He finished typing the code and removed his hand, pointing at the cavity. “This reads my implant, but also my biologic data to ensure that I am not under duress. If my pulse, respirations, temperature, or any other bodily functions indicate that I am under great stress or otherwise fearful it would terminate my access.”
“What are you about to do?”
Without answering her, he reached inside the control box once more. He gripped the black dial between his forefinger and thumb, spinning it counterclockwise a full turn until it stopped. At once, the banter and light conversations in the cells began dying down. After a few seconds, the noise ceased altogether.
Just before all went quiet, a voice cried out, “Good luck, boys!” She heard a soft thud in the cell nearest her.
She looked to Rudolfo, expecting an explanation that never came.
“This way.” He walked further down the passageway, stopping outside the second to last door. Francesca joined him at his side. Staying silent, he stepped forward and passed his left hand once more over a sensor, this time on a small metal box just outside the cell door. A green light flashed and a soft clunk told her the door was now unlocked.
Rudolfo reached forward and pulled the door open. They entered the quiet cell.
Eight men lay slumped in their beds, unconscious. Two more men lay in a heap on the floor, caught unawares in an apparent lovers’ embrace. The state of their clothes told her of their amorous intent interrupted by tonight’s business.
“The gas works quickly and has a residual effect of at least one hour for the average sized man, one hour twenty minutes for a woman.”
It seemed so ingenious now that she saw the process in action. Of course, a Member would not just waltz into a cell filled with awake and dangerous inmates to perform the Task on one of them. Putting them to sleep with gas was simple but effective.
“The entire passageway is unconscious then?” she asked.
“Yes. Easier and less disruptive this way.”
She watched as his eyes searched the tiny cell until they landed on a man on the bottom bunk to their right. He was rolled on his side facing the wall. With the limited space between beds, he was wedged between his and the one above.
Rudolfo went to one knee and reached in to roll the man onto his back. He then pulled a small rectangle device from the pocket of his cassock. Pushing a button on the device, he pointed it at the man’s head where a long red laser flashed on the man’s bald scalp. He ran the red laser over the bar code tattooed there and looked back to the device. Satisfied, Rudolfo replaced the device in his pocket.
“I’ve known this man for years, but we must verify for certain each time.” Rudolfo reached under the man’s shoulders and began rolling him onto his stomach. “The device will read his bar code, but more importantly it scans his cerebral signature and matches it with the one I uploaded to it this evening.”
Stunned once more at the technology used by the veteran Member, Francesca made a mental note to ask about the device and how it worked. Her education at the academy taught her nothing of such a thing.
Rudolfo finished rolling the man gently to his stomach and gingerly placed his forehead on the pillow so his neck arched upward.
Rudolfo stood and pulled a vial from his pocket. The glass tube had a wide blue band around its middle and a metal cap on top.
“You know what this is?” He held the vial out in front of her. The amber liquid inside reflected and bent the light in the room creating a rainbow sheen on its surface. She peered at it.
“That is the Oil.”
“And you know why we use it?”
“It protects your flesh from the Solution. But not completely.”
“Correct on both counts.” He held the vial by its rounded bottom. “This container is programmed to only open for me. As is its twin holding the Solution.”
He held out his left hand. “I’ve forgotten to remove my glove. Please …” She gripped the glove by the tips of the fingers and pulled as he extracted his hand.
Rudolfo wrapped his bare hand around the small glass tube and after a brief pause the metal lid slid open.
Without looking at her, he held out his right still gloved hand to her, palm up. She stared at it, uncertain.
“Remove it please.”
She reached both of her hands to his hand and pinched the tips of the forefinger and pinky, pulling while he removed his hand. She fully expected what she saw next, but it sickened her, nonetheless.
The blackened flesh of his hand looked as if it had been charred by magical fire that didn’t burn but discolored. Hints of purple in the black and the dim light shimmering from his fingernails were the only things distinguishing the hand from the black leather gloves she now held.
He seemed not to notice her reaction to the sight of his hand.
“Why don’t we use gloves to perform the Sacred Task?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard as her mind still tried to process the stained flesh of Rudolfo’s right hand and arm.
“Um,” she hesitated. The answer was on the tip of her tongue; it had been drilled into her since she was a child and first discovered what it was she would become. “We take life.” Three words was all she could get out.
“Yes. And?”
“In order to take a life, we must give a bit of ourselves each time. Eventually, our life is taken by the very thing we devote ourselves to: our duty as Members.” She took a breath, grateful the answer came when it did. She went on, “It is a great honor to be a Member. To be of such great service to society. This honor requires sacrifice. Much like a priest who pledges a life of poverty and abstention of marriage and sex for the honor of serving their god.”
Rudolfo’s eyebrows raised and he nodded subtly. “True enough. I, unlike most Members, however, view it differently.” He motioned to the sleeping inmates. “This thing we do, this Task, is terrible. Necessary and important, but terrible, nonetheless. Each time we dip our finger into the second vial, preparing to end a life, we take a small dose of the Solution as a penance. Understand?”
