Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time (7 page)

Chapter
13

The Hard Times of
Marquell Washington

Prisoner 10046, a.k.a. Marquell Washington, peered through
his cell door into the darkness as shotgun blasts grew nearer. It looked like
the guards wanted space for the new arrivals, and his already short life
expectancy shrank to minutes.

Situations like this tend
to make one ponder how they ended up behind bars in the first place. In
Marquell’s case, having a single mom funded by ten-dollar blowjobs and welfare
schemes was a good start. Even worse, her powerful crack addiction meant he was
on his own since the beginning.

From shoplifting to being an eight-year-old drug mule,
Marquell had learned the game on the street and joined the fast track to
hard-core thuggery. By his twelfth birthday he’d mastered the art of the sucker
punch and even committed his first murder. No one besides his mom’s pimp ever
realized she was gone, let alone cared.

Far from feeling any self-pity, the dreadlocked and powerfully-built
inmate smiled broadly while reminiscing. He’d combined street smarts with an
unnatural love of reading developed in juvenile detention, and books like Sun
Tzu’s
Art of War
had taught him to control the backstreets of Chicago
like his own personal fiefdom. The Black Lords, a gang known for their brand of
violent street justice, were impressed as Marquell ran his block and rose
through their ranks one crime at a time.

He fought, stole,
threatened and killed his way to the top, getting tons of money, women and
drugs along the way. It was power, however, that Marquell lusted after, and
that brought out his sadistic side. Foes that crossed him died painfully, with
no quarter given, and no questions asked
.

He was a monster, and a talented one at that. So talented
that the F.B.I. collared him on federal Rico statutes for racketeering and
extortion. They would have had him on eight counts of murder one, but the key
witness suffered an unfortunate “accident” involving a chainsaw and a
blowtorch. The trial and resulting tabloid circus put the national spotlight on
Marquell and made him a star in the underworld. Lockup hadn’t been horrible. He
ran his gang from inside, settling scores and consolidating power, and still
managed to get drugs and even sex from a fat prison counselor when needed.

His major problems came from the Latino inmates and their
constant attempts on his life. However, this beef simply gave Marquell a stage
for his craft. First, he strangled Captain Juan Garcia of the United Mexican
Mafia and framed the 13
^th
Street Crew. While they fought it out, he
poisoned
Gordo
Carlos of
Hermanos Locos
in the cafeteria. Fat
Carlos was face down in the mystery meat for less than five minutes before they
mistakenly retaliated against the
Chicano Playeros
in the weight room
with a handful of shanks and a homemade taser.

Marquell’s Black Lords soon filled the power vacuum and the
inner city Machiavelli led a massacre. With a stratospheric IQ and no morality
to speak of, Marquell was capable of anything. He could’ve been somebody, given
a different upbringing. Now he sat in a squalid ten-by-ten cell awaiting
summary execution, all because one of his homeboys dropped a dime to avoid a
five-year stretch.

He instantly snapped back into the present as footsteps
echoed down the hallway.

Warden McCabe often joked about building the prison inside
the ghetto in order to save on gas money. No one ever said he had a sense of
humor. What he did have was a powerful drive for money, and like Marquell, a
total lack of scruples. Working with the governor and mayor to tear down
blighted neighborhoods for the maximum-security prison was a major coup and the
project was completed in record time. Of course, several sweetheart deals made
in the process didn’t hurt.

He already treated the inmates like roaches and after
martial law failed, stomping them was the logical choice. With the breakdown of
society complete, he was the law, and the soon-to-be empty prison would be his
personal domain. Filling it with wealthy tenants was his next step, though he
wasn’t interested in cash, titles or deeds. Gold would be king, and the
helicopters landing in the yard were loaded with suitcases of bullion and
uncirculated coins.

For now though, he focused on another vice – revenge. “Have
you heard the good news, Mr. Washington? You’re scheduled for early release,”
Warden McCabe said in a friendly manner, his smile far too wide. The fake smile
evaporated. “Actually, I wanted to tell you in person that Isaac and Slick Luke
are not with us any longer. It seems their accommodations were needed by people
that were actually worth a shit.”

Marquell was stunned by the news of his lieutenants’ deaths
but kept his emotions in check. “You’re right, those niggas weren’t worth a
shit.”

“Not the sentimental type I see. Nonetheless, you’ll be
seeing them shortly,” the warden said softly, as if speaking to a child. “Your
schemes have been a thorn in my side like you wouldn’t believe. And staging
that riot on Christmas last year, that really was over the top.”

“I ain’t done scheming yet, bitch.”

“Oh but you are. Have you ever owned a pet?” Marquell
ignored the question. “No, I don’t suppose you would have, being a member of
the permanent underclass. I myself had a pet snake growing up. A python,
actually. Once a month I’d put a hamster down in its cage. For a while it would
keep doing typical hamster things, nibbling on lettuce, wriggling his little
nose, totally oblivious to the danger.”

