Executioner's Lament

by Justin Rishel

  9

  Sacrifice

  “You would be helping to usher in a new era here,” Fox said in a low tone.

  “Find someone else. My killing days are behind me,” Truck whispered. Fox, or the Professor as he was called, was the closest thing to a friend that Truck had known for a long time, which is why Truck was still listening to him. He was someone Truck could trust, as far as you could trust anyone in the Keep.

  “There is no one else. They’re all too young and too stupid.”

  The Professor paused while Truck adjusted himself. He sat on the floor of his cell with his mattress folded under him; he thumbed through an old paperback. The raucous noise of the card game being played next to them masked their conversation.

  “You saw what happened yesterday. You saw how the other inmates reacted. Have you ever seen anything like it? Have you ever seen our brothers and sisters so brave?”

  “Brothers and sisters?” Truck growled. “I don’t care nothing for them birds. I’ve been in here most of my life and no I haven’t seen anything like it, but who cares? It’ll pass and everything’ll go back to normal soon enough. This ain’t no movement like you’re saying.”

  “That’s right, it probably will pass. Which is why we must act now to harness it. I know you don’t care about anyone here. But I know something else too; I know you hate the Tappers as much as anyone, maybe more. You’re the oldest bird in our ward. You had friends here at one time and they’re all gone now. Who killed them, Truck?”

  “That Tapper killed ’em. You know that.” Truck stared at the Professor with hard eyes. Even with seventy-six years behind him, he could still strike fear in most men. He did it now; the Professor turned his head only looking back at Truck through the corners of his eyes.

  “I do. I do.” The Professor looked away out the cell door. The rest of the ward was just getting up for the day. He looked back at Truck. “I know something else. I know you’re tired. And I know you’re sick.”

  Truck eyed him, wondering how he could know. It would have been easy for his own cell mates to notice of course. They could have told the Professor. Then again, how many more times could Truck wander the ward totally confused and unaware without someone noticing. It was bound to happen.

  And the Professor was right, Truck was tired. He was tired all the time.

  Truck’s gaze fell to the floor. “Doctors gave me some time. I’ve still got time.”

  “Sure, you do. But do you want that time to be spent as a confused old invalid who can’t feed himself or wipe his own ass? I’m giving you a way to go out on your own terms, and I promise you this: I’ll kill that son-of-a-bitch Tapper after it all starts.”

  Truck felt something he hadn’t felt in years: relief. Relief that it could all be over soon. The Professor had just put into words the thoughts that had been clouding his mind for months. He could go the same way that Tapper did yesterday. Tapping was rumored to be painless and it happened in your sleep, so it could be a peaceful way to go. Better than the shit-your-pants terror the jumpers must feel before they went splat at the bottom of the Atrium.

  He’d been thinking about a way out for quite a while, but the fear crippled him. Here it was, however: the courage to do it coupled with the satisfaction that he would get his revenge in the end even if he wasn’t around to see it happen.

  “You promise you’ll do that? You’ll kill him?”

  “I do. I’ll see to it myself.”

  “How you going to do that without getting wasted yourself first? Besides, you ain’t no killer,” Truck scoffed.

  “I think I could surprise you.” The Professor raised an eyebrow. “And after it all starts, it’ll be quite a bit easier to get the jump on the Tapper than it is now.”

  Truck groaned. “So, what? I whack somebody, Tapper comes for me, and then what? What happens next?”

  The Professor glanced around, then continued quietly, “There’s something I need to do. I can only do it if I know the Tapper is coming for someone.”

  “Why don’t you just wait?” Truck asked. “Bound to happen anyway, someone getting Tapped, sooner or later.”

  “I’m in a bit of a time crunch. I can’t afford to take the chance that it might take weeks for someone to get selected. And a murder is the only way I know to guarantee someone gets Tapped.”

  He knew there must be more to all this. More than what the Professor was letting on, but Truck was too tired to care.

