The Slammer (Revision)

At 7:30 in the morning, Arturo wakes up to the prismatic sunshine peeking through the reinforced windows of the warden’s office. When the prisoners were let loose during the zombie attack, many thought the safety of the prison was compromised and left. Arturo didn’t stray very far. This prison was the closest thing he had to power all his life. In fact, Arturo would almost say that he loved the zombies. Out there, there’s always someone with a bigger gun or a bigger army. In here, it’s just him.

Arturo splashes some cold water on his face and starts the morning. By 8 o’clock he’s up and doing his rounds. He takes the prisoner wagon out for a spin to smash apart zombies. He always gives the lady zombies a little tap, just to knock them around a little. Then he’ll smash their faces in with a sledgehammer. Arturo used to be very sloppy about this. He would kill them 9 times out of ten, either with the van or with his hammer. He’s gotten better now. Now he can pin them under his tires, pop off the bottom jaw, and scrape out their teeth. Easy peazy.
9:00. Arturo throws his haul into an open cell. He doesn’t put them together without precautions. Sometimes they claw or eat at each other. He doesn’t want them any more damaged than they have to be. This one’s a pretty little thing, skin burned from the sun but still feisty. She still has a wallet and ID on her: Jaclyn Arnett from Mobile, Alabama.

“Ain’t so mobile no more, are ya, Jaclyn?” Dark hair, pouty lips. What a doll. Smells like piss, but there are worse smells a corpse can have. Most of the girls that come through here are so weathered and eaten that they just look like the Crypt Keeper walking around. This one’s a fresh kill and no bite marks at all. Arturo pauses to marvel at her a moment more before breaking her jaw.

10:00. Arturo eats. He never has breakfast first thing in the morning. It gives him indigestion.

Sometimes the jaw can be replaced. Every day at around 10:30 or so, Arturo saunters over to cell B 12 to stick his cock in Shirley’s toothless mouth. He waters her mouth down first, of course. Zombie tongues are so dry, like sandpaper. Arturo pulls on her hair while she desperately tries to eat his cock. Arturo feels powerful. He long since cut off and bandaged up her limbs. No teeth. No nails. He has complete control over her. But she’s getting old. Putrefaction has set in big time. Not only has her hair fallen out but her face is beginning to mold up and fall off. Good thing he found that sweet dish wandering right into his prison. It’s about time to put Shirley down, but now he can break in the new girl while he’s at it. Streamlined.

Arturo plays basketball until noon.

He has a snack: instant potatoes.

By 1:00, he makes the rounds, looking over his filled cells and his empty ones, trying to see what new masterpiece to come up with. He paces by Robert and stops. Robert was a cellmate of his once. A zombie bit him during the attack and Arturo gave his cellmate the mercy of crushing his throat before he turned into one of those creatures:

“Hey Bobby!” he always says. “Knock knock!”

“Ackle-clok?” Robert always responds.


“Ackle…ackle. CLOK!”

“Abyssinia behind bars one of these days!” Arturo always gets a kick out of that one.

He heads to the fetish hall next. It’s unnatural, he admits, but Arturo likes to set his zombies up in certain fixed positions. In one of the cells, he has a stripped man tied to an old zombie dog. Every time the zombie lurches toward Arturo, trying desperately to tear a bite out of him, it looks like the zombie’s grinding up against the dog. Arturo jerks off to the scene. The dog’s snout is rotten where Arturo’s sperm always hits it.  Arturo’s dick twitches like a braindead corpse, and he zips up his fly.

1:30. Arturo heads back to his room to do push-ups and read a book.

Arturo usually takes a brief siesta in the afternoon. He is waken up by the sounds of moaning. Zombies are at his window. He can see hundreds from his reinforced window. The bulk of them are converging around the cell where he left Jaclyn. They are clawing at the walls, trying to get in.

“What the Hell?” Arturo grabs his shotgun and cocks it.

4:30. Arturo is crawling about the prison. With his intestines are hanging out of his body, he leaves a trail of blood behind him when he crawls. His mouth is dry as sandpaper and his only remaining arm twitches desperately, like a braindead corpse.


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Filed under FEATHERTON SESSION, Flash Fiction

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