Death Row Apocalypse (22 page)

Before I reached Joe, he blurted, “All right, all right, man! Out of the door, follow the corridor, through the security gates, take the first left, then the first right. After about twenty yards you’ll see the dining room. At the back is the kitchen.” Joe took a breath and continued: “The nearest exit to the roof—instead of taking the first right, take the second right past the washrooms, then take the second left through the security gates and there’s a door on the right side.”

I stopped and threw him the paper and pencil that I had retrieved from the executioner’s room. “Draw a map,” I demanded.

Joe took the paper and pencil and began sketching. Turning back to the window, I returned to slaying the glass divider.

Bang!
The door to the chamber shook violently from the massive impact it had received. At the same time, from beyond the door the horde began to howl. This time, though, they were in unison. I can only describe the sound as demonic, a truly unholy, spine-chilling cry from the undead. The door shook again with equal intensity. The steel door withstood this second onslaught easily, but I suspected that it would not be the door that gave way to their insistent offensive; it would be instead the supporting wall.

Joe had stopped drawing and stared at the chamber entrance. He turned to me. “I told you, man, and now we’re fucked!” he said.

I walked quickly over to where Joe sat. At my proximity, he started to raise his hands to cover his head in self-defense. I pulled the paper from his hand and viewed it quickly.

“Thanks,” I said.

I then went back to the window. I ripped the last of the glass from the frame just as a third strike to the door occurred. This time, masonry dust drifted down from the hinges. The bolts that held the hinges and frame in place were becoming loose. The surrounding concrete had partially fractured from the accumulated impacts. I was right. The supporting wall would be the weak point and would fail long before the actual door.

“Joe, you might want to rethink whether you come with me or not,” I said.

I walked over to the chamber entrance. The door shook again, this time with a visible wobble to it. The door frame was coming loose and somehow the zombies knew they were making progress. It wouldn’t be long before they broke down this door, and if we didn’t move soon Joe’s prediction would be accurate. We would both be fucked.

Joe got to his feet. “Aw, fuck, man. Not again. I told you not to make any noise. But no, you have to go on like a fucking idiot. Now we’re both gonna die!”

I responded with a slightly raised voice. “Joe, before you go and start your period, get yourself a weapon and head for the gallery. Now, Joe, move it!” I yelled.

Joe carried on with his complaints as I lent against the door while he went to the gurney and removed the second bar at the opposite end of the stretcher. The door shook again as the zombie horde worked together, smashing against the door.

Something caught my attention at the bottom of the door. It was blood—thick, dark blood—almost black in color. I surmised that on each assault on the door the foremost zombies were being crushed, like oranges in a juicer, liberating their bodily fluids.

The frame was now starting to fall away from its brick and mortar securing.

“Joe!” I raised my voice. “Get to the gallery now!”

The next impact resulted in a fully loosened frame. I let it go and ran across the chamber to the gallery window. I turned to check the door. I had expected to hear the door crash to the floor well before reaching the window, but instead it was now only halfway through its downward travel. Weird, I thought. Had time actually slowed? But before another thought could pass across my mind, time seemed to return to normal, and as it did so the door crashed to the floor with an almighty metallic clang. Joe was now in the gallery and heading toward its entrance. I clambered through the destroyed window, carefully avoiding the remaining glass edges.

“Don’t open the door yet!” I said.

He turned. “What?” he responded and added, “They’re coming!” He pointed to the execution chamber’s door.

Like a thermometer measures temperature, Joe’s face was a thermometer for his fear—a fear-o-meter, if you will—and in his current state I could very well imagine that he could faint at the slightest surprise.

I’d been mentally timing the impacts to the chamber’s door. So far they’d occurred roughly every thirty seconds. By my figuring, the zombies would be close, very close to entering the chamber. As the door was no longer stopping their pursuit of us, they would be on our tails immediately. Indeed, the zombies were on the move and approaching the doorway at a rush. I’d reached Joe now, and we stood in the gallery, surrounded by the warden’s remains. Joe was shaking and he wanted to run. Flight was his winning method and had kept him alive and well during this apocalypse. He reached for the gallery door handle to open it. Intercepting his hand, I pushed him against the wall and gripped the front of his shirt. His fear of me was only slightly greater than his fear of the zombies and was enough to stay his hand.

“Wait,” I said, “just a few more seconds.”

“Why? What good . . . ?” Joe started to say.

I could hear the zombies outside the door, some staggering, some running. With some I could clearly hear the slap-slap of skin on tile as they went past the gallery door. I turned to look into the execution chamber. The first zombies were now streaming into the chamber, and as they entered they were literally falling over each other in anticipation of their next meal. Their wails, roars, and moans filled the small rooms, making it almost impossible to hear beyond the gallery door. I loosened my grip on Joe. He seemed to drop a couple of inches as I did so. I grinned at Joe.

“Get ready. This is gonna be fun!” I said.

Joe’s face sagged even more as the color completely drained from his face.

Turning back to the zombie horde, which had now filled the execution chamber and executioner’s room, I yelled as loud as possible, “Hey, fucknuts. Dinnertime!”

Still holding Joe, I pulled him away from the door toward the horde so that they could see him clearly, and shook him.

“Ahhhh!” Joe screamed. “Noooo! Please, man, noooo!”

I grinned warmly and yelled at him, “Open the fucking door . . . Now!” and pulled him back to the door.

