My Lovely Executioner

by Peter Rabe

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  My Lovely Executioner

  PETER RABE

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  Journey into Terror

  Also Available

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  I always became nervous just before five because that was quitting time. The big hand on the clock started to creep, the boiler in the back of the laundry made twice the racket. The big drum with the squeak in one bearing cut into my ear as if I were hearing the sound for the first time.

  We had quitting time just like regular humans, even though nothing much came after that No good meal and no nice evening.

  But at five o’clock the nerves always showed in all of us, including the kind like Smitty who had served most of his time with maybe ten years, fifteen at the outside, to go. He was that old.

  He yanked the clutch lever of the big drum too late, and the brake too, so when I opened the lid to pull out the wet sheets I had to reach up too high and the water ran into my sleeves.

  “Let her down some,” I said. “How long you got to practice to get a trick like stopping the drum at the right place?”

  “The way it’s been going,” he said, “maybe ‘til I get out of the bucket No more.”

  That was a nasty thing for a lifer to say, especially about himself, and it really showed how jumpy he was because he was old and mild actually, even dull. I rather think dull. The same thing, after less time than Smitty’s, was happening to me.

  I could get up at five in the morning, with the squeal horn waking me, with no effort or anger any more. I could file down my corridor and peel off at the right cell as if moving on rails. Even that dismal sound meant less and less, when the grilled doors slid across and went snap in the lock, one after the other, the whole length of the block. That would be that for the long hours before falling asleep, the three hours with lights on, and the rest, I don’t know how many, in the dark.

  I pulled a crate over from the side of the drum, turned it over and stood on it. Smitty said nothing and when a screw came by and saw me haul the wet sheets from the drum into the cart, he didn’t say anything either. He kept walking.

  “Friend of yours?” said Smitty. That was an insult.

  “The Christmas spirit.” I kept hauling sheets.

  It was awkward work, a strain on the back, and I took it out on that instead of saying something else to Smitty. He said nothing either for a while and looked out the near window. It was steamy and had wire mesh in the glass but I could see the snow coming down into the yard and the big wall in back, cutting off the rest.

  When I stopped a second, to catch my breath, Smitty tried smiling at me, to show he hadn’t meant it before. Then he nodded out at the window.

  “Look at the Christmas spirit come down all over,” he said.

  The snow was coming down thick and steady and when I squinted my eyes at it, I could hardly see the big wall. But on the ground, in the yard, all the Christmas spirit was turning black.

  Then I got the draft in the back. Somebody had pushed the sliding door open, letting all the cold from the yard come in. They were dragging the new boiler through the door, on two dollies. There were maybe five men pushing and hauling, and Rand telling them which way. And two screws, naturally, but they were just standing.

  I felt touchy enough; I almost yelled something at the crew, but the screws there reminded me. I couldn’t yell, only take it out in some other way. Or let it lie, hoping it would go away.

  With the steam torn I could see the stone walls of the laundry very clearly, how they peeled and how really wet they were. I only remember because of what followed.

  The new boiler bounced me from behind, bounced the crate out from under me, and skinned the small of my back. I fell on the hard, wet floor, right between the boiler and the drum, and I could see Smitty stand by his levers. For a second I thought he was going to start up and thought of the open lid coming down, smacking me on the way around.

  But he wasn’t looking at me or at his levers.

  On the other side of the boiler was commotion. The cursing alone was bad — nobody in his right mind, no matter what time it was, talked loud or cursed — but that wasn’t all. I could tell by the way feet shuffled, making quick sounds which stopped in the middle, and by the sharp, gritty scrapes on the floor. Other sounds too.

  Before the screws started whistling I had the picture.

  A fight on the outside is one thing. You join, you watch, or you run. A fight on the inside is something else, because you pay so much more. The screws get you, if you join; the screws get you, if you watch; the screws get you, if you run. Or the cons get you.

  I sat on the concrete for a moment, but the time seemed very long. The noise came all over me, and then, very suddenly, I came apart. It feels that way. It’s something I’d never known before I came to prison. My insides start to float, especially in my belly, and the skin and muscles get harder and harder so I keep my shape. Then, hard as glass. I tighten up to get smaller than dust because if I should move, something might break. And meantime my insides keep floating and spinning faster, like an internal fire, roaring.

  The others were milling around and making a lot of noise. I was sure there were more than five men now and of course more than two screws. A screw slammed his stick down and hit the new boiler with a sound like a big, holy bell.

  All of a sudden it was over. Rand was yelling, the screws were whistling, and an alarm went off someplace. We got a million alarms — warning bell, hurry-up bell, break bell, riot bell — but I didn’t know which one was going off. I heard Rand yelling, because when Rand opens his mouth it’s important.

