The Emperor of Bayonne Prison, Chronicles of the Undead

Chronicles of the Undead

The Emperor of Bayonne Prison

(Book One)

Written by William Bebb

Cover Art Designer Hadden Smith IV

Copy Editor Laurel Dunn

This tale is dedicated to everyone who's suffered insomnia caused by all the dreadful things that go bump in the night and all the much-worse things that never do.

This novel is a Hands On Productions & Publication, copyright 2012. All rights reserved. Any distribution of this book without the expressed written permission of the author is illegal and subject to U.S. and international laws. This tale is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents described are solely the result of the author's overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real companies, products, events or people; living, dead, or undead is a coincidence. ISBN: 9781301569816

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other works of fine literature by this author include

Valley of Death, Zombie Trailer Park (Keck)

Zombies of All Hallows Evil (Keck)

What the KECK!? Zombies of the Caribbean (Keck)

Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things (A bit of Keck)

The Tiniest Invaders; Book One, Coexistence

The Tiniest Invaders; Book Two, The Meandering Menace

Upcoming Novels:

Chronicles of the Undead; Book II: Twisto's Town (Spring 2014)

The Tiniest Invaders; Book III Conclusion (2014)

KECK Legacy (Coming eventually)

Preface

Table of Malcontents

An_Unexpected_Steak

Twist_of_Fate

Open_Sesame

Sweet_Dreams

DANGER!_High_Voltage

Parole_Hearing

On_The_Road_Again

It_Could_Have_Been_Worse

A_Simple_Task

Keep_on_Trucking

Darkness_&_Patton

Welcome_to_CooterLique_Louisiana

Paradise_Expired

Robin_Hood

ROAD_CONDITION_Expect_Delays

Sabres_and_Toothpaste

Cell_Block_A

A_Farewell_Breakfast

Closing_thoughts_and_a_sneak_peek

Preface

I want to begin by making it clear that the following story deals with dead people who have ceased being content to lie around on top of or under the ground (as traditional corpses with good manners tend to behave) which are usually classified as zombies.

For those of you who may have read my earlier horror tales such as, Valley of Death: Zombie Trailer Park, Zombies of All Hallows Evil, and What the KECK!? Zombies of the Caribbean, I'd like to make it clear that this story is not set in the same literary universe as those. Those characters still exist and I have future horrible plans for them, but Chronicles of the Undead and its collection of stories including The Emperor of Bayonne Prison is a bit different.

Zombies can be a pain in the butt to write about and yet also quite a bit of fun. In my prior pieces of fine literature (cough, cough) the undead were created due to an unfortunate convergence of biochemical elements that gestated into a nasty virus as a result of an industrial accident. The results were a combination of both of the most popular types of zombies: The still alive yet maniacally homicidal insane and the traditional walking corpse varieties.

I'm sure I wasn't the first guy to come up with the idea of combining the two types in one story, (I'm really not that smart) but I liked it.

The Emperor of Bayonne Prison deals exclusively with crawling, shambling, trudging, walking and even trotting corpses who have reanimated. The issue of why undead humans started rising and causing problems is discussed by characters in the story but they are just making guesses. As the author, I know the cause and perhaps one theory mentioned by the characters is correct but I won't say which it is.

This story revolves principally around one young man who has been struggling to hold on to his sanity and find a reason to keep living in a world that seems to have died all around him.

Nearly everything else I've ever written (usually by savagely pounding on computer keyboards until a very long string of semi-coherent words appeared) have been multiple perspective stories. I like those kinds of stories.

WHY?

Think of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings. That epic saga would probably still have been very enjoyable had the author only recounted things from the perspectives of Frodo and Samwise. But Mr. Tolkein presented his readers with a rich tapestry of very different characters - each with their own concurrent story lines and I'm grateful he did it that way.

Generally, I believe the wider the scope and more varied the viewpoints are in a story, the better it usually is. There's always the danger of introducing too much and confusing the readers, but if the story's good I think it usually works out pretty well.

