Refuge From The Dead (Book 1): Lockdown (14 page)

CHAPTER 21

Demarco Stanley couldn’t see who was hitting him, but the blows kept on coming. He couldn’t see anything out of his left eye, and his eight eye was close to swelling shut. All he could taste was blood. As his mouth filled with blood, he spat it out, tasting the metallic flavor. Several teeth had already been knocked out, and has he spat he could feel more teeth loose. Another punch landed on his face, followed by one to his diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him. With no one there to hold him up, he doubled over and spat blood. Nate Robinson stood over him, his knuckles bloody and cut all to hell. He grabbed Demarco Stanley by the shirt collar and brought him back up to his feet.

Demarco could barely keep conscious. “Imma get yo ass…Robinson…imma get you good…”

The large, linebacker-sized Aryan reared back, ready to deliver another blow. He grinned devilishly. “I doubt that, nigger. You ain’t gonna do shit ‘cept smell bad and die slow.” Robinson delivered another blow to the chest of Demarco Stanley. The resulting blow broke one of Demarco’s ribs, sending it plunging into his lungs. The punctured lung quickly deflated due to the excess breathing that Demarco was doing. Air filled the third space cavity, cutting off oxygen and further deflating the lung. Robinson watched as the life left Demarco’s eyes slowly. He dropped Stanley’s body on the floor.

Bill Young might have blown their chance at taking over the prison, but it seemed as if the remaining COs were content with leaving Alpha building to the inmates, at least for the time being. They had left the power on in Alpha – for now – and had vacated all the officers assigned to the building. Robinson had emptied the magazine of the only weapon they had into the door, to no avail. The Lexan glass and steel doors were unforgiving, not letting anyone in or out.

Robinson kicked Demarco Stanley’s body one more time for good measure. “Stupid motherfucker. Shoulda got out while the getting’ was good.”

Robinson motioned for a towel, and one flew through the air a moment later. He wiped the blood from his hands. He looked out into the pod, sizing up his next victim. Some of his Aryan brothers had grabbed a couple targets of easy recognition. Two black men, three Muslims, and one Jew were face down in the pod, held down by the Aryan Brotherhood.

“So…which one of you bitches wants it next? I think the camel jockeys deserve to have their turn now boys. What do you say?” Robinson said. He motioned for one of the Muslims to be brought to him.

Another tattooed Aryan jerked the Muslim man up. “Get up! Get up, you fucking dune coon!” The second Aryan shoved the Muslim man down in front of Robinson. He hit the floor with a fleshy slap.

Robinson knelt down and grabbed the Muslim by the throat. He stood as he pulled the Muslim man up by the throat. The Muslim grabbed at Robinson’s hands, but to no avail. He slapped at Robinson’s face, only enraging him further.

“Time to join your friend, asshole,” Robinson said, rearing back his head and head butting the Muslim man square between the eyes. Blood immediately gushed from the man’s broken nose, spraying crimson across Robinson’s white shirt. Robinson threw the man back down onto the hard concrete floor.

“Whoo! Ain’t we havin’ some fuckin’ fun now?” Robinson screamed like a madman, traipsing through the pod like a pumped-up linebacker.

He never saw Demarco Stanley get up.

Demarco slowly got to his feet, like a drunk three sheets to the wind. Once he was upright, he started towards Robinson. The other inmates in the pod took notice to the now-undead version of Demarco Stanley. They stepped back, fearful of the blank gaze and pale look that he now had. The ashen-colored Demarco stumbled forward, heading towards Robinson.

Robinson saw the looks on his fellow inmates’ faces, and saw they were fixated on something behind him. He turned to face the undead Demarco Stanley. Demarco growled a low, nearly inaudible tone.

“Boy, you just don’t know when to quit. Do you?” Robinson said, turning to face Demarco head on. He stepped forward and reared back a punch. Before the haymaker could land, Demarco lunged forward with a surprising quickness. The punch missed Demarco’s head, and he grabbed Robinson by the neck and shoulder. Robinson’s momentum carried him forward, right into Demarco’s open maw. Demarco bit down on Robinson’s neck, tearing a huge chunk out of the Aryan. Blood sprayed from the severed jugular, arcing through the air in a crimson squirt.

“Fuuuuuuck!” Robinson screamed as he fell to the floor, Demarco still on him. Even though Robinson outweighed Demarco by a good hundred pounds, the big Aryan went down in a pile. He landed hard on his back. His head bounced off the floor, knocking him unconscious. Stanley continued to feast on Robinson’s neck, gnawing and tearing away flesh. The other inmates fled in terror. Chaos ensued as the convicts tried to escape the pod, but there was no fleeing the inevitable. The cell doors were open, but without any way to close them, they were as good as dead.

