The Cell. A horror tale of the future.

The Cell.

The man started awake and looked around his condemned cell. In some ways he was glad to be here at this moment in his life. It had been a long weary road he’d traveled, a road seemingly without end, that was until this moment. Right now! It was here! The end was in sight! No more guesswork! It was over!

The man shook his head partially in anger partially in sorrow. He had been taken to this point and now he was here and this was real but he didn’t know how to deal with it. The thought of awaiting death frightened him, he felt sick inside, actually it was a whole new take on the ‘butterflies in the belly’ phrase. He grimaced. In life no matter how dangerous something is there’s a safety valve within that gives a burst of the hope of survival, whether it’s all in the mind or because of the adrenaline coursing through your system in a heartbeat you accept the fifty fifty chance, the brain calculates, the body reacts and you survive or you don’t. No beating about the bush. That’s the way it is and that’s that.

The man shook his head again, no anger or sorrow this time because such emotions are useless, the shaking of his head was just a reflex action or that’s what he told himself. No one was going to open the door and tell him he was free to go, the only way that door would open was when it was time for the abyss.

There it was again, the wave of sickness, the fear and those damned churning butterflies! He stood up with a groan and walked with slow shuffling uncertain steps, the three paces one way and the four paces the other. The death cell was shrinking daily or so it seemed to him? Before it would have taken him a life time to walk one way now just a second or two- - . The probability of time and distance once taken for granted now had become a perverse reality to the man. He smiled as he surveyed the few square feet left to him, each one so precious yet so hated because they kept him from the waiting abyss.

His eyes and brain took in the remaining time and space of his death cell. The man wondered how it would be at the end time? Would he go with his face to the front like a soldier? Or go like a slobbering coward screaming for a mercy that would never come? The man reckoned it would be the latter for he had always been a cowardly knave. He smiled again. Not a nice smile but one tinged with certainty making his face look drawn like a corpse. There was nothing in life like being certain of something. He swallowed the sour taste of his own fear and felt the gripping sensation in his guts. The panic almost had him then but logic stated to his reeling mind that panic was a no go area. There wasn’t any point in panic for the door wasn’t going to open as his egress to freedom for only the abyss awaited.

The man sat down and took some deep breaths. Eventually he began to calm a little as the spasms in his guts subsided followed by the easing of the sour bile that had threatened to spew out of his mouth. He felt the residue of the acid at the back of his throat and tried to swallow it away but his mouth was too dry for saliva. The butterflies though kept up their low fluttering but they never went away now as time and space became one in his thoughts. After the terrors had passed somewhat the man went into a dream like state where he could walk in freedom. He just sat and stared at the ground but no focus was involved just the thousand yard stare aimed at the concrete floor about three feet from his eyes.

He looked into yesterday not tomorrow for thoughts of tomorrow would only bring panic destroying the dream like state. Yesterday with all its baggage was where the man went in his dream state. As the days had burned up and the abyss came nearer he’d found himself returning there more and more frequently. There in that place he could question the mystery that was life and try halfheartedly to come up with some kind of answer to questions that have no answers.

If he’d believed in a God then perhaps the man could've prayed but because he didn’t believe there was no point. At this time he wished he could believe but once again logic wouldn’t allow him to go there because there couldn’t be a God to pray to. The man had nothing against those who were God-fearing and respected their beliefs but no way could his mind grasp at the idea of a God, especially a God that you prayed to for help. The man thought such actions as selfish in the extreme. Anyhow no deity was going to step in and help the likes of him and thoughts along those lines would be hypocrisy indeed from his viewpoint. Part of him would like to believe, probably the part of the human brain that gave man the ability to invent something higher than themselves because they don’t understand the what’s and whys of their existence. It would certainly be easier to believe in a God- - -

He heard a door slam somewhere near his cell then the murmur of voices followed by slow measured steps of several people. The man knew this was it. Panic threatened but by the force of will he held it in check, there was no way he was going to die a slobbering coward. This was the one last chance he had to redeem himself. If not in the eyes of the world at least in his own for the last few minutes he had left on this earth. He was wrought up to point and ready to die. Everyone faces death at some point so what’s the big deal? It just so happens it’s his turn!

