good as inviting them to try their luck at getting in.
There came one more slam, a scream, and then a gargle so close that Shane could practically smell the breath of whoever had made such a noise. Through a crack between the cabinet and a chair, Shane could see skin-colour, and a small rivulet of blood dripping across it. Then he was staring into the wide, bloodshot eye of a man as he slid down the cell door.
'It's getting bad out there,' Shane said, stepping away from the bed.
A pool of blood began to work its way into the cell. When Billy Toombs saw it, he said: 'No shit.'
The next hour was filled with screams, and Shane and Billy sat waiting, trying to figure out what was happening. They finally reached the conclusion:
All Hell had broken loose.
*
Marla was starting to feel the effects of the whisky and decided that she had had enough, despite it being a free bar.
'Prick,' she mumbled, referring to Charles Dean and the ridiculous array of self-gratifying bullshit adorning his office walls. The thing was, it got boring after a while, and once Marla had read each of the certificates twice, she wanted to go home more than ever.
She wiped the glass clean on the sleeve of her blouse, and dropped it back into the fake globe where it smashed against one of the miniatures at the bottom. She smiled, said '
Ooops
,' and decided that it was a good thing that she would be leaving pretty soon, as soon as she could find another job.
This really was taking the piss, now. She had been stuck in the governor's office for well over an hour. What did he expect? Did he want her to wait there until he was good and ready to return? Was it possible that he had forgotten her, and was probably having a good old catch-up with the guards whilst they all smoked fine cigars outside?
That, she guessed, was it.
She wouldn't wait any longer. He couldn't fire her for going home; she was already fired, albeit amicably.
'Fuck it!'
She opened the office door and stepped out onto the corridor.
*
The light flickered on and off with an infinitesimal blinking sound every time it did so. Damp laundry filled plastic baskets, waiting to be loaded into the machines which lined three out of the four walls. A few of the machines were still switched on; the red lights on the front of the consoles flashed. Whoever had used the room last had forgotten to shut down properly, which would under normal circumstances warrant a major bollocking from the guards, but in this instance it might be forgiven.
'Shhhh,' Terry said. Jared had accidentally tripped over a box of detergent, and was now standing in a pile of white powder staring gingerly towards his reprimanding cellmate.
'What if there's one of those things in here?' he asked, stepping out of the powder and leaving white footprints in his wake.
'There isn't.' Terry whispered.
'How can you be sure?'
Terry reached down and began to sort through a pile of folded clothes. 'Can you see anyone?'
Jared looked around;
nobody
. The room was big, though, and there were a few places to hide, but he got the impression that those
things
were not so much about the stealth, and that hiding would be the last thing on their agenda if they had the slightest opportunity for attack.
Terry Lewis began to peel off his prison overalls. Jared watched with increasing confusion.
'What are you doing?' Jared asked.
Terry was naked now, apart from his boxers. 'What the fuck does it look like?' he said. 'I'm changing out of those,' he pointed to the orange boiler-suit which he had just removed, 'and I'm putting these on.' in his hand he was clenching plain white clothes, a tee shirt and trousers. They were the official garb of the less violent prisoners, the ones from Block D, which was used to safeguard the pussies from the ones who might cause them damage. It wasn't fair, really, to throw in a tax-evader with a serial-killer; it might provide ammunition for the system-haters who were already trying to initiate deals and retrials from the outside.
'What about me?' Jared asked as he glanced down at his orange boiler-suit, mouth agape.
Terry shook his head. 'Find your own fucking size,' he said. 'What am I, your
mother
?'
Jared dropped to his knees and began to search through the pile; he was only small, and weighed less than one hundred and thirty pounds wringing wet, but luckily so was somebody over in Block D.
He quickly changed, shielding his inferior body from Terry Lewis, who was not interested in the slightest. Sharing a cell did not mean that you got to see each others balls, and Jared was not the kind of guy to let it all hang out, not like some of the other inmates.
'What the fuck are we going to do now?' Jared asked.
The truth of it was: Terry had no idea. Something bad was happening, something
evil
. He had read all about it, studied it, but never once thought he would be caught up in the middle of it.
'I don't know,' he finally said. 'But I'm not willing to die today. Are
you
?'
Jared shook his head. '
Fuck
no!'
'I want you to keep that at the front of your mind,' Terry said. 'And we'll get out of this just fine.'
Deep down, he didn't believe it himself.
*
The main structure, everything up to and including Block D, had been built at a time when there was as much chance of breaking into prison as there was of busting out. In the late eighteenth century, a few people had succeeded in penetrating the security of similar sized prisons, scaling the twenty-foot walls and getting retribution against inmates that had done them wrong, which was why Jackson had been created with that in mind. Surrounding the prison were three walls, each of which stood at almost forty feet. Between wall one and two, an electric mat covered the ground all of the way around; if anyone were to fall between these two walls, the chances of them surviving were miniscule, and if they
did
, they would find themselves wishing for death to come just to be rid of the pain.
Between the second and third walls, eight men patrolled constantly. Out of the eight guards, four had German Shepherds.