  “When did you have in mind for me to do it?”

  “Today. Then the Tapper will come tonight.”

  The Professor held out a hand. Something protruded from the cuff of his sleeve, the tip of an object wrapped in black electrical tape. Truck took the handle of the shiv, hiding the exchange under the guise of a handshake as the Professor stood to leave. He hid the weapon in the folds of his mattress.

  “Pretty quick timing,” Truck said.

  “Has to be.”

  “Anyone in particular you want it to be?”

  “Anyone you want. There must be someone in here you wouldn’t mind seeing dead.”

  The Professor looked down at Truck for a moment, then left without another word.

  Truck sat staring at his book. He thought there was one or two people who would be good candidates. It all depended who was in the shower when he got there.

  Still sitting he reached to his bed, the bottom of the stack, and grabbed his towel. Tucking the shiv in his towel, he stood.

  “Where you going, Truck?” said one of his cell mates, breaking from his card game.

  “Going to get cleaned up. See you boys in a bit.”

  * * *

  Stetson Vans, known as Truck due to a clever play on his last name, entered the shower room without incident. The guards only searched inmates at random and Truck had never given them reason to be suspicious. He walked right past them into the changing room where he would usually undress and lay his clothes on the long wooden bench.

  He kept them on today, walking past the stalls full of men noisily passing their bowels and into the shower room. He looked around as he always did. This time, however, he didn’t look for an empty showerhead, he looked for a sacrifice.

  Naked men stood around ten tall stanchions which held six showerheads each. The room was crowded today, some inmates were doubled up under sputtering streams of water. Suds ran across the slick white tiles into a central drain. The sound of water filled the space along with laughter and banter of a general sort.

  In a corner across the large round room, Truck saw a man who he knew had once instigated a fight that left a man dead. Truck hadn’t known the dead man too well, but he knew of him as being decent. Roy was his name and he hadn’t deserved being killed like that.

  Deciding there were no better candidates, Truck walked toward his sacrifice. His shoes splashed in the shallow rivers of water, soaking his socks.

  “Hey, Truck, what’s up man? You forgot to undress,” said a voice near him.

  “He’s alright, let him be,” said another voice.

  Ignoring them, he walked on, keeping his eyes on the sacrifice. Ten feet away, a tall dark man stepped in front of Truck.

  Head cocked to the side, the man said, “Yo, dummy, this raintree is full. Wait for another one.”

  Truck looked at him for a moment, then peered around him at his intended victim.

  “You deaf, too, old timer? Get the fuck outta here,” the man said, pointing to the exit.

  Truck looked up at the tall man.

  “I guess you’ll have to do.”

  He dropped the towel to the floor and plunged the jagged blade deep into the man’s abdomen. His eyes bulged in surprise and pain. He gripped Truck’s wrist in both hands, attempting to pull the blade free, but the rough edge only caused him more pain as it moved.

  Truck obliged the man and pulled it out himself, then pushed it in again in a different spot. Then again. Then again.

  The man fell with a wet slap, eyes still open, clutching h
is belly. Water ran pale red into the drain. As Truck looked around the shower, it was empty now. In the entrance, guards were running at him. He dropped the blade and held out his empty hands.

  10

  The Member Principal

  Brother Rudolfo’s thoughts on his new apprentice were simple—he had no thoughts. He felt unaffected and unimpressed by her, which he concluded was a good thing in and of itself. Being unremarkable to a casual observer was a strength in the role of a Member.

  Although rather plain looking, there was a time and a place when he would have said she was an attractive woman. That part of his life was far behind him. He saw a young Caucasian woman of average height and blonde hair. Obviously physically fit and, if the academy’s reports were accurate, she was highly intelligent and an exceptional observer.

  Rudolfo and Francesca exited the train platform through an inconspicuous door at the far end and into an empty hallway.

