Zepp, J J Page 17

  Back in the Warder’s Office, I told them what I knew about the trigger. I was somewhat economical with the truth, down playing Joe Thursday’s role in the whole thing and giving him the first name that came to my mind, Dom Buchanan.

  When I’d finished, Pratt said, “That’s it? That’s the big secret? So the military fucks up and releases a deadly virus and we end up with this cluster fuck. That’s the big secret? We already knew that.” Then as an afterthought he added, “You ain’t holding out on us now are ya?

  “That’s all I know. I swear.”

  “There has to be something more to this,” Tucci said, cradling his chin like Rodin’s Thinker, “something between the lines, something we’re not seeing.”

  “Either that or this dude’s holding out on us,” Pratt said.

  “No,” Tucci said, “no, I don’t believe he is. But there’s something we just aren’t seeing.”

  “Either way,” Pratt said, “we’re done here. You can go back to your cell now. We’re having us a little knees up tonight, so you and them other two boys better rest up. You’re the main attraction.”

  twenty one

  Back at the cell I told Babs what had happened.

  “Lot of activity going on outside, too,” Babs said. “I tried to get up on the bunk to get a look but they worked me over pretty good the other day. Think I might have a few busted ribs. Tried to ask our friend Roy here to check it out, but he’s been snoring it up all day.”

  “I’m awake asshole,” Roy said from the next cell. “You’re not the only one took a beating.”

  Yeah, but you’re a corporation man, one of the elite.”

  “Har-dee-fucking-har. You freelancers are always so full of shit. Anyway, all they’re doing out there is putting up a compound, probably to take overflow from the prison.”

  I jumped up onto the bunk and took a look outside. All four sides of the compound had been erected creating an enclosure of some fifty by fifty feet. The bikers were now fixing razor wire to the fence on the inside of the enclosure, starting at ground level up to about six feet in height.

  There was also a smaller enclosure, attached to the main one, with an inter-leading gate, and a walkway leading from the enclosure to D Block.

  When I described this to Babs he said right away, “That ain’t no enclosure gentlemen, that’s a fighting cage.”

  “Bullshit,” Roy said.

  “Delude yourself if you want to, my friend,” said Babs. “That’s a fighting cage alright. And like the man said to Chris, we’re the main attraction. What do you think Pratt has in mind? Open mike night at the local comedy club?”

  Roy was silent for a bit and then he said, “Pendragon won’t stand for it.”

  “Oh yeah,” Babs said, “Pendragon’s going to waste valuable resources sending out the cavalry to recue a field agent. That would be a first.”

  “I don’t mean me,” Roy said. “I’m talking about Pratt and Tucci. Pendragon’s not going to put up with this shit for much longer.”

  “Yeah, well don’t hold your breath.”

  “Seriously man,” Roy continued. “Tucci’s been walking a fine line for too long. He’s been on the radar for a while now.”

  “What’s Tucci’s part in all this anyway?” I asked.

  “He’s an independent…” Roy started but Babs cut him off.

  “Cut the crap, Roy,” he said. “He’s a Resurrection man. Pendragon employs psychos like him to try out the latest drugs they come up with. Supposedly, you’re looking for a cure for the virus, but…”

  “You said supposedly,” Roy interrupted, there’s no supposing about it, we are…”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Babs said. “Point is, the Pendragon Corporation hands out little fiefdoms to the likes of Tucci in exchange for capturing Zs and trying out your little concoctions on them.”

  “Which Tucci hasn’t been bothering to do much of lately,” Roy said. “Instead he’s spending his time up here partying with Pratt, dispensing Pendragon Corporation property like party favors and now apparently hatching some half-assed plan to muscle in on our territories.”

  “Tell us about this blue shit,” Babs said.

  “Sorry,” Roy responded, “Classified.”

  “Oh cut the crap, Roy. No one shares the real need-to-know stuff with a field agent. Just tell us what you know.”