I wrote all that just so I could inform you that The Emperor of Bayonne Prison is not a multiple perspective novel - it's a single-thread story. But it's a good, solid, tale and I hope enjoyable thread.

Also, at the very end of this novel, I'll be addressing the question of why zombies or the undead make such great literary fodder in the hands of someone who gets it. And I may even include some of the hows and whys on my writing process.

Semi Obligatory Warnings

If you are a stickler for perfect grammar, punctuation and comma placement, read no further! Because within this tale you will find things that will undoubtedly cause you great greasy gobs of angst and torment. While some of my previous stories have met with a great deal of success, a few readers have almost gleefully poked their accusatory fingers at numerous grammatical problems. Principally regarding comma placement in weird locations or missing where they should have been.

Sigh...

Hopefully things will be better, because I have recently gratefully and gleefully accepted the services of a copy editor who is supposed to find and fix the majority of my goofy literary shortcomings. She has a reputation as a bit of a Relentless Shrew, but I'm very thankful to welcome her to Hands On Productions & Publications. On behalf of the readers and myself I wish to sincerely say thank you Laurel Dunn, for all your hard work and diligence.

This warning is for people who hate reading about animals that get hurt and or eaten.

I don't go out of my way to depict bad things happening to animals, but in a world filled with ravenous undead people it would be unrealistic to give animals immunity against anything unfortunate happening to them. In summation, if you're one of those PETA people or their ilk you shouldn't read any further.

Let me see, I've warned off anyone who is literate and everyone who loves animals with a deep passion. Who else should I warn not to read this story? I should probably just say that no one should read it... but won't.

Chronicles of the Undead, Book One:

The Emperor of Bayonne Prison

An Unexpected Steak

Miniature rivers of sweat were flowing unchecked down the young man's body. He was breathing hard and his heart was pounding fiercely as the pack of dogs pursued him - some were barking, but most were breathing much too heavily to afford such an extravagance. Just ahead there was one of the long metal staircases attached to tall dark gray granite walls. The steps were undoubtedly dew covered and extremely slick in the almost-cool early morning dawn. He'd almost slipped and fallen on them a couple of times before and reluctantly slowed down to a trot as he started climbing them.

The music coming from the earplugs attached to his MP3 player was an energetic driving tune played by an eighties rock group he'd never heard of before coming to Bayonne called Queen. A few months earlier, upon first hearing it, he hadn't cared much for it. But with an extremely limited library of songs available he couldn't imagine doing his morning run without it any longer.

At the top of the tall staircase he paused long enough to catch his breath and glanced down at the half-dozen guard dogs still climbing and yelled, Hurry up! What if I were trying to escape? before running out on the narrow catwalk. There were handrails on both sides, but he'd grown fairly comfortable with the height and never used them anymore. The catwalk was made of concrete sections bolted next to the apex of the forty foot tall walls encircling his vast, if not grossly under-populated, domain. On his left he could see the sun peeking over one of the large grayish buildings.

He ran faster and refused to look down on the other side of the wall. Not out of a fear of heights - he just knew what was down there. There was also the ever-present rancid decaying stench to remind him if he ever forgot. It was less overpowering early in the morning. A fact he was grateful for, but they still stank. He couldn't ignore that, but he could avoid looking down at the multitude of undead that was the source of the stench, just beyond the walls.

Queen was followed by Three Dog Night singing about a place called Shambala. It sounded like a wonderful place and he sang boisterously along with the group. Partly because no one (who was alive at least) could hear him and tell him he couldn't carry a tune worth a damn. The other reason he sang was to cover the grunts, growls and occasional yells coming from the far side of the wall. They always made rather disturbing noises, but the yells and screams only usually happened during his morning runs and they noticed him. If it was rainy, too cold, or too hot, he'd run in the gymnasium.

During the first few months he ran along the walls he'd been downright terrified when they howled and yelled at him. Gradually, he tuned them out and almost got a thrill out of knowing he was wanted by someone. Albeit wanted only to be their meal.

