Monday (pm)
Spoke to Fredericks’ boss. Like everyone else who comes in here now, he wore one of those damn hoods and biohazard suits. He told me that I was—
Just now, as I was writing the above entry, my thumbnail fell off. All of it. I’m looking at it right now. The flesh below where it once was is black and painful to the touch. What the hell is this? I tenderly touched my other ones and they also feel loose, as if I could just slide them straight off the skin if I wanted to. I’m afraid now and need help. I’m hungry, so hungry. I need to fight this. I WILL fight this. Nails or no nails, it won’t stop me from telling the rest of the story.
Now where was I?
Fredericks’ boss is a man called Richards. He’s a big man with flabby cheeks and glaring little eyes, and he had a pompous air about him that I disliked from the start, but I was too tired and too weak to give him the verbal dressing down I had intended. He told me I was potentially contagious and would not be allowed to leave. I told him he couldn’t do that, but he wasn’t as easily intimidated as Fredericks, and quick as a flash he corrected me, saying that he could and had. The room is now under armed guard. Still nobody will tell me what’s wrong, but I can feel whatever it is getting worse. I try not to think about it, but I get the feeling my body is losing the fight. The rash on my neck has now spread onto my chest and back and shows no sign of slowing. It itches all the time and is now weeping a thick clear liquid, flecked with tiny slivers of yellow pus. I’m also bald now, apart from a few stubborn strands that still cling to my skull.
So hungry.
Tuesday
Drifted in and out of sleep and lost another three fingernails during the night. They just peeled away without resistance. Still not eaten and have lost a lot of weight. I can see the shadows of ribs poking through my skin. A nurse came in to take more blood today. (What the fuck do they do with it all???) She was escorted by two burly doctors who watched me carefully, even though I didn’t try to resist. The needle went in easy, but my blood came out in thick, congealed lumps, accompanied by a horrific stench. The nurse screamed and hurried from the room. I just laughed. Good God, I’m tired of these people. I just want to be left alone.
Wednesday
Lost more nails. Toes this time. Drip wouldn’t go in. Blood too lumpy. I’m an Auschwitz cliché; just skin and bones and haunted eyes. Can’t be bothered writing. Too hungry to care.
Thursday
Feel a little better today. The perpetual headache has faded slightly, but yesterday it was brutal. I can feel the bones protruding out of my skin, but still can’t eat. Twice now they have tried to get a drip into me, and both times with the same result—the horrible congealed blood and rotten pus stench was all they got. That smell has somehow ingrained itself in me, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it. My skin is turning purple at the joints and somehow feels loose on me, like it’s sliding over the few muscles that haven’t yet wasted away. Fredericks made a brief stop, poking his hooded head into the room just long enough to say they had some test results and that he would be by later to fill me in. I probed to see if the news was good or bad, but he didn’t answer—and to be fair he didn’t have to. His sombre look told me all I needed to know.
So hungry.
Friday
So Fredericks tells me I’m dead, and have been ever since I came in. How’s that for a diagnosis? I wouldn’t believe him if not for the evidence. He hooked me up to one of those heart rate monitors, and sure enough, there was no response. My skin came away as he pulled the sticky pads off my chest. He screamed. I laughed. It didn’t even hurt.
He looked at me as if I was some kind of monster, and who could blame him? After all, I’m rotting away as I lie here in this sterile white walled room! First my nails, now my teeth. They are loose and two of them fell out today.
So hungry you wouldn’t believe it.
I dreamed of my father last night—of eating his flesh and drinking his blood—and woke up with my mouth watering.
Sunday
hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry
Wednesday ???
No nails. No teeth. No hair. Skin rotten. Nothing hurts anymore though. That’s good, but I’m still hungry.
Thursday
Did I read somewhere that blood was blue and not red?
Red.
Blue.
Blue.
Red.
Dead.
This is not a hospital room anymore. It’s a zoo and I’m being watched—observed. After all, nobody has seen a genuine living dead man before ha-ha! The rash that started on my neck now covers my gaunt chest and face, and my skin has turned a bruised shade of blue-grey. I think my organs have begun to settle, to liquefy inside me, because my stomach is bloated, like a blister needing to burst. I jabbed this pen I’m writing with into my stomach to see what would happen. It went straight through with no resistance and the relief was immediate. No pain though. Just that lumpy, streaky yellow fluid and that rotten-death stench. The old man was right. End of the road. End of the road. He stuck me good, that’s for sure.
Hungry. So damn hungry.
I’m drooling all over the paper.
Friday ???
Eaten at last. Fredericks has only himself to blame. He leaned too close while he was examining me, and I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t scream for long. God, it was divine... I’m feeling much better, and now that I have his keys, it’s time for me to leave.
I can smell them out there—the cattle going about their business in the corridors.
