The Virus, Lee, Damien [summer beach reads .txt] 📗

previous night swarmed around his mind as he made his way over to his breakfast. He wondered what had happened to Gus and his thugs, he considered how long Henderson had left to live after the stunt he’d pulled, and he contemplated whether the kid he fought was in a stable condition or buried outside in the recreation yard. He almost hoped for the latter. The kid was in for a rough time if Henderson got his hands on him.

He stooped down and picked up the porridge. The bowl was cool to the touch, and its contents looked even worse than the rations he had consumed in the army. He pounded on the metal door and listened for the approaching guard. A few seconds passed before a small, eye-level compartment on the door snapped aside.

“What do you want, Lee?” the guard said, peering through the gap.

“What the hell is this?”

“Sorry, bacon and eggs are only for the obedient cons. Trouble makers like you get standard-issue gruel.”

The guard chuckled as he snapped the tiny door closed. Frank listened to his departure down the hallway before looking back at the bowl of grey sludge. A small air bubble formed on top of the mixture, gradually easing the lumps aside. It popped after a few seconds, sending ripples through the murky liquid. Dropping the bowl in disgust, Frank returned to his bunk.

The segregation unit was designed to punish inmates for stepping out of line. But keep them in too long and it served as a torture device, destroying their mind until they go insane. Frank wondered how long Henderson planned to keep him locked away. Not giving the guard what he wanted usually had drastic consequences. He half expected to spend the rest of his sentence staring at the same four walls.

“I told you I’m not eating that shit!”

The roar from down the hall made Frank smirk. He strained his ears, listening to more of Gus Razor’s tirade.

“I don’t care what Henderson said! I want my fry up and newspaper in five minutes or I’ll be using your bollocks as castanets!”

The guard must have declined, as moments later a clattering sound met Frank’s ears. He imagined the plastic porridge bowl hurtling through the air and colliding with the observation panel on the door.

Silence descended on the wing once more with the sound of the clattering bowl still fresh in Frank’s ears. What would be the consequences of such an action? How could they punish a con more than putting him in the seg? Since it was Gus Razor, not a lot. The gangland boss had nearly every screw under his thumb. Apart from leaving, Gus could do whatever he wanted, which made it even more surprising that Henderson had ordered him into the cooler. Segregation was the one area that Gus Razor had never found himself in, and he clearly didn’t take kindly to being there.

Frank closed his eyes and tried to think of something to keep his mind occupied for the duration of his stay. He journeyed back to his childhood; the acres of farmland, the calls of various animals, the sweat and toil of labouring with his father, and the mouth-watering reward of dinner at the end of the day. For as long as he could remember, he had always worked on the farm. Even from the moment he could walk, he had helped herd the chickens back into their pen. It was only once he hit early adolescence that he decided on a different path.

His father had originally expressed disappointment at his son’s decision to join the army. He had intended Frank to take over the farm once he was unable to carry on. But, after lengthy discussions, he had wished him well before his departure at sixteen. The horrifying sights he’d witnessed during his service quickly replaced the heart-warming images of his farmyard upbringing. He had trained for two years; enjoying every minute of his military lifestyle, until, at eighteen, they sent him to fight in Iraq. It was an ordeal he would never forget.

Twelve men he’d trained alongside were killed in the first week, some right in front of him. He could still smell the mud, chemicals and excrement, and hear the deafening blasts all around. He saw one man’s head exploding inches from where he stood, and another whose entire right side was obliterated in a cloud of blood, flesh, and entrails.

A slamming door made Frank bolt upright. His body trembled and his clothes were sodden from sweat. He looked around, wondering how long he had slept. Trying to control his ragged breaths, he sat on the end of the bed and listened once again as raised voices filled the wing. He heard a series of metallic snaps as the viewing panels were pushed aside on every door. Frank listened as the guards got closer to his cell, trying to decipher what they were saying. Eventually, the beady eye of Barry Henderson looked into the cell.

“It must be the meat.” Henderson turned to someone stood beside him. “These arseholes are fine.”

“That’s what you get for serving ungraded pork, Henderson,” Frank yelled at the disgruntled guard. A howl of laughter came from the cells back down the corridor.

“You tell him, Frankie!” Gus Razor chuckled.

“Shut it, Lee. Or I’ll bury you right next to that kid you killed.”

Henderson’s comment floored Frank. He felt a knot develop in the pit of his stomach. So the kid had died. He knew the impact had caught the teenager off guard, but he never thought it would kill him. He looked down at the ground through his trembling hands; something which seemed to delight the smug guard.

“Oh, so you have a conscience?” Henderson sneered. “Where was that when you killed your wife?”

The comment was too much for Frank to handle. He jumped to his feet and slammed against the metal door,