Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By Eric Burbridge

Photo by cottonbro on

            “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 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 pass 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…

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