The zombie horde had been scrambling around the chamber in a literal frenzy, looking for us. They somehow sensed that we had been there and were now stumbling over each other in their eagerness to locate us. I had their complete attention. As soon as I had started yelling at them, they stopped and turned to look at me. They reacted quickly, heading toward the dividing window. As the horde began their stampede aiming for our position, the zombie overflow poured into the vacant space left for them by their kin in the execution chamber. The leading zombie was an inmate. He was over six foot tall, white, and built like a brick-shithouse and matched one’s mental image of the typical death row inmate. With his jaw clenched and his lips drawn back to the gums, he displayed blood-encrusted teeth with several small pieces of flesh trapped in his obvious diastema. His drool—a combination of saliva, blood, and green ooze—flowed over his bottom lip and down his chin, dripping on the floor. The growl coming from deep in his throat was in every way as menacing as his appearance.

The inmate’s tattooed neck, arms, and chest were covered in bites, and a large section of skin covering the left side of his rib cage was torn away, exposing a good portion of his meaty rack. The skin flapped at his waist as he climbed through the gallery window frame and headed straight for us.

The gallery door was opening, and I’d already performed the mental calculations figuring that the inmate would be upon us well before the door was fully open. I left Joe with his back to us, still busy opening the door, and quickly stepped up to meet the oncoming hulk that was the zombie inmate. For reasons that would become known to me much later, the massive zombie inmate now moved as if he were underwater; “slow” and “sluggish” are the terms that immediately come to mind.

With uncanny speed, I struck hard, bringing the steel bar swinging down in a two-handed grip. With sheer brute force the bar struck the inmate on his forehead. I would’ve preferred a crown strike but lacked the necessary height advantage. With fascination, I watched as I carried the strike through and down. It met his skull and penetrated as easy as cracking eggshells. The bar passed through his skull and deep into his brain casing. Blood and brain matter jettisoned to the sides, spraying myself and the room with the inmate’s festering remains. His face seemed to collapse in on itself, his features being pulled down and inward by the bar’s progression through his head, much like the effect of melting a wax mask. Pulling the bar from the collapsing zombie’s face, I turned in time to see that Joe had managed to open the door, and we both as one rushed for the gap, closing the door behind us just in time as the pursuing horde hurled themselves against it ineffectually.

More from luck than judgment, the corridor immediately outside the gallery was now empty, save for the gratuitous blood and gore. My eyes landed on the decapitated remains opposite our position. With my right foot I knocked the head to turn it over. I rolled over and I came face-to-face with the jawless face of the warden. I guess sometimes wishes do come true.

I had anticipated that at least a few remaining zombies would be in the corridor, but they had all headed for the execution chamber, leaving this part of the building vacant. My initial plan was to have thinned out the zombie horde just enough so that when I then pushed Joe into their open arms, I would have the opportunity to make my escape. With a completely clear corridor, Joe’s sacrifice could be postponed now until its necessity was required.

Over the pounding on the gallery door, I heard the faint sound of a door opening from a little ways down the hallway. With our attention drawn to the source, both Joe and myself raised our bars ready to strike. Through the opening door I saw the blood-splattered face of a woman peering out. A woman that I thought I knew.

Chapter - 15

- Escape from Death Row -

The woman in the doorway peered out and saw Joe and I exit the second gallery only a few yards away.

“Have they gone?” Lucy whispered.

Joe turned his head to me, and we both lowered our weapons.

“What the fuck did you mean, ‘dinnertime,’ fucknuts?” Joe asked.

I grinned back. “You know why,” I responded.

Joe once again realized who he was talking to and took a step to his rear, inadvertently bumping into our recent exit. I turned my attention to the woman. By her appearance, she had gone through hell and back, and now I was sure I knew her.

“They’re behind us in the gallery,” I responded. “We’re going make a run for it before they get out. You’re welcome to join us or just stay here and get eaten. Your choice!”

From behind our recent exit, the groans coming from our pursuing zombie horde grew in intensity, and as they did, so did the violent impacts against our exit. We hadn’t long before they would smash through the gallery door and devour us like chili fries at the end of a bachelor party.

The woman took a step to her side and exposed a group of about eight people standing immediately behind her.

“Gotcha,” she said as her eyes flitted from me to the gallery entrance behind us and back again. “Lead the way, sugar,” she added.

Turning to face the security gates, we then as a group made our way along the corridor’s length. From time to time I’d turn to check our six o’clock. It wouldn’t be long before the horde broke through the gallery door and began their hunt afresh. We hadn’t come far, so their hunt would be a short one. We had just passed the security gates when I noticed that two of the group were already falling behind. The old couple would be the death of us, I thought, and seriously considered ignoring their struggles to keep up. However, there was a strong chance that I’d need to create diversions along the way, and to be perfectly honest they fit the bill in every way.

Each of the cells we passed was more or less a duplicate of the previous cell. Inmates in the Row generally had very few personal possessions to speak of, so each cell looked identical. In any case, we gave each one a quick once-over, looking for anything useful. High on the list was, of course, weapons, which understandingly would be the rarest of articles we’d uncover.

I felt a hand on my arm and turned to Joe, who was trying to get my attention.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The woman. She says to wait a minute,” Joe said.

Before I could reply, he continued: “She needs to pee, I think.”

“Tell her to hurry.”

Joe turned and was about to tell her to hurry, but she’d already vanished into one of the cells. If that wasn’t bad enough, four more of the group split off and entered the cells, uttering quietly:

“Don’t look, man.”

“Don’t be a freak.”

“You got a fetish or what?”

One by one they eventually returned to the corridor, looking a lot more relieved than before.

“Have you all been holding it, all this time?” I asked them when finally they had returned.

The embarrassed looks on their faces gave me the answer that I’d presumed.