When the court had sentenced him to death with all the pomp and ceremony they could muster and the tv cameras zooming in on his face from every conceivable angles. He had just stood there unbelieving. One tv camera man had almost put the lens down the man’s throat he’d got that close hoping to see the terror on his face but the guards had pushed him away none too gently. The people in the public gallery sat as if holding their collective breaths and sitting forward on their seats when they’d heard the sentenced pronounced. The bewigged judge sat like the lord of the manner at the bench as his assistant removed a black cloth from a plain wooden box and placed it triangular on the judge’s head with one of the corners hanging down his forehead. The man had felt his heart start to beat loudly in his chest and ears and put his shackled hands out to grasp the rail in front of him to stop from falling- - - .

As the footsteps came nearer to his cell he remembered the words of the judge “You will be taken to a place of execution and there three days hence shall suffer the full weight of the law of this land!” The judge had glowered at the man and said in an affected stern Victoriana tone “May the Lord have mercy on your soul!” The public gallery had burst out cheering and the man had watched the judge’s face as he played up to his now adoring public with an amused expression and a little bow towards the ecstatic public gallery before exiting the court.

He heard the key being fitted into the lock then more voices. For a fraction of a second the man thought he’d been granted a stay of execution and his heart soared only to be replaced almost instantly with the knowledge that no reprieve would ever be given.

No one had told the man how he was going to be executed. The last execution in Britain had been by rope back in the sixties of last century. Now the man was to be the first since the sixties to face the death penalty. What method would be used? It was all academic now as the door crashed back on its hinges and three men stood there in military style uniforms. No words were spoken but two of the men stepped forward and in moments had the man secured on his seat with chains. Their faces were completely passive as they stepped back and stood to attention. The other man still standing outside the cell door took two paces forward and said simply

“Are you ready?”

The seated man looked up at his face as if looking for some sign of compassion but there was none, more a look of glee and an excitement barely hidden beneath the mask of passivity. The man looked down at his shackles then back up at the ‘face’ and nodded his head. With a curt nod at the other two men the third man turned and stepped back out of the cell and awaited the others. They each took one of the handles of the chair and began to shove it and the shackled man down a long magnolia painted brick passageway as the other one did what looked like a slow march to their front. The passage smelt of fresh paint. The prisoner just sat with his head down watching the grey concrete floor pass slowly by. The wheels of the chair squeaked as they trundled along and the man pretty numb now took note of the bloody wheels and wanted to ask why the hell the chair should have iron wheels like a supermarket trolley. But he didn’t ask he only gave a smile and a shake of his head. One of the men seeing the movement of his head put out his hand and touched his shoulder. Not as a sign of compassion but in readiness in case the man was about to kick off. But he needn’t have worried the man was wrought up to point and ready to go to his death like a soldier.

They reached the end of the passage and the leading man stepped smartly to the left and that exposed the door of the execution chamber to the prisoner. He tensed as he saw the huge iron door. Beyond was the abyss. The end of his time. Or the highway to nowhere! He felt the fear mounting and could hear his own heartbeat as if his heart wanted to crash out of his chest and splatter against the big iron door. He gripped the arm rests of the chair dimly aware of the cold iron tubes the chair was made of. He almost lost the plot as his head span but the mantra came to mind and calmed him ‘Look to your front and go to your death like a soldier!’ He must’ve spoke out loud because the man to the left frowned and was about to say something but instead put his hand into his uniform breast pocket and took out a cigarette saying to the man “Your last request!” The man with a half smile tried to raise his hand to take it but couldn’t so the man slackened one of the shackles to allow him movement. The prisoner got his cigarette and asked for a light. The man pulled the slip bar on the door saying he’d get a light on the other side of the door. He pulled it open as the chair was pushed down a little concrete incline then the big door crashed closed behind him and the slip bar pushed back in place with a clang as if marking the full stop of all the man had been and was about to be.

The man found himself in a similar passageway he’d just came down. The only difference was that the walls were unpainted and it was open to a grey overcast sky. Still holding his cigarette he looked around for someone to give him a light. At the same moment he saw nozzles sticking from the walls and the cameras behind reinforced glass. Then the flamethrowers opened up

The men from Exitcare congratulated one another and raised their wine glasses in a toast to the 'First of Many'.

The prisoner’s crime?

He was disabled and therefore a drain on the modern healthcare system of twenty-first century British society.

copyright © Patrick Hutchison