  The screws loved him, because of how he handled the men, and the men loved him, because Rand is that way; what I would call right.

  He was yelling to stop and everybody stopped.

  The curious thing about him was his looks. He wasn’t big and he had no special features. He had light colored hair which always looked as if it had just been washed, and the way he kept his hands in his pockets made him seem very straight.

  He was putting his hands back into his pockets and everybody stopped. The fight had lasted maybe three minutes.

  Three minutes or three hours is all the same though, because a brawl is a brawl. There were plenty of screws now, including some on the gallery holding their riot guns, and we got herded together and marched out to the yard. It was fifteen minutes before shut down, but the worst part would come later.

  Everybody was thinking of that. The
re was a hook inside everybody; the fight had been over too soon.

  Nobody talked, nobody made a false move. There were guns looking down from the big wall and from the inner wall, the one where we had to go through the gate to get back into the compound.

  We walked through the slush in the empty yard with the screws making nervous circles a little distance away. The line of men looked like a black, silent snake. The thick snow came down all the time so that the big wall was hard to see. The snow fell on heads and on shoulders but nobody made any kind of a move to get rid of it.

  I had Smitty in front of me and Rand in the rear.

  “Tell him,” Smitty said without turning, “that something stinks.”

  “Him” was Rand, of course. I don’t know how I knew, but Smitty meant Rand.

  Then I heard Rand’s “stir” voice close behind me, the sound we learned to make without using our lips.

  “I can hear you clear,” he said. “And so can the screws, maybe.”

  “Too scared to come close,” said Smitty.

  “And the Christmas spirit,” I said.

  “I seen five riots, the time I spent here,” said Smitty, “and this one stinks.”

  “I didn’t think it was any good either,” said Rand.

  The snake-line bent again and we were kept close to the wall. There were screws all along the top of the wall, black humps in the falling snow.

  “Maybe if it were colder,” I said, “one of them might drop a gun.”

  The head of the line walked a little more slowly now and the snake seemed to bulge. The line always slowed here because we came to the second wall gate.

  At that moment a new alarm went off.

  I thought it was fire. It could have been warning bell, hurry bell, break bell, or Christmas bell. Our gate opened up, as usual, but the head of the line didn’t move. When the head of the line refused to go the rest of the line kept bulging up from behind because nobody had said stop or blown the right whistle. There was a murmur from the front, which only made the rear more eager. Then we saw the fire, past the gate in the furniture shop.

  The line wasn’t moving and the screws with the sticks started running and yelling, because nothing made them nervous as something without a plan. This line was planless now. It had bunched up so they couldn’t see single men any more. It was a mass which was too closely packed and which wouldn’t move. Trouble started when one of the screws made the mistake of swinging his stick into somebody. There weren’t enough screws for that kind of play and once they mingled with the cons, the screws on the walls didn’t know where to shoot.

  “I’ll kill ya, you bastard,” yelled somebody, and “Move, move in there!” And then Rand behind me, very loud. “Not the fire! Can’t walk us into that fire, you crazy screws!”

  The fire wasn’t that close, but the words threw everyone into a panic. The snake had come apart and was turning into a beast with too many heads. The cons screamed and milled and a guard got trampled. The beast now broke up into a flying mass of little splinters, because the guards on the wall had started to fire.

  “Break!” somebody yelled, and with the wild bullets from the wall forcing everyone away from the gate, the frightened men kept screaming, “Break — Break!”

  The snow came thick and fast, breaking the field of vision into small, nervous flickers. Bullets twanged into the yard and soon there wasn’t a mob any more, just frightened men running.

  Then the splinters all got pulled together, the way metal scraps react to a magnet.

  “Big Wall!”

  Suddenly the beast had a head again, because Rand had screamed “big wall.”

  “Everybody!” he bellowed again, “Big Wall!”

  Nobody ever got out that way unless he wore a civilian suit — prison made — with a cardboard satchel in one hand and the little white release slip in the other.

  Not everybody ran to the big wall but a lot of insane fools with no thoughts but the mob yell in their heads ran that way. The bullets from the inner wall kept chasing us away from the gate in back, the snow beat through the air, keeping the big wall a faint, unreal goal in the distance, but Rand kept yelling the word and nobody thought for a moment that he would run us into a closed door.

  The only ones who didn’t feel the bite and the challenge of escape were the ones like Smitty.

  It takes a long time to get used to the idea of serving a life sentence, but once into that zombie world, and it’s hard to come out of it.

  I ran into Smitty because he suddenly stopped in the yard.

  “What am I doing?” he said, “What am I doing?”