Demarco Stanley ripped another chunk out of Robinson’s neck, chewing sinew and flesh like gourmet roast beef. The commotion of the rest of the pod fleeing drew his attention away from the dead Robinson.

Then he looked for his next meal.

CHAPTER 22

The next morning, Michael woke up with a start. He huffed a few quick breaths, waking from some nightmare that had already left his subconscious. Dream mixed with reality for a brief few moments as he tried to wake up.

Lindsey watched as Michael fought off the last stages of sleep. She was used to seeing him in a fitful slumber. Nightmares about Iraq, Stephen, Anna, and other unimaginable terrors haunted his sleep most nights. Rarely did a night go by when she didn’t see him restless in bed. She reached over and tried to calm him, but did so carefully. There was more than one instance where Michael had inadvertently lashed out at her, even hitting her once or twice. She knew what she was getting into when she married him, but she still wished there was something she could do to ease his mind sometimes.

“Calm now, babe. It’s all right,” Lindsey said, trying to reassure him.

Michael rubbed his face vigorously. “Shit. What time is it?”

Lindsey looked at her watch. “A little after five A.M. Looks like we slept most of the night.”

Michael got to the edge of the bed and swung his feet over. “Damn. Well at least we can get an early start now. Where’s Ryan and Trent?”

“Ryan was up when I woke up. I think he’s still working on that truck. I know he got it started a few minutes before you woke up.”

Michael got up. “Sweet. Let’s grab what we can from here and get over to your parents.”

Lindsey got up and followed Michael out of the room. As they exited the living area of the building, Ryan met them. Ryan looked back to the Ford Bronco sitting in the bay, wiping his hands on a cloth as he did.

“Well, looks like we’re in business. It’ll start and has a full tank of gas plus a five-gallon Jerry can on the back. Not too bad a find considering the circumstances,” Ryan said, tossing the cloth.

“Damn right. Where’s Trent?” Michael asked.

“Loading up the Bronco. Looks like the employees here kept a good stash of food. Between that and the medical supplies, it’s not a bad haul.”

“Not bad at all, buddy. Let’s get ready to haul ass. Something tells me it’s gonna be slow going getting to your parents,” Michael said, turning to Lindsey.

Trent finished loading up the Bronco. Medical supplies, food, and water were in great abundance at the rescue squad, so they took all they could haul. The likelihood of breaking down was not far from their minds, so not starving to death while they did had to be an option. Trent did all the work silently. In fact, Michael hadn’t heard a sound out of the man since he’d woke up. Something told him to talk to Trent, but he wasn’t in the right mindset right now. Something from his dream last night was still rattling around in his brain. Whatever it had been, it was still affecting his mood. It wasn’t rare for him to have a nightmare, wake up, and still be angry or upset from whatever he’d dreamed. He tried not to let it affect him, but there was a nugget of something there, still stewing in his mind. Michael sat his 870 on the dash and started to get in the Bronco.

Ryan reached into the driver’s side and pulled the keys from the ignition. He whistled at Michael and then tossed the keys. Michael caught them and gave Ryan a confused look. Ryan shrugged

“You know where you’re going. I don’t.”

“Fair enough. Ride shotgun if you want. How many rounds do we have left?” Michael asked.

“Three on the 870, twelve rounds with the AR, and whatever you have for your Glock. I’ve got nine rounds.”

Michael drew his Glock and pulled the magazine. One in the chamber plus six more. Seven rounds wasn’t much, but he knew Lindsey’s dad would have more. Getting to Anna wasn’t only about picking her up – although it was the most important – it was also a good way to be resupplied. Lindsey’s father had a finished basement that doubled as a gun safe. It wouldn’t be practical to take all of his firearms, but there would be plenty of ammo.

Michael climbed into the driver’s seat, put the keys in the ignition, and started the big Ford Bronco. After turning over a few times, the SUV roared to life. He nodded to Ryan, standing at the bay door’s entrance. Ryan grabbed the bottom of the door and gave it a heave, slinging the big aluminum door open.

Despite the engine of the Bronco, Ryan could still hear the wayward sounds of the undead. As he stepped out from the building, he could see why. Even though it was early morning, the sun had begun to peek above the horizon. Off to his left, about a quarter-mile away was the beginning of a residential area. The houses in that area of Bluefield weren’t exactly the cream of the crop, but nor were they slums. Middle-income residences populated most of both sides of the city.

As Ryan walked out further, he could see the undead surrounding two houses down the street. Whatever was inside was of great interest to them. Or
whomever
was inside. The dead seemed to be attracted to the living by some unknown force. Maybe they could smell them, some kind of olfactory sixth sense. Maybe they just
knew
when the living were around. Ryan sighed.

