Death Row Apocalypse

by Mackey, Darrick

  The hot oil was just starting to smoke; any hotter and it was liable to ignite and burst into flames. I recalled from my recent investigation into the flashpoint of cooking oil, that it would ignite at around 600 degrees Fahrenheit; it wasn’t far from that right now. I removed the deep pan from the stove and made my way to the basement, careful not to spill a drop of the superheated oil. Entering the basement room, I found the two men starting to stir. They will be fully conscious in a few minutes, but why wait? I thought.

  Taking the pan with me, I stood beside the nearest man’s head. I gauged carefully the position of the pan and where the hot oil would land on his upturned face. I wanted to wake them up, but more importantly I wanted to make a memorable first impression. Angling the pan just enough so that the oil was teetering on the edge, I held the angle, waiting for the perfect moment. I hadn’t long to wait, as the man’s eyes opened, then opened wider still when he saw me. I had already begun to pour as his eyes opened, so that when his eyelids had unveiled his cold, dark eyes fully, the still-smoking oil struck his left eye dead center. In the following moments several things happened at the same time. The oil struck his eye and splashed a little, striking his cheek. Almost instantly the skin blistered where the oil had struck. His eye was smoking and was a discolored mess, with layers of the sensitive organ peeling away from the surface. The man’s screams were by no means manly. These were the screams of a man as he realized his time on earth was not counted in seconds but measured in tears and decibels. As he shook his head from side to side, his screams continued, while his powerful body lurched and bucked against the restraints that I had secured him with. The man’s strength was no match for the relatively small plastic ties that bound his right hand and foot to his countryman’s. As the terrorist bucked and thrashed against his restraints, the ties held him in place and transferred the powerful motion to his colleague, who was being yanked this way and that like a rag doll. After a minute or so, he calmed down, enough so that he could again look at me through his remaining good eye. I then stepped over his left arm and positioned the pan over my next target. The sweat was pouring off him as he tried to control his body. His breathing was fast and furious as his body tried to cope with the onslaught of pain.

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  “No!” he screamed as I poured about a mugful of blistering oil over his cock and balls.

  Again, his skin reacted almost instantaneously by turning a fiery red, then blistering, and shortly thereafter bursting and bleeding. His screams were both monumental and indescribable as his manhood was reduced to a shriveled collection of bleeding blisters and scorched skin. Next I dribbled the scolding oil along the length of his thigh so that the inner sensitive areas were drenched in the burning viscous liquid. He thrashed and kicked wildly as I continued to pour the contents of the pan over every sensitive area on his body that I knew of. Being a member of a similar race, I knew plenty. I was impressed. I had no idea that a man could scream that loud and for that long or even endure the level of pain that was assaulting his brain.

  I looked to the second man and for a moment wondered why he had remained so quiet. I nodded to him as I realized that he had lost his tongue. It was at this point I wondered whether I had used the oil on the wrong man and further wondered whether he would have made as much noise. I raised my eyebrows briefly at him while displaying a practiced grin, causing him to pull a face of confusion and bewilderment. Onward, I thought. Before the oil cools too much.

  Repositioning myself level with the first terrorist’s head, I slammed my right heel down onto his lower jaw, breaking it with an audible crunching sound. As soon as my boot had slammed into his gaping jaw, his screams ceased as his brain fought to process the new pain messages coming from his newly smashed jawbone. His throat struggled to generate the screams his brain demanded he make, and his one remaining eye howled in symphony with his voice as he looked at me in sheer agony. I smiled back with one of my warmest smiles and winked at the soon-to-be-deceased son of Satan.

  I’m not religious, and I don’t believe in any kind of heaven or hell, but for these fuckers I was willing to find faith for this one night. With his mouth now fully open and beyond his control, I knelt beside his head and gripped his thick black hair in my left hand. Steadying his head, I poured all but a small cup’s worth of the burning fat into his yawning mouth and down into his throat.

