Dead Cells - 01 (4 page)

Composure regained, Doctor Jacob Strauss took a few more photographs of the body before beginning the tedious task of embalming.

The top of the head, though, would be impossible to stitch back on.

'Not like he's gonna get any viewers, anyway,' Strauss grinned, before going about his day without further calamity.

*

That night, after lights out, Jimmy “Gentle Rapist” Kelly sat on his bunk, gripping his stomach.

'What the fuck's the matter with
you
?' Dennis Hart asked, with all of the compassion of a Gestapo thug. 'You've been whining now for a fucking hour.'

Jimmy looked up. Sweat poured down his face, and his eyes were sunken, as if he'd taken a particularly bad hit of crack.

'I don't feel good, Den,' he said, breathlessly. 'Ever since that fucker puked on me, I've felt bad.'

Dennis Hart smiled. 'I don't blame you. If some spic blew chunks all over me, I wouldn't be feeling none too good either.'

Putting his newspaper down – he wasn't reading it, but looking at the fine pair of tits some model had dangling off her – he stood. 'At least it saved us doing the job, though. I've already got a twenty stretch; another ten for whacking some Dago and I'd be in here till my fucking balls were no good any more.'

He laughed. Jimmy Kelly didn't.

'Oh, fucking liven
up
, you pussy,' Dennis snarled. 'Anyone'd think you were dying. Let me tell you something, Jimbo:
nobody
ever died from being puked on.'

Jimmy straightened up, even though the pain was still almost all he could bare; it wasn't wise to ignore Dennis Hart. If he tells you to liven up, you'd better jump out of bed and dance the fucking
Macarena
for him. It was one of the downsides to sharing a cell with such a man. Most people thought it a privilege; Jimmy Kelly would disagree.

'See that fucking spic's head come off, Den?' Jimmy smiled through gritted teeth. 'I ain't never seen anything like that in my life.'

'I wish I had one of those cannons,' Dennis said. 'I'd show those guards how to fire it properly. Tyler, Michaelson
and
Jenson. Then I'd go up to that fucking fancy office and blow Charles Dean a new asshole.'

Charles Dean, the Governor, had treated Dennis Hart with all of the integrity he deserved. Years of shakedowns, and beatdowns; drug-planting and organised rape. Warden Dean reserved a distaste for Dennis Hart, more so than any other offender in the prison.

Hart regarded this as a compliment.

'You thinking of getting hold of one of those cannons any time soon?' Jimmy asked. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose and landed on the cell floor. Dennis Hart looked down and noticed that the drops of sweat had formed a small puddle.

'Never gonna get the chance,' Dennis said. 'Although, if I managed to somehow come
across
one, you know, by
chance
, then I'd fucking put it to its best use, and I ain't talking about blowing the top of those pricks' heads off. I'd go on the rampage of all rampages.'

'I'd be with you, boss,' Jimmy grimaced, clearly in a certain amount of discomfort. 'All the way.'

'I
know
you would, Jim,' Dennis said, once more glaring at the puddle of sweat forming on the floor. Perhaps he
was
ill; maybe that fucking spic had given him some sort of disease – which he knew was possible because they didn't wash and they were always fucking around with farm animals and shit. 'I wouldn't have
anybody
else by my side.'

That night, Dennis Hart slept with one eye open.

*

Governor Charles Dean poured himself another whiskey and downed it; the warmth as it hit his stomach was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that he poured himself another glass immediately.

He reached for the wooden box that had always lived on his desk, opened it, and removed a cigar, one of the finest cigars he had ever smoked. Lighting it, he lounged back in his chair, blowing out a satisfied plume of smoke.

The record-player was currently churning out Beethoven's Symphony number five in C-Minor, one of Governor Dean's favourites. His record-player was a vintage Dansette, not one of those new-fangled, all singing, all dancing CD things. The one thing Charles Dean hated more than criminals was pointless technology. What was the point in a device that could store hours of music, when you couldn't even see the music that you owned? He was more of an
owner
– he liked to feel the books, to see the record slips, to have a complete library, not just a fucking miniature device that could be completely wiped of its storage if you accidentally dropped it down the toilet.

