Free The Doomsday Infection by Martin Lamport

she’d be back soon.
    He spotted a black woman laid face down in the yard. “What the hell?” He marched over to the elderly woman. “What in god’s name do you think you are doing in my Mama’s house?”
    She grabbed the cuff of his uniform pants, repulsing him. “Get off me, nigger. What the fuck have you done with my mama?” He kicked her hand away, crouched on his haunches and rolled her over. “Tell me, where is she? I demand to know!”
    “Stanley it’s me . . .” she croaked.
    He shivered in fright and crabbed backward across the yard, he fixated on her pox-ridden face, as she struggled to open her eyes. And when Stanley saw her baby-blues that he’d known so well for the first time in his life he wet himself.
     
     
    10:45 PM
     
    Jenkins Forest or prisoner 850416 to give him his official title, fiddled with the faucet of the metal sink, but once again no water came out.
    “ Goddamnit!” he said. What was wrong with this picture? How in the name of all that’s holy had this happened? He gagged for a drink. His dried, parched throat ached. He been on the john most of the night with the runs and was severely dehydrated. He marched over to the front of the cell that took him all of four paces, and banged against the bars of his cell. “Hey, there’s a man dying of thirst in here!” His voice echoed up and down the sixth floor of cellblock E.
    The E block was for category A offenders , the habitual murderers and other life sentence prisoners with no hope of release. The sixth floor housed the worst of the worst, the uncontrollable, the scum of the earth. Proudly at the apex of this mound of human filth was Jenkins Forest, boasting that he was the king of the block, as if it afforded him some kudos amongst his fellow prisoners. Jenkins had been in and out of correctional facilities his entire life, first time as a mere boy in juvenile hall, where he killed another kid in an argument over a game of pool.
    He had cheated though, Jenkins thought, justifying the slaying. He rarely thought of the game that had cost a boy his life and him his freedom. He’d never had much time for dwelling on his incarceration. He was like a shark, he had to keep moving forward, looking for something to eat and to survive another day.  
    Jenkins had killed many a man, mostly for money, sometimes for fun. It had no meaning to him , he’d snuff out a person for the most insignificant slight, as he’d done over the pool game all those years ago. Now incarcerated for life, having received four life sentences to run concurrently, totaling eight hundred years. You’ve got to love the Southern judges and their whacky sentencing. Eight hundred years, why he could be out in five hundred years with good behavior he thought with a smile. Not that good behavior was in his DNA. He’d killed at least three inmates since his last and final incarceration, and had the tattoos to prove it. Teardrop prison tatts dripping down from the corners of his eyes like tears, one for each verified death. The slaying needed witnessing by a reliable source though; you couldn’t go around having teardrop tattoos all willy-nilly trying to boost your standing in the jailhouse community. No, you had to have some sorta code.
    Jenkins banged on the bars again. “Hey, where is everyone?” It was gone seven in the morning. That was when the lights came on with a bang, to start another monotonous day of drudgery. He started to get hungry; he could normally smell the food, for what it was worth, drifting up from the kitchens. However, this morning, not a thing. No food cart with the wonky wheel, pushed by Albert with the wonky eye, who dispensed the rancid lukewarm breakfasts to the killers on the sixth floor.
    “Come on, let me outa here, I need water.” He slumped and rested his head against the cool metal of the bars. It was gonna be another broiling hot day. His dried throat hurt something rotten and he was already sweating like a pig. To top it all,