Haven From Hell (Book 4): Alcazar Prison, page 1
part #4 of Haven From Hell Series
Copyright 2018
A Work of Fiction Written by Mark Won
Haven From Hell: Alcazar Prison
Introduction
In accordance with the ongoing wishes of Incumbent Mark Herzog, during the fourth year of his second term, the following biographical information regarding Honored Citizen Gideon Storm is to be made available to the public. This profile is for the purpose encouraging a wider understanding of the state of the world and for the promotion of the proper appreciation of the current state of affairs. All occurrences included herein have been researched with the greatest care, using as the primary source eye witnesses of the events in question. Also used, with permission, were the personal narratives of Mr. Storm himself, as recorded in the field (most noteworthy for their rambling nature and utterly unfathomable lack of coherence). If anyone has an interest in the aforementioned journals, they may be made available upon request, in digital form, at the Library of Haven website.
Mark Won,
In the Year of Our Lord 2061,
After Change 13,
In the Capitol City of Fisher Bay, Wisconsin Territory, Free State of Haven
Prologue
Andrea really liked Dr. Smithers, he was a nice man. Someday she hoped to be able to tell him so, maybe someday soon. Gideon was still down south, and he was the only one Andrea felt comfortable talking to. Maybe when they were alone together she could ask him to tell Dr. Smithers how nice he was. She hoped that Gideon would be done saving people soon so he could come home.
The puzzle Andrea was working on was one she’d finished numerous times before. Now it was all about seeing how quickly she could finish it. Dr. Smithers had other puzzles but her favorite was the one with the dogs playing poker.
Andrea was seated in a room measuring about fifteen feet to a side with another table situated right next to hers. Seated at that table was a boy named Sheldon and a girl named Janet. Andrea liked them both well enough, even if she couldn’t talk to them. Sheldon mostly sat still as a stone while Janet constantly rocked to and fro, humming to herself.
There were others housed in the Asylum on Flat Tail Island, but Andrea was only staying there until her big sister, Gina, got done with work, then she’d show up to take her home. Everybody else had to remain, mostly because they had no where else to go.
She liked most of the residents of the Asylum. There was Walter, who wouldn’t go outside, and who liked to help her with puzzles sometimes, when he was feeling brave. And Mr. Cortez, who had to touch door frames and chairs a certain number of times. He was real nice on days he could count high enough to get out of his room. Miss Robbins was a sweetheart to Andrea, but not to men. Anytime a man came by she either got all trembly or she attacked, trying to scratch the poor guy all up. Miss Robbins had a special nurse. But then there was Mr. Dolt.
Mr. Dolt just couldn’t stop talking and he never had anything nice to say, especially about Mr. Herzog, the Incumbent. Andrea was pretty sure that Mr. Dolt hated the Incumbent, and always had, ever since Mr. Herzog had saved him during the Change. Mr. Dolt thought he was the boss of everybody and wanted people to do all kinds of odd things. Weird stuff, like look for the old government to save everybody, he didn’t understand that the old way of things was dead.
The poor man wouldn’t give up on the crazy idea that he was most especially Mr. Hezrog’s boss, and that Mr. Herzog used to work for him as some kind of slave or something. It was strange. Mr. Dolt was the only resident at the Asylum called an ‘inmate’, which meant he couldn’t leave whenever he wanted. The man sure did like to shout at people.
A pair of nurses came in to the room to see how everyone was getting along. One of them, Mrs. Holland, said to her companion, Mr. Peters, “So, what do you think? Is our Incumbent a faker? Do you think that Mr. Dolt is telling the truth about any of that, like Dr. Smithers says?”
Mr. Peters replied, “Who cares? Ever since Mr. Dolt has been transferred here it’s been clear that he’s out of his mind; the man’s emotionally unstable. He needs a keeper. Incumbent Herzog, on the other hand, saved my whole family, yours too, when he called us to these islands. If the price of that is the Incumbent telling a fib or two about his past, so what?”
“But if the doctor convinces the councils that the Incumbent is a liar, then maybe he’d be impeached, or whatever,” argued Mrs. Holland.
“Never happen,” reassured her companion, “the Incumbent has been in power now for three years and things are clearly getting better. Nobody in his right mind want’s to rock the boat.”
Interesting, thought Andrea. She would have to be sure to talk to Gideon all about it when he showed up. It was surprising how much people said around those who didn’t make a habit of speaking. If there was likely to be any trouble than Gideon was surely the one to do something about it.
