Jail Of The Dead

Jail Of The Dead

Kimble Bewley

Published by Kimble Bewley at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Kimble Bewley

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously (unless otherwise noted). Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without express permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank everyone who helped me along the way. Without you, my first novel would not have been possible.

Tony Lee

Jack Wallen

Megan Bryant

Adam Champion

Celia Finsel

Bo Cecil

Ken Whitman

Introduction

Since the time of our creation, restless spirits have wandered through our world. The body would die but the soul would sometimes linger. Like a fat kid who got only one piece of cake, a gluttonous ghost would stick around for more. What exactly caused the ghost to stay instead of travel to the next plane has always been speculated. Some thought when a life was cut short for reasons beyond their control, that spirit would be restless. Perhaps they needed to pass on a message to a loved one, such as do not forget about that doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. Or they left something unfinished, like there was a roast in the oven and it has to come out before it burns. Maybe they simply could not leave without a final goodbye to their cat Blinky. Others would say that some souls are just meant to wander, or they took a wrong turn, got lost, and were unable to get back to the highway; being transparent, they could not stop and ask for directions. These phantoms are caught here between life and death until rapture or when they decide to follow the light. The ones staying behind put their time to good use by making themselves at home in old houses, churches, schools, hotels, and factories. Playing tricks on the living is often their favorite hobby. They play twister in the attic, or rattle chains and moan in the basement. They knock things off counters and desks while your back is turned so you blame the kids. They take socks from the dryer and hide them, flip light switches on and off, or make the noise of a faucet dripping so you have to get up and check. A few months of their games can drive a person to move into a new house or, worse, a padded room. There is another bunch of spirits that are unwilling to share with the living. They are often labeled demonic and use more violent means like pushing, scratching, biting, or striking to force us from our homes and sanctuaries. The living tried to find ways to get rid of these pesky spooks for centuries. Priests, mediums, and other holy men were brought in to remove the spirits, which would sometimes offer temporary relief, but there was never any sure-fire solution to keep the poltergeists from returning.

The night has never been man’s domain; to think otherwise is daring and foolhardy. It has been ruled for millennia by the vampires, preternatural creatures with superior strength, speed, and mortality. They feast on the blood of humans like a cheap buffet, use all of the wet naps, and leave a mess for the waitress to clean up. They would stalk across the land, hiding in the shadows, sometimes killing one or two humans a night without alarm, and other times slaughtering whole families without hesitation. An occasional human might survive an attack, but they were left with unsightly scars that forced the invention of scarves and turtlenecks which somehow caught on. The survivors would tell their tale, but no sane person would believe. Heroes and adventurers who heard such stories often made quests to slay the demons for profit or fame, but scarce few ever returned. So, the killing continued on and nothing could cease the endless nightmare.

Life went on this way for thousands of years despite the horrific creatures and meddling spirits. If they could not be gotten rid of, we would give way to them by moving on, or simply ignore them and blame the wind. Then, in the mid-twentieth century, the situation grew significantly worse. Lifeless rotting corpses started rising from their earthen graves with an insatiable hunger for living flesh, and the worst morning breath imaginable. One day everything was fine, the next day zombies were everywhere. They swarmed, and ate, everyone in their path. Victims attacked by a zombie with a full stomach were just bitten or scratched, but were infected with a type of virus and still met death, then came back as one of the living dead. Although the origin of the virus was never found, there were plenty of theories. Some said it came from outer space, ancient microbes that mutated in our polluted atmosphere. Others preached that God inflicted it upon us because of our sinful ways. Experts said heaven and hell were full and their economy was in the tank, hence forcing poverty-stricken souls to come back for work. Against this threat, though, humans could fight back, so they started to war with the zombies. It was the Dead War and it raged for years on nearly every continent, but no matter how many were killed, there were always more. Finally, to end the meaninglessness, both sides reached a truce: No zombies would be killed as long as no humans were attacked. Unfortunately, that was not the end because the zombies wanted more. They wanted their own piece of the brain pie as much as they did freedoms and privileges. They protested and rallied on Washington’s steps for zombie rights. After months of picketing the government caved. The legislators passed new laws, the system changed, and zombies got their status as individuals.

Ghosts and vampires, not wanting to miss out on the undead movement, came forth and demanded their own dues as well. The politicians, not wanting to discriminate, gave them rights and laws to obey too. It crowned a new age, as the dead were integrated into our society and economy. The living no longer shrugged off the dead and undead. They became our neighbors and coworkers and we all had to learn to coexist. But it was no utopia. Zombies, ghosts, and vampires could go beyond normal boundaries and incarcerating them in facilities constructed for humans proved impossible. So, religion and science combined their knowledge to deal with the problem, devising new technological solutions to level the playing field. Now, the government is able to build new dead jails to lock the paranormal troublemakers away, indefinitely.

