12
Peeing your initials on a wall was harder than it sounded. Spike zipped his pants, backing away from the corner reeking of ammonia. At least he got to use the toilet for number two. Probably because no one wanted to clean up his s**t after they killed him. He headed to his bed—the section of floor with his balled-up tee—and stretched out on his side.
His pinky nail scratched the floor, digging into the M and E. Blood smeared the concrete as the last of his available fingernails disintegrated. His gaze darted around the vacant room and settled on his pants. Zipper tab or button? The zipper tab would probably work better, but he’d have to keep a close watch on his fly. A spider the size of his fist skittered across the wall and disappeared into a crevice. He yanked the button from his
