Dead Cells - 01 (17 page)

It was true; it was only a matter of time before it happened. If ten of them, maybe even less, were to put enough pressure on the door, it wouldn't hold, not a chance.

'Are you suggesting we go back out
there
?' Michaelson said, obviously against such a ridiculous idea. In the corner of the room, Jared was frantically shaking his head.

'We wait,' Marla said. 'At least until morning. We will be safer when the sun's up.'

'I don't see
how
,' said Terry. 'Those things still have teeth, even in the daylight.'

'We
wait
,' Jenson said before Marla had a chance to respond. 'Until morning.'

*

They were in some sort of boiler-room area; there were pipes, steaming and hissing, in every direction they looked. Neither of them had even known it was there, but then why would they? They had never had such freedom in the jail, and if it weren't for the dire circumstances in which they had it now, it would have been almost enjoyable.

The area stank of stale water and metal, the way Shane expected it to smell. The ground beneath their feet was concrete, but water – roughly an inch deep – flooded the place, rusty water with shards of glass floating through it.

'How did we get into this?' Billy said, kicking away something that was trying to wrap itself around his shin. 'Still, at least you'll be getting out of here soon.'

That, Shane thought, was very unlikely now. He hadn't really had chance to think about it, but now that Billy mentioned it, all he could think of was Megan and Holly.

He hoped they were okay. Was it possible that they were out there, right at that moment, tucked up in bed,
oblivious
?

'I think things have changed here,' Shane finally said. 'My parole date doesn't mean shit now. I think the best we can do is get the fuck out, worry about the consequences later.'

Billy sighed. 'Everything will be okay, Shane. You do
know
that?'

Shane
didn't
know it, and neither did Billy Toombs. Billy's grandfather had been a very wise old man, one of the tribe leaders, a man that could see things that others weren't aware of. Shane hoped that some of that magic had been passed on through the generations. It would have been nice to know that Billy possessed such a gift; it would have taken some of the fear that Shane was currently feeling, fear for both himself and his family.

'All I know,' Shane said, 'is that something very wrong has happened here, something evil. The sooner we find out what and get to safety, the better.

Billy sidestepped a large pipe rising up from the ground, and
—

'Look out!' Shane cried, but it was too late. The creature lunged forward and sunk its teeth into Billy's shoulder. Billy grunted, tried to shake the thing off, but it was attached so firmly that he couldn't.

'
Fucking bastard
!' Shane screamed, slamming the aluminium stick against the side of its head, but it was helpless. As it bit, it shook its head from side to side, the way a dog might shake a bone. Billy's face contorted with pain, and his feet finally gave way beneath him, sending them both to the flooded floor of the boiler-room.

'
Fuck! Fuck
!' Shane grabbed the creature by the shoulders and yanked it back. There was a tearing sound as a chunk of Billy's shoulder came away in the creature's mouth. Blood sprayed up from the open wound and fell into the water, turning it an even more revolting hue.

As Shane dragged the thing backwards, he recognised its face: Jimmy Kelly, one of the “
Pack
”, Dennis Hart's lot. Deserved everything that he got, as for as Shane was concerned, but Billy didn't. Billy hadn't done anything to deserve what he had got.

The creature growled, kicked its feet around in the rusty water, and tried to break free of Shane's hold. Billy came forward, pushed himself up onto his elbows, and released the knife from his trouser pocket. He gripped it so tightly that his knuckles turned instantly white.

'
Hold it still!
' Billy said through gritted teeth. '
Hold that fucker still!
'

Shane did, he held it as still as he could, and he watched as Billy Toombs slammed the blade down into the top of its skull and twisted the hilt. There was a crunch; the creature made a strange sound – which wasn't quite a word, but might once have been before he had become infected – and then its eyes rolled upwards into its face.

Shane shoved it aside and spat on it.

'Are you okay?' he asked, but he already knew the answer to that. Billy had been bitten; he was already
dead
, his brain just didn't know it yet.

Billy Toombs glanced down at the wound, at the place where there had, not so long ago, been flesh. When he looked into Shane's face next, his eyes were full of concern, and acceptance.

'You're going to be okay,' Shane said. 'Maybe you don't get
infected
that way. Maybe there's something that we
—
'

'There's
nothing
,' Billy smiled. 'So stop trying to make excuses for me.' He gritted his teeth and pressed a bloody hand to the hole in his shoulder. 'Should have seen that sonofabitch coming. It wasn't even fucking
hiding
down here.' He laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, not comfortable at all.

'We don't know that there's nothing we can do,' Shane said, tearing the sleeve off his coveralls. 'I'm not accepting that shit, not
yet
.'

He wrapped the orange sleeve around the wound; Billy grunted intermittently. When he next spoke, it was words that Shane hadn't anticipated, and couldn't believe as he heard them.

'You have to kill me,' Billy said. 'I don't want to turn into one of those fucking
things
. The only way to make sure is
—
'

'
No
! Shane snapped. 'I'm not going to
do
it, and you'll just have to do what I say from now on.' He spoke with vigour and confidence, but even he didn't believe the words spilling out of his mouth. 'We're going to get you some help. You're not going to change into one of those...those
creatures
, you have my word.'

'But it fucking bit
—
'

'You have my
word
,' Shane said. He stood, pulled Billy to his feet, and smiled. 'I thought you had super senses. Why didn't you know that thing was down here?'

Billy shook his head. 'We're in some sort of basement,' he said. 'Obviously can't get a signal down here.'

They both laughed, but it was half-hearted, a way of ignoring what had just happened; a way of forgetting what was probably going to happen next.

Sooner, rather than later.