Chapter 1

The night is young and a thick blanket of stratus covers everything in the sky. The clouds have sat motionless for hours, waiting for undecided currents to come along and carry them away. The horizons lay dark, and the only things visible are the security lights surrounding Hellard Dead Center. Even their illuminations get sucked up by the darkness, leaving just a murky outline of the building. An eerie quiet has settled across the land as if something is absorbing all of the decibels. Even the roar of an occasional passing car is reduced to a purr. The complex is a windowless mass of concrete. It is a box with multiple arms, skirted by twelve-foot chain link fence on three sides and acres of trees all around that dimly appearing as a hungry mouth ready to gobble it down in one bite, but probably choke on the rough edges. A fairly large correctional facility, Hellard holds nearly five hundred dead and undead, monitored twenty-four/seven by the living. Some are serving time and will be released, others are serving afterlife. For latter the only way out is getting brained or follow the light and move on. Staying out of the public eye, the center sits on the periphery of Thumbstown, smack middle in the large urbanized county of Hellard, Kentucky.

It’s almost 11 on a Sunday night. Another shift is about to start their workday. Several sets of headlights swerve into the parking lot, where a small flock of employees in black uniforms are already waiting until the last second to clock in. Some take the opportunity for a quick smoke, while others engage in idle chatters to kill time.

Just outside of the light, in a shadowy staunch of tall vegetation, a man-size dark cloud looms. It hovers, swirling and rolling, haunting the ground below. Two dull yellow orbs emerge in the black mass, and with a beady glare it scans the vicinity. It sees people in a parking lot before a big structure. Not familiar with these animals, it studies them while they congregate, watching how they move and listening to what they say. Previously it only had an image of humans, God’s pets. After watching them, it feels only disdain and hatred.

The slackers take an inaudible cue and start lumbering toward the lit interior. They inch along, grumbling of the duties and chores ahead of them. One after another they drag their feet inside. After the last human is out of sight, the dark cloud flattens and creeps forward. It makes no noise and draws no attention, slithering through the shadows like a snake. Rolling onto the pavement, it reaches a line of cars and slows to investigate each one. It sniffs a battered red sedan before veering wide around a white SUV with a Jesus fish on the back bumper. It comes to a stop after diving underneath a rusty, crud-ridden brown-and-white pickup. The cloud crawls up the passenger side into a partially open window. The truck’s cab has the looks of a long-neglected and abused servant. The windshield and windows show a purple and yellow filmy haze in the refraction of the security lights outside. The headliner is absent, exposing the wires to the broken dome light. Ash and dust coat the blotchy, faded-brown dashboard, akin to how flour would cover a baker’s counter. The air vents are bare holes, and a rectangular void occupies where the radio used to be. Fast-food bags, cups, and wrappers inundate the floorboard like seven-layer salad. The ash tray in the center console is a bulging pyramid of cigarette butts. The seat’s upholstery is held together almost entirely by duct tape. Content with the find, the cloud sinks and retreats under the bench seat.

After a while, a group of off-shift guards comes out and heads briskly to their vehicles. Among them is a tall, thin, unkempt man who seemingly bares an invisible weight on his shoulders. He moves toward the rusted pickup, hobbling along on a staggered gait. He climbs in and slams the door to ensure the worn lock catches. Stabbing the key into the ignition, he turns the spent heap’s engine over in a congested roar. The muffler backfires when he reverses and shifts into drive. The old joints clatter and creak as the clunker pulls onto the road.

Meanwhile, inside the jail a little pale man has been sitting atop a steel bunk in his dim-lit cell, reading a book. Despite incarceration, he remains distinguished and takes pride in that. His long dark hair is pulled neatly back in a ponytail, his orange jumpsuit crisp and clean, and the thin linens under him tucked tightly over the thin plastic mattress. The rest of his small domain is also immaculate. The small wall-mounted steel table and seat in front of him are bare. The shelf, directly above the seat and ready to split an unwary skull open is optimally organized with sundries and paperbacks stacked tall to short. The stainless sink-toilet combo beside the cell door shines in the faint light. The low-wattage caged bulb above him doesn’t hinder his reading, for he’s a vampire. And as such, he doesn’t get to leave the cubbyhole much, nor does he want to. He’s used to loneliness—has been for hundreds of years. The guards don’t bother him much; he gives them no reason to and there’s a small camera above the door to babysit him. So he reads. Quite a lot too. All his books have frayed corners from countless readings. He follows a strict daily exercise regiment, too: five thousand pushups from a handstand, five thousand pull-ups hanging on the steel shelf, and ten thousand sit-ups.

Two-thirds way through this worn volume, he stops suddenly and clamps the book shut. The light begins to flicker and a chill tingles up his spine. He shivers and some infallible pain pries his lips back to bare a set of near-perfect teeth, minus a fang. The spasm lasts only moments but it is excruciating. It also tells him one thing… Something is nearby, with enormous power he has never felt before.

…

Several miles away, the rusty brown-white pickup pulls onto the gravel lane of a small trailer park. A weathered gray wooden sign sits lit with one flickering light at the entrance, but the name has long waned. Once upon a time the premise may have been a quaint and friendly place to live, but that time has expired and now it’s full of federal moochers and zombies. Two wooden light poles are all that offers glow across the park, setting a romantic mood for the roaches. Several old, single-wide homes line either side of the road, and almost all show signs of life with yellow lamps and TV’s flickering behind closed blinds in hues of purple and blue. Old cruisers from a less economical era and banged-up junkers rest in small, cramped driveways. Three skeletal frames lay empty in spots at the end of the lane. Having been gutted and scavenged for parts for the other trailers, they’re only waiting for a stiff breeze to knock them down.

The truck’s headlights bounce up and down from the washed-out, rut-filled road. It slows and parks in front of an equally dingy