Refuge From The Dead (Book 1): Lockdown Page 7
“That’s different, sir. We don’t kill the living. They do.”
While Winston was pondering Ryan’s point, the Master Control room operator stuck her head in. Office Shannon Lane was a two-year veteran of the DOC. While a young, attractive brunette who was diminutive in stature didn’t seem like a good fit for handling felons, she did more than her fair share. She was only five feet two inches tall, but her aim with a Glock more than made up for her lack of height. She was largely considered one of the best marksmen in the entire institution.
Lane had her own problems now, though. She couldn’t get in contact with any of her family. Her mother was sick, and she couldn’t take care of herself for very long. The cancer that her mother had endured over the last six months was heartbreaking for the young officer, especially at such a young age. Lane was twenty-one; her mother was only thirty-eight, having had Lane at a very young age. Her father was nowhere to be found, abandoning Lane and her mother before Lane’s first birthday. She didn’t miss her father, nor was she bitter at him. Maybe her life was better off without him, but she still longed for the relationship. She couldn’t explain why; a girl simply needed her father. Growing up without one had left an indelible mark on her, she just didn’t know it yet. Her stepfather was a very good man, but she didn’t have the same relationship with him that she would have had with her biological father. She didn’t have her stepfather around; he was out of town on business, trying to keep the income steady in order to take care of her mother. She hadn’t been able to get hold of him, either. He was over a hundred miles away in Roanoke. God only knows if he made it out of the city alive. When she got a chance, she was going to get her mother, but now wasn’t the time. She needed – no, she wanted to do her part to get the prison ready for her mother and whoever else needed to take sanctuary inside the walls.
“Captain Winston, I think you ought to see this. I think we all need to see this, sir, but you aren’t going to believe it,” Lane said.
Winston frowned. “What could be more pressing than the dead coming back to life, Lane?”
Lane handed Winston a sheet of paper. Winston grabbed it and studied it for a few moments. While he silently read it to himself, his facial expression said volumes about what was written on the singular piece of paper.
“What is it, Captain?” Michael asked.
Winston chuckled humorlessly. “You aren’t going to believe this shit.”
Michael laughed. “I doubt that, sir.”
Winston handed the paper over to Michael. While the events of the last few hours had told him that anything was possible, this one took the cake. Michael skimmed over the document before handing it over to Helton.
“No. Fucking. Way,” Michael said, a blank expression on his face.
Helton began to read the document aloud. “Authority of the National Warning System. By order of the Governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia on orders from the President of the United States of America, a state of emergency has been declared nationwide due to the Mortui Virus. This document is legal and binding to all who receive it, and has the full support of the President and the Governor of Virginia. Effective immediately, all incarcerated prisoners at all jurisdiction levels are to be executed immediately, regardless of their crimes. Prisons are to be repurposed for the handling of refugees and survivors, with the Warden or Chief of Security acting as a provincial overseer. This order is initiated to assure the continuation of the human race, despite the cataclysmic circumstances of the Mortui Virus. Godspeed and good luck to anyone who receives this document.”
Helton was speechless. Michael was speechless. Winston and Lane both could not speak. A long silence passed as all four of them stood silently pondering.
“Christ…” was all Ryan could manage.
“They want us to execute them?” Michael asked to no one in particular.
“We can’t do that. There is no way that is legal. I don’t give a shit what that damn paper says,” Helton said finally. “Even if it’s legal, that doesn’t make us any better than most of those assholes in there. I don’t know about you, Captain, but I’m not killing anyone if I don’t have to.”
“Where did you get that from, Lane?” Michael asked.
“Faxed in just now. Landlines seem to be still working. My God, what are we going to do, Captain?” Lane answered.
Winston stared at the floor, pondering. “We’re not going to do anything right now, Lane. Make sure that the remaining officers take care of dinner for the inmates. We can’t let this slip out to any of them. This information stays with us and only us. I don’t trust Cunningham as far as I can throw him, to be honest,” Winston said, trying to defuse the situation some.