  As the smoking oil poured into his gaping, busted, and bleeding mouth, his body went into shock. He gasped as the oil scorched and burnt its way down his gullet and into his lungs, systematically choking and burning him alive. His body was racked with a pain that even the demons of hell had not known as his mind and body were consumed from both outside and within by a flameless inferno.

  As he choked his last conscious moments of life from his ruined body, I threw the remaining contents of the pan over his face. His personal hell heightened as his body redoubled its efforts to escape the inescapable blistering that engulfed his head. His features seemed to melt before my eyes as the skin tried to detach itself from his head. It peeled away in thick layers, and blood flowed as the terrorist drew his last ineffectual breath and finally escaped hell on earth.

  I looked toward the second terrorist. “That was fun!” I said to him as I walked over and turned the pan as if to pour it over his face. He gurgled as he tried to scream, and his body began to thrash much like the first terrorist’s had as he panicked, imagining that at any moment he too would begin to burn. However, the pan was empty, and I laughed genuinely as I walked over to the bloodstained table where my knives were neatly arranged.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be dying the same way as your friend. I have something special planned for you!” I said.

  “You know that I recognized you,” I said. “Sure you do. You’re quite the actor!” I added as I soaked one of the many blood-saturated pieces of clothing with chloroform.

  “I’ve seen all your YouTube movies in fact. You’re the one that likes to cut up young girls! I guess you get off on that kinda thing, eh?” I said as I walked back over to him.

  Seeing my words hit, I watched the fear in his eyes rise slowly, proving beyond any doubt that he had understood every word I had said. I guess it really doesn’t matter whether he understood English or not; he had just witnessed what I did to his buddy. No matter how tough a guy thinks he is, when he sees another man’s dick being melted away with boiling oil he tends to become a tad worried about his future. He had a pretty damn good idea what was coming up next as I knelt beside his head.

  I ruffled his hair in the same way an adult messes up a youngster’s hair, except not with any kind of love from my side.

  “When you wake up later, you’re gonna wish you died in your sleep.”

  The sweat dripped from his face, and in a moment of bravado he spat a large globule of thick, dark blood at me. I felt it strike my chin and then begin to slowly slide down my neck. Without taking my eyes from his, I carefully plucked it away and raised it to my mouth and licked the bloody mass. The terrorist’s face became one of horror as he watched me swallow the thick, gooey mass.

  “Night, night,” I said, and placed the cloth over his mouth and nose.

  He struggled while he held his breath for almost a minute, but then gave in to the inevitability of the situation and ceased his fight, favoring instead to inhale deeply on the fumes. Perhaps he hoped to overdose, wishing to never wake again, or maybe he anticipated some equally unlikely event to save him from his destiny. Who really knew, and who really cared? In about an hour he would wake into a living nightmare, and he’d draw breath for one last time before he finally died in sheer agony.

  He lay unconscious at my knees as I brought the two-pound hammer down on his closed mouth, smashing through his pearly-white teeth. The hammer effectively removed the upper left and right central teeth plus lower left and right central teeth. The missing ivories dropped into his mouth, along with a slow but continuous flow of blood coming from his buste
d lip and gums. I rammed the heatproof plastic tubing down his throat about two feet, a depth where I figured his stomach would be. The man’s breathing became labored due to the constricted airway, but he kept breathing and would stay alive for the sequel of tonight’s show. I took the duct tape and began taping his jaw firmly closed, looping from under his chin and over the top of his head several times. The not-so-neat hole I had created with the hammer was more or less the ideal size, as the tube passed through the improvised access hole. This ensured he would not be able to bite on the tubing and would serve a second purpose a little later . . . It’s a surprise!

  He began to wake and gagged on the thick plastic tubing.

  “Breathe slowly,” I said to the prostrate man. “And try to breathe through your nose. It’ll help stop your gagging reflex,” I advised.

