Refuge From The Dead (Book 1): Lockdown (8 page)

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 amassed 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.

In just a few hours, he was going to be $10,000 richer.

That was, until the dead began to rise.

Money wasn’t going to do him much good now, but there were other things to consider, like staying alive and in one piece. Those tenets of survival were going to serve him much better than any amount of money might be able to right now. The sheer number of sympathizers that he could amass would guarantee his survival, along with some other perks. As he pushed the call button for Alpha building, a smile crossed his face.

“Identify.”

“It’s Cunningham. I’ve got the hot box. Dinnertime for the assholes.”

The door buzzed and Cunningham let himself in, dragging the hot box behind him. The inside of the prison always smelled the same to him. It reminded him of high school, and not in a good way. The smell of old deodorant and cheap aftershave combined with old food and the persistent miasma of sweaty ballsack and feet. The damn place smelled like a locker room after a football game, party, and prom all rolled into one. He hated the smell.

Normally there would be another officer to help him with the food, but as short staffed as they were, he was lucky to have a control room operator. Cunningham rolled the hot box into the middle of the room and opened it up. Whatever was for dinner this evening didn’t smell that appetizing, but in all honesty, it never did. There was always some form of potatoes, along with something that resembled meat. Given the choice, he would have become a vegan.

But the veggie tray was special this evening.

Cunningham radioed the control room operator to begin opening the cells, two at a time. One cell from the top tier and one from the bottom tier came and got their food and drinks. While a lockdown was relatively common, none of the inmates asked why. Cunningham began to wonder what exactly they knew. Not that it mattered; he was the one with the bargaining chip. And he was about to spend it to secure a future. The man walking across the top tier was about to take care of that, he just didn’t know it yet.

Daniel Cunningham could not have faced Bill Young under any other circumstances. He’d tried his best to be scarce whenever Bill got the gun, but he didn’t know anyone else that he could get in cahoots with him. Plus, he wasn’t about to split the money with anyone. Cunningham had been accused of having something known in the DOC as “door courage.” Door courage was the ability for a CO to talk as much shit to an inmate as he wanted behind the closed cell door. They tended to be just like Cunningham – small in stature and big on attitude.

He’d show them.

Bill Young came sauntering down from the top tier, grinning a devilish smile as he did. He knew what was up, and he knew what he was having for dinner. He also knew that the world outside of the prison’s walls was going all to shit in a handbasket. Though they weren’t allowed to have FM radios at Black Mountain, information always got in somehow. There was always someone who knew more than the next person did, and so on. Add all the rumors, verified information, and gossip together, and you ended up with what the COs called “inmate.com.” Inmate.com was the database for all dirty deeds, rumors, and grapevine for illicit activities going on inside Black Mountain. It was difficult to get in with someone in the know, but once you did, information was free flowing.

Bill Young was the keeper of all that information.

The leader of the Aryan Brotherhood walked slowly to Officer Cunningham. Cunningham didn’t smile while he reached for the brown tray marked “veggie.” All the other trays were orange, so he made sure to put the Glock in the one tray that he would be able to easily pick out.

“Dinnertime eh, Officer Cunningham?” Bill Young taunted.

Cunningham grabbed the veggie tray from the hot box. He slowly handed it to Bill Young. Bill grabbed it from the officer, but Cunningham held tight. Bill looked down to the tray and then back to the corrupt officer.

“You want to let go of that,
officer
?”

Cunningham grabbed it back abruptly. Bill glared at the officer with a look of disdain. Cunningham held the tray close to his chest and moved a step closer to Bill.

“Things have changed, Young. Do you know what’s going on outside of this prison? Do you have any fucking idea what is going on out there?” Cunningham asked.

“I don’t really give a shit about some virus, Cunningham. Those people are going to die, no matter what. Mother Nature is just speeding up the process. I don’t give a fuck about those nigger-loving liberals on the outside. I want what I’ve paid for. Or do I have to make a call and disappear your whole fucking family? I know your mother isn’t feeling so well here lately, Daniel.”

Cunningham gritted his teeth.
I am in control here,
he thought. “The dead are coming back to life, Young. It’s the end of the goddamned world out there right now, the fucking apocalypse, Bill. If you want to survive past the next few days, you’re going to fucking listen to me.”

Young laughed in his face. “Listen to
you
? Are you fucking high, Daniel? Stop using your own stash.” Bill went to grab the tray, still chuckling. Cunningham held tight.

“Whatever you had planned, you better forget it, you Nazi fuck!” Cunningham hissed.

Young’s face turned crimson red with anger. He pointed to the officer. “I will kill you just like all those niggers in Alexandria, Daniel. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.”

“We can take this place over, Young. If I give you this gun, I want your word that I’m in with you.”