NO REST FOR THE WICKED
“We Serial Killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.” - Ted Bundy
Roberts knew when he was going to die. It didn’t scare him; instead, he felt a liberated sense of freedom that made the long and tedious hours in his cell bearable. Huntsville prison was the oldest state penitentiary in Texas. The red bricked building where Roberts was spending his last hours was known as The Walls, and was a three story imposing structure with a clock on the front. (As if time mattered in such a place.) It could pass for a school, if not for the bars on the windows and the large sign outside proclaiming its purpose.
Huntsville Unit
Texas State Penitentiary
Est. 1848
Not only was Huntsville the oldest prison in the United States, it also boasted the country’s most active execution chamber. Over four hundred inmates had checked into The Walls and had never checked out. There were a few who managed to slip through the cracks though. Anton Harris, who had protested his innocence for the murder of his sister and her friends after a drug fuelled night out, had already been strapped down and was about to be given the needle when the call came granting him a stay. His relief didn’t last for long, as his appeal was thrown out, and two weeks later he was strapped in for the second time. They called it the most humane method, but Roberts thought that the idea of feeling your body shut itself down was pretty shitty no matter what kind of spin you put on it. If it were up to him, he would choose the chair. A quick jolt and done. Your brain was turned to mush before you really knew anything about it. Unfortunately, old sparky had been retired years earlier, so lethal injection it was.
He had been brought to The Walls earlier that morning, and with his execution scheduled at six sharp, it only left him with a few hours to live. This was the time when an inmate might begin to beg, plead, and proclaim his innocence. But not Roberts. They had him bang to rights. Guilty as charged. During the first year or two spent in prison, he’d been forced to undergo psychological evaluation. He had a series of discussions with a wiry, nervous looking doctor called Jones. Roberts didn’t like the way Jones moved, the way his eyes darted and flicked from side to side as he asked his questions. He was also a nose breather. You know the type—the ones who wheeze and whistle out of their nos
trils instead of the mouth.
“Why do you choose to kill?” Jones had asked as he peered over his glasses.
Roberts paused to consider, and there was silence apart from Jones’s maddening nasal wheeze. He considered making up some elaborate story to justify his actions, but in the end he decided to be honest.
“Because I like it. I like the way it feels,” Roberts said, adding a sneer he hoped would unsettle Jones.
“You like the power it gives you?”
“Yes.”
“And what about your victims? Do you feel anything for them?”
Another pause for consideration. More nasal wheezing.
“No.”
Jones nodded and wrote something down.
Snort wheeze. Snort wheeze.
“Tell me about your family—”
Roberts was already lunging over the table before he realized he was going to do it. The guards reacted quickly, but not quickly enough to stop him. He remembered laughing at the way Jones screamed. It was high pitched like a schoolgirl. The guards had pulled him off and beaten him with their truncheons, but not before he had managed to get his fingers up Jones’ nostrils and tear away his nose. Roberts laughed as he was dragged away, watching the screaming doctor as he tried to hold the jagged remains of his face in place. There would be no more psychological evaluations after that. He had been placed in solitary confinement, and had remained there until his transfer earlier in the day.
The door at the end of the hallway creaked open and unhurried footsteps approached. Roberts remained where he was, stretched out on the bed—his six-foot-seven frame not made for standard issue prison cots. It was lucky for him that he wouldn’t be sleeping over. Officer Remy approached the bars. He was a flabby man who seemed to be on the verge of bursting out of his uniform, which was stretched to tearing point across his immense stomach. He was short, standing only a shade over five feet. His skin was freckled and he sported a carrot colored crew cut. Every time Roberts saw him, he was sweating and had brightly flushed cheeks. Remy watched Roberts through harsh little eyes, which combined with his huge jowls and downturned mouth gave him the look of a bulldog chewing on a mouthful of wasps. He looked flustered and angry, but Roberts noted that even here Remy was walking with his usual arrogant swagger, swinging his key chain and giving the thousand yard stare.
“Looks like you have friends in high places, maggot,” Remy said in his southern drawl.
Roberts smiled but didn’t stand. Maggot was Remy’s standard insult, and was as cheap and clichéd as the man himself.
“Hey, motherfucker, I’m talking to you.”
“Kiss your mother with that mouth, officer Remy?” Roberts responded curtly, standing up. Even with the bars between them, he was pleased to see Remy take a cautionary step back.
“Sit your big ass down,” said Remy, who suddenly seemed less sure of himself. Roberts didn’t sit. Instead he folded his arms and waited.
“You just made history, maggot. You have a visitor. First time in the history of this fine institution that a dead man walking has been allowed a visitor on execution day.”
Roberts kept his expression neutral, but inside he wondered who it could be. Family was out of the question— those bridges had long since been burned, and he had no friends.
“Who is it?”
“How the fuck should I know, retard? All I knows is that y’all must have someone way up the food chain looking out for you, cus this is unheard of. Says his name is Elgin. Don’t expect no stay of execution though, freak. Visitor or no visitor, you are gonna die today.”