  Brother Rudolfo led the way. He could hear Francesca following close behind. The rustle of her cassock, her loud breathing, and the swish of her duffel bag against her leg were all things he took mental note of as he lengthened the list of things they would need to address over the next several months. She did not, however, speak a word as they walked—a good sign.

  Flashes of black stains and white uniforms, of pale naked flesh falling dozens of stories past hundreds of screaming and taunting inmates occupied his mind.

  Rudolfo passed several heavy metal doors without labels.

  “What is behind these doors?” he asked. He waited several seconds for the answer and was on the verge of turning around to inquire about her hearing and whether they would need to get her fitted with an implant when she spoke.

  “Maintenance rooms. Electrical, heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. Also, plumbing stacks and communications.” Her voice sounded confident, but breathy.

  Rudolfo did not reply, satisfied with her answer. Understanding the physical structure and utilities of the building in which they served was a vital part of their education. He had expected nothing less.

  Turning a corner, the mentor and his apprentice came to a small group of Members—two men and a woman huddled in a tight circle. Rudolfo slowed.

  “Brother Rudolfo,” said one of the men. “Good day to you.”

  “Brothers, Sister.” Rudolfo glowered at the young man and gave a small nod. He had no doubt the three of them had been exchanging third-hand accounts of Wilcott’s self-selection.

  “I wonder if I may bother you for a chat later,” said the man.

  “Yes. But if it is gossip you’re looking for, search elsewhere, Brother.” Rudolfo clasped his hands behind his back. The other Members exchanged glances.

  “Your new apprentice?” the woman spoke now, nodding in Francesca’s direction.

  “Yes,” said Rudolfo. From the corner of his eye, he saw Francesca look in his direction. She said nothing. Rudolfo approved.

  “Ah. Well, good day to you, Brother Rudolfo. And future Sister.” The man nodded to the Apprentice, then to the Mentor.

  Without a word, Rudolfo set out again. Francesca’s steps sounding behind him once more.

  After turning several more corners, they came to an open elevator. Rudolfo entered first, followed by Francesca. He pressed the topmost button which caused a short, low tone to emit from the control panel. A small, round scanner on the panel near the door blinked red.

  As it blinked, he turned to her and said, “Only Members have access to this elevator. No one else.”

  He waved the back of his left hand in front of the scanner. It turned from blinking red to solid green. The elevator door closed and the lift jolted to life, beginning its long ascent to the top level.

  “You will be given access when your apprenticeship draws to a close.” Rudolfo stared ahead in silence, relieved that Francesca did the same.

  * * *

  Francesca’s impression of Rudolfo was incomplete, but she felt she had made a small but fundamental measure of him. He spoke little and thought much, carefully calculated his actions, and exhibited purposefulness. Whether he intended to or not, his interactions with her that morning had left her with profound curiosity.

  The elevator slowed then stopped. The doors slid open and Francesca was momentarily blinded by an attack of bright light.

  Several seconds passed while her eyes adjusted. Once she could see again, what she saw took her aback. In front of her was a round space almost as wide as the prison’s exterior. In it, every vertical surface shined in high-gloss white paint. She looked up; sunlight blazed through a ceiling made of glass above her. The light reflected off every surface, filling the space and making her feel like she had not just risen forty-eight stories, but had somehow traveled several light-minutes closer to the sun itself.

  Squinting at the glare coming at her from all sides, she walked several paces from the elevator before she noticed the floor.

  In front of her, the floor was made of glass. Like the ceiling above it, it was a massive skylight. A thirty-foot wide path ringed the circle of glass. A smaller version of the one above her, the floor skylight sat directly over the Great Atrium below, that cylinder of air that penetrated the center of the prison from top to bottom.

  It was plain to see that it was the same diameter as the Great Atrium—thirty feet—designed to spill natural light down into the prison. Francesca estimated that if she measured from the center of the glass to the outer edge of the path, it would equal about one quarter of the prison’s total diameter.