“Cool story, bro.”

“Eventually, the hamster would see the snake and freeze, you
see, his little brain couldn’t comprehend the reality staring him in his teeny
tiny face. Then he would snap out of his denial and run around in circles,
looking for an exit. Of course, he wouldn’t find one, and so his next step
would be to squeal and squeal and squeal, hoping I’d rescue him.”

Marquell turned his back as the warden continued. “Realizing
help wasn’t coming, he’d frantically dig at the floor. Digging, digging,
digging, like he could tunnel out through the glass.” He glanced at his shiny
Vacheron Constantin, a watch far too expensive for an honest federal employee.
“Look at the time. I need to greet some minor celebrities at the helicopter
pad. Paying guests, you understand.”

The shotgun blasts picked up again in the distance and were
even closer this time. Having gloated sufficiently, Warden McCabe began to walk
away and then paused for a moment. “Oh, and one more thing. Start digging.”

Alone again in the dark, Marquell did indeed go full-hamster
as the pressure hit him square on. “I can’t go out like this!” he screamed
while ripping up his bed, looking for something, anything he could use. For
what purpose, he had no clue.

He pounded on the cell door with all his might, but it
didn’t budge. So Marquell turned, and, in an astonishing feat of strength,
ripped the metal toilet from the floor. It too clanged off the door uselessly
as cold water pooled around him.

Marquell could hear Steve, the prison’s most demented guard,
taunting his victims while reloading, “Don’t worry, dirtballs, I got enough for
everyone.”

Footsteps approached once again and Marquell’s broad
shoulders slumped. Lights out.

Only it wasn’t Steve.

An angelic voice whispered to him from the shadows. “I’m
springing you, baby.” It was Susan, his counselor and pseudo-love interest.

The cell door clanked open and Marquell stepped cautiously
into the hallway as Susan threw her arms around his muscular frame. “You know I
wouldn’t leave you.”

Marquell smirked as he realized all his planning, tactics
and ruthlessness hadn’t mattered one bit. In the end, it was his love of fat
women that saved the day. “Let me hold that flashlight, in case we run into
trouble.”

She handed it over and he gripped the Maglite tightly. The
weight and smoothness felt oddly comforting in his hands. “There’s one more
thing, what’s the cell block code?”

Susan realized for the
first time that Marquell might not be the sweet-talking cuddle-bunny of her
dreams. She ignored the chill creeping down her spine. “I don’t know it and—”
Susan’s words were cut short as the Maglite crashed heavily into her jaw. The
impact turned the flashlight on, and a stream of teeth and blood glittered
momentarily in the beam before falling out of sight.

He yanked Susan from the floor by her hair. “What’s the
fucking code?”

She sputtered it out
between sobs, and Marquell dumped her to the ground like a piece of garbage.
Things were about to get interesting for prisoner 10046.

Chapter
14

Clown-Car
Cluster-Fuck

Blake’s hands trembled as he opened the back door to his
fiancée’s apartment, his optimism already robbed by the discovery of a
shattered balcony window. They quickly fanned out and found signs of a raucous
bachelorette party, but no girls.

“Guys, come out here,” Cliff said ominously from the living
room. There was a large, dark red puddle in the middle of the carpet. Blood
red.

Jim sank to his knees. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

Blake stuck a finger into the liquid, sniffed it, and then
put it to his lips. “Relax, it’s red wine.”

“Quick, grab some seltzer water,” Cliff said, cutting the
tension down noticeably. “The girls must have left.”

They were so relieved in fact, that nobody saw the G-string
wearing man coming down the stairwell behind them, and the muscle-bound
stripper pounced on Cliff in an instant.

“What the hell?” the banker said as the weight landed
squarely on his back.

Blake raised his weapon to fire.

Click
.

To nobody’s surprise, the shady-looking gun Smokey had
purchased for a twenty-sack of weed and a cracked water bong failed miserably.

Cliff tried to fling the bigger man off him while Blake
grabbed a nearby barstool and bashed at the spray-tanned assailant,
accomplishing little as the slippery man ignored the blows and focused on his
squirming prey.

Jim put his gun to the back of the stripper’s head and
pulled the trigger. The exit wound spewed Blake with gore and the spent bullet
struck him square in the chest, knocking him down.

“I’m hit,” he said while instinctively reaching for the
injury. But the bullet had slowed just enough, and there wasn’t one.

“Thank God.” Jim lifted his friend up and turned to a
visibly shaken Cliff. “You okay?”

“Good thing I had my coat on. Men’s Warehouse. Fuck yeah I
like how I look,” he said with a nervous laugh.

Blake pointed to the body. “And what was this asshole doing
here?”

“I can give you two guesses, but you’ll only need one,”
Cliff answered.

“Pretty cocky for a guy that just got tea-bagged a minute
ago,” Blake said. “Anyways, don’t tell the guys about the stripper. We’ll never
hear the end of it.”

