Gangs Aren't My Style (A Black Death Novel)

Chapter 84 - Doom of a Dying Man

Gangs Aren't My Style

Book I of the Black Death Trilogy

PART FOUR :: Leave The Front Line Behind

Chapter 84 - Doom Of A Dying Man

The scent of sweat and mildew hung in the air, coating James in its putrid stench as he was led back to his cell. The lights above him were caged, same as the desolate lamp hanging from his own ceiling, and the chains hanging off him once again felt heavy. Their restricting weight would not allow him to forget his own impending death sentence as they chafed his ankles and wrists.

On either side of him were set sectioned iron bars each enclosed by three walls of cement, their prisoners pacing, sleeping, writing letters, or doing push ups as they all passed the time of their sentence in their own silent way. Even James was now familiar with his cell, having been a resident of it for almost a week now, and he knew that the bare furnishings inside were identical to those of the other cells around him.

"Move it, scum," the guard hissed, pushing him so that he stumbled forward and the ankle chains tangled around his feet. James would have fallen forward had the second guard not been keeping a death grip on his arm, holding him up.

James growled through his teeth, his hands clenching even as he fought not to give them a reaction, knowing that they loved to make his life an everlasting grave of fire and brimstone.

"Hey John, looks like Orangie here is getting a little riled up," the one boasted, making sure to use the hideous nickname that they had pegged him with the first time they realized the infamous leader of Black Death was clothed in an orange jumpsuit.

"Yeah Orangie, you okay?"

James said nothing, merely grinding his teeth as he sped up his pace to match theirs.

"You know, it sure is a shame that you are going to be dead by tomorrow morning because that means you won't be alive to see me go after your sister. To see me show her just what a real man can do for her and to explore her luscious curves. I can almost imagine her body writhing under mine as I-"

James cut him off with a rough uppercut to the man's jaw, the chains between his wrists having done little to stop him after James had pulled from the second guard's grip. "No one, and I mean no one, talks that way about my sister."

The man groaned in pain, his hand flying up to cup his tender jaw and his partner grabbed both of James' arms in a death grip, forcefully pulling him back.

"Want me to take him to the Warden?"

"No," the guard replied, carefully testing his jaw and visibly wincing, "he's a deadman anyway, there's not really a point. Instead, I say we teach him one last lesson he won't forget before he dies tomorrow."

"My thoughts exactly," his partner replied, a sick grin spreading across his face as he held James firmly in place, allowing the guard to send a sharp punch directly into his gut.

James arched against the impact, straining to get out of the guard's hold as he bent over from the pain shooting through his abdomen. Before he had a chance to pull himself back up to his full height, the man was already sending another punch, an uppercut to his jaw in retaliation for the blow James had landed on him. His head whipped to the side, pain exploding on the side of his face.

Schooling his reaction, James turned back to him and forced himself to rise from his slump. "That all you got?"

"Drop him," the guard snarled, his buddy immediately complying with his wishes. Their grip on James disappeared but he remained on his feet, readying himself for the next punch.

The second guard that had been holding James kicked the back of his knees and the dropkick sent him to the floor. His knees slammed into the hard concrete, the cloth of his jumpsuit scraping against the rough surface as his hands came up to support himself. His palms had a similar effect against the callous floor, the skin on them rubbing raw.

James didn't have long to ponder his predicament before a steel toed boot connected with the underside of his stomach, sending him rolling across the floor and slamming into one of the iron cells on the other side of the walkway. He tried to ward off their sequential blows but the punches and kicks raining down on him from both men were too much for him to counter while shackled at the ankles and the wrists. Finally relenting to the assault, James let his body grow limp and hoped that they would eventually grow bored with his unresponsive actions.

After what felt like hours later, but had to have been only minutes, they quit, sending one last kick sent to his side before pulling his limp body up from the floor. Blood dripped from his open cuts onto the crusty floor of the walkway as they drug him the rest of the way to his assigned cell, his body protesting any and all movement.

The iron bars of his cell stuttered open before him and James was pushed forward, his exhausted legs collapsing from under him and sending him to kiss the chipping paint of the cement floor. The men's laughter filled the hall as they slammed the cell door back into place, locking it firmly before retreating back to their stations.

James weakly pulled himself up onto the thin mattress set on the side of his room, leaning his head back against the wall as he waited for the nausea to pass. When the vertigo finally passed his head no longer spun and he opened his eyes once again, James wearily glanced around his shabby abode. The walls were stained from years of use, the writing carved into them a testament to this cell's many previous visitors, and the small sink and toilet in the corner were tarnished, no longer the porcelain white they had been when they were new.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, their eerie tones bringing with them the sound of voices muttering, tap water dripping down, and mattresses squeaking as well as the overshadowing doom of a dying man. It was the last place James would see before he died; the inmates scattered throughout the cells beside and across from him the last people he would see before he took his last breath.