  She moved along the outer path, to where Rudolfo waited for her. They walked. Looking down through the floor, she could see into the levels below. Many prisoners walked along the catwalks. Some exercised, others merely congregated.

  One small group of six inmates appeared to be attending a sermon of some sort, watching one man with a small book gesturing toward the sky.

  As they walked, she noticed that, other than the elevator and what appeared to be a stairwell exit, there were several other doors off the circular path.

  She looked up out of the skylight above and then down through the one below. More than anything, she wanted to walk out to the center of floor and look down into the Great Atrium. She thought of an image from her childhood—a picture of a train tunnel in the side of a mountain. It stretched away and away until it became a tiny speck of light in the distance.

  She imagined the view from the center of the glass floor as another endless tunnel descending into nothingness. Each circular floor growing smaller and smaller until they blurred and disappeared, not to a speck of light, but to a cold, black pit.

  Francesca and her Mentor continued circumventing the glass floor. She assumed it was strong enough to hold their weight, but Brother Rudolfo appeared to give the clear space a degree of reverence, avoiding it. She got the sense that he saw it as more than she did.

  “This … room,” said Francesca, struggling with the correct word for the space they were in, “it was not in any of my studies.”

  “Nor should it be,” said Rudolfo. “It does not serve a function necessary for you to perform your function.”

  * * *

  They stopped in front of a door across the floor from the elevator. Before entering, Rudolfo thought about the conversation he was about to have with the Member Principal. He had already decided to include Francesca as it was now her prerogative to know exactly what he knew. He turned to face her.

  “I have business here other than your introduction,” said Rudolfo. “Albeit important for the Principal to meet a new Apprentice, a … significant event occurred today.” He inclined his head, gazing through the familiar skylight as he spoke. “Since, you are now my apprentice, I feel it is something you should hear us discuss. Later, you will have questions and I will answer them … later.”

  “I … understand,” said Francesca.

  “No. No, you do not,” he said shaking his head. “But let’s hope you come to comprehend the meaning of it, if
nothing else.”

  Without knocking, he opened the door leaving the sunlit round room behind to enter a much more compact one with several chairs around a small table. There was a door on each side of the room and after a moment the one to their left opened and Member Principal Jacobi stepped through. Dressed in standard Member garb he had gray hair, almost white, and stood taller than Rudolfo.

  “Ah, Brother,” the Member Principal said, grinning at the two of them.

  Rudolfo met his eyes before the Principal turned his attention to Francesca. Rudolfo watched as he stared at her before turning his eyes back to his old friend.

  “Our meeting has become dual-purpose, has it?” the Principal asked.

  “It has, Brother Jacobi,” replied Rudolfo. “As you know, Francesca has come to us from the Pupil’s School this morning. She is now my Apprentice.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Jacobi, turning again to Francesca. “How was your walk to the train? Uneventful, I hope.”

  “Yes, Wise Brother Jacobi. Uneventful.”

  “Good. Good. Unfortunately, Francesca dear, recent events have,” Jacobi’s gaze shifted to a spot on the wall and he smoothed the front of his cassock, “diverted my attention and I’m afraid a more substantial meeting between us will have to wait a little while.”

  Jacobi turned his attention back to Rudolfo. His look of concern was obvious to Rudolfo and he wished Jacobi wasn’t so out of practice at managing his emotions.

  “Rudie, let us talk. Much to discuss. In private, I’m afraid,” Jacobi said with a sideways glance at Francesca. “You’ll wait here, but we won’t be long.”

  Rudolfo cringed at Jacobi’s use of the term of endearment. “Actually, Wise Brother, she will be joining us. I believe we will begin our relationship with transparency.”

  “Transparency,” repeated Jacobi, nodding. His eyes bounced between the two of them. “Yes. Apprentice Francesca, you may join us. But please try to remain,” he looked at Rudolfo, “transparent.” Jacobi turned and left through the door he had just entered.