Death Row Apocalypse (23 page)

“Amazing,” I said, and returned to leading the way.

I noted that the corridor was surprisingly clear of any and all signs of zombies, and as we approached the junction I motioned for the group to stay back while I checked to see if the coast was clear. I edged up slowly and took a glancing look in both directions. To the left at the end of the corridor, I could make out the multiple forms of zoned-out zombies. They stood statue still, just like I had seen before outside the execution chamber. They had to be a good hundred yards distant. I then noticed the right turn to the kitchen only about five yards distant. If we were quiet, there was a good chance we would be able to cross the corridor undetected.

Pulling my head back from the hallway, I turned to face the group, and as I did so the group jumped in shock when an almighty crash and slamming of wood on concrete echoed through the corridor. The gallery door must have been breached, which gave us very little time now, if any.

“You three,” I yelled at three of the men. “Grab the old couple and follow me. The rest of you follow me now, and run!”

One of the three I had just ordered placed his hands on his hips. “Who the fuck put you in charge?” he said. “You’re just a con who deserves to die anyway.” He then turned to Joe. “You’re a prison guard—why aren’t you in charge? Come on, have some balls and put this low-life in his place!”

Without any warning, the short woman stepped up to the outspoken guy and bitch-slapped him good and hard on the right side of his face. She then spun him around so he could see what was now rushing head-on to meet our group. Already I could make out the grisly features of the foremost members of the zombie horde.

“Run. Now!” I said.

Darting out into the hallway, I headed at a diagonal toward the turnoff that led to the kitchen. The once-stationary zombies at the far end of the hallway were still no more; they were now running at full tilt toward us. There were now two groups of zombies hell-bent on our destruction and who could potentially converge on our position with horrifying effect. The time remaining for us to avoid becoming the filler in a zombie sandwich was dwindling away quickly. Two of the three men I asked were now helping the old couple; the rest were keeping up with me.

“What now?” Joe said.

“Get them to the kitchen and get ready to close the door as soon as I give the word,” I said.

The old couple and their helpers were struggling to keep up. I stopped and held back for them, while Joe continued to lead the group to the kitchen. The old man stumbled and fell to his knees. He then collapsed to his chest. His helper immediately went to his aid but chanced looking back over his shoulder. Though the oncoming horde could as yet not be seen, their howling and growls grew ever louder as they echoed down the hallway.

Joe was at the kitchen door and held it open for the group to enter. They all ran in without a second glance, except for the old woman, who had just arrived with her aide. Not seeing her husband close by, she looked around in panic.

“Henry? Hen-
ree
!” she cried.

Turning to look back down the hallway, she saw to her horror that the asshole reporter, Mike, simply dropped Henry to the floor, then ran toward the kitchen.

“Noooo!” she half screamed, half shouted. “
Hen-ree
!”

The elderly woman tried to make her way back to her fallen husband but was held back by Joe. Unable to fight against the young guard’s strength, she couldn’t help but release a flood of tears, which poured down her cheeks. In sheer anguish, she outstretched her arms, seeking to hold him one last time before it would be too late. She flexed her fingers in grabbing motions. Ignoring the pain in her arthritic joints, she gripped at the air ineffectually, wanting and needing to hold on to Henry and never let him go. Her frail old heart was breaking harder than she could physically manage. Her aged legs gave way to emotion, and she collapsed.

Joe was quick and caught her in midcollapse. Supporting her delicate frame, he then took her into the kitchen, while reassuring her that Henry would be okay.

Fear had taken a strong hold on Henry’s helper, and his flight or fight mechanism had kicked in on overdrive. He decided to drop the half-raised pensioner. He abandoned the old man to the merciless nightmare and flew from the scene, choosing self-preservation over the impending doom that the zombie hordes brought.

As Mike sped with all haste toward the open kitchen door, where Joe was currently supporting the old woman, he called out as he passed me, “The old bugger’s dead!”

I looked to the old man’s fallen form and was about to turn and follow Mike to the kitchen when I saw the old guy’s head raise and look my way. His right hand unfolded from his side and reached out toward me in a desperate request for help.

For reasons that I still don’t understand, I chose to help him. Perhaps it was the way I was raised, or maybe I’d picked this up from the many examples of compassion my mother displayed as I grew up. That was sarcasm, for those of you who hadn’t noticed. Maybe I was indeed a freak lacking in the compassion that mankind was supposedly gifted with. In any case, I feel no compunction to help anyone, and in my entire life I have never felt that emotion. I use the term “supposedly” because I’ve never seen an act of compassion take place without some kind of repayment or reward given in return, but that’s me I guess. Later, when I had time to mull over my decision to help Henry, I would still find myself unable to understand what made me do it.

Pushing my legs hard, I raced to where he lay, and as I helped him to his feet I saw the two hordes collide with one another at the end of the corridor. Instead of a neat joining of zombie forces flowing into this corridor, the two hordes collided with an inelegance that worked to lend me a few additional precious seconds. The fallen zombies brought themselves to a sprint with a desperation fueled by our close proximity and the need to feed. The speed at which they recovered was appalling. I partially lifted Henry, supporting him with my arm around his back and under his armpit. Half walking and running, we made our way toward the kitchen door. The howls behind us grew closer with every foot we covered.

***

Joe had watched Blaine hurtle down the corridor to Henry’s aid. The effect was like watching a video playback switching from low speed to high, then back to slow, as Blaine reached the old man. Joe blinked several times in case there was something in his eye causing this effect. With his final clearing blink completed, the blur that was Blaine had gone,
With
d now with a view missing the blur of motion.

***

Joe and Violet had disappeared into the kitchen, and Lucy was left holding the door open. As Mike reached her, he couldn’t help but notice the scornful look she gave him.