He passed one of the long-ago abandoned guard towers and felt better upon spotting a flock of birds flying toward the morning sun.

Wish I could join you guys. I really do. Don't care where you're going, either. As long as there's fresh air,

he thought enviously.

Gradually the rotting smell lessened, very slightly and he slowed down to a trot.

It's kind of ironic. Out there in the real world, before it turned into a shambling nightmare, I was rarely able to walk a mile without needing a couple of doughnuts and maybe a nap. But look at me now,

he thought with a grin and imagined an infomercial with him as the spokesman.

"That's right ladies and gentlemen - give the Bayonne Prison Diet Program twelve months and you too can drop those unsightly pounds. Back when I gave up the name George Burns for inmate LA-294376 I used to break scales and weighed nearly four hundred pounds the girls wouldn't look at me without giving me the stink eye. Ha, ha, ha. And now for the ridiculously low fee of committing the felony of your choice, you too can lose weight the fun, easy, jailhouse way."

He saw himself wearing a pair of his old pre-prison ginormous pants with his (hard fought for) new 36-inch waist and almost laughed. Jogging past the athletics fields, he looked down and guessed the grass was at least thigh high. Thinking that it looked much prettier than when the convicts had been there.

Halfway around the perimeter of Bayonne's walls, he slowed to a gradual stop and leaned forward, panting with his hands planted on his knees. The sound of the dog’s claws clicking on the cement catwalk behind him was steadily growing louder.

And the leader of the pack today is...Lance? Come on Lance, you can do it,

he thought with his eyes still closed as he slowly caught his breath.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the lead dog was Smokey, followed closely by Lance and the rest of the gang. It hurt to look at them. All the dogs were painfully thin and almost emaciated-looking. But somehow they always had enough energy to join him on his morning runs.

Probably hoping this will be the day I finally trip and they won't be hungry, at least for a while.

He felt bad for them and realized with great sadness he'd have to butcher one of them soon, if they didn't go ahead an attack one of their fellow canines and chow down on its carcass before then. It had happened before.

Lady had been a sweet girl. I should have seen it coming. For that matter, what if one of them takes it into their hungry heads to take a chunk out of me? I don't like the way Smokey has been staring at my legs lately, anyway.

He started jogging again when the pack was still about ten seconds away. The sun was already reflecting off the rows of shiny solar panels mounted over the badly burnt remnants of D-Block's building. The wiring had been screwed up somewhere between them and the rest of the array on the other buildings when some skin heads set the block on fire during those first insane days following the departure and deaths of the last prison guards and all the civilian personnel.

George knew all too well that convicts are not generally considered the smartest of people - and with good reason. But he still couldn't understand why anyone would have thought setting D-Block on fire was a good idea in the first place - other than the fact it had been mostly populated with black inmates whom the skin heads hated for whatever demented reasons George never could understand.

If power generation ever became an issue, or some of the other panels on the working arrays stopped operating right, he supposed it would be possible to climb up and use them to replace the broken ones. Looking over doubtfully he thought,

Possible, but not very damn likely.

The six story high D Cell Block still had some of the undead creeping around inside. He could hear them sometimes banging something against the bars. Why they did that always bugged him. And whenever they got into a banging noisy mood, sleep wouldn't come easily as the faint clanging sound drifted into his cell.

A long time ago, he insured they'd never get out by using one of the welding tanks from the workshop to seal up the latches in the main hallway doors with good sized pieces of heavy thick plate metal. He would have preferred sealing up the doors leading inside the building, but someone had taken them after the fire. Where they took them and why was another thing he didn't understand. But the metal plates he'd welded also covered part of the gap between the bars in the doors and the rest of the bars surrounding it.

An army tank might knock one of those interior cell doors open, but never in a million years would a dead head be able to do it - unless of course it was driving the tank. Nope, there's no reason to even think about those solar panels atop D Block.

Plus the idea of climbing out on a most-likely unsafe burnt out roof top seventy feet off the ground held little appeal.