Jim shook his head. “My wife and your fiancée are nowhere to
be found, and that’s what you’re worried about?”

There was a loud crashing noise downstairs as a crowd ran
through the front door at full speed. The gunshot had gained unwanted attention
and the mob began storming one apartment after another.

Cliff threw his hands up in the air. “Really?”

Blake took the lead. “Grab whatever we can and let’s go out
the back.” They ransacked the fridge and rustled up a dozen frozen dinners,
some bottled water and a half-eaten penis-shaped cake.

“This is it?” Cliff asked.

“Jen doesn’t cook, and this is Chicago. You know there’s a
restaurant on every block.” Blake searched for something in the back of the
fridge. “Where the hell is it?” he mumbled under his breath.

Cliff peeked around his
shoulder. “Do you need help finding something?”

“It’s nothing,” Blake said and then followed the others
outside. Now all they had to do was make it to the car and navigate past about
a thousand bloodthirsty savages. Piece of cake. Piece of penis cake.

* * *

“Give it a rest. You’re not coming in,” Charlie said out the
window. The men had shoved a couch between the door and the stairwell, but it
still threatened to cave in at any moment as more cannibals crowded onto the
porch.

“We need to clear a path for Jim and the others,” Trent
said. “It’s looking like the welfare office at the first of the month out
there.”

“Do you think you can shoot a few?” Bruce said. “Thin the
herd out so to speak.”

“I don’t have many bullets left, but sure, why not?”

Charlie frowned. “You might attract more.”

“Here comes Cliff’s car,” Trent said as his eyes widened.
“And they’re coming in hot too.”

This was an understatement as the Lexus had four flat tires,
two busted windows and three infected madmen clinging to the top, covered-wagon
style. Several hundred more trailed behind on foot.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a real clown-car
cluster-fuck here,” Russ said, his speech slurred and his scalp bleeding
profusely. “I’m sitting this one out.”

“Trent, you‘re up,” Mike said.

The cop hung out the window, careful not to go as far as
Russ had, and blasted away at the shambling creatures. Just then, the car
rolled up with sparks jumping and road kill flying. It didn’t stop.

The whole apartment groaned as the car slammed into the
porch with a crash and tipped it over. Debris and dead bodies landed on the
luxury vehicle as it was literally raining men.

Charlie formed a hasty plan. “There’s an extension ladder on
the roof that we can drop down. Rob, let’s go.”

The two raced upstairs while Trent fired randomly, taking
down a bearded man in a hospital gown and a school crossing guard. Jim and the
others made their way from the wreckage but had nowhere to go.

Charlie whistled as they lowered the heavy ladder into the
alleyway.

Jim and Blake came up in no time, but Cliff seemed to have
lost a step. He finally made it to the top and then collapsed as Rob yanked the
ladder up. Moments later, they gathered in the living room.

“Any sign of the girls?” Mike asked. Jim shook his head, and
Mike continued. “Russ took a beating. How did you guys do?

“We’re in one piece, but as you can tell,” Blake said and
pointed to the gray matter dripping from his clothing, “it wasn’t pretty.”

Russ hugged him. “I always said my nephew had brains. Now
it’s official.”

“Real funny.” Blake caught a whiff of beer on his uncle’s
breath and noticed the extra cans lying about. “Are you guys fucking drunk?”

“Maybe, what’s it to you?” Russ answered. “You aren’t my
probation officer last I checked.”

“We could’ve been dead for all you knew, and you’re over
here getting liquored up. Shit, we haven’t even been gone an hour.”

Russ pointed at the wreckage. “It looks like Cliff was
drinking too.”

Charlie nodded. “He did take care of our porch problem, but
what happened?”

“I had tunnel vision or something. I think all the
pressure…” Cliff’s face darkened. “You know, it would’ve gone smoother if some
of you pansies hadn’t stayed behind.”

Bruce realized the frat brothers seriously outnumbered them
and tried to calm his friend. “Take a breather, you did good. Everybody’s on
edge.” He pointed at Blake’s garbage bag. “What’s that?”

“We grabbed some food.” Blake turned to Mike. “And we got a
special surprise for you.” He expected to hear some laughs while pulling the
smashed cake out of the bag.

“I guess we need to have a long chat,” Mike said with a wry
smile.

As Mike caught them up on the news, Cliff retreated to the
bathroom to check on his throbbing arm. He took his jacket off and found two
small bruises near his shoulder. The skin felt warm to the touch, and brown pus
shot out when he nudged the spot. Someone knocked on the door.

Cliff rifled through the medicine cabinet and pulled out a
bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He soaked a towel in the solution and wrapped it
around his shaking arm like a tourniquet. That’s when the labor-like pains hit.
His vision blurred and the banker ran to the toilet while blood oozed down his
leg.

The knocking continued while someone talked through the
door, but Cliff no longer knew what words were, much less what they meant. So
he simply stared at the door and waited. Hungrily.