Herbert and Marcus descended into the bowels of the prison, the former carrying a worn leather satchel whose weight tilted his gait toward the wall on his left. Overhead a soft draft caused the bulbs to sway, their glow sliding across the chipped gray granite walls. The vertiginous light gave rise to shifting shadows, wraiths watching from the uncertain dark.

"Worked here long?" Herbert asked interrupting the stillness.

"Twelve years. Twelve years too many." Marcus fumbled with his belt to ensure his nightstick was there. Once found, he gripped it reassuringly. "So you want to talk with him?"

Herbert’s fingers brushed the cool wall, an icy chill cutting swiftly up his arm causing him to instinctively pull away. "I want to understand him," he finally replied, shifting the valise to his right hand so that he could flex his numb fingers.

"Really?" Marcus whistled. "I’ll hand it to ya. I only watch ’em. You let the freaks into your mind-"

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Oh, this down here is...was," Marcus corrected himself with a shrug, "Death Row."

"Must be pretty quiet then, hmm?"

"Down here?" Marcus gripped his baton tighter. "Shit lurks down here. The guys…they think it’s just nerves, but I swear I’ve seen stuff. Felt it. Whispers. Strange breezes. Sometimes you can even hear steps."

"Steps?"

“Footsteps. The footsteps of the condemned dead. Pacing down here, always stopping short of the light.”

“Do you really believe that? Ghosts lurking down here I mean.”

“See, you’re just like them. But the things I’ve seen, there can’t be a Heaven. No God would create this hell.” Marcus shrugged again. "So I figure they stick around. They just don’t have any other place to go."

"Were you here when-?"

"They still had executions? Yeah. Yeah, I was."

"What was that like?"

"What? Watching a man die?" Marcus’ jaw tightened. "Surreal. Only word that fits. Seeing them flip the switch, the prisoner goes rigid. Their backs would arch like God himself had grabbed ’em and wanted to pull them out of that damn chair. But they’d fight. Damn how they’d fight. You’d see their knuckles go white, feet kicking against the wood. Straining against death. And the squealing. The inhuman squealing.” Marcus flinched and shook his head trying to scatter the images. "That’s no way to die, no way at all."

The pair continued on in silence down that dim tunnel. It stretched on infinitely into unending blackness, the unknown feeding their primordial fear. The further they went the more convinced Herbert became that this was Sheol, abode of the lost. The living did not belong down here.

Herbert briefly glanced back from whence they came. "Why did you put Deom down here? Why not solitary?"

Marcus bit his tongue but relented. "He was there." A pause. "He caused a few problems."

Herbert turned back to Marcus. "How do you cause problems locked alone in your own cell?"

“With help. The man is a menace. Bad enough what he is capable of, but when you include those people of his or the increasing numbers of cons that began to flock to him. We locked him up to keep him from his disciples; to keep him from influencing the others. But someone was helping him pass messages to his followers in the blocks. We don’t know how or who. Maybe the Aryans.”

“Maybe a guard.”

“Maybe the Devil himself,” Marcus retorted, cleared annoyed by the accusation.

Herbert chewed on his lip, deciding to redirect the conversation. “What was he trying to do? Luke I mean.”

“Incite instability. There was no sense to it. And then there was Clarence.”

“Clarence?”

"Clarence Darrows, another inmate. Always caused trouble. Bastard lived for fights. Hateful son of a bitch. Probably kicked his mother black and blue when she carried him." The two shared a short chuckle, though Marcus gradually choked on his. "Clarence was put in solitary after he gave Freddy a concussion with a mop handle."

"Freddy a guard?"

“No. Freddy’s a con. Anyway, they put Clarence in the hole next to Deom.” Marcus’ brow furrowed in recollection. “It was like he had cancer.”

"Who? Darrows?"

Marcus nodded, his eyes clouding over with the memory. "He...he...wasted away. You’d hear him screaming in there. Couldn’t make out what the hell he was yelling about. He’d pound on that door for hours. What terror powered that stamina I couldn’t say. We eventually had to take him to the infirmary. He’d torn the nails clean off his fingers trying to scratch through the steel door.” Marcus curled the digits of his right hand into something akin to claws. “He had bruises all over his face from ramming it into the walls, so swollen and discolored he was unrecognizable as anything human. It was like that for a lot of the guys we put next to Deom. They’d come out babbling so bad we couldn’t understand them."

A violent buzzing like a swarm of flies hummed ahead interrupting the memory. Rounding a corner, the entrance to Death Row appeared, a sickly yellow light streaming through rusted iron bars. "We’re here," Herbert told himself.