Things would have to very bad indeed before I'd even think about trying that. Besides, with most of the prison burnt down or blocked off, there's plenty of electricity for my little kingdom of A Block. More than I could ever need, in fact. Now, if there were only some way to convert electricity into meat, then it would truly be a smelly paradise encircled by a small army of undead. Ah heck, while I'm dreaming, why not figure a way to make a woman out of electricity too?

he thought with a smile.

A few minutes later, he was just under a hundred yards from the main gate where he'd started his run and risked a quick peek over the wall.

Where the heck do they all come from? Why do they come here? I can't be the last living person in the world, well, aside from Crazy Carl that is,

he wondered while gazing down at the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of aimlessly milling around yet undeniably dangerous ravenous corpses beyond the securely shut gate.

A few must have noticed his return, maybe by the sound of his footfalls or perhaps by the smell of living things - he didn't know nor much care which. As long as they were out there and he was safe inside Bayonne Prison's very tall, thickly-reassuring granite walls, it didn't really matter.

Thinking about what he could find for breakfast, he stormed back down one of the metal staircases. His right sneaker slid across a wet patch of metal and he felt gravity exert a strong, maybe even mischievous, tug. That pull, coupled with running down the steps - like an idiot, he thought, was enough to send him tumbling down the stairs.

I'm going to die! OW! Damn it!

were the three thoughts scampering repeatedly through his mind while he yelled and swore as he tumbled until he managed to very cleverly arrest his fall by slamming his face into one of the wall abutments.

The pain was as intense as it was sudden.

George was still gingerly sitting back on one of the steps - testing his arms and legs hoping they still worked and bent in the proper directions - when he heard excited barking coming from above, followed instantaneously by the sound of the hungry dog’s claws ringing against the metal staircase as they charged down.

He managed to get the canister of pepper spray out of his pocket and aimed it at Smokey, the lead dog, with just seconds to spare. The dog was salivating and staring hungrily at the man's bloody legs where he'd managed to tear loose a sizable flap of skin against the stairs. He pressed the button and the spray hit Smokey in both eyes. The effect was both immediate and impressive.

Blinded, confused and in great pain, the dog lost its balance and tumbled down the bottom half of the staircase - yelping and whimpering all the way down. Four of the other dogs veered away to the far side of the stairs to follow Smokey, but the one he'd named Lucy stopped a few feet away and whined nervously at him.

He liked Lucy. She was the last surviving girl dog (since Lady had been eaten) and seemed sweet most of the time, but he didn't completely trust her. Not even considering her obvious ravenous hunger, she'd been trained as a prison guard dog first and foremost and despite the end of the world, might still remember he was a convict. He turned the can and was about to spray her in the face, but it slipped out of his trembling hand when he tried to press the button. The canister clanged down the stairs all the way to the bottom.

Down below, he saw Smokey was still alive as the other dogs bit and tore into the badly injured dog. Howling and desperately trying to fight back, Smokey was a bloody mess.

A growing chorus of once-human howls and screams echoed eerily throughout the prison courtyard as the undead things outside the gate smelled blood and could hear battle taking place somewhere near, but out of sight.

Look, Lucy, down there, breakfast, the man said in a friendly tone of voice despite the intense pain he was suffering from the fall. He fervently hoped that somehow the dog would understand his words and pass up the tempting meal sprawled across the steps.

Nothing felt broken, but he'd have to find a way to somehow sew up the loose flap of skin on his leg, if he wasn't killed by Lucy first.

He heard the dog continuing to whine as it came closer. The theme song to the television show I Love Lucy was playing in his head as he turned and prepared to punch the dog.

Lucy licked his face and he sighed in relief. He petted the starving dog and whispered a wide variety of heartfelt compliments and praise to her as she continued to slather his face with her long pink tongue.

By the time he'd managed to shakily stand up, there wasn't much left of Smokey. The dogs had torn him into several chunks and dragged them to different locations around the courtyard. Trails of blood, patches of fur, and the head and part of its neck were all the evidence left to show Smokey had existed at all.