Helton chuckled. “Glad I’m not the only one.”
“I mean it, guys…and girl. We don’t tell anyone about this. We will discuss it once you guys get back from Bluefield, in private.” Winston held up the paper. “On second thought, this does give us some leverage. Let me see what I can do while you guys are out. I have an idea.”
“We could just ask them to leave. I don’t know how well that would work, but I’d be willing to bet that some of them would take freedom over security any day. Plus, they aren’t exactly Rhodes Scholars,” Michael said.
“Don’t think it’ll be that simple, Caine. Might have to get a little more…persuasive. Let’s just keep that between us for now. I will figure out something, and soon. No use in these fuckers having it so damn good while good people suffer,” Winston replied.
Ryan and Michael nodded, as did Lane. Three can keep a secret as long as two are dead, Michael thought. How right he would be depended largely on what idea Captain Winston could come up with, because he had no clue what to do. There was no way in hell he was going to kill over 900 people just because of an order sent from someone who was likely dead told him to. He had more integrity than that. The idea of executing the inmates did give them a way out of their current problem, but it would have to be a last resort.
A very persuasive last resort.
CHAPTER 11
Ryan eased out the front door of the admin building, leading with his 870. The shotgun wasn’t great from a distance, but up close, it was more than enough. With the Glock on his hip and three full magazines, he had more than enough ammo. Or so he hoped. It wasn’t the full complement of 270 rounds and 40mm grenades that he was accustomed to, but it would have to do.
Michael had opted to use an AR-15 instead. The rifle would take care of anything up to three hundred yards. Usually it would be accurate to farther out than that, but with iron sights Michael would be hard pressed to make an accurate shot at that distance. He hadn’t sighted the rifle in, and had put it to mechanical zero, meaning that anything beyond fifty yards or so would be difficult. Michael also had a Glock 23 with three magazines on his belt.
Ryan moved forward, leading with the 870. The parking lot was quiet. No sound, no random gunfire, nothing. It was too eerie for words. The parking lot wasn’t that big, but it felt like a vast expanse. Off to their left was the perimeter fence and its ever-so-menacing razor wire topping. Sensors on the fence would let them know when someone bumped into it a little too hard, adding a layer of security to fighting off the undead. As long as they could keep power to the cameras and fence, things might stay relatively safe.
Michael kept a lookout off to his right. The illusion of safety was not lost on him. He couldn’t see anything past the small berm about fifty yards away, but he knew what lay beyond that area. Just over the hill was the extra building for TSU and the weight room and staff gym. About a mile beyond that building was the town of Pocahontas. Population-wise, it wouldn’t be much of an issue, with only around a thousand souls residing there. Michael figured that most of them would have hit the road for better places or holed up at home and waited for the shitstorm to blow over. There wouldn’t be many people out on the roads right now; fearing what might be out there waiting on them. Michael shook off an irritated shiver up his spine and scanned the area.
Michael eased around to Ryan’s right hand side, sweeping back and forth with the AR-15. He swallowed hard.
“I don’t know, Ryan, but mine is too,” Michael said. He looked around for the half-dozen shambling corpses that they had spotted earlier were nowhere to be found. “Where the fuck are they?”
“No idea, dude. Maybe we should just make a run for the van. If we see ‘em, we see ‘em, if not, oh well,” Ryan said.
“Explain to me again why it is that you volunteered for this, Ryan?”
Ryan chuckled. A typical Marine response followed. “Tip of the spear, baby. Ooh fucking rah, Caine. That being said, I still think we should just make a run for it.”
“No, we need to take care of these things. What do we know about zom…?”
“I swear to God I will ram this shotgun up your ass if you say the ‘Z’ word, Mike,” Ryan interrupted. “Let’s just call them what they are. Infected.”
Michael eased forward. “Fair enough. What do we know about these ‘infected?’ As you so eloquently put it.”