“What?” Mike said, raising his voice at Lucy.

“Violet’s right. You are an asshole!” Lucy said while standing in his way, blocking the kitchen entrance.

Mike shoved Lucy squarely in the chest, sending her sprawling on the kitchen floor, causing her to crack her head against one of the many aluminum cabinets. Lucy lay there unmoving but still breathing, and blood slowly seeped from the open wound above her right ear. Mike ignored her unconscious form and closed the kitchen door, leaving Henry and I in the hallway still en route. As the door swung closed, Mike sealed his own fate forever.

The closing zombies were literally only a few yards from our heels as we approached the closing kitchen door. The door latched closed with an audible click just as we arrived at its foot. With Henry supported under my right arm, I slammed my left shoulder into the door, sending splinters flying in all directions as it sprang open, allowing our entrance. We entered, whereupon I turned with all the speed I could muster while encumbered to close it as many outstretched, gnarled arms entered the gap between the door and frame. Blood and tissue flew in all directions as I slammed down on torn and shredded arms again and again. Our group backed away from the flying gore as I continued to pummel the intruding arms. The growing mass of zombies attempting entry, making the task of sealing the kitchen an almost-impossible one.

Chapter - 16

- The Monsters my friend -

It was only when Blaine came crashing through the kitchen doorway with Henry that the blurring effect began again. The effect had been real. Blaine was moving unnaturally fast. In many ways the view before Joe resembled the early kung fu movies, specifically the scenes where the moviemakers accelerated the kicks and punches for dramatic effect. The difference here was that this was real, and it seemed to be far quicker even than those old effects.

***

“Quick,” I shouted. “Get something to wedge this door closed!”

While I waited for the group to grab something to bridge the gap between the door and the closest cabinet, I wedged myself in the gap and took the strain with surprisingly little effort. It must have been due to the increase in adrenaline, I thought. I looked down and noticed the streak of fresh blood leading to the unconscious form of Lucy. I looked up into the guilty eyes of Mike, who was standing off to the side, cowering away from the limp zombie arms hanging from the door frame. He looked back with a mixture of fear and guilt. I knew then that he had been the one to close the door on Henry and I. He was also the one responsible for the now-limp form of Lucy.

One of the Channel 42 News crew was now applying a handkerchief to Lucy’s wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. I would take care of Mike later, I thought, and I’d make damn sure it was final.

When I’d been institutionalized, the doctors had explained that I had a tendency to overreact to situations that supposedly normal people deal with by talking and trying to understand and do so without inflicting physical pain. I initially disagreed with them, as this concept was totally alien to me, and try as I did I could not make them see my point. I even used their inability to see my point as actual proof that the discussion of issues was not possible in all cases. They didn’t want to accept that my black or white method of dealing with problems was in any way effective. My arguments were logical and well posed; my solutions were absolute and usually terminal for those involved. The doctors simply would not accept that removal of the individual causing the problem was an acceptable solution.

And yet we have a prison and corporal punishment system here in the USA that does exactly that, I argued. The most dangerous individuals in society are simply put to death. Eventually, though, I had to go along with what they preached purely as a means to an end—that is, I had to get the hell out of there.

With a lot of scraping and grinding, two of the group returned my thoughts to the present as they appeared manhandling a double-door refrigerator toward the kitchen door that I now was wedged against.
Perfect
, I thought. The refrigerator should have the weight and strength to hold up against our would-be zombie intruders. Dragging the fridge across the tiles and into place, we quickly realized that it was not going to be wide enough to fill the gap fully. Ideally we needed it to be ten inches longer.

“Here, take the weight for a second while I look for something to fill the gap,” I said to Joe.

The zombies continued slamming themselves into the kitchen door without rest, not even for a second. Their incessant howls were accompanied with ferocious roaring. With the added mass of the fridge against the door, it certainly made the job of keeping the door firmly shut much easier, and only needed one person to keep it in place. Joe put his back against the fridge, while I grabbed my bar and walked over to cowering Mike.

“Mike, no hard feelings, but you’re an asshole!” I said.

My hand shot forward and took his throat in its grasp. My intent was not to scare or even to warn him; my intent was to take his life then and there. Gripping his throat, I found the outline of his trachea. Circling it with thumb and fingers, I closed my fist. Both my thumb and fingers penetrated the skin and met deep within his neck as they now fully encircled his windpipe. I continued to close my grip and crushed his only means of breathing as easily as crushing a ripe pear. His hands had come up to flail and claw at my hand, but far too late, for I had already pulled my fingers and thumb from his neck. I watched as his face turned from a healthy pink to red, then blue and finally to white, whereupon he collapsed to his knees as he tried to suck in air against the blockage. He fell forwards onto his face, quite dead.

***

When Blaine struck Mike in the throat, the strike had been a mere blur. As fast as it had started, suddenly it was all over. The only evidence something had actually happened was the seemingly impossible appearance of several holes in the side of Mike’s neck and the choking form of Mike as he suffocated, then collapsed and died at Blaine’s feet.

***

“Blaine! No, don’t,” Joe started, but his reaction to Mike’s death was way too slow to have done any good at all.

The remainder of the group backed away a little as Mike struck the floor. The shock and perhaps realization that they currently shared the same space with a serial killer hit home.

Bending over, I wiped my hand on Mike’s shirt, then dragged his limp form to the refrigerator, laid him out, then bent him over at the waist, folding him in half. The sound of popping and crunching bone was followed by a loud snap as his spine broke as I wedged his folded carcass into the gap with my foot. With the barricade completed, I glanced up and saw that our group was now huddled together yet further still, with Joe foremost, holding his bar in a defensive posture. One or perhaps two of the group turned their heads away and had retched as Mike’s body crunched and popped, while some of the others expressed their disgust vocally.