Featured Fiction
“Get up hurry! Put your hands in the slots, convict.” Dillard
Wamchukie shouted those words through the barred opening in my
cell. “They coming, hurry!”
“How’s the zombie war going? Those shells whistling
over mean they’re getting close. This place surrounded, right?”
I said. “Are you going to feed me to your dead relatives,
Wamchukie?” He shoved me on my face and snatched me up by the
cuffs and threw me against the wall; blood trickled from my
nose and ran along my lips.
“I wish; you sick piece of shit! My orders are to
evacuate the building; the state wants to execute you.” They
stood me up and threw me against the wall. Blood trickled from
my nose and ran along my lips.
I spat the words. “Who’s your boy? Um… he’s cute, I like
blonds.”
The tall thin rookie lunged at me and Wamchukie blocked
him. “We got to go, Smith!” They hobbled me down the prison gray
colored hallway past trashed open cells. Shells exploded and
shook the building dimming the lights.
“That was really close fat boy. Hey before we die, you
got those pictures of my wife’s butt?”
“She’s my wife now, Nelson. Keep moving!”
“I was first, she likes hung short guys. You like
my leftovers, Wamchukie? Those five girls I killed had
butts like hers. Delicious. Did the zombies get her yet or
have you heard from her?” I laughed a hard phony laugh.
“Shut up!” He yanked the neck chains. “Shut up, Nelson!”
I gagged and spit on the wall when he loosened the collar.
“You wish, fat boy. Remember when you called yourself
torturing me with those pictures of her legs open? Well,
I wonder will the horny zombies go for those smooth vanilla
thighs or go straight for the gold. Yeah, Wamchukie, they’ll
take eating her to new heights. Ha…ha. What do you think?”
The bulging veins in his face and neck were reaching
critical mass. Good, for months I saved my big toe toenails.
They were thick and razor sharp. I tied several of them together
with a strand of hair. One plunge into Wamchukie’s jugular and
he bleeds to death. The rookie wouldn’t be a problem. I
was half everybody’s size so rookies under estimated me.
Big mistake. Even in these shackles I could break
his neck with ease.
When we got to the Supermax wing entrance, smeared
blood trails covered the floor. The stench of death turned
my stomach. A guard’s headless body was wedged in the bars
and a bloody axe lay next to it. His pistol was
still holstered.
“Jesus! We got to get out of here!” Wamchukie bent
over to get the gun. I shifted the toenail shank in my
mouth and spit it in my hand. I knocked the obese
guard against the wall and stabbed him in the jugular.
Blood pulsated out of the wound with every heartbeat. Smith
drew his baton and rushed me. I dropped to my knees, shot
upward and crashed both my hands under his chin. He flew back
against the bars. His body shook uncontrollably and finally
he was out cold.
I got his keys, took off the shackles, drug the rookie
to the bars and chained him. I heard small weapons fire down
the hall replaced with blood curdling screams as the strange
smelling mist permeated the hallway.
I waited for Wamchukie to turn.
He stirred in his puddle of blood, groaned and slowly
got to his feet. His blood shot eyes swam in their sockets.
I swung the axe at Wamchukie’s neck. His head bounced
on the floor by the shackled rookie. I spat on the dead head.
“I killed you twice, fat boy!” I slapped the rookie conscious,
picked up the head and dropped in his lap. He screamed and
started crying. “Don’t cry cutie, you’re going to be my dinner.”
He struggled in the chains. “Let me go!” I shook my
head. “Or we’re both dinner, convict!”
“They don’t eat each other. Ha…ha.” I picked up the
pistol, cocked it and pointed it at my heart and…
Eric Burbridge has been writing short fiction for years and he’s the author of the short story collection, “Consolidated Separates and Consolidated Separates Too.” His work has also been published in numerous literary magazines. He is currently working on a novel.