Ryan grinned. “Smartass…”
“Just trying to lighten the mood. But seriously, what do we know. Did you hear anything on the CB that might be of use?”
Ryan waved Michael forward. The van they were going to take was approximately two hundred yards away, parked beside the other state vehicles. There was only one four-wheel-drive van, so it was easy to spot. Both men walked forward, guns at low ready, stalking towards their target.
“Noise attracts them, so does smell. If you want to kill ‘em you have to hit ‘em in the head. Classic zom…I mean infected rules of engagement,” Helton said.
“All right. Say that these things are just like the ones on TV. The ones that I’ve seen on movies start herding together. Once that happens, they start turning into hordes of infected people. Our fences are strong, but you get a couple hundred of those things pushing at once and we will have a big problem keeping the fences up. How deep are the supports for the fences?”
“Five or six feet deep, I think. I’m not real sure, but I get your point.”
A moan carried across the wind. It was close. Michael huffed. The sound sent an irritated chill up his spine and tightened the already iron sphincter that he had. He looked around the parking lot, trying to eye the infected that had made the noise. Nothing moved as he watched. Human vision was great at picking up movement, so he stared ahead for a moment, hoping that something would draw his attention.
“Shit. I knew those bastards were close,” Michael said. He grabbed the radio and keyed up. “Caine to Captain Winston.”
“Go ahead, Caine.”
“Do you see where our uninvited guests are at? We can hear, but we have no visual.”
“They’re just standing in the middle of the parking lot. Something tells me if they don’t hear or see anything, they won’t move. Try to sneak over to the van if you can. I’ve got both towers watching your back, but be careful.”
“Copy that,” Michael said. “Ryan, let’s beat feet to that van. Come on.”
Michael started a slow trot towards the van. As he jogged to it, he couldn’t help but think about Anna and Lindsey. Poor Anna had no idea what was going on, and that was probably for the best. As hard as her life had been so far, he didn’t want to scar it any further. She had been through enough in her short life. Lindsey, on the other hand, was a much more pressing concern. She still hadn’t answered him. Although it was like her to not answer a text for a good while, it wasn’t like her to not answer repeated ones, especially given the circumstances. While Anna was taken care of at his mother-in-law’s, who had plenty of guns and knew how to use them, Lindsey was stuck at the hospital, roughly fifteen miles away. She didn’t have any guns in her car, only a Taser and some pepper spray. Michael doubted that either would do much to the living dead.
“Shit, Mike. Heads up,” Helton said, breaking his concentration.
Two shambling figures appeared from behind a black Ford F150. The first was a woman, maybe in her forties dressed in a white summer dress and no shoes. Her black hair was matted together with what looked like bits of dried blood. Small clumps of coagulated blood also adorned the front of her dress.
The second was an older man dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and a yellow trucker hat. He didn’t have any blood on him, but the vacant stare and shambling walk gave him away as one of the undead. Pale face, graying around the eyes, and consistent drool accented the far-off look. His clothes were dirty, but he looked as if he had just turned recently.
“I got Snow White, you get Trucker Jim, Mike,” Helton said. Before Michael could answer, Helton moved to his left and raised the 870. The infected woman he called Snow White snarled and growled a throaty, scratchy noise that made his spine tingle. Hearing about the undead on TV and over the internet was one thing, being face-to-face with one was an entirely different creature, so to speak.
“Think I ought to read them their rights?” Helton said. As if to answer, the Trucker Jim infected made the same menacing growl.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Michael said. He raised the AR-15 and fired two rounds into Trucker Jim’s head. Bits of skull and gray matter splattered out the back and the creature went down in a heap. A dark crimson spread on the ground like a sick floor covering.
Ryan didn’t wait to see the results of Trucker Jim’s assassination. He raised the 870 and fired a twelve-gauge round of buckshot into Snow White’s face. The blast nearly took all of her head off. From the short distance, the energy from the shotgun had no problem eliminating the woman’s head from the shoulders up.