"Best way to dispose of a body is feed it to a pack of hogs or hungry dogs,"

he remembered a fellow convict named Vito once advised, back in a world that had long since passed on.

"Unless you've got a wood chipper handy, of course. Those things work beautiful - like magic. One minute you've got incriminating evidence lying around just waiting for the cops to find, then presto - nothing but fertilizer. Problem is, seems there's never one around when you really need one,"

Vito had said with a deeply disturbing laugh.

The voices of the former residents of Bayonne Prison were often on his mind. Usually he didn't care, but Vito had been one of the oddest inmates he'd ever met. And for some reason he never understood, the wood chipper enthusiast had taken a disturbing shine to him.

As he worked his way slowly and carefully down the rest of the stairs with Lucy at his side, he wondered how someone like himself ended up in prison.

Statutory Rape was the official legal answer. When he'd been interrogated by the police about the girl he'd met at college that summer a year and a half earlier, he told them the idea of asking if she was eighteen years old never even entered his mind. He met her in art class when he'd been a junior and twenty-one years old. She definitely didn't look or act like a fifteen year old. He hadn't even thought it odd that she didn't drive a car or live on campus in one of the dorms when they first met. A lot of students took the bus, rode bikes, or just walked to classes.

It was so out of the ordinary that a girl would even talk to him without a clever insult like Wow, do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl yet? while sneering at his enormous gut that Elizabeth seemed like a dream come true - she actually talked to him.

Limping across the courtyard, he paused briefly to pick up Smokey's head by the metal chain collar still around his neck before continuing toward the open door to Cell Block-A.

If the others come around I'll give them what's left, but I'm hungry too. Plus, Lucy certainly deserves a reward for not eating me.

Lucy yipped and pranced excitedly around him as they continued walking together.

Patience girl - let me do a little carving and you can have everything that's left, alright?

Apparently Lucy liked the proposed arrangement. She growled menacingly at Lance as the big German Shepherd came skulking around, having already finished his portion of Smokey.

The howls and screams from beyond the gate had quieted somewhat by the time they reached the building. As he limped through the large open doorway, he hoped they'd stay quiet all day.

Passing by the trashed security office he once more made a mental note to clean it up, someday. The room had been set on fire the same day after the last of the guards had been killed or simply ran away during a prison riot. He wondered, once again, why?

It's just an office. Why would they set it on fire? If it had been a guard - at least one of the ones that had acted like a sadistic prick and deserved it - then maybe it would make sense to burn him. It's just like Jose the pyromaniac murderer - stupid.

Jose’s wife had been fooling around with her boss. When Jose learned of the affair, rather than confronting them directly, he burned her boss' house to the ground. During the trial, he claimed he didn't even know the bastard had been inside when he set it on fire. He also said, If I knew my wife had been in there too, I never would have done it at all.

The prosecution pointed out that Jose had to walk past his wife's car parked in the driveway to get to the house.

Jose's excuse that he must not have noticed the neon pink Cadillac (with the vanity license plate featuring the words Joy's Toy on it) must have rung equally disingenuous because he was sentenced to Life Without Parole.

The jury had only deliberated fifteen minutes before Jose’s verdict was delivered.

At least my jury spent a week deciding my fate. Of course, I was still convicted,

George thought while shaking his head.

In all the verdict had only taken six days, twenty three hours and forty-five minutes longer than it took for Jose. His public defender hadn't been a bad lady or incompetent. She'd actually done a fairly good job, but someone on the jury had somehow convinced all the others it would serve society best to lock him away for ten years for a sex act that hadn't even lasted thirty minutes.

It was probably the old lady with the gross-looking growth on the side of her face. Every time I saw her looking at me, she gave a withering glare that suggested she wanted to have me castrated with a chainsaw.

Looking down at Lucy as he limped down the clean well-lit hallway heading toward what used to be called The Communal Room, he said to her: You know, it's funny. I still feel bad for Elizabeth. When her parents found out what we'd done in my dorm room, they called the cops. Yeah, yeah, I know - I'm the one in here, but I still feel bad for her.