“What is it, Ryan?” Michael asked, poking his head out of the driver’s side window. Ryan waved him over.

Michael exited the Bronco, much to Lindsey’s protest. “It’s all right, babe. I’ll just be a minute.” He slipped around the front of the vehicle and met Ryan outside. He could hear what had drawn Ryan’s attention.

There were people who needed their help, someone to come to their aid whenever they were trapped such as these people were. Michael knew they didn’t have enough ammo and right now had more pressing issues to take care of, but it disturbed him nonetheless.

“Shit. I bet people are holed up in there,” Michael said.

“I know. Look down the street. There’s about three or four more with the same problem. Damn infected are keying in on where they’re at. We better get outta here,” Ryan said and turned to walk away. Michael held fast.

Ryan tapped him on the shoulder. “I know you want to help, but we need to get outta here. We can come back later if we get some help.”

If we get some help. Seems like a longshot,
Michael thought.

* * *

A little over fifty miles away, Harold Poston was trying to escape prison.

If escaping prison were so damn easy, the inmates would do it all the damn time. Such as it was, they did not. Getting into prison was so much easier than getting out, or at least it used to be. Buchanan Correctional Center was built much like Black Mountain, with much of the same security measures in place. Although it was one level lower on Virginia’s classification system, it did not differ much in its look or function. The only difference was Buchanan Correctional was considerably older than Black Mountain.

During the night, the prison was overrun quickly. While it seemed like a random occurrence, it felt more like a carefully planned attack. The first indications that anything was wrong proved to be the last. The prison was quickly overrun due to several factors, most notably the lack of power. The Major at Buchanan had taken it upon himself to shut off the generators to the institution at night to save fuel. It was a good plan, aside from the fact that it put the prison in total darkness for nearly ten hours. By the time Harold Poston noticed anything was wrong, it was too late.

Poston had been sitting outside when he first noticed something amiss. While it seemed like he’d drawn the short straw of doing perimeter security, that fact was now saving his ass. He was the only one at Buchanan Correctional that had quick access to a vehicle, as well as a shotgun and Glock, both loaded to the gills.

Poston didn’t have any military or law enforcement training, other than what he’d received at the DOC academy alongside Michael Caine and Ryan Helton. His friends were at Black Mountain, nearly sixty miles away. He had a car, he had guns, and he had no choice when it came to getting the hell out of Dodge. He watched as they slowly crept up to the entrance of Buchanan Correctional, an old brick building centered at the front of the prison. Poston put the Crown Victoria in drive, shaking his head. Buchanan was a good place to hole up, but that was all lost now. As he crept by, they never noticed him. Hell, they were slow and stupid. It wouldn’t matter if they did see him. He knew what they were going to do, and he had a good idea of where they came from. One thought permeated his mind.

Gotta get outta here.

Gotta get to Black Mountain…

As Poston was watching the front of the prison, a man swung at the front of the Crown Victoria. The shattering glass scared the shit out of Poston. He shielded his face from the shards as they scattered around him. The Crown Victoria screeched to a halt as he slammed on the brakes. The man continued his unabated smashing of the car as Poston grabbed for the 870. Poston leaned over the passenger seat and swung the shotgun towards the window.

“Oh shit!” the man exclaimed.

Poston fired off a 00 buckshot round out the window, clipping the man in the right shoulder. The man spun around, the bat flying from his hands. Poston brought himself up to the door, slinging the door open so hard it bounced back on his arm. He barreled into the door with his shoulder and out of the car. Bringing the shotgun to his shoulder, he looked for the man who had went Derek Jeter on his car. It didn’t take long to find him.

“There you are, you big fucker!” Poston yelled. The man was on the ground, moaning in agony at the shotgun wound in his shoulder. Poston walked over and stepped on the bloody wound, eliciting a scream from the man.

“Now that I have your attention…” Poston said. “What the fuck are you doing to my car, asshole?”

“I’m sorry, CO. I didn’t know…”

The
CO
moniker caught Poston’s attention. “How do you know I’m a CO?” Poston didn’t have his uniform on; it had gotten unusable due to some rather nasty work earlier the night before. As Poston looked at the man, he noticed the BMSP across his pants leg.

“You’re from Black Mountain? What the fuck are you doing here?” Poston asked.

The man writhed in pain, rolling over on his back. “They let us go. We came here to get our boys and…”

The inmate passed out.

Poston kicked the Black Mountain inmate.
Shit. These fuckers are here to…

The moan of an approaching zombie quickly brought him out of his thoughts. Poston didn’t bother looking for where the sound was coming from. He wasn’t staying here anymore. He needed to hit the road. At least now, he had a destination.

Gotta get to Black Mountain…