*

'What the fuck has happened here?' Rooster Hill said as he stepped into the infirmary. He reached into his coveralls, retrieved a half-smoked cigarette and lit it. 'Some
riot
.'

'Looks like it,' Marvin Manson said, surveying the room. 'But that doesn't explain why the cell doors were open, nor does it explain why we haven't seen a guard or another inmate since we came out.'

That, Rooster thought, was
very
strange. There should have been guards swarming the place, as was usually the case during a riot. Yet they had seen not one since leaving the cell.

'Maybe they're all outside,' he said. 'If the riot's moved onto the roof.' It wasn't meant to be a question, but it came out sounding like one.

'Maybe,' Marvin said, not convinced. 'Did you see all that
blood
in the corridor? Pretty savage, even for the guards in
this
fucking hellhole.'

Rooster had seen the blood; he didn't think he would ever scratch it from his mind, there was so much of it. It was on the walls, on the floor. There was even some on the ceiling, dripping down, fresh, probably still warm.

'One hell of a mess,' Rooster said, taking a step into the room and then stopping when he saw it.

A body, or what used to be a body, stretched out across the far side of the room. For a second, Rooster thought he might choke as something caught in his throat. It was only when he swallowed that he realised he'd been sick.

'What the
fuck
?' Marvin said as he neared the body, gingerly. 'Who
is
that?'

Rooster took slow, steady steps towards the corpse. 'I'd say it was a guard,' he said. 'And judging by all that fucking fat, I'd say it was Reynolds.'

Marvin could see the uniform, now. The blood that covered it had turned it a completely different colour, but there it was: a name badge, and Reynolds's belt was unmistakeable.

The body itself had been so badly mutilated that neither of the prisoners could look at one part for too long, and instead allowed their eyes to shoot from side to side in an attempt to see as little detail as possible.

Reynolds's right arm was missing, and his legs had been removed at the knees. One of the legs was a few feet away, stripped of flesh but still wearing a steel toe-capped boot, and the other was on the opposite side of the room, pointing towards the ceiling. The torso was almost empty of organs, some of which were pressed up against the skirting covered in dust and cobwebs. The ribcage was exposed and looked, to Rooster Hill, like some gothic organ you were apt to find in an old church. A few flies buzzed around the corpse, but not as many as there would be come morning.

'That's just wrong,' Rooster finally managed, biting down on his tongue to prevent the sickness from rising in his throat again. 'Who could do that?'

'I only know one man sick enough in this jail,' Marvin said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. 'Cyrus Clay.'

Rooster agreed; Cyrus Clay was a psychopath, likely to rape and kill his own mother if he had half a chance. 'If he's gone on the rampage,' Rooster said, 'then the guards better watch the fuck out.'

'They'd shoot him on sight,' Marvin said. 'All they need is a reason, and this is it.'

'Let's get out of here,' Rooster said. 'I don't want to be here when he comes back, and there's
—
'

Marvin snapped out a hand and covered Rooster's mouth. '
Shhhh
.' With his other hand, he pointed across to a darkened corner which was shielded by a trestle table. Rooster listened, and heard the scratching, then the slobbering. How had they not heard it
before
?

Marvin took his hand away, and they stepped towards the door; if they could leave the room without getting involved, then that would just be dandy. Not taking their eyes from the darkened corner, they stepped carefully in reverse. Rooster was presently wondering what kind of mood Cyrus Clay would be in should he suddenly snap out of his mania and realise he wasn't alone in the infirmary.

Not a
good
one, Rooster thought.

There came a deep rumble, a guttural growl that made Marvin Manson reach up and hold onto his chest to check that he wasn't having a coronary.

Then it was up, and it wasn't Cyrus Clay. It was wearing a guard's uniform, cream and blue, but mainly crimson and black now. Its face dripped with something dark and thick, its eyes were transparent, even in the darkness that the corner provided. When it spotted them, it growled again and began to clamber awkwardly across the trestle table in an attempt to reach them.

'It's fucking
Tyler
,' Rooster cried, not believing what he was witnessing. 'Tyler's gone
crazy
!'

Marvin was trying to find something to hit the guard with. It was amazing how when you needed a weapon, everything seemed to be made out of rubber. 'Push the table!' he ordered.

Rooster looked across with a face full of confusion. '
What
?'

'Quick, before he gets on top of it.'

Rooster turned to see the guard lift one leg up and slam it down onto the aluminium shelf. The blackness in those eyes was not natural; Rooster had never seen eyes so dark in his entire life.

'
Quickly
!'

Rooster stepped up to the table and pushed it as hard as he could. The wheels squeaked as the table shot backwards, so fast that it almost toppled over. When it slammed against the wall, sandwiching the guard, Rooster had to move his head to the side to prevent the flying ooze from hitting him in the face. The warm liquid which had spewed from the guard's mouth hit Rooster's cheek, and the first thing he thought was how warm it was.

'Hold him there!' Marvin said, who was now on his knees by the trestle table and appeared to be reaching underneath it. When he stood up, Rooster could see that he was clenching the guard's baton in his hand.

Marvin then proceeded in smashing the guard's head in until there was nothing left but a spinal cord and a few shards of skull. Rooster was sick, copiously, throughout the disgusting episode, but there was something intriguing about watching a guard's head cave in, and he found it almost impossible to divert his eyes.

The baton was dripping with grey matter and black slime; who would have thought that staring at the black stick covered with the guard's brain-matter would be the thing to tip Rooster over the edge? He began to retch so inexorably that the veins in his neck stuck out. His head began to throb from the constant retching, and he walked a few steps away from the trestle table to pull himself together.