  I gibbered something at him, out of pure excitement, and dragged on his arm.

  “I can’t,” he kept saying and his voice had a crack in it.

  “Big Wall!”

  “I can’t walk through that way, I can’t get — I didn’t bring my — Please!” and he was staring into my face, “Please leave me be!”

  But I didn’t want to let go of his arm. I got stubborn because Smitty was frightened.

  Rand came chasing by, yelling, and when he saw us frozen there he suddenly stopped. His breath was pumping hard. His hair came out wet from under his cap and there was wet on his lashes so that they stuck together. His eyes looked naked and big. I had never seen him excited.

  “ — make it,” it pumped out of him, “We’ll make it!”

  I could suddenly feel the snow soak through to my back and I shivered.

  “For godsake move!” he screamed at me. “Leave Smitty, leave go his arm!”

  “I can’t go this way,” Smitty was chattering. “I got to get my — what was it, I got to get my — ”

  “He’s rocky, he’s forty years’ worth of rocky!” and Rand grabbed my arm hard.

  “They can’t see from the walls,” he yelled into my ear, “we’ll make it! Now!”

  A bullet twanged into the ground next to us, from the back wall. Nobody walks out of the big wall except with the suit and the little white slip. That’s what Smitty was meaning to say, that he had to go get his blue suit and the slip. He was right, and I was right because this wasn’t my break, just a sudden wild thing in the laundry, a break I knew nothing about, a break I didn’t need, didn’t want.

  “ — forty years rocky!” Rand yelled into my ear. “ — and he stays. They can’t do anything worse to a lifer. But you! You know what they’re gonna do to you!”

  A new siren went off. This one came on faint and got louder because it was on a truck. I could see it come from the inner yard with riot guns sticking out on all sides where the screws were leaning out as if craving a breath of fresh air, or better, craving to bite the way a dog does when he’s locked in a car and somebody knocks at the closed window.

  “I gotta sit,” Smitty said, and it was the silliest thing I had ever heard. Smitty sat down in the snow like an idiot watching a buzz saw come his way.

  I ran. A pure, lung-tearing run.

  They were firing from the big wall now but only from the top. There was no guard down below, at the gate, because too many of us came running. Five garbage trucks were still lined up because when the riot had started, back by the inner wall, officials had kept the outside gate shut ‘til they knew what was going on.

  They knew what was going on now, and if it hadn’t been for the snow cutting their view all to pieces and the trucks standing there to give cover, more of the cons would have been dead. I didn’t think about this or anything reasonable at all, because there was just mindless panic riding me from behind and a mindless magnetic pull from the front where the gate showed, black in the blizzard air.

  There was a con ahead of me, trying to duck under a truck, and when he started to duck I kicked him from behind so his head rammed into the tailgate, and when I ran past him I hit at the back of his neck. I didn’t know why. The gate loomed bigger than ever before. Then it was gone.

  I stopped between two of the trucks, sliding in the mush on the ground. Rand was next to me and he fell.


  There was nothing but thick whiteness in front where the gate should have been, and then we could smell it.

  They had tossed tear gas. It boiled up under the arch of the gate and the cons who had made it that far came running back. There were shots now. The screws had come down from the wall to lay a cross fire the width of the gate.

  “Low,” said Rand. “We can make it low while they can’t see through the gas.”

  I could see the cons running back. The white fog stung and it blew with bullets.

  “Look at it, look at it, the gate — ” and Rand shoved from behind.

  “Rand — I’ve had it — I think — ”

  “Don’t think, you sonofabitch, don’t think!”

  We were between the trucks and he was pushing from behind, clawing from behind like a man clawing air, foam, and water just before he drowns.

  “It’s open,” I heard him next to my ear. “It’s open, so help me — so help me — ” and there was a raw crack in his voice, close to a break.

  He was insane and so was I.

  We hit the gate. Eyes shut, breath held, and straight into the gas.

  There was less gas there than before and as suddenly as the gate had disappeared there it was again, big and hard and the steel wet from the snow. I cracked into it, running, and I thought the impact, that hardness against my hands and my face, would break me.

  There were shots behind and the siren kept chasing around in the yard. I couldn’t see it any more, but I could see in my mind how the truck would be howling back and forth with men running and dropping dead where the truck went by. And I was glued up against the steel gate and I thought how when they found me I’d be dead and spread flat into the seams and around the rivets I opened my eyes then. I no longer cared about the gas or how it might sting, because in a moment I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath and they would start shooting a little bit better.

  There wasn’t any gas this close to the gate. There was a strong, cold draft on my face, watering my eyes, freezing me under the wet jacket, and next to my hand, my right hand on the steel, the gate ended.