Andrea had been listening to all the news people had said about Gideon. It had been over two years now since he’d saved them all, and she hoped he was safe. One of her favorite pastimes was to dream all about the adventures he’d been on since last they’d parted…
Chapter 1
I’ve always wanted to go to prison, and the one up ahead looked perfect. It was made up of one big building painted in a delightful shade of gray, with six smaller buildings located to the south of it, all single story. The large building, which I presumed held a cafeteria, clinic, administration, and hopefully, armory, had a small (relatively speaking) parking lot just to its east, outside the permiter. The smaller buildings were of the same shade of gray and were each over one hundred fifty feet long. They looked like a bunch of giant letter T’s. My guess was that’s where they used to keep all the prisoners. Having been an inmate a time or two, myself, I could empathize. In front of each of the smaller buildings there was a basketball court, and on top of each inmate holding block was a stumpy watch tower. To the south of the smaller buildings was a big open area which had been used as a baseball diamond, or some such, but which was now hopelessly overgrown. The six buildings were all sharing a common area with the main building, also overgrown, but they were cut off from everything else by a wonderfully gigantic fence, which was laid out in a byzantine array of double protection. I especially enjoyed the razor wire topping.
And that’s not all! There were two more really tall watch towers, one inside the fences and one, to the south, where I was looking from, just outside the prison. Also, there were a couple of smaller buildings littered about inside, probably a place for guards to hang out after they got tired of being mean. Off to the northeast I saw, in the distance, a line of buildings that looked like the kind farmers use to hold farming equipment. In light of all the corn and vegetables which had been planted to the north of the prison, just to the other side of an access road, that made perfect sense. On the east and west side of the prison there was a bunch of standing water, which I hoped would have some fish. In the distance, to my northeast, I saw the top of a water tower looming over the height of the trees. Other than that the immediate area was forested.
The section of forest that I was in, directly to the south of the prison, had scores of human skeletal remains, which was nice. That implied a lot of zombies had been killed and dumped. The last guy I hung out with was a doctor who was forever insisting that we bury the remains. He had some problems.
At a casual glance I could tell that some people were living inside the prison complex. There was a planted area in the southeast section, double fenced in to the south and with a single enclosure to the east, west, and north. The prison designers had made sure to save on materials by using the buildings themselves as obstructions. There were four people that I could see working to bring in the crop. They kept an inordinately large number of dogs and cats as pets.
Two of the harvesters were men and two were women, which I found to be pleasantly equatable. They looked like they knew what they were doing, but the crop seemed rather small. Although it did seem to be nearly enough to keep four people fed until the next crop could be reaped, it seemed insufficient if there were other inhabitants of which I was unaware (plus, I didn’t know what all those dogs and cats were supposed to eat). Not that finding another crop would be all that difficult, since there were tons of corn growing off to the east about a quarter of a mile, not to mention everything growing just to the north. One would merely have to brave the zombies, ghouls and ogres to collect it.
Before introducing myself I decided to circle around to see what else I might learn. To the east, on the other side of the water, Tracer and I found the access road which lead from the prison parking lot in one direction, to the sheriff’s station and jail in the other direction (the sheriff’s jail had a bunch of solar panels on the roof). Between the two, nearer the sheriff’s jail, was where the water tower was located. To the north of the water tower was a former pet shelter, which explained where all the dogs and cats had come from. To the east of the jail/sheriff’s office was a short road which lead to a real road, the only way into the area (by road, I mean). To the north of the prison was more cropland, which was surrounded by trees except in the direction facing the prison, and to the west of the prison were a few houses, also surrounded by trees on three sides. I guessed the houses were for important prison staff like doctors and lawyers and wardens and stuff.
So, then I had to figure out my approach. Most places I visit don’t have so many options or so much space. If I went to the main entrance then I’d have to pass through one fence, into a middle
Another concern for me was the moral fiber of the sort of people inside the fences. Who were they? I didn’t know. Maybe they were real nice salt of the earth types. Then again, maybe they were a bunch of rapacious cannibals whose mental interior most closely resembled a Russian gulag on a killing field surrounded by a Nazi concentration camp. You never know these days.
I decided that my best bet would be to approach the folks working in the field from my side of the fence. I had already used my nifty little telescope to determine that none of the guard towers or other likely sniper spots were manned, so I probably wouldn’t have to worry about that. I figured that if any of the people I were about to address were to begin to act suspiciously, then I’d tell a lie to buy some time and fade back into the forest. And maybe kill them all later, depending.
In my backpack I carry a white handkerchief and a small mirror that I’d soldered onto a telescoping metal pointer. I tied the one to the other and began waving it as soon as I broke the tree line. Not only did no one shoot at me, no one even seemed to notice me, except a few dogs, and at that distance they didn’t much care. As I came closer to the fence more and more of the dogs began to pay attention to Tracer and I, but there was still no human acknowledgment.
Tracer was kinda small so sometimes he had trouble in the tall grass. I reached down and picked him up before continuing. Tracer was a special kind of mutt with a big beautiful nose and weird loose skin, all patchy colored, and a scar running along one side of his face. Sometimes it looks like the scar moves because of how loose his skin is. He’s also the best tracker in the whole world. He and I have a secret language based on tail wagging. I can tell all about how many zombies or people or whatever are around just by paying attention to his butt. How many trackers can you say that about?