  He began to sob as he saw what lay on the stained table—not one, not two but three smoking pots full of oil. I almost felt sorry for him . . . Naaa, just kidding. But as you read this, I am sure you feel sorry for what he is about to endure.

  “By the time I am done with you, you will be beyond recognition. Not your mother nor your god will know who you are. Every inch of your body will be burnt by an inferno that not even your demons could endure, and your insides—which is where we will start—will be deep-fat-fried while you take your last breaths. Got anything to say?”

  The terrorist nodded with vigor, thinking that delaying me would somehow stop the inevitable conclusion to the night. In any case I walked back to him, but not wanting to waste any time, I brought the first of the three pots. His eye pleaded with me, I suppose trying to get me to remove the tubing. But that was not going to happen.

  The end of the tubing led to a metal funnel, the type that is usually found with motor oil cans, which is exactly where I had got this one, along with the pipe and new batch of oil. He began to gurgle and choke long before I had even started pouring the scorching fluid into the funnel. He thrashed as he fought to free himself in a last desperate act to escape this nightmare.

  I poured the contents, careful not spill any on myself, as I too dislike burning oil. The fiery fluid reached his stomach and he instantly froze. Inside his stomach the thick, incredibly hot motor oil disintegrated layer upon layer of stomach lining as it filled its new temporary container. The tissue bubbled and burst as it released the volcanic liquid into his body cavity, whereupon his internal organs instantly began to cook in oil. With the first pot poured, I fetched the second, and as I returned to his thrashing form I saw steam rising from his body. He had started to strike his head against the concrete floor, probably trying to force himself unconscious, so I placed some of the children’s clothes beneath his head to soften the impacts. We didn’t want the poor guy to hurt himself, did we? Raising the funnel a second time, I poured the complete contents into the man’s blistering insides.

  As the last of the contents flowed down the pipe, the boiling liquid began to seep from his nose and through the gap between the pipe and his broken teeth now that his insides were topped up. He was indeed full. I could imagine his liver, kidney, heart, and lungs engulfed and cooking to perfection, like deep-fat-fried chicken. His thrashing ceased, and I sensed that he was now only barely alive. Perhaps only moments remained of his worthless life, and I was not one to break my promise, not even to a worthless piece of shit like him.

  Collecting the last pot of oil, I poured the still-smoking, blistering contents over his face, then down his body. Not surprisingly, his reaction was extreme. I swore I heard bone break as his feet struck the floor again and again. His impossible strength pulled at his restraints, tearing into both his flesh and his deceased colleagues, and then all of a sudden it was over—he was dead. I heard the faint sound of his flesh sizzle as it continued to cook—well, blistered, and was perhaps a little overdone. Blood seeped from open wounds, discoloring the hot oil as it mixed together, and his final breath left his body.

  Walking over to the video camera, I hit Stop, and the machine ceased recording the night’s entertainment. I’m sure the CIA had plans for the movie, as they had given me strict instructions to record everything. If I had to guess, I reckon they’d put it up on the net to send the IKSM as a hard-hitting message. I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall when they later viewed the material, and I wondered for a moment how many of the audience would manage to keep their lunch firmly packed in their stomachs.

  It was at that moment that I heard them enter the house and then clamor down the stairs heading for the cellar. There wasn’t any reason for me to run. I was their assassin; I was one of them.

  An FBI-issue Glock 22 pistol was raised and pointed at my head.

  “Blaine! You are under arrest for the willful murder of these two men. You have no fucking right to an attorney. Hell, you ain’t got any rights. You will be taken from here and executed for your crimes. Anything you say won’t make a fucking difference, so shut the fuck up and stay dumb.”

  Fuck! I thought. Fuckers! My keepers had sold me out to the FBI. I’d successfully removed the IKSM from US soil the fun way, but now the CIA decided to kill two birds with one stone. The FBI would now take the credit for taking down the terrorists and one of the most ruthless serial killers to have walked on US soil. I’m not bragging. It is what it is.