“Yes.” Once again, Francesca had never heard anyone speak of a Member’s duties and responsibilities in such a way. As contradictory as they were to the lessons she learned at the Pupil’s School, they were just as enlightening.
“And why do we use this?” Rudolfo held up the vial of Oil.
“To slow the effect of the Solution on the Member’s body.”
“Yes, but why?” he asked. “If it is a Member’s fate to die by the Solution, why use any protection at all?”
“Um,” she hesitated. Had they covered that in their studies at the Pupil’s School? She couldn’t remember the topic ever coming up. And now that she thought about it, how could she have never thought to ask?
Rudolfo didn’t wait for her answer. “As you said earlier, the Oil protects a Member from the Solution but not completely. We extend the Member’s life by using it for two reasons. First, the practical: if a Member used the Solution with absolutely no protection, with only the bare skin of their finger, they may only be able to accomplish a handful of Sacred Tasks before they expired. So, the Oil allows them to perform almost an entire lifetime’s worth of Tasks.” He held the vial of Oil up to the light and turned it.
“And the other reason?” Francesca was curious to know more.
“The other reason goes back to what I was saying about penance. We must pay our penance for the Tasks we perform. As you know, the Oil allows some of the Solution to enter our system. Thereby, it allows us to live a longer life while paying our penance over time. Each time we perform the Task, we place a grain of sand on a scale. Eventually, it tips and our time in this realm is over.” He turned to her. “You understand?”
“Yes.” She nodded. Her response was sincere. It seemed every time Rudolfo spoke he taught her a new lesson that both challenged and reinforced what she’d learned at the Pupil’s School.
Rudolfo dipped his stained right index fin
ger into the Oil up to the second knuckle and kept it there for several seconds then withdrew it. He held his finger above the vial allowing the excess to drip back in. Holding his oiled finger at chest height, he used his left hand to close the lid to the Oil. He replaced it in his pocket, then reached into another pocket and removed a second vial.
He held it out for her to see.
Francesca’s breath was missing from her chest. She didn’t recall exhaling, but all the same it wasn’t there. Her eyelids refused to close. She swallowed, hoping Rudolfo hadn’t noticed.
In the vial he now held floated a liquid that looked impossibly black. It seemed to absorb all the light around it creating a tiny singularity. For an instant, her instinct was to slap it from his hand and bury it deep beneath the earth. After a pause in which she found her breath, she came back to the moment and to herself. Rudolfo cocked his head in expectation.
“That,” she cleared her throat, “that is the Solution.”
“Correct. The Grim Reaper carries a scythe, we carry this strange, colorless concoction.” He spoke in a whisper as if he were afraid to wake the men in the cell. Or was it reverence? “Many people compare us to death itself, oblivion personified. But unlike death, we do not act indiscriminately. We act methodically. We judge. We choose. And those that we choose do not come to us lightly. They earn their place here.”
Unable to speak, she feebly nodded her understanding. Her eyes felt dry, her throat tightened.
Rudolfo knelt and turned toward the man lying face down. He held the Solution in his left hand. His right forefinger glistened with its thin coating of Oil. He sat on the backs of his heels, closed his eyes, and bent his head. Only a second passed before he looked up again.
Rudolfo dipped his oiled finger into the vial holding the Solution, held it there for a moment, then removed it. The blackness engulfed the tip of his finger, which he kept pointed down. The black colorless liquid shimmered and appeared to move of its own accord while it clung to him not dripping to the floor. The Solution was darker than his stained skin, deeper and richer in color; the source of his mark more intense, more concentrated.
Francesca watched from the side, several feet away. Rudolfo extended his right arm and touched the back of the inmate’s neck, at the point where the brainstem met the spinal cord.
The Solution slid off Rudolfo’s finger like a liquid magnet suddenly in contact with a chunk of iron. It made a tiny pool on the man’s skin and as Rudolfo pulled away, Francesca thought she saw it swirl. Then, it sparkled and shined in the scant light, vanishing as it absorbed into the inmate’s skin leaving behind a tiny circle of color exactly matching the stain on Rudolfo’s arm.
Inmate 0505 inhaled a shuddering, deep breath. He held it for a moment before exhaling in a quiet groan.
She’d just watched someone die for the third time in her life. This was the first she’d seen taken by another human.
The man, inmate 0505, had expired. He’d gone.
Still in the ritual, Rudolfo pulled a white rag from a pocket and wiped his killing finger several times. He set the rag down and touched it with a small silver device. It burst into flames, flaring green for an instant before smoldering into ash and black smoke. She turned her head as the acrid smell reached her.
Her Mentor swept the ashes into a square of paper which he folded and placed in his pocket. He stood slowly, seeming to waver as he did so. She followed him as he stepped toward the door. Uniformed guards waited outside. She assumed they’d been alerted by Rudolfo’s activating the gas.
Out in the passageway, Rudolfo stopped and leaned against the wall. He held himself up with his left hand on the wall, his right clutched his chest.
He took several deep breaths. His reaction to the event surprised her. She had no idea how many times he had performed the Sacred Task but assumed by now he would not be so emotionally affected by it.
