Free The Doomsday Infection by Martin Lamport Page A

the new prisoner they’d stuck in with him last night stunk to high heaven. “Hey, get me outa here. There’s something wrong with the new meat. I think he’s dying! You gotta get me away from him.”
    He looked over at his new cellmate, Winston Kincaid, a serial killer sent down for five confirmed kills but rumored to be more, and up to twenty women if you could believe Winston himself, but then who’d exaggerate something like that? Killing women then molesting their corpses - why brag about that. Fucking pervert. He’d been dead against sharing a cell with him, put up all sorts of protests. Jenkins was a killer for sure, but he weren’t no twisted pervert. The dude should be in the nuthouse not in with them - the elite of the murderers. If he weren’t insane then execute him instead of wasting the taxpayer’s money and fouling up Jenkins air.
    “Hey, you motherfucker.” He slapped Kincaid on the rump. How could he sleep so soundly? First night too, most new inmates spent the first night booing like a little baby. “Hey you,” he croaked, and swallowed hard, trying to make moisture for his aching throat. “Move to the back of the cell would ya? You’re stinking up the place, Jesus.”
    The cell was only six foot by twelve foot and designed for one man; the stacked bed took up half of the width of the tiny cell and over half its length. The stainless steel sink and john took up the rest of the space.
    Jenkins had spent most of the first decade of incarceration having the cell to himself and that’s the way he liked it. Since the government cutbacks, the authorities had installed the stacked beds and forced him to share the tiny floor space with a succession of murdering dross. However, this latest inmate was absolutely the pits. At least the previous tenants had the honor of being honest to goodness badass cutthroats not this twisted degenerate stinking up the place. He seemed to be suffering from some sorta ailment. He huddled into the corner of his upper bunk, seniority stated Jenkins took the lower one, and had coughed and hacked all night. Already on Jenkins shit list for keeping him awake all damned night, his chances of survival on the sixth floor were slim to say the least. His life was gonna be hell amongst the guys on E block, they had no time for rumored pederasts, they had their code where suspected child molesters were at the bottom of the pile - lower than bottom if there was such a place. As soon as the cell-door opened the guys would be lining up to inflict their justly retribution.
    He didn’t hold out much hope of Kincaid lasting the next twenty-four hours. They could rely on the guards to look the other way. Especially the latest batch of new recruits, who to a man were only there for the paycheck, none claiming a vocational pull towards the prison service. Nope, they were on minimum wage and couldn’t care less what happened to the dregs, like Kincaid.
    Jenkins throat felt constricted, he ran his tongue over his dried lips. Man, this was intolerable. He was dying of thirst, the blast furnace heat was something rotten and what was that stink?
    The only source of the stench could be his new cellmate. “Hey, you, Kincaid, get outa ya bunk. Jesus, what is that smell? Have you shit yourself?”
    He took a tentative step towards the recumbent figure. Kincaid stirred, rolled over to face him. Jenkins took a step back in shock when he saw Kincaid’s face covered in black rings of weeping pus. His bloodshot eyes swiveled to face him, and black blood oozed from his nostrils. His body shook and convulsed. Jenkins backed away, but bashed into the bars in no time, when to his utter horror Kincaid projectile vomited, and thick, foul smelling vomit ejected from him, covering Jenkins in puke.
    Jenkins hit the bars frantically making as much noise as he could to get attention. “Guard!” he croaked. “Help me!” He slid down the bars, hi s eyes popped out on stalks, as he stared at the wretched,