Remy smiled, showing the immense gap between his front teeth. Roberts wondered how many people Remy had accompanied here and seen put to death. He looked the type that would get a kick out of it, like the kind of man who would get off on those last desperate moments as a prisoner would finally accept the inevitable. Perhaps Remy was on the wrong side of the bars. Roberts held his silence, and realizing he wasn’t going to get a reaction, Remy wiped the back of his forearm against his sweaty head.
“I’ll bring a chair and he can sit right here in the corridor. You have one hour.”
Five minutes later, Remy returned with a folding chair, which he set up in the hallway. As he left he shot a venomous glance at Roberts, who had seemingly ruined his day. Roberts paced his tiny cell. Five steps from wall to wall, it was hardly the Ritz. He waited for another five minutes, then heard the door creak open and echoing footsteps approach. His mystery visitor had arrived.
He’d expected someone older than the man who came and stood by the folding chair with a briefcase in hand. He looked young, perhaps early twenties. He had a strong jawline and piercing blue eyes. His hair was a short buzz cut and he wore an expensive looking black suit and white shirt. He set his briefcase down and sat on the chair without saying a word. Unlike Remy, he showed no fear of being in such close proximity to the bars.
“Good day, sir. My name is Joshua Elgin,” the visitor said.
Roberts didn’t answer.
“You have been a prisoner of the state for how long, Mr. Roberts?”
“Six years.” As he said it, he marveled at how much time had passed, though it felt like longer. Elgin leaned over and opened his briefcase, and began to rummage around inside. Roberts busied himself by looking at his own warped reflection in the leather of Elgin’s shoes. He had never seen such well-polished footwear. Having found what he was looking for, Elgin turned back to Roberts, a brown folder in his hands.
“You are awaiting execution for the murder of…” Elgin referred to his folder, leafing through a page or two as he looked for the relevant information. “Ninety-seven people.”
“Yeah, but between you and me, I did a hundred and two. They just couldn’t find any bodies for the rest, and I can’t remember where I put them.”
He had expected this to shock Elgin, but the man simply nodded as he adjusted his position on the chair.
“That’s a lot of blood on your hands.”
“Not enough,” Roberts fired back.
Elgin opened his mouth to speak, but Roberts cut him off.
“Mr. Elgin—I’m not interested in your psychological evaluation, and I don’t particularly care what you have to say. The last person who quizzed me found himself needing a new nose, so I advise you to be careful here.”
Roberts wasn’t angry, he just got a kick out of frightening people. Elgin’s response was completely unexpected. He laughed. Slightly annoyed, Roberts waited.
“I’m sorry for laughing, Mr. Roberts, but you are quite wrong. I am no psychologist, and for the record, I am also fully aware of what happened to Doctor Jones. No, my purpose here is entirely different.”
Roberts wasn’t sure what to make of Elgin. There was a calm assurance about him that he found to be slightly unsettling. Nevertheless, if Elgin’s intention was to raise Roberts’ curiosity, he had succeeded.
“So why are you here? I’m sure you can appreciate that time is precious to me, today of all days.”
“Mr. Roberts, I’m here to offer you a job.”
“A job? I got a newsflash for you, buddy. In around five hours’ time I’m a dead man.”
Elgin smiled and leaned closer.
“I can assure you I’m quite serious, Mr. Roberts. Now please, sit down and let me explain.”
He was about to tell Elgin to go fuck himself, but he realized that he had nothing better to do, and since he was already a better sport than Remy, Roberts sat.
“Thank you.”
Elgin seemed very assured as he sat on the chair in the corridor. Many lesser men would have been intimidated, but Elgin took it all in stride.
“Mr. Roberts, I represent an organization that is always on the lookout for someone with your unique skills.”
“And what skills are those?”
“I think you know, but to save time I’ll come right out and say it. Violent sociopaths, remorseless, honestly brutal killers, Mr. Roberts.”
Roberts s
hook his head.
“This is the point where I’m supposed to tell you I’m misunderstood. Or that my mother made me do it, right?”
“What you tell me is entirely up to you. My job is just to assess your suitability.”
Roberts laughed. It was a strange sound in a place so closely associated with death.
“A fuckin’ job interview? This is classic! Don’t be surprised if I can’t make it to work tomorrow!”
Elgin waited patiently until Roberts calmed.
“Don’t think of it as an interview. It’s more a case of checking your credentials.”
“What are looking for me to do? Contract killings? Like some kind of off the books hit man?”
“No. The role we are offering is far more rewarding.”
“No offence fella, but you are one crazy motherfucker.”
“Perhaps I am,” Elgin said with a thin smile. “Even so, I would appreciate it if you would indulge me and allow me to do my job.”
“Hell—why not. This is the most entertainment I’ve had in years.”
“Very well,” said Elgin, as he referred to his notes.
“In the brief conversation you had with Dr. Jones, you told him that you kill because you enjoy it.”
“That I did. I often wonder what happened to that wheezing prick.”
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 2