Marcus’ steps shortened. "He belongs down here you know, twisted fuck that he is. He’s not like the others." The pair stopped in front of the gate. Marcus pulled a ring of keys from his belt and hesitated. "With the others you watch ’em. They’ll try to mess with you, but when you clock out you leave ‘em behind." Marcus found the key and focused on it letting the others fall aside. "Deom watches you. Not with his eyes but you feel it. He gets to you, digs into your heart. He’ll haunt you. Be there waiting in the dark." Marcus tapped the key against the bars. "You sure you want to go in there?" He glanced at Herbert with grave uncertainty.

"I have to."

"You’re fucking crazy."

"I wouldn’t be here otherwise." Herbert stood to the side out of the light.

"Ok, um, the warden told me to lay down the ground rules. You’ll have a table and chair in there, but Luke stays in his cell. You don’t give him nothin’. Not books, not photos. Nothin’. Stay away from the bars of his cell. No matter what, don’t get within arms’ reach. You’re only allowed an hour a day. No more. If you have any problems just call for me." Marcus let the key clang into the hole. With a clack, the bolt retracted. "Deom’ll be in the last cell on the left. Remember if you need me just yell."

The gate gave inwards to a small, sheltered space. The buzzing was persistent, disorienting. Herbert crossed the threshold with Marcus quick to slam the bars back into place.

Herbert took a deep breath and hardened himself. The air here was heavy, the taste causing foul spit to pool in his mouth. The droning overhead was interspersed with pops which caused the light to flicker. Everything was bathed in a sickening amber glow casting a nauseous aura on the encroaching walls. Without warning, the world seemed to shift beneath his feet. He felt a migraine coming on, the throbbing loss of equilibrium forcing him to steady himself on the wall. Herbert shambled forward turning a corner to enter an abandoned hall containing row upon row of parallel cells. It was almost monastic in its austere reclusivity; a haven from the world. Cautiously he pressed forward. One by one he passed them. Each cell held a bare bed frame, a toilet to the side, and a sink with a mirror above clouded by grime and age. Walking the line, Herbert sensed the emptiness here. It was almost smothering. So much sorrow.

Then he heard it; a scribbling, an intense and worrisome scratching. It was an erosive sound that shaved away one’s sanity. Herbert approached the last cell with trepidation, his final steps dragging. There, at the end of the hall, Luke waited. Deom sat on his bed, his sheared head turned down and away from the sickening light focused on the notebook in his lap upon which he furiously wrote. He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt, his dangling feet bare. The first thought that passed through Herbert’s mind on seeing Luke was that of a hermit monk in divine contemplation.

Herbert quietly observed Deom in his cage like a rare animal. He sensed an unearthly quality in this man with the starving visage. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but despite himself he was spellbound by this banal figure that seemed oblivious to his existence, likely lost in opaque thoughts. With effort, Herbert pulled himself away to find that indeed a table and chair had been set up, the seat placed against the bars of the empty cell across from Luke’s. Herbert made his way to the table, resting his satchel on the stained steel.

Turning, Herbert stepped closer to Deom’s bars, stopping just out of reach. Examining the cell he realized that there were no pictures or posters on the walls. No books to discern Luke’s tastes or interests. Not a single personal object rested in there with Deom save his melancholy and a stack of notebooks. If he were to die tomorrow, no one would have known anyone had occupied this cell save for that cursed stack. All that Luke possessed were his thoughts and those four walls. Herbert’s attention returned to Luke on the bed. It was made tightly, the blanket sharp with crisp corners. Clearly it had not been slept in.

"Hello, Luke."

Luke lightly rocked back and forth, mumbling incoherently.

"I’m Herbert Kraft. I would like to talk, if you’re up to it of course."

Luke’s face was guarded, his drawn, hungry features placid. Not a muscle showed tension beneath that milky flesh.

“What are you writing?”

“Revising. Ever revising,” Deom curtly snapped.

Herbert retreated to a more comfortable distance, pulling his chair out to sit at eye level. “I understand if you’re hesitant to start. We have time.”

Luke continued to write in his notebook, refusing to acknowledge his guest.

"Alright." Herbert grabbed his satchel and extracted a series of files whose weight he slammed on the table. Luke jumped if ever so slightly.

Herbert pulled the top folder, looking down at the typed label. “I have some cases here I wanted to talk to you about.” Deom’s pen stopped abruptly as Herbert opened the cover. “Barbara-Ann Stevens. Do you know that name?” Herbert glanced up quickly for a response. “New Orleans, 1999. She was strangled with her nose bitten off and her breasts…excised.” He placed the file aside. “Debbie Warren, sixteen. Mobile, also 1999. She was sodomized with a knife and her jaw broken in three places with a blunt object. Her breasts were also excised.” He placed it down on top of the previous file. The pile grew as Herbert took from his left and announced them for a final resting place on his right. Vicki Meadows. Sally Vaughn. Carol McMahon. The stack raised ever higher, a monument to Luke’s inhumanity. “Do you remember any of those names?”

