by Richard Christian Matheson
Richard Christian Matheson says: “Resurrection escorts second chances; often things perverse. It is a perfect metaphor for true costs. Considering serial murders, I have long felt capital punishment too kind a response to numbing lists of victims. I thought about Poe’s ‘Ligeia’ as the grieving heart of a husband, to bleak effect, brings his dead wife back. And this story came to me.”
* * * * *
Paralytic trickles into arm. Frantic limbs strapped-down.
“How long?” The grieving man, eyes sunken.
“Three minutes.” The Warden.
“Is he suffering?”
“Yes.”
Gurney creaks. Black hood dreaed-soaked.
The man watches. Remembers his wife; red pieces left of her.
Heart monitor a frenzy.
The Warden checks watch. “Drugs go in a sequence. Sodium pentobarbital first… it’s the anesthetic.”
Chemicals slither; smother.
“Pancuronium Bromide next: causes muscle paralysis.”
Spasms; wet asphyxiation.
“Potassium Chloride last: stops the heart.”
Bestial cries. The hooded mouth gasps sick panic.
The sunken eyes savor.
Ghastly noises crawl. The head slumps.
The Warden checks watch. “He’s paralyzed.”
The grieving man steps closer. Mouth watering. Slowly lifts the leather hood. Stares into the prisoner’s pleading eyes, the last face she saw as she was slashed apart. The purple, bloated tongue tries to speak. The man half-smiles. Listens to the agonized death rattle; a sweet melody.
“…FUCK YOU!” he screams, weeping as he’s escorted out.
Drool creeks onto chest; death syrup.
* * * * *
The Warden nods to the Doctor.
The wet hood is lowered. Syringe re-filled. The needle slides into flesh, orange chemical swept into inert luges of vein, dead heart. Ventricles constrict, shocked, blood throbbing through waking ducts. The prisoner suddenly convulses and moans, body jerking wildly, coming back to life.
The Warden gestures to the Guard. Five people enter; wordless, ashen. Weeping mother, stoic father, shattered grandparents, stricken brother. They stare at the black-hooded form, frantic against restraints. Remember detectives describing what he did to her.
“We’ll add something special to this one,” the Warden tells them.
Strychnine slips into arm; ant poison.
He thrashes, begs for someone to make it stop. The Gurney shakes furiously. He shrieks louder; chemicals a grease-fire. Lungs desperately heave, sucking panicked air through thick hood. The family’s features tic with pleasure. His mouth froths onto shirt.
He gradually stills.
The family moves to his anguished body. Lift puke-stenched hood. His eyes wide, see their loathing. Bleak joy fills them. He tries to apologize, words a blurred wail. They curse him, spit in his face. His wracked flesh shudders, slowly dies.
As they leaves, the Warden sits. Thinks about the one-hundred and thirty-three victims the prisoner met along the way. Tortured. Raped. Limbs cut-off, some while still alive. The ruined lives of everyone who loved them. He carefully crosses the name of the one-hundredth family from the list. Nods to the doctor.
As the orange fluid is injected, the prisoner writhes back to life, the Warden ignoring his tortured screams.
“Thirty-three to go,” he tells the Guard. “Bring in the next family.”
* * * * *