Bill Young’s face softened marginally. It was enough that Cunningham took notice. “You’re serious about the dead coming back to life. Aren’t you? I’m assuming that you have some sort of plan?”

“Yes I am, and yes I do. There are only a dozen officers left, and there will be less than that in a few hours. I’ve already spoken to at least six that are leaving to be with their families. I can help you take over this prison, Bill.”

“Is there a problem, Cunningham?”
Cunningham’s radio interrupted. It was the control room officer. He had been watching the exchange and was checking on the officer’s safety.

“No we’re good here. Offender Young was trying to decide which tray he was going to take.” Cunningham never took his eyes off Young. He started to put the veggie tray back when Young cleared his throat to get his attention. He held out his hand and smiled.

“I’ll take that veggie tray, Officer Cunningham.”

CHAPTER 13

Captain Winston watched on the security cameras as Caine and Helton cleared out the parking lot. Killing five of the undead aimlessly wandering outside wasn’t much of a challenge, seeing as how they moved so damn slow. It didn’t seem difficult to get the upper hand on them, but there were only five. Take a thousand of those determined bastards, and they would be singing a different tune.

The tactical advantage of being where they were – aside from the fences, of course – was the inaccessibility of the institution. The nearest town had a population of about a thousand – not much of an issue even though it was less than two miles away. The prison being situated at the top of a mile-long stretch of highway was a royal pain in the ass during the winter, but now that isolation could work in their favor.

Winston let out a sigh of relief as he watched the van take off down the road. With any luck, they would be back before nightfall. He seriously debated killing the power to the institution, opting to save the juice to run the lights at night because after dark, it was going to be a seriously dangerous place. The nine hundred-plus felons locked up on the inside were going to make sure of that.

Winston closed his eyes. There wasn’t much that he hadn’t done in his fifteen-plus years working for the Department of Corrections, but what he was ordered to do by the Governor and, by proxy, the President was something different entirely. There had to be a better way to do this. There had to be some way of letting the prison serve its intended repurpose. Sure, there would be some friction either way, but the decision would rest solely on his shoulders. He wished there was more time. He wished that he wasn’t the one that had to make the decision. He was no killer, at least not in the way that they wanted him to be.

We can’t keep them here.

There will be people needing help.

Time to make an executive decision.

Winston took a deep breath. What he was about to do went against every moral fiber that he had. Orders were orders, unfortunately. Helton and Caine seemed like they would object to such a thing, so it was a good thing they were gone. Captain Robert Winston was going to have to clean house. The men inside had chosen their path in life, and it’s not as if they were here for missing church on Sundays. They were the worst of the worst, the dregs of society.

It was time to do something.

The people deserved better.

Winston grabbed his radio along with a Glock, three magazines, and several boxes of ammo.

“You need anything else, Captain?” Officer Lane asked.

Winston swallowed hard. “I need that letter, Lane.”

* * *

Michael Caine and Ryan Helton rode silently through the middle of nowhere. After leaving Black Mountain, they had decided to take the road less traveled. There were two main roads leading up to the prison. A new road had been constructed through the middle of the town of Pocahontas, built expressly for shuttling people in and out of Black Mountain. There had been quite a bit of opposition by the town once the road was constructed. The town had been grateful for the prison and the jobs that it brought, but the road had caused friction with the townspeople. Nevertheless, it stood there still. The road was a main thoroughfare into Bluefield, well maintained, and well travelled.

Which is precisely why they had chosen to go the other way.

The secondary road was shitty. What money had been spent on constructing the new road could have been spent on keeping the old one in decent shape, but it was not. Potholes, s-curves, and a generally rough terrain was Route 919. The road was a slightly longer path to Bluefield by about three miles, but it would be less populated, and less populated was what they needed. Bluefield had a population of around 12,000. It was hard to tell how many of them could be infected.

Helton drove down Route 919, being mindful of the litany of potholes, rough patches, and loose gravel. Now was not the time to wreck. Michael rode shotgun, literally. Ryan had given him the 870, putting the AR-15 on the floor between the seats.

“What are we doing, Ryan?” Michael asked.

The question caught Ryan off guard. “What do you mean?”

Michael turned to his friend. “I mean, what are we doing? We are going to rescue my family from danger and putting them in arguably worse danger by bringing them to Black Mountain.”

“Like I said, we need somewhere secure. It’s the ‘making it safe’ that I’m guessing you’re having issues with.”

“Yeah, it is. I’ve been thinking about the letter the Governor sent to us. I think it might be the best route, but I can’t for the life of me bring myself to do it. Killing all those men…”

“Mike, I think you’re reading too much into it right now. I doubt we will go door-to-door at Black Mountain executing inmates. Do you think anyone up there has that kind of gall?”