  “Can’t do that,” Roy said.

  “Look,” said Babs, “By this time tomorrow you, me and Chris here will likely be Zombie shit. Ask yourself, how much classified information is worth to a pile of shit, then decide if you still want to hold out on us.”

  Roy was silent for a while. “Okay,” he said finally. Here’s what I know, which doesn’t amount to much. This blue shit, as you call it, is BH-17. The BH stands for Blueberry Hill. It’s called that because it smells like…

  “…blueberries,” I completed.

  “Correct. The 17 is the version number. This is the most promising solution we’ve developed. We’ve seen some good results from Phoenix, from Aspen and from Denver, cities where the contractors can be bothered to do what they’re paid for.

  “Thing is most of the results are short term. We’ve seen superficial wounds heal on some victims, but they soon reverse again. We’ve seen newly infected Zs become quite lucid, even regain some basic reasoning ability, but unless they are constantly doped with the stuff they soon revert. And after a while it just burns them up.”

  “But it works differently on humans,” I said, “I seen that myself.”

  “Oh yeah,” Roy said, “On humans it has a powerful narcotic effect, similar to PCP, only much stronger. And we’re still not sure about the long-term effects. What we do know is that it will burn you out quicker than a Roman candle, particularly if you’re taking it undiluted.”

  “So what would be the effect, for example, of downing one of those vials,” Babs wanted to know.

  “The whole vial?”

  “The whole thing.”

  Roy let out a sharp breath. “Never seen it done myself but my guess is a short burst, maybe five minutes, of extreme activity, super human strength even, then who knows, your heart’s likely to explode in your chest. “

  twenty two

  Outside the sounds of activity was winding down. The banging had all but stopped and been replaced with the rustling of wire bales being rolled out and fixed to posts. I could hear instructions being barked and responded to with curses and occasional laughter. Then even those sounds died down and all was quiet.

  By the changing of the light I guessed we were heading towards early evening. I lay down on the cot and stared up at the watermarked paintwork above me.

  “Roy?” I said, speaking into the silence.

  “Uh huh.”

  “What you were asking me about the trigger, what makes the corporation think I know anything?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t.”

  “And my daughter?”

  “We don’t have her,” Roy said, then added, “far’s I know.”

  I lie on the cot and watched the shadows of the bars lengthening on the ceiling. Eventually they were usurped by the creeping dark as the cellblock fell into blackness. Both Babs and Roy had fallen silent and I imagined they were lost in contemplating what was probably our last few hours on earth.

  Presently, I heard voices and caught a sickening waft of seared flesh. Then suddenly light flooded into the cell and a cheer when up from outside. I looked out of the cell window and could see that the prison yard had undergone quite a transformation.

  Where once there’d been nothing but bare earth was now an arena, the fighting cage at its center, chairs on three sides, a raised platform complete with red, white and blue bunting. On the platform six seats were arranged in a straight line, and at its center stood a single microphone stand. At either end of the deck there were a pair of double-stacked speakers.

  I couldn’t see the barbeque pits but I
could smell them and see the light of their flames, reflected off the trees beyond the prison fence to my left.

  A few of Pratt’s men were busying themselves with final preparations, straightening chairs, opening and shutting the gates on the fighting cage and the like.

  In the distance I now heard the rumble of many motorcycles approaching, and after a while I saw their lights crest a hill in a seemingly endless stream. It looked as though Pratt had summoned outriders from the furthest reaches of his kingdom for tonight’s festivities.

  As more and more of the bikers arrived, the seats in the auditorium began to fill up. There were whoops and shouts and lots of good-natured jostling. One or two of these got out of hand and punch-ups flared but were quickly extinguished.

  Crates of beer and trays of shot glasses were distributed and consumed.

  At some point one or more of the bikers fired shots into the air and everyone seemed to join in, in a display to rival Stanley Tucci’s fireworks. Even the guards in the towers got in on the act and sent arcing lines of tracer into the night sky.