Soon, she realized her mistake. Watching her Mentor’s shaken breathing, the shudder in his limbs, and the glassy state of his eyes, she understood that this was not an emotional reaction. It was physical.
At the Pupil’s School, they taught her about the after effects of the Solution on Members. Apprentices referred to it as the Taint.
The Solution would attack the body of the Member for several hours, sometimes days, after performing the Task. The Taint would do its worst, though the Member would recover every time. Except for one. The Solution would build up in the body so that each time the Task was performed, the Taint worsened. Until it killed.
The Oil kept the Taint at bay, kept it from invading the body at full force, but it did not stop it entirely.
Rudolfo’s hand slipped on the wall and Francesca lunged to catch him. She strained under his weight.
“It is acting much faster this evening,” Rudolfo whispered between breaths. “You must get me to my quarters.”
“Is it the Taint?” Inwardly, she chastised herself for asking the question. She knew full well what was happening. Rudolfo squinted his disapproval at her question.
“This is my penance. The more lives I take, the greater the penance must be—the greater the mark grows, the more intense and prolonged the aftermath becomes.” He shook violently for a heartbeat, then said, “Get me to my quarters. Now!”
12
Aftermath
Supporting his weight as best she could, Francesca ushered Rudolfo toward his quarters in passageway four. They walked in tandem, his arm slung across her shoulders, her arm wrapped around his back. She looked up at him as they turned the corner to enter the last passageway. Even in the half-darkness, she could see the color drained from his face. His weight pressed down on her more with every step.
Rudolfo’s right hand, now gloved again, clutched at the collar of his cassock. His steps were slowing and she could feel the heat radiating off him. His weight grew heavier.
They arrived at the door to his room where Francesca reached for the latch. Rudolfo grunted something inaudible. She stopped and he swung his left arm off her shoulders, waving his hand in front of a spot just above the latch. A clink sounded and she flung the door open still holding onto her Mentor.
They shuffled across the threshold, then he stopped.
With his eyes closed, he said, “Tomorrow, I must rest. You will watch the ward from the observation room. Record your thoughts.” He took a deep breath and shivered before finishing. “You are not to go into the ward without me. Observe and write in … your journal.” He slumped in her arms, nearly bringing them both to their knees.
She scanned the darkened room for a bed, finding it in the farthest corner. With one last exertion, she managed the last few steps and flung his shaking, sweating body onto the bed. He lay across it, heels grazing the floor.
He mumbled incoherently, in a whisper at first, then louder as he stared at something on the ceiling. In a flash, he lifted his head and locked his eyes on her standing at the bedside.
“Go now. This will pass.” His eyes closed. “Go.”
His head fell back again onto the thin, hard mattress. Sweat beaded on his face, running down into his hair in thick rivulets. He began mumbling again, thrashing his head from side to side. The mumbling grew louder.
“Get him …” he said. “Get him out. Someone …” His voice faded as his entire body contracted, his knees crashing into his chest and arms. He writhed from side to side, rolling and twisting in pain.
Francesca stood transfixed in horror. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be in his head. She had heard the Taint could be brutal, but this seemed like a living nightmare.
After what felt like several minutes, his body relaxed once more and he lay still. After a pause, when she thought the worst was past, he began pulling at the collar of his cassock with one then both hands, tugging on it with weakened hands.
“Burning … I’m burning alive,” he whispered, his eyes clamped shut. “So hot. So hot. Am I going to die?” His voice came out like a pleading child. “Someone … get
him out … please. Pull!” His demands came out as whimpers, at the same time far away and right there on the bed.
A part of her wanted to run, to leave her Mentor here in this state like he had asked her to. But his voice sounded so helpless, like a small boy.
She leaned over him, one knee on the bed, and began unbuttoning his cassock. Reaching the last button, Francesca whipped it open to reveal the loose white undershirt beneath.
He flailed, trying to be rid of the thick coat, screaming now. “So hot. Make it stop. Please help.”
“I’m trying. I will help,” she said. Rolling him onto his side she pulled the left arm from the cassock. Rolling him back the other way, she pulled the right arm out.
Rudolfo now lay flat on his back quite still, arms sprawled out to the sides. His breathing had grown steady. His undershirt lay unbuttoned to the middle of his chest and in all the rolling and twisting to remove his heavy cassock the sleeves on both arms had been pushed up to the shoulder.
The Solution’s mark stood out harshly against his pale skin. The bulk of it rose to well above the crook of his elbow to the midpoint of his bicep. Short, thin branches of it snaked up Rudolfo’s upper arm to the shoulder. The longest dark tendril twisted its way into his armpit.
Francesca didn’t know how long she stood there staring, only that she knew it had been far too long. Her fate was there on his arm, etched into his skin like a diseased roadmap showing her inevitable destination. The path would pave itself differently for her, of that she was certain, but it would be paved nonetheless.
Her time for this kind of suffering would come. When it did, she would have earned it, deserved it. Each life taken by her would be a debt borrowed against her own healthy body and it would come to collect from her in the end. Like it did for every Member.
Executioner's Lament Page 10