As Beethoven spread throughout the office, and smoke rose in a blue miasma, Governor Dean realised that life could have been a fuckload worse. Sure, he'd has his troubles, and he had been divorced for almost ten years, but to be completely honest, as he sat reclined in his leather chair, sipping whiskey, he realised he had never been as happy – even when that bitch of a wife was still around.

It had been a bad day at the office

(or so the cliché went)

and one of the new fish had been blown away – perhaps overzealously, perhaps
not
– but he was relaxed now. The man, Carlos Silva, had been kinless, which made the whole situation a helluva lot easier to deal with. No immediate family meant no awkward phonecalls; Carlos Silva would disappear from the face of the earth, incinerated by the end of tomorrow, and that would be that.

Charles Dean smiled.

He almost fell backwards off his chair when the phone rang. He was caught mid-draw on his cigar, too, which meant that he had to cough it out of his system before answering. Once he had composed himself, he placed the cigar in an ashtray and picked up the receiver.

'Hello?' he said, still a little gruff. 'Governor Dean. This better be important.'

The man at the other end of the line cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice trembled. 'Governor, it's Doctor Strauss. I've, erm, I've sorted our body out, you know, got him all stitched back together and all that
—
'

'Oh, Doctor Strauss,' Dean said, smiling, 'that's very good news, although unfortunately you've wasted your stitching skills on that there particular body. Turns out there is no next of kin, no persons to come view the body in state.' He paused, took a drag on his cigar, exhaled the smoke, and continued. 'That poor boy ain't even gonna get a proper send off, I'm 'fraid. Straight in old
Bessie
for him.'

Old Bessie was Governor Dean's nickname for the crematory. Bessie was also the name of his estranged wife. He had named the crematory after her because they both sucked the life out of you, as painfully as possible, and left you the shell of your former self. He found it comical, although nobody else in the prison understood it.

'That's a shame,' Doctor Strauss said. 'Imagine dying, and nobody even knowing, let alone caring.'

'I'm sure that when it comes to it, Doctor, neither you or I shall have such worries.'

There was silence, apart from a slight rustle, which Charles Dean figured was a nod of assent coming from the doctor. 'I'm sure you're right,' Strauss said, finally. 'Do you want me to fire her up tonight, Governor, or can it wait until the morning?'

Charles Dean finished his whiskey and grimaced as the heat struck the back of his throat. 'No, you go on home, Doctor. I'm sure it will be there waiting for you when you return tomorrow.'

Strauss feigned laughter. Of
course
it fucking would! Bodies don't just get up and walk around. 'It will be the first job on my list, Governor.'

'Very well, Doctor,' Dean replied, and then hung the receiver back in its cradle.

He smoked cigars, listened to Beethoven's Symphonies one-to-nine, and finished the bottle. By the time he fell asleep in his chair, he hadn't a care in the world.

When he woke the following morning, it appeared that he had all of the troubles in the world hanging over him.

*

'What do you
mean
he's called in sick?' Governor Dean asked. 'He had a very important job to do today, and to be honest he sounded right as fucking
rain
when I spoke to him on the phone last night.'

'I don't know, Gov,' Officer Michaelson said, taking a step back from Charles Dean; it didn't pay to stand too close to him when his mood was so unbalanced. 'He couldn't even call in
himself
. I just spoke to his wife. She sounded really concerned about him.'

'She
should
be,' Dean snapped. 'The prick might not have a job to come back to.'