Both men lowered their weapons and gauged their handiwork.
“Damn, dude. I’ve never shot anyone before. That shit smells so bad!” Helton said.
“I hear you, Ryan. You had better get used to it very quick, though. Look.”
Michael pointed with his rifle to the other five walkers that they had spotted on camera. Drawn by the noise of gunfire, they had shambled over to see what all the commotion was. Michael raised the AR-15 and fired off two rounds each into three infected. All six shots hit home, and three more walkers were taken down.
Ryan moved to his left again and racked the shotgun. “Two more over here,” he said. “I got this.” The first shot was slightly askew, but still managed to take off half of the intended target’s face. The blast of buckshot removed everything on one entire side of the infected man’s face. A quick rack and a second shot blew away a young man’s head just above his eyes. The top section of his skull flopped into the air before landing almost directly back onto the spot where it had been.
“Two down,” Helton said.
“On the ground,” Michael responded. He pointed to Ryan. “You good?”
Helton racked the shotgun, chambering another round. “Yeah. Let’s get that van and go get your girls, Caine.”
Michael couldn’t agree more.
CHAPTER 12
Daniel Cunningham rolled the “hot box” down the boulevard, pissed off because he had to deal with the damn thing in the first place. The large metal container the size of a refrigerator was a pain in the ass to maneuver, even in the best of times. Fucking Winston. That stupid son of a bitch won’t make it a week in this shit. I hope that I won’t have to deal with that fucker before long.
As far as he was concerned, they were wasting precious resources on people that had no right to them. The inmates are hungry? Fuck ‘em! There were much more pressing issues, like what the fuck they were going to do with the sorry bastards. Food and medical supplies were going to become scarce around Black Mountain, and Cunningham preferred that they be shared amongst the few people worthy enough of such things. He was going to need them for himself. Fuck everyone else’s problems. Convicted felons had no rights to anything right now, least of all food.
Except for one.
When he’d first finished the academy, the pile of debt that he had amass
ed was enormous. Two failed attempts at getting a bachelor’s degree had more or less tanked his credit, and now he was stuck making less than $30,000 a year guarding assholes. Ain’t that a bitch? They told him in the academy there would be temptations and not to give in to those temptations, no matter what. Well, those instructors didn’t have $70,000 in debt to pay off, now did they? The black market of prison life was ripe for the picking, and he was the one who was going to bleed it dry.
At first, he expected the inmates to come to him to bring in contraband. He did everything that he could to make it know that he was open for business. Need a pack of cigarettes? $300. Want me to bring in a can of snuff? $200. Anything more than that? Well, everything and everyone has a price.
As the money started rolling in and his debt got smaller and smaller, Cunningham whittled down the few customers he had left down to only one. That way when his boys didn’t pay up, all he had to do was go to one person and presto! The issue would be taken care of. It was much easier having to deal with one asshole as opposed to dealing with a dozen. That one asshole had gotten brave, though. There were things that he’d brought in to sell that would have landed him a lengthy prison sentence outside the walls of Black Mountain. Luckily, they had not caught him. Making friends with the K9 unit was the best thing he’d done. Now he knew exactly when the drug dogs would be sniffing around the institution. All he had to do was avoid those days, and he was golden.
He snuck in everything, each time upping the ante. Cigarettes led to weed. Weed led to cocaine. Cocaine led to heroin. Heroin led to his current predicament.
It was hard as hell to sneak in a gun.
At least it was before yesterday.
His lead inmate had approached him about bringing in a gun. The amount of money offered for it was staggering, especially since he didn’t have to buy the gun himself. All he had to do was pick it up from a former inmate on the outside and bring it in. Simple as that. The former inmate had given him something that he could sneak easier, too. A subcompact Glock 27 was a small handgun, chambered in .40 caliber and half of the damn thing was made from plastic. Piece by piece, he had taken the gun into the institution, and now he was carrying the entire gun on his person, complete with enough ammo for two full magazines.