Lucy looked up at him as if she understood while he continued. I know she didn't want to testify or press charges - her parents that made her do it. I still have the letters she sent me. I'll show them to you, if you want. Talk about your public humiliation. I still can see her up on the stand during the trial. She was so scared and embarrassed I was afraid she'd die of shame right there in front of everybody. But did the prosecution or her parents care?

Lucy apparently had no opinion.

He carried Smokey's remains over to the corner of The Communal Hall he now just called home, where an odd-looking collection of kitchen appliances were located. Tossing the dog's head on one of the tables, he got a big plastic trash bag and placed what was left of Smokey inside. After putting the bag in the woefully-empty refrigerator, he got the first aid kit and bottles of various antiseptics from the cell he thought of as the pharmacy.

He unscrewed the cap from a bottle of peroxide and used half of it to wash his hands. The rest he poured over his various scrapes as well as the bloody flap of skin and the wound beneath it. AhhhhhhhhhhhhDamnmotherfudgingcockstomper! he roared as he slammed his fist repeatedly against one the stainless steel tabletops bolted securely to the concrete floor.

Lucy whined and yipped nervously.

It's alright, sweetie. Just stings like Hell, he gasped once he was able to speak again.

Still muttering, he threaded a needle with dissolving sutures and took a deep breath.

Vito, in the form of a voice in his head, whispered

"You're going to screw this up. Go see Crazy Carl. Tell him it's an emergency. Maybe just this once he'll actually open the library doors and be of some use. Plus, you can get another book."

Fat chance of that,

George thought. Besides, I don't need a guy everyone called 'Crazy Carl' trying to sew me up. He might even do something insane and kill me, he whispered while sliding the needle into the flap of skin and then into his leg where it was supposed to join up. After a minute of painfully clumsy attempts, he muttered Crap, that's not right, cut the sutures out and started over again. The second time he started by first sliding the needle through the skin on his leg and then the flap.

It was easier to do it that way, but still hurt like Hell.

He considered taking some of the painkillers the boys had looted from the nearby town of Bixby (along with literally tons of other mostly useless stuff) but decided to get stitched up first then find something.

Ten minutes later he finished tying off the last stitch and sighed. He got a gauze bandage from the kit and secured it around the wound.

Okay, now back to the pharmacy, he muttered as he limped over to the cell he'd converted into a drug store of sorts. The stacks of medications had never really been organized, even though he'd often meant to do it. As he looked around, George wondered why whoever got this stuff grabbed only six large boxes of aspirin but fifteen boxes of laxatives. He didn't even like to think about the cases of condoms and lubricants someone had thought would be useful. In one small cardboard box he found some Oxycontin and dry-swallowed a capsule before sliding the bottle into his pocket.

The other dogs hadn't come in yet, so he hurried over to close the door to the entry hallway. Lucy whined as if to remind him Um, I'm still in here.

You, I trust. Besides you have a treat coming. Remember? he asked, limping back to the refrigerator and taking Smokey's remains out. After scrubbing his hands with water and soap, he got a very sharp butcher’s knife, unpacked Smokey and dumped his remains on one of the tables. He took the chain from around the dog's neck, tossed it on the table, and began skinning what was left of the German Shepherd.

Bayonne Prison ran out of meat four months ago. When the other dogs killed and ate Lady, the only thing he found was a few bones, tufts of fur and her chain collar.

That had been almost a month earlier. The dog’s sometimes found rats or birds to eat, but the young man carving up Smokey had involuntarily been forced into a vegetarian lifestyle. Sometimes he fantasized about going beyond the protective walls in search of steak or even a can of heavily-salted luncheon meats.

When he'd been a boy, his uncle had taken him deer hunting a few times and taught him how to field dress what they shot. At the time, he thought it was a pointless lesson since the several burger joints in his neighborhood were open twenty-four hours a day.

Now, as he carved what little meat there was, he was grateful for the instruction. But it was still a gruesome and unpleasant task.