Michaelson knew that this wasn't an empty threat; he had seen Governor Dean fire at least five people in the last two years alone. One of them – a guard by the name of Carson – had been caught sneaking pornography in for some of the prisoners. It hadn't even been
good
pornography, either. It was the kind of shit that the models kept their knickers on, or just pretended to be in the throes of an orgasm, even though off camera they were more likely to be finishing the daily crossword. Carson, the poor asshole, had been summoned to the Governor's office after a tip-off from one of the more, how should we say,
religious
prisoners. Charles Dean had been waiting with the softcore magazines spread out on his desk, as if he'd been about to embark upon a masturbation-fest of his own. When asked to explain himself, Carson simply had no answer, and was escorted from the premises by guards Tyler and Jenson. Governor Dean had reminded the remaining officers that any contraband, soft-as-shit no pussy on display or otherwise, was not allowed within the prison walls, and that anyone who failed to comply with the simple rule would receive the same punishment as that “pervert” Carson.

Michaelson had guessed, though, that once the Governor had the office to himself again, he would be spanking his own monkey over the laid-out magazines and centrefolds.

'So what else is happening today?' Governor Dean asked.

'Other than visiting this afternoon,' Michaelson said shrugging his shoulders, 'not a great deal.'

Oh
shit
, visiting. It had completely slipped Charles Dean's mind. If there was one thing that Dean hated more than prisoners, more than pointless technology, and more than his ex-wife, it was fucking visiting day.

'Make sure that you keep a vigilant eye on that
pack
and their so-called visitors,' Dean grimaced. 'I don't want any more weapons exchanging hands.'

The pack he referred to was, of course, Dennis Hart's lot: Rooster Hill, Marvin Manson, and Jimmy Kelly. Governor Dean was suspicious – actually, pretty certain – that their visitors had been sneaking in all kinds of shit. Although there was no evidence of illegal substances or weaponry, quite a few of the stabbings occurring in Block D were definitely not perpetrated by a shoddy blade knocked up in woodwork classes. The size of some of the wounds suggested a professional weapon, and somebody was bringing those shivs in.

'I'll keep my eyes peeled,' Michaelson said, trying to reassure the Governor, even though he knew that he couldn't keep his eyes peeled on all four of the pack.

'You do that.'

As Michaelson made his way out of the office, Charles dean could only think about one thing.

The decaying, headless corpse waiting to be burned in the mortuary.

Only a few hours later, Governor dean would wish that Carlos Silva was the only dead thing in the prison.

*

Cyrus Clay sat in the infirmary, waiting for that
fit piece of ass
Emmett to emerge from the adjacent room. He looked around the room, and realised that he had never set foot in the infirmary before; he'd never been ill, nor shanked. But now, he was here, and he felt like shit warmed up.

His stomach was fizzing, almost as if he'd been slipped a suppository, and his head pounded so hard that he could see white spots dancing before his eyes.

He had never felt so sick in his life.

The door swung inwards, and Marla Emmet strode confidently into the room. She held in her hand a thick brown file folder, the kind that cost a buck-fifty for a hundred. Cyrus Clay wondered what could be in such a fat folder, since he'd never even visited the infirmary before.

Probably a pile of shit about how many tattoos he had, and pictures of old wounds sustained before his incarceration. Paperwork was such a waste of time.

Doctor Emmett opened the folder, and sat silently reading for a few minutes before speaking. As she read, Cyrus Clay glanced down at those pert breasts of hers, and wondered what it would feel like to stick his dick between them. And even though the pain was almost unbearable, his stomach seemed to jump inside him, he struggled to hide his forming erection.

'I
said
,' the Doctor snapped, 'how long have you been feeling like this?' Judging by her abrasiveness, it wasn't the first time that she had asked the question.

'Erm. Ever since yesterday, Doc,' Clay said, gripping his stomach as if to further convince the woman of his pain. 'Ever since that
prick
spewed in the canteen.'

Marla Emmet glared at Clay; it was clear that he was running a temperature. Sweat had formed a sheen on his forehead. His eyes were dark, too, almost as if he had been punched in them hard enough to leave a mark.