Dead Cells - 01 (13 page)

Shane walked across to one of the large windows and glanced out onto the yard.

'Anybody out there?' asked Billy, momentarily lowering his knife.

Shane shook his head. 'I don't see anyone,' he said. 'I'm assuming that the main perimeter would still be locked. There's no way anyone could get out onto the yard, unless it was one of the guards with the combination.'

The combination changed on a daily basis and was automatically chosen at random by the computer in Charles Dean's office. If it was after midnight now, which Shane was pretty sure of, then the chances were that the new combination had been implemented. There would be no way of knowing that combination; not even the guards would be aware of it yet, as it was shared only with the clocking-in guards at seven in the morning.

'Could somebody get to the governor's computer?' Billy asked, knowing exactly what Shane was thinking.

'It's possible,' Shane replied. 'But unlikely. If those things are everywhere, which I think they would be by now, and Dean's office is way across the prison, then the guards would need serious leverage to reach it.'

'Weapons?'

'Exactly.'

'The armoury is only on the other side of A Block,' Billy added. 'If they made it to the weapons, they could already be on their way out of the prison by now.'

Unfortunately, that was true, which made Shane's teeth stand on edge.

Apart from the yard, which was not the most desirable of escape routes, there were only two other entrances to the prison. At the basement level, where the guards parked their expensive cars, there was a door that led directly into the facility. Through that door, there were several gates, each of which required a four-digit code. Finally, there was one more door, which required fingerprint scans. It was thorough, if nothing else.

The other method of entry was a little more complicated, and involved all of the measures of the basement, plus a retina-scan, a two-guard security check, and an x-ray machine. That was situated on the first floor.

It was possible that surviving officers made it out through one of those exits, but that relied heavily on there being nothing standing between them and the gate.

That was very unlikely.

Shane left his post by the window and took a few steps into the room. Both men jumped as something clattered from the kitchen.

Billy instinctively raised the knife into the air; Shane lowered his aluminium stick and held a finger to his puckered lips. 'Shhhh,'

The kitchen, if it could be referred to as such, was situated through double doors on the west wall. There were no windows through which to see, mainly because the guards didn't think it was a good idea for the prisoners to
know
exactly what they were eating.

Billy held his fist up, and as he did Shane knew what he sought. Shane too raised his hand. A battle of scissors, paper, stone ensued, which Shane lost.

'Great!' Shane whispered. Billy made a gesture that told his cellmate to quit whining and get on with it.

Shane took a few steps towards the closed double doors that led to the kitchen, but paused when they suddenly swung outwards.

Standing between the frame, six and a half foot of pure evil: Cyrus Clay did not look happy.

His face was smeared with blood, and his stomach seemed to be hanging out through several lacerations. Intestines, blackened and dripping, dangled down to his lap, and swung side to side with every move he made.

Then it growled.

And then, it charged.

It was the fastest either of them had seen one of the creatures move, almost preternaturally quick. It was only when it was almost upon Shane that he realised it was holding a meat cleaver, which it swung maniacally. Shane threw his head back to avoid being slashed; he felt the wind as the blade whipped the air an inch in front of his face. Billy cried something, but Shane didn't hear it. All he heard was the whoosh as the cleaver split the atmosphere in two.

The next thing the creature had crashed into Shane. They both hit the ground, and Shane gasped for air which was no longer available.

The creature – formerly Cyrus Clay – tried to sink filthy teeth into Shane's neck, but Shane managed to wriggle upwards beneath the immense weight of his opponent. As he shifted, the teeth gnawed at nothingness.

Then, Cyrus's head snapped to the left, and then the right. A fist, Billy's fist, was punching away the increasingly frantic head as it bobbed down trying to take a bite out of the face of Shane beneath it. The black drool hung from its mouth like a dark string. As it settled on Shane's coveralls, it stretched and broke off.

'Stab it!' Shane called from beneath the creature, but Billy couldn't get close enough to inflict such damage. It was moving too quickly to get a clear cut. Besides, Billy was concerned that he would slit the creature and the subsequent blood would somehow infect Shane. If a single drop were to spray into his mouth, that might be enough to contaminate his cellmate.

It was a risk that he wasn't willing to take.

The creature tried to raise the cleaver, but Shane saw its intentions and grabbed onto its wrist, forcing it back down to the ground.

Its eyes glared down into Shane's face with something akin to contempt.

Shane realised that he was still gripping onto the aluminium runner, and managed to lift his right arm off the floor so that it was inbetween them.

Billy lashed a foot towards Cyrus, who retorted with a guttural cry of angst and frustration. The foot landed just to the side of the creature's neck, sending its head to one side with a crack.

Shane slowly pushed the drawer runner upwards until it was beneath the thing's drool-covered chin.

'Fuck you!' Shane said, and pushed as hard as he could; the aluminium strip made its way through the creature's jaw, up past the nose, and into the brain. There was a momentary look of confusion on its face, a split-second where the eyes bulged so far from the sockets that they were liable to drop out, and then the full weight of the creature came down on top of Shane as the life dripped out of it.

'Need a hand?' Billy asked. Shane looked up to find his friend smiling nervously.

'Get this fucking thing off of me,' Shane said. 'It weighs a tonne.'

Billy dragged the corpse off; as he did so, Shane made sure that he retracted his weapon from its skull. It came out covered in a thick black tar. It looked like a dipstick that had been used to check for oil.

Shane clambered to his feet, which seemed to have other ideas as they danced independently beneath him with pins and needles.