  Chapter - 12

  - Picked Up & Locked Up -

  The day had been a long one. It had started for me almost fifteen hours ago when I had been dragged from the local sheriff’s lockup and unceremoniously dumped in the car. Due to my predicament, I was dressed in a bright-orange shirt and blue trousers, which resembled hospital orderly clothing but were in fact normal prison garb. My hands and feet had been cuffed and I had been gagged. I guess the sheriff and his men were not in a talkative mood today. It was only after the first ten minutes of the ride that I was able to get into a sitting position. I hadn’t been blindfolded—thank God for small mercies.

  The whole situation stank to high heaven. I felt well and truly stitched up. You see, although I was guilty as sin itself, I had some really good reasons for my actions and could present a very compelling case if questioned about my past. I guess therein lies the problem, as no one wanted to listen to me. I had been picked up, gagged, then placed in solitary confinement for two weeks. Now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. It is obvious to me that a certain three-letter agency beginning with the letter C and ending in IA—and no, you don’t get any free guesses—had decided to end our rather unique relationship. One which had started soon after my divorce from the whoring bitch-tart skank from hell. It is one truly fucked-up organization, though I literally reveled in the role they had me play!

  It wasn’t long ago that I discovered that the CIA had in fact engineered my treatments during my asylum years, and as if that wasn’t enough they even selected the female agent I eventually wedded! The CIA’s aim was to create an agent that was capable of the most gruesome and revolting murders that only the truly insane could imagine or, I guess, carry out. By masking the extermination of the USA’s most wanted criminals with the actions of a serial killer, the hits would in every way that counted be anonymous and the Company would have the deniability it sought. What better way was there than to shape an already-twisted killer’s mind? Molding me this way provided the CIA with a monster they so very badly needed, please note though, I am in no way twisted.

  Having no choice other than to watch the countryside go past at eighty miles an hour, I relaxed. It soon became obvious where we were headed, and I realized then that I was more or less screwed.

  Tallahassee, Florida was well known for only one thing, and that was the infamous death row facility. Over the years it had helped many offenders meet their maker prematurely, though a good percentage of the now deceased were in fact innocent of the crimes they had been made to pay for. I’d never visited the prison before, but over the years I had uncovered some nasty little secrets, proving that its history was indeed a long and corrupt one. From those titbits,
I concluded that although the facility portrayed a strong stance on capital punishment, there was in reality a mask that hid the real reason for its existence. It was in fact a highly effective money spinner that turned a massive yearly profit. Those in charge were making an actual fortune. In fact, each of the deaths that the facility executed publicly earned well in excess of two million dollars. In addition to that, as a salary the warden and governor earned way more than two hundred thousand dollars a year, tax free.

  I’d also unearthed a priceless little nugget of information quite recently and that was that there were two distinct types of execution the prison carried out. “I know!” you might say, but in reality you do not! The truth of the matter is that the two types are not injection and electrocution—those are just two methods. The first type is “public,” where the sentenced man or woman is prepared, fed, and either sat in the chair or laid out on a gurney. The execution is then carried out either by injection or electrocution. The second type is “private,” where the prison staff are tasked with carrying out the deed, each member making about fifty grand, with the only provisions being adherence to secrecy and creativity when taking any life. When I say being inventive, they are required to plan the murder with imagination and have to ensure that the prisoner goes down in as much pain as is humanly possible to endure before actually dying.

  I would be lying if I said that was all there was to it, though. A much more sinister act was embedded into the final moments of the prisoner’s life. And herein lies the sinister truth. The prison warden ran a very select club, and for the past eight years, members needed only to qualify by proving their wealth and display a modicum of generosity toward the prison. The members of this club were the rich and insanely wealthy, and each of them hungered for the excitement and thrills that the club offered, ending their weekend with a dark twist.