Michael chuckled humorlessly. “Captain Winston does.”

“Why do you say that? He has a quick temper but he obviously does the right thing. He doesn’t like Cunningham and he gave us permission to come out on our current adventure. That in of itself says a lot to me. He’s all right in my book.”

“Winston is a Navy veteran, you know that? He used to be a SWCC from what I understand. Being a Marine, I suppose that you know what that is?”

Helton eased around a curve, dodging a wayward man on the side of the road. He couldn’t tell if he was infected or not, but he seemed to be lost just the same. The man made no movement towards the van, completely oblivious to its presence.

“Yeah, I do. Special Warfare Combatant-Craft Crewman. The guys that go after Navy SEALs when they need a ride.”

“Exactly. He’s a tough son of a bitch, I’ll give him that, but I don’t know what that means for his mental health. I know for a fact that he has worse PTSD than I do, and I
still
have nightmares about Iraq.”

Ryan shrugged. “Yeah, so do I. never went to Iraq the second go-round but I was in Desert Storm, and let me tell you, that was enough for me. Did my three years and got out.”

There was a long pause. “I think that he’s gonna follow through with that letter, Ryan.”

“And…”

Ryan’s comeback caught Michael off guard. “What? Do you think that it’s the right thing to do?”

“Michael, we’re just following orders.”

“Oh that is such bullshit, Ryan!” Michael exclaimed.

“Bullshit or not, it’s our best chance to survive. I think that…Jesus, Michael. Look…”

As the van slowed down, some of the scope of what was going on became evident. After passing some of the businesses that typically were not busy, they had started to come into the Virginia side of Bluefield. Half the city was in Virginia, half in West Virginia. Big portions of the businesses were on the Virginia side, while most of the population lived on the West Virginia side. There was no way to get to Bluefield Regional without going through the bulk of the business area of Bluefield. As Ryan had rounded a curve, the extent of the destruction became evident.

In less than eight hours, civilization had fallen all to shit.

Rolling into the city, they passed Main Street and the local businesses there. Off to the left were the Post Office and an assortment of shops. Across the road was First National Bank, located in the old Post Office building. The bank had been targeted early. The doors were shattered, glass lay all over the ground. Wayward money blew into the road in front of the bank, signaling that the lost currency was less important than escape from the bank. Money was not the priority anymore. Further up the road, several houses looked the same. Scattered clothes, broken windows, and random personal belongings were all over the place.

From the looks of Bluefield, Michael thought they were pretty much screwed. While the bulk of the population seemed like it was long gone, there was still plenty of movement on the roads. Cars zipped through the streets, ignoring the still-functioning traffic lights and road signs. Michael watched as several people were raiding the local Wal-Mart supercenter. Sporadic gunfire broke out as they drove past the store. From what he could see, people were fighting over trivial thing such as TVs and stereos, ignoring the basic tenets of survival and just grabbing whatever was of value. Food was going to be worth more than any flat screen TV, water and ammo was going to be worth its weight in gold before long, and very few people cared.

Helton slowed down and tried to be as careful as he could. The last thing they needed right now was to get a flat tire in the middle of town. While there were very few of the undead walking about in town, they were few and far between. Most people ignored the walking dead, simply going around them or not paying them any mind whatsoever. Ryan had to ride the fine line between getting through town quickly and avoiding the detritus of the road, of which there was plenty. Several cars had already been abandoned, seemingly for no reason whatsoever. Only a single vehicle was useless, burnt to a charred shell. As they passed the Wal-Mart, more gunfire resonated through town.

“Jesus, people have no fucking clue what to do. Do they?” Michael asked rhetorically.

Ryan looked over to the Wal-Mart as more people scurried through it like desperate ants. “Damn right, they don’t realize that getting a new smart TV ain’t gonna do much for ‘em once the power goes out. Chances are if it’s out at Black Mountain, it won’t be long until it’s out here as well. Goddamn crackheads are having a field day with this shit.”

Michael gripped the 870 a little tighter. He was no stranger to the sounds of hostile gunfire, but the last thing he wanted was to be caught with his pants down and no weapon available. They didn’t have enough ammo to duke it out with anyone for an extended period, so it was paramount that they be as quick and as careful as possible.

After passing the Wal-Mart, the road narrowed down to only three passable lanes. Thankfully, the rest of the road did not have the obstructions that the heavily travelled business area did. Another few minutes and Michael could be in the parking lot of Bluefield Regional, and not long after that, he could finally be with his wife.

“Ah…dammit. Michael, this doesn’t look good,” Ryan said, pointing to the horizon.

Michael leaned forward. What he saw in the distance nearly made him break down. Fear flew into him like a ten-ton truck.

Oh my God…