Go figure some shit out.
Now, P.J.’s eyes volleyed quickly to the front of the room as the black curtains suddenly flung wide open. A bright, artificial light illuminated Beast in an eerie glow. The scratching sound of pencils began in fury as the ladies and gentlemen of the press strained their necks to write down every detail. When a woman reporter in the back stood up to get her chance at the million dollar view, she was firmly commanded by the guard stationed near the phone to sit her ass down.
P.J. felt as if he had been caught up in some virtual reality horror show. He blinked several times in an attempt to alter the vision of this final scene. A large, black microphone hung low from the ceiling like a vicious and deadly spider waiting to feed. It took a bit of adjusting by a guard to reduce the crackling hum. The viewing room reverberated with a sound that was both eerie and uniquely haunting. The kill room seemed overly crowded, which was comforting to P.J. in an odd sort of way.
There was a guard on each side of the chair with Beast seated and strapped tight in the middle. The warden was near the door, and there was a small group of men in white coats standing beside him. With a nod from the Cartwright, the guard on the left placed a large, water soaked sponge and metal headpiece (which looked like an old-styled football helmet) on top of Beast’s skull. When some of the water spilled down over his forehead, Beast let out a low growl. P.J. was distressed to see that the mixture of cortisol and adrenalin that had to be racing through Beast’s body had begun to overpower the calming sedative. P.J. could see Beast’s strong arms flex against the restraints. He could see all that ink jump and ripple as Beast’s body tensed with the prospect of what was to come.
“Does the prisoner request to be blindfolded?” The warden’s voice was rigid in its formality. Beast’s response was to look at Cartwright as if Beast were a small child asking for guidance.
“No shame in it. Billy Bob” The warden’s tone gentled. “The darkness can be a comforting thing.” Beast nodded his consent. A large black shroud, which looked a lot like a welder’s mask, was fastened to the helmet.
Between the leather and metal restraints, the electrodes, and the heavy black mask, there was nothing left of Beast’s face to see. The man now looked like something dark, menacing, and unworldly. P.J. wondered briefly if maybe that was the intention. He wondered if it somehow made it easier for the executioner to pull the kill switch if the condemned appeared as something less than human. One by one the evacuation team left the death chamber. Beast was alone now, and P.J. leaned forward as if trying to reach him. The atmosphere was heavy with morbid fascination while an almost maniacal anticipation hung in the viewing room. The voices had all hushed, the scribbling had stopped. The quiet settled heavy and thick like a wet woolen, blanket. Suddenly, the sound of a heavy exhaust fan came barreling out from the kill room. It was followed by a loud BANG!
Beast’s body began to convulse, he was pinned to the back of the chair like he was strapped into a grotesque carnival ride. The woman reporter, who was so eager to get a good look, let out a small cry and jumped back as if the electricity had reached out and grabbed her. The impact of the voltage should have killed Beast instantly, but sparks and flames erupted from somewhere along the circuit. There was another loud bang as an electrode on Beast’s leg exploded and blew out a hole in his shin. While the reporter in the back of the room screamed, the sparks jumped in ominous delight searching for someplace new to land. Beast’s lap blazed with orange flames while a firestorm burst out from under the hood in the area of Beast’s left temple.
P.J. shot straight up in his chair with murderous intent. His body coiled tight in rage. But two strong hands grabbed P.J.’s shoulders and shoved him back down in his seat. The voice of the guard behind him was a low growl in his ear. “Any ruckus you make now is just gonna take attention away from the matter at hand. You behave yourself so we see this done. For the sake of that man in there, you stand down.”
Somewhere in his raging anger, P.J. knew the guard was right. P.J. stayed in his seat and watched on in abject horror as two physicians entered the chamber. One felt for the pulse on the right side of Beast’s neck. The other searched for proof of life by pressing on Beast’s thick wrist. Both of the doctors had large pads of white cotton held up under their noses. With a nod, they each confirmed to the warden that there was still a heartbeat.
How can there still be a heartbeat? P.J. felt as though he was trapped inside of a nightmare. The reporters all made a quick and sudden move to rush out the door. And honestly, P.J. didn’t blame them. In truth, the execution gone wrong would be too much for the most hardened man to handle. However, their effort to flee was thwarted as the guard blocked the exit. He