  Babs asked me what was going on and when I told him he simply snorted.

  After a while I came down from my perch and lay on the cot again. Someone was testing the microphone with the traditional, “testing, one, two three,” followed by a screech of feedback that brought a cheer from the crowd.

  “Looks like we’ve gotten ourselves into a fix here,” I said to Babs.

  “Ain’t no fix gotten into that can’t be gotten out of,” Babs said.

  “Confucius?”

  “Charles A. Babbage.”

  “What’s the A for?”

  “Ain’t none of your business,” Babs said and laughed.

  “How can you be joking at a time like this?” Roy said from the darkness.

  Babs seemed to think about that for a while, then said, “Way I figure, you can go out sobbing and wailing, or you can go out with a laugh on your lips. Either way you’re fucked, so why give them the satisfaction of seeing they broke you.”

  It was the first time I’d heard Babs use the f-word.

  twenty three

  The lights suddenly went on in our cellblock and I heard the footfalls of someone approaching.

  Olaf appeared outside my cell, without Pitbull, this time, but with an escort of four burly bikers armed with shotguns and wearing cartridge belts across their chests.

  “Time’s up fellers,” Olaf giggled, slurring the words and looking the worse for wear. He fumbled in his pocket, then patted himself down with a confused look on his face. He located the keys, hanging from his belt, and his face lit up as he showed them first to me and then to the armed escort.

  On the third attempt he got the cell door open, and I stepped out into the corridor. One of the guards then took the keys from Olaf and opened the other two cells.

  We were marched back along the corridor, through the foyer and out of the main door. Then we were led in darkness around the outside of the building. At one stage Roy stumbled and one of the guards caught him by the arm and jostled him back into place.

  As we rounded the corner of C Block we were suddenly in bright light. Ahead of us I could see the fighting cage with the raised platform. On every side of it were the bikers, big muscular men in leather jackets and dirty, cut-off denims, each of them bearing the now familiar insignia of ‘The Dead Men.”

  A buzz rippled through the crowd as the first of the bikers noticed us approaching. Then it swelled to a roar as the word spread. We were jeered and jostled, spat on, and drenched in beer.

  As we approached, a guard opened the gate to the smaller holding cage and we were pushed inside. Once the gate was secured we were told to back up to the fence and our cuffs were removed.

  There were three men in there already, three scrawny, terrified looking men, dressed in nothing but their underwear.

  One of them, a man with gray flowing locks and a beard, stood with his eyes closed and his hands folded together as he mouthed a silent prayer. The other two were clearly petrified.

  One had a badly fractured leg, and was weeping openly, wailing like a lost child.

  The other was a skinny, pigeon-chested man, with a milk-white complexion and wire-framed glasses. He looked beseechingly in my direction, and when he caught my eye, gave me a desperate smile. I smiled back at him and saw tears roll down his cheeks.

  Babs walked over to the man and put an arm around his shoulder. Then he beckoned the other man closer and embraced the two of them while they sobbed and the bikers chanted, “Fagots! Fagots! Fagots!”

  Soon the chant was lost in a much louder cheer as Virgil Pratt and Stanley Tucci mounted the steps to the stage. Four other men, wearing the regalia of ‘The Dead Men’, followed. I recognized one of them as VJ.

  While the others took their seats, Pratt strode towards the microphone and adjusted it to his height. He had on a fresh white shirt and his Stetson was perched on his head. He was wearing his gunfighter’s holster and sidearm.

  “Dead Men!” Pratt said into the microphone and a cheer of ‘Dead Men! Dead Men! went up. Pratt let them run with it for a while then held up his arms and the chant quickly died down.

  “You know I ain’t one for bullshit talkin’’ Pratt continued, “Leave that to the Corporation Man.” Another huge cheer from the crowd.

  “Now, I brought you all in tonight for two reasons. One, cause I figured you could all use a party.” He stilled the cheer that rose with a wave of his hand, then continued, “Two, because I thought you could all use a fuckin’ good party!”