'Did you get any of that shit in your mouth?' asked Billy, who was checking himself over for possible tears and scratches.

'I don't
think
so,' Shane replied. Billy could tell by Shane's expression that, now that it had been brought to his attention, he was slightly concerned.

What if he
did
? What if, by some unfortunate twist of fate, a dot of the creature's blood or saliva fell into his mouth, rendering him one of the infected?

'You look fine to me,' Billy offered, reassuringly.

'I feel it,' Shane added.

'Then let's get the fuck out of this canteen before another one of them shows up.'

It was, Shane thought, the best idea Billy had ever had.

*

The shift patrolling the wall had decided that enough was enough, and all went marching along to find out what was going on, why they hadn't been relieved of their posts, and how much overtime they were going to get, if
any
.

They made it into the facility, where they came face-to-face with a horde of hungry creatures, inmates that they had berated and beaten in the past just for shits and giggles.

As they came under attack, the irony of the situation was palpable.

Out of the eight-man patrol, four returned from the dead. The other four, unfortunately for them, made excellent meals; perhaps the best meals the prisoners had had in a very long time.

*

The gate that led to the door that led to the yard was locked. Terry had expected it, but Jared seemed to find it impossible to digest. He was finally beginning to grate on Terry, and Marla wasn't too keen on having Jared around either, not the way he was behaving. It wasn't safe to carry such an incoherent, confused idiot, not with those things everywhere. Jared was apt to get them all killed, and Marla wasn't going to accept that.

'So what now?' Jared whined. His eyebrows seemed to have taken up permanent residence on the top of his head. 'What the fuck
now
, Terry?'

'I'm
thinking
,' Terry growled, and Marla found herself wondering how he had lasted so long in a cell with Jared without tearing his fucking head off.

Marla walked away, allowing Terry to think and Jared to whine. She listened to the noises coming from everywhere, or so it seemed. There were squeals, growls, scratches, moans. The whole prison suddenly felt
alive
.

In a way, it was deader than ever.

Whichever way she thought of it, she knew that things would never be the same again. Even if they
were
to survive the night, what was happening would be too impossible to explain. Supposing those things died of their own volition; if there was not enough food and they simply starved to death, what proof would they have of the inexplicable events? Nobody in their right mind would believe a word of it. Marla hardly believed it
herself
, and she had seen it with her own eyes.

She turned to find her two companions arguing, unsurprisingly.

'What?' she asked.

'Terry here wants us to make our way to the chapel,' Jared said. 'Used to be a man of faith, didn't you Terry?'

'So what's the problem?' Marla asked.

'The chapel,' Jared sighed, 'is on the other side of the jail. Just because Terry's had his faith reconfirmed, he thinks there's not a chance on earth that those things would be allowed under a roof of God.'

Marla didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say. She was the least religious person she knew, at least until she met Jared.

'I'm sorry,' she said to Terry. 'You want us to go traipsing halfway across the prison because you believe that
God
will take care of us?'

Terry nodded. 'He will.'

Marla shrugged her shoulders. 'Standing around here waiting for one of those things to find us is just as dangerous.' She turned to Jared, who couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'I say let God prove himself.'

'You're out of your fucking
mind
!' Jared cried, trying desperately to control the volume of his voice. 'It's
suicide
.'

'It's suicide standing here waiting,' Terry said. 'The chapel will be safe. You have my word.'

Terry's word, Jared thought, was about as useful as tits on fish. How could the chapel be safe? It was hardly maximum-security, and when they reached it, what were they expected to do? Wait it out? Hope that the cavalry arrive with guns ablazing and horns ablowing?

'Just let it be known that I don't like it,' Jared said.

'Duly noted,' Terry smiled. 'Now let's get a move on. If those things corner us down here, we won't stand a fucking chance.'

Marla nodded. 'Come on then.'

They were just about to move when they were cornered, and it was true what Terry had said.

They wouldn't have had a chance.

*

'Freeze!' Jenson cried, levelling the shotgun at Marla. When he realised who she was, he eased off momentarily. 'Doc, have you or any of your party been infected?'

Marla shook her head. 'No,' she said. Her arms remained in the air, which seemed to be a good idea when you were staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

'These two are convicts,' Michaelson said, holding out both pistols and looking something like the Lone Ranger. 'Hope you two haven't been getting used to all this freedom.'

Terry shook his head. 'Not in the slightest,' he smiled. 'In fact, I'm kinda missing my cell. The warm bed, the good food...'

'Shut the fuck up,' Jenson snapped. 'I'll
shoot
you where you stand.'

Jared made a squeaking noise, and he wasn't sure where it came from. 'We're not trying to escape,' he said, pleadingly. 'We 're just trying not to get killed is all.'

Michaelson holstered one of the pistols and took a step towards Marla, who in turn took a step back.

'We're not infected,' Jenson said. 'In fact, we've not seen any of those things for a while. Since we got the
guns
.' He finished his sentence with a tone of regret. The guns were there to be fired, and poor Officer Jenson had not had cause to do so, not yet.

'Where have you come from?' Marla asked.

'The armoury,' Jenson replied, holding the shotgun aloft as if he'd won it at a fair. 'We heard some noises on the way, though. Think they might be heading this way.'

'But you didn't see any of them?' Jared confirmed with more than a hint of worry.

'Not a one,' Michaelson said as he holstered the second pistol. He had, apparently, deemed the situation as non-threatening.