Chapter 2: Start Talking
"The monsters that rose from the dead, they are nothing compared to the ones we carry in our hearts."
-Max Brooks (World War Z)
Rick is greeted with smiles this time and enthusiastic handshakes as the guys bring him into the building. They ask him a barrage of questions as they take him on a quick tour of the prison. There are seven of them in total and they all follow along on the walk. Apparently they haven't found a 'live' one in awhile and they all want to hear his story.
The prison itself is thankfully an older one. Solid walls and highly secure points of entry make it a surprisingly wise place to hole up. It keeps people out just as well as in. They have most of the unneeded areas locked down like the cell blocks and the main foyer because of its double set of glass plated doors. All areas with windows are off limits except the bathroom. Too much of a risk and at night their lights would draw unwanted attention.
First stop is the cafeteria which serves as the main living space. It's probably one of the larger open areas in the prison and serves many functions simultaneously. Cots brought in from some of the cells sit on one side and a couple tables and chairs are near the kitchen. Lots of shelving on the other end of the room provides storage for all the supplies, food and weapons they've scavenged.
Flashlights are a staple here and Rick has his on as they head towards a very shadowy room. The darkness can be blinding without them. The library is left open though the guys say they haven't used it much. Unlike all the other rooms that are littered with candles or lanterns this one remains virtually untouched. Rick stops as he enters the library, "So what happened to all the prisoners?" he asks still carefully noting his surroundings using the mag-light they gave him.
Honda, the voice from the radio answers with a shrug, "When things first got crazy the governor ordered all the prisoners released. Everyone booked it outta here I guess. When we got here it was totally abandoned." Rick just nods thoughtfully at him. He is young, maybe in his early twenties. Though he seems to be both the smallest and the youngest of the bunch he makes up for it with personality. Honda does most of the talking. He had told Rick earlier that his real name was Roger Poole and that he grew up in Atlanta. These days though, they only go by the nicknames they've given each other.
The combination of heavy duty cleansers and the lack of fresh air in the old building were unmistakably institutional. The underlying mustiness was growing too. No doubt it will only get worse with time. Ventilation could be an issue without electricity to help circulate the air. They tell Rick they try to leave a door open once in awhile on cool breezy days. Carefully guarded of course.
Next is a large storage room near the lavatory. It's been converted into a small gym. Taking much of the equipment they could find from out in the yard. It seems to be a favorite spot of Popeye. With a shaved head and big muscles it's fairly obvious why. "We took a bunch of the mattresses and put 'em up against the wall to keep the noise from echoing." He says in a deep baritone. Rick looks somewhat impressed but Popeye just shrugs, "It was Killer's idea."
Bathroom facilities are the last stop on the tour. Pushing open the door with a big padded hand is Bubba. He stands at over six feet tall and he far outweighs the rest of the guys. His southern drawl is thick as molasses when he speaks, "Here's the can. Cold water still runs so we got showers and all that. Limit's one a week during daylight hours only. Extra if you get guts on you though. Three minutes max. Take it easy on the soap and keep your light pointed down after dark." Bubba points a finger at the skylights that make it the only room with ambient lighting.
As they make their way back to the tables and start to sit down another voice chimes in, "And now for the fun part." He says with sarcasm. His shaggy blonde hair hangs in his eyes. They call him Frisco because apparently that's where he's from. Thin and muscular, he's maybe a few years older than Honda. Everyone starts to take a seat at the tables. "Last stop is the hospital." He says with a wave of his hand to show Rick he should follow.
Jet, a dark haired Italian looking man, comes along as well. He's tall and lanky, all limbs, and doesn't say much even when spoken to. He keeps his hand on his gun when he walks but it seems more like a show of manliness than an actual intent to use it. The others stay behind and although Rick questions it he's found them gracious enough up to now. "Go on in, Killer is waiting for you." Frisco says stopping short of the door marked with only a red cross on a plastic placard.
Now Rick gets a little nervous. His eyes narrow with suspicion as he looks back and forth between the two men, "What's going on?" he asks. They seem as relaxed as ever though. Not the least bit phased.
"It's inspection. We all have to do it. Don't worry, it doesn't hurt." Jet finally pipes up with a seedy grin. Rick immediately decides he doesn't like him. Rather, he doesn't like him because he doesn't trust him. The devious twinkle in his eye reminds him of more than a few criminals he's had the displeasure to know.
In spite of his concern he walks in, body tense and on high alert. The room is filled with the dull glow of candlelight. Killer grabs a pair of latex gloves out of a box on the counter as he enters. Her expression is as stoic as ever, eyes blue and icy. The room is a decent size. A couple of cots, a shiny metal gurney and lots of medical supplies fill the space. It smells particularly antiseptic and it tingles in Rick's nose. "What's inspection..?" he asks guardedly.
"It's routine. Anyone who's come in close contact with the walkers and newbie's get inspected. Check for bite marks and scratches, that kind of thing." She says matter-of-factly as she snaps the last glove on. She looks at him expectantly before telling him, "Strip."
Rick's eyes widen. She may think it's no big deal but he definitely feels uncomfortable. Though the idea in theory is actually pretty logical he's more than a little taken off guard. "Wait, you can catch it from a scratch?" he stalls, both unsure of her intentions and of what her reaction will be when she sees his gunshot wound.
She crosses her arms over her chest. "It…the infection can enter the bloodstream through any open wound, even a scratch, yes." She senses his discomfort and adds, "I just need to take a quick look at you and you can get outta here. You can leave your underwear on but the rest has to come off. It's the price of admission cowboy." She says and Rick could almost swear there is a hint of reassurance in her tone.
"So are you a real doctor?" he asks as he takes off his holster and puts it on the gurney next to him.
Killer raises an eyebrow at that. Her favorite expression Rick thinks. "No, I'm really ballerina." She says dripping with sarcasm. "Are you a real cop?"
He lets out a chuckle and she appears even more annoyed that he thinks it's funny. "And the others?" he asks unbuttoning his shirt. "Military?"
She lets out a sardonic laugh, "Definitely not. They just wish they were. Got the uniforms from a military supply store downtown. It's easier just to go with it. Trust me." Rick nods, willing to accept that explanation… for now. As he takes off his shirt her eyes widen at the sight of his blood soaked bandages and she reaches for both her gun on her hip. "Start talking." She says as she aims it at his head.