  This time he let them cheer.

  “Seriously, folks, there are plans afoot that I been discussin’ with your captains, sitting here on the deck with me. Plans that are gonna spread our doctrine and our creed from here to, pardon my French, Cali-fuckin’-fornia and all the way to New-fucking-York.

  “But now ain’t the time for jawin’, now’s the time to eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we…” he cupped a hand to his ear cueing a response from the crowd.

  “Die!” They screamed in unison.

  When they settled, Pratt continued in a more serious tone. “In day’s of old brothers, the Roman kings used to put on shows for their citizens. They’d throw Christian folk in to be eaten by lions, and they’d pit brave gladiators, champions, against each other in mortal combat.

  “Tonight, we have such a show for you, so lets quit fuckin’ around and…let the games begin!

  The loudest cheer of the evening erupted from the crowd. Many of the bikers had left their seats and crowded around the fighting cage, squabbling and jockeying for position.

  The four shotgun totting guards stepped into the enclosure and separated the man with the broken leg from us. One of the guards opened the inter-leading gate and pushed the man through. He overbalanced and went crashing to the ground, letting out a scream of pain as he did.

  Then he hobbled to his feet and stood in the middle of the arena. He looked towards Babs and Babs gave him a nod, which the man returned.

  From our left came the clank of metal on metal, and when I looked in that direction, I saw the door linking D Block to the yard, begin to creak open on its heavy hinges.

  Two Z’s stepped through, a man and a woman. They looked furtively round and sniffed the air and then noticed the man in the fighting cage just sixty or so yards away.

  The female Z reacted first, charging down the run with the male close behind her. As they approached the fighting cage the gate separating it from the run was slid back and they flew at the man standing in the cage, knocking him to the ground.

  The female Z went straight for the throat, ripping at it and releasing a spray on blood. The male grabbed hold of the man’s fractured leg, twisting and pulling, ripping it from his body. It was over in seconds.

  On the stage Virgil Pratt gave a thumbs down and the guards, firing from outside the cage, put the two Z’s down with headshots. The crowd booed.

  Next into the cage was the bearded man, who
continued praying, even as the Z’s tore him apart.

  Then the spectacled guy was pushed forward, shaking each of us by the hand before walking into the cage. He too accepted his fate without a fight.

  By this time, the crowd was getting restless and angry. They’d wanted a fight, they’d wanted to see people crying in terror and begging for their lives. What they’d seen instead, was three brave men who’d gone to their terrible deaths with dignity.

  twenty four

  Virgil Pratt took up the mike again and stilled their jeers, “Friends,” he said. “Quiet down now, the preliminaries are over and we’re moving on to the main event, a royal rumble that pits these three fierce warriors against the might of my Zombie Army!”

  Pratt was getting the crowd onside again and there were loud cheers. In the cage Babs sidled up to me and slipped what felt like a piece of card into my hand.

  “Put it in your pocket,” he said, and I did. “We get in that cage,” Babs continued, “you get behind me and you stay there, understand.”

  “But…”

  “No buts,” he said. “You keep behind me.” Babs had something in his hand, which he now raised to his lips, a small vial containing a bluish liquid.

  “How the hell…” I started to say.

  “Courtesy of Pete the biker,” Babs said, “Remember him?”

  “But how?”

  “Stashed it where the sun don’t shine, and where dumb ass bikers fail to look.”

  There was a drop left in the bottom of the vial, “Gimme a shot of that,“ Roy said, and slugged it down.

  On the stage, Pratt was finishing his prelude, “Let’s get it on!” he screamed, and the crowd joined him.

  “Pratt! Pratt! Pratt!” they chanted as the three of us were pushed into the fighting cage. The bodies of six Z’s and the broken corpses of the three men sent in before us littered the ground.

  Right away Babs pushed me behind him with a force that almost sent me into the razor wire piled against the fence.