He whistled at the dog that was chewing at some fleas in her fur: "Hey Lucy, you didn't answer me a while ago when I was telling you about Liz. I asked if you thought her parents cared about her - you know - putting her through all that shit?

Well I'll tell you what I think, since you were sweet enough not to eat me a while ago. They didn't give a damn about her. They just didn't care. If they'd realized how upset she was - not because of the sex - but because she was in the newspapers and all over TV maybe, just maybe she'd still be alive," he said in a choked voice as he continued removing Smokey's hide.

Elizabeth had committed suicide a few weeks after he arrived at Bayonne. She jumped off an overpass on the interstate. Her legs had fractured on impact with the pavement and she was actually still alive (in agonizing pain but alive) - at least until a large tractor trailer hauling beer ran her down.

In the last letter he received from her, she'd written that none of what happened was his fault. She didn’t want him to feel bad. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever done with him in his dorm room. It was all the embarrassing madness of the trial, the snidely-whispered gossip of people she used to consider friends and her idiot parents that finally forced her to end it all.

He dropped some fairly large chunks of meat that he didn't want down to Lucy and placed smaller cuts he would cook up later in a large stainless steel bowl on the table. The dog chewed noisily and seemed to find her meal nothing to complain about.

"Want to hear the sickest part? Her parents hadn't even buried Liz before they tried to get the prosecutors to add a murder charge against me. They wanted me to fry in the electric chair or get lethal injections, when they were more responsible for what happened to their daughter than I could ever be. Nice, huh?

And I used to think my parents were assholes. Ha!"

He tossed one of Smokey's glazed-over eyeballs to Lucy, who deftly caught it in her mouth, chomped down and chewed. Her tail wagged enthusiastically.

Twenty minutes later he laid Smokey's skull and other bones on the floor and carried the bowl of foul-looking (but hopefully delicious) meat into the kitchen and began to cook them in a large pan on top of a stainless steel electric oven.

There had been some pretty intense (yet ultimately pointless) debate amongst some of the looters over which kind of stove to bring back. Many had sworn natural gas ovens cooked faster and spread the heat more evenly than electric ones. But the undeniable fact that Bayonne Prison wasn't serviced by gas lines, or ever likely to be, considering the dead were now wandering around eating people outside its walls, lent extra support to those arguing in favor of stealing an electric oven.

The whole issue of which type of major kitchen appliances to steal would have been moot if some geniuses hadn't burnt down the pantries, dining hall and kitchen during the first week the convicts had control of Bayonne Prison. Rumor had it that the explosion and subsequent fires were caused by a group of Mexicans who had been trying to cook up a batch of Crystal Meth.

It was a chaotic and dangerously violent time to be a resident of Bayonne Prison, and he considered himself lucky to have survived at all - many hadn't.

When the recently-deceased first began coming back from the dead and attacking the living, he'd thought it nothing more than a bad joke, while most of the other prisoners thought (if they thought anything at all) it was a great one.

The first hint something was going on was when he'd been working on a painting of Elizabeth in the activities hall. Vito came up and told him to come check out what was happening on TV.

A camera operator was hiding in a small plastic outdoor portable toilet building, focusing the lens through one of the air vents near the top. The image was shaky and dark, but he could see funny-looking police cars - that he later learned were Japanese - partially blocking a narrow street as perhaps thousands of people streamed around and over them. The voice-over from the news anchor was impossible to hear as George’s fellow inmates cheered, speculated and laughed. People were being dragged down and tackled by others in the crowded streets. He read the closed captioned words on the television screen in disbelief.

'Tokyo police officials have so far been at a loss to control the unexplained growing violent riots that have broken out in the last few hours. The unprecedented civil unrest appears to have started in the Chiewong District and spread rapidly outward. Reports of mass murder and unconfirmed accounts of cannibalism have left government officials scrambling to regain control.'

Cool, huh? Vito asked, nudging him in the side and laughing nervously.

He hadn't responded.

It's like one of those movies, you know? All they need is a giant lizard chasing them down the streets and stomping on all the buildings! Vito yelled over the laughs and cheers, a moment before the camera view shook violently and the image was lost.