We went right up to the fence with me waving a flag with one hand and holding Tracer with the other. By the time we got there some of the dogs were beginning to bark, trying to get their humans’ attention. I was waving my flag like I was in some kind of parade until, finally, one of the farmers glanced up to see what all the ruckus was about and spotted us. He just stood there like a bump on a log for a good five seconds before calling out.
“Hey there! You want in?” he shouted.
I sure hoped he wasn’t the smart one. Dog’s can bark their heads off and the zombies won’t even seem to notice, but if a human whispers next to a waterfall during a thunderstorm there’s a fair chance every zombie within half a mile will start making its way over. Maybe he didn’t care so much because he was on the right side of the barriers.
The woman next to him gave him a shove and told him to keep quiet and to get over to me. I liked her right off. I know it’s not nice, but I usually like the smart people better. Except for a mentally challenged doctor I knew, by the name of Bruce, the bad thinkers are generally an annoying bunch.
The man approaching me was about five feet ten inches, two hundred pounds, with brown hair, hazel eyes, a weak chin, and big nose. He had blue jeans on and a plain blue T-shirt with a couple of small holes in it. The dude was maybe twenty-five years old with a face in desperate need of a razor (but I had no intention of letting him borrow mine) and a wide eyed look of amazement plastered all over his face.
He quickly made his way over to the fences and whispered through, “The way in is over there,” then he pointed to my right.
I walked along until I came to a section of the fence which had been cut to allow entry. It was a section about three feet high and three feet across. The only thing keeping the hole covered was the height of the grass. Directly across from the hole was a similar opening in the inner fence, without even the grass to conceal it.
Now, some things occurred to me. For starters, what was keeping ghouls from climbing over the fence and killing everyone? The concertina wire on top would only slow them for an instant. And what was keeping the ogres from coming along and ripping a gap in the fence wide enough to walk through? I’ve seen those things smash through a brick wall like it was tinfoil.
But it was that unprotected hole in the fence that really got to me. I know regular zombies would have one heck of a time getting through such a hole because they’re so dumb and clumsy, but that’s no excuse. And traveling marauders might be able to cut the fence, sure, but so what? No need to leave the door wide open, so to speak, making it easy for them. In my modest experience, these people should have been dead a long time ago.
I put Tracer down and crawled through on my belly, careful to not get my backpack or Mary Ann (my rifle) caught up on the fence. Once Tracer and I were both through, I introduced us.
“Hi, I’m Gideon and this is Tracer. Why aren’t you all dead?” I said.
He answered, “I’m Javier. We live here.” I don’t think he understood my question.
As we walked back over to the other three reapers, Javier continued, “We all came here right after it all happened. The monsters can’t climb the fence so we’re safe.”
Wow, what an optimist. I found myself growing fond of him. I asked, “Where are you all from?”
“We’re all from a town just north of here by the name of West Block, but that’s not where we were when it happened. We were in Wood Grove Church just southeast of here.”
“Why were you in church? The Change didn’t happen on a Sunday.”
He said, “Morning Bible study. When the study was over, someone noticed that things were going on when he used his phone. Most folks just took off, you know, because they needed to get back to their loved ones. We all agreed to meet back at the church. No one really knew how bad it was in those first few hours.”
“How many made it back?”
“Four of us plus Cynthia’s three kids. I’m guessing everyone else is dead. When I got into town I remember I had to drive around all the monsters, even slamming into some of them. I don’t think that they’re people anymore, do you? I saw that where my wife worked was overrun with monsters, and so was the school, so I came back to the church. What else could I do?” He seemed super sad about it, and that made me sad.
As emotions go, sadness sucks. It is the absolute worst emotion ever. Give me a good old fashioned rage any day. Or contempt, hatred, joy, or exultation. Really, anything except sadness. I know that whenever I start to feel a little down about some of the inconveniences which I’ve undergone, what always perks me right up is killing something that has it coming. Like a zombie. Or an unpleasant person.
I said, “If you want, we could go out later and kill a few zombies. Maybe that will make you feel better.” I knew it would make me feel better.
Just then the other three gardeners came up to us. The lady in charge was introduced to me as Lisa. Not that the rest of them knew that she was in charge, but she was, I could tell. Jackie and Cynthia were the names of the other two. I could tell right off they were nice folks. Not the sort that I’d end up killing, not even close, which was okay by me.
Cynthia asked me, “Are you alone?” I could tell what she really wanted to know was where my parents were, but she had too much class to put it that way.
I could tell she wasn’t counting Tracer (he’s such a good dog he didn’t mind), so I answered, “Yep, just me.” Of course, I didn’t want to confuse her by naming off all the friends which I had on me. Most people can’t seem to wrap their heads around the concept of a sapient kopis or a sentient xiphos (my swords, Abby and Polly).