He read the closed-captioned text that explained the portable toilet building had been knocked over on its side.

He shrugged and went back to his easel and continued painting.

It had been nearly impossible to concentrate with all the others laughing and cracking jokes in bad imitations of how the inmates thought Japanese people spoke. Oh, me so sowwy, but you taste much better than honorable fish heads and rice! was the only comment he heard clearly and remembered. It wasn't long after that when one of the guards changed the channel to a reality show featuring a bunch of snobby rich kids from New Jersey who believed the world revolved only around them and their childish exploits.

With the mayhem on the streets of Tokyo replaced by a muscular, somewhat greasy looking, well-tanned teenager whining about how his girlfriend wasn't respecting him, most of the guys got bored and wandered away.

George was trying to get the right shade of green paint mixed for Elizabeth's eyes and hadn't noticed Vito standing behind him until he spoke up: That's some crazy shit over there, huh?

Hmm.

Didya hear what that little punk Jenkins said?

He shrugged and continued to paint.

Said it looked like something from a video game he used to play when he was a kid - I think he called it President Evil or some shit like that. Zombies. Ha. I think he did too many drugs, done fried his brain, don't you think?

George looked up at that point. Funny, I was sorta thinking the same thing. Especially when I saw the word cannibalism on the TV screen. But, come on. Really? That's just stupid.

Just riots and shit, huh? Yeah, you're probably right, Vito said and patted him on the shoulder before adding, Nice looking bitch. You got some talent.

Somehow, he controlled his anger at the word bitch being used to describe her and only nodded. After a while he finished painting the eyes and noticed Vito had apparently grown bored and wandered off.

He added a dash more pepper and oregano to the sizzling strips of dog meat and stirred it gently across the pan.

It actually doesn't smell too bad. Better than anything served up at the golden arches anyway,

he thought with a grim smile.

The other dogs were scratching at the heavy metal door on the other side of the communal area. It was a creepy sound and he shuddered involuntarily. He knew it was only the dogs, but couldn't help envisioning something far worse out in the hallway.

Setting down the spatula, he reached in his pocket for the MP3 player and sliced his finger on shards of broken hard plastic. Damn it, he swore and slid off his running shorts, turned them upside down and shook out the smashed music player. Several small pieces clattered on the tabletop and he just shook his head and stared at them.

That's just great. No more music. Damn it!

He smelled something burning and quickly turned back to the stove.

He must have stared at the ruined MP3 player longer than he thought because what was left of Smokey was smoking heavily.

He yelled Damn, damn, damn! and slammed down a lid over the pan and placed it on an unused burner.

Lucy stopped gnawing on Smokey's skull and whined.

I'm okay, girl. Just having a bad day, he said and rinsed his cut finger with some water, then a splash of peroxide. Sucking air through his clenched teeth he crossed back to the pharmacy cell and quickly bandaged the cut.

You know what really pisses me off? he asked, heading back to the stove a minute later.

Lucy looked up at him.

With all the crap the guys stole from Bixby, no one thought to pick up a stinking radio, CD player, or anything else useful. The morons brought back over a dozen big screen TVs - nice expensive ones too - but nothing to watch on them except pornos. No wonder the cops threw them in here. Frigging idiots!

He fearfully lifted the lid off the pan and was relieved to see lunch wasn't completely ruined. Some parts were a bit charred, but salvageable.

Lucy yipped inquisitively.

Nope. You already ate. This is mine, he said and turned down the heat to simmer before placing the pan back on the burner and continuing with lunch preparations.

"Only problem is I broke the stupid music player when I fell down the stairs, like a moron. I bet Carl has something I could trade him for. Who knows, maybe even some real DVD movies?"

Unfortunately, most of the movies the guys brought back were pornos. I don't need to be watching that crap - I'm lonely enough without whacking off and watching some sluts suck and ride dicks all night long.

He envisioned himself spending the rest of his life masturbating to pornos in a nearly deserted prison