“Incomplete,” Luke murmured, rising from his bunk while clutching his notebook and withdrawing to a tenebrous corner where he wavered for several seconds. "Incomplete, incomplete, incomplete." Casting his notebook down in agitation, he went to the sink, cupping a hand under the spout to gather water which he splashed over his head, repeatedly swiping at his scalp.

“I was hoping for some reciprocation,” Herbert started in frustration, “Especially after the distance I have traveled to see you, but I suppose that is like keeping conversation with an echo. Our time is limited, so let’s be honest with one another, shall we. You requested to speak with me. Not the other way around. And I know why. So let’s stop with the foreplay. I know why you’re here, Luke. It wasn’t chance or fate. I’ve studied your case and know you are far too smart and compulsive to make mistakes. You wanted to be caught. You wanted to be stopped. You wanted to be seen. The only question is why." Herbert leaned forward in his chair. "So tell me. That’s why I’m here. I want to understand. We all do."

Luke peered over his shoulder, the water running in rivulets down his ashen face. “Your words are oily and anomalous,” he retorted, his words hoarse and strained. His gaze was almost serpentine with those unblinking black eyes. Predatory. He piercingly stared at Herbert for some time. “You have come seeking the secrets of the Nagbu.”

"Nagbu?"

“I knew you would come.” Luke turned back to the running tap, feverishly washing his hands. "The equation must be fulfilled."

“The equation?”

"You are here. You are here!" Luke twisted the faucet shut before whirling around. “They told me.” He thrust his bony finger at Herbert repeatedly. “They told me you would come to spread the word.”

“Your words, yes. Your story. Who are they? The guards?”

Luke paced the cell, his eyes locked on Herbert. "Tell me, do you ever think about the victims of those you interview?"

"No," Herbert answered reflexively.

"Do their deaths haunt you?"

"I said no," Herbert stated through tight lips.

Luke stopped suddenly in consternation. "One more no and I stop talking. There will be truth only."

Herbert crossed his arms. “Then truth for truth. What can you tell me?”

“You will not find peace. You will never know peace again. Not until I am through.”

"I can live with that."

“Can you?” Luke’s face twitched, the corner of his lip curling. "Alright."

"Alright."

"But first, before we talk, may I see the photos in those files?"

Herbert placed an arm protectively over the stack. “I’m not allowed to do that. I can show you the photos-”

“I want the photos,” Luke growled, jerking forward.

Herbert’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Luke just stood there, obscenely focusing on the folders resting on the table.

“I’ll read the reports to you. Hold the photos up for you to see-”

“Power.”

Herbert cocked his head in confusion. “Excuse me?”

"Memory."

Herbert trailed a circle with his finger on top of the stack. “I’ll see what I can do about the files.”

The hint of a crude smile teased at the corners of Luke’s mouth.

"So, now may we talk?"

Luke turned his back on Herbert. “Come back when I can have the files.

“What if I cannot give you the files?” Luke was no longer listening, having returned to the gloom, snatching the notebook he had tossed upon the floor. Within seconds he was back to scribbling.

Herbert conceded and packed up his satchel. With a snap, he rose to exit. It was time to leave this tomb.

***

Joubert was scanning over some paperwork when he heard a knock on his door. "Come." He glanced up to see Officer Dames enter.

"I didn’t expect you to be here so late, sir."

Joubert gestured him forward. "I wanted to speak with you about the current situation here."

Dames snapped to attention in front of the warden’s desk. "I thought the sitrep wasn’t due for another two weeks, sir."

"Well, some things have come to my attention which need dealing with."

"Yes sir."

Joubert supported his chin on his fist. "I’ve discovered we’re down to sixty percent manpower. Why?"

"Sir, a lot of our men were in the Guard. They got called up to go overseas."

"That doesn’t account for everyone. What about the other losses?"

"Sir, we have a high turn-over rate. To speak frankly, some of the men just hate it here-"

"Well, it’s your job to make them think otherwise." Joubert jabbed that home with a pen in his hand. He sat back in his chair. "I can’t keep paying out overtime. I have a budget to maintain."

"Yes sir."

"I’ve been going over our utility reports." Joubert clicked and unclicked his pen as he spoke. "Seems we’ve been having energy spikes and black outs throughout the compound. I need you to have electricians survey the grounds. See if there’s something wrong with the wiring. Last thing I need is for the prison to burn down."

"Of course sir."

"How are things in the various blocks?"

"Nothing to report. There haven’t been any incidents."

"You mean none worth my attention." Dames kept quiet. "You do realize I hate to be kept in the dark."

"Yes sir, but there is nothing to report."

Joubert returned to his reports. "Has our guest caused any problems?"

"No sir."

"Good. So how did our celebrity handle his interview?"

"I was told he spoke quite a bit, sir."

Joubert looked up from his papers. "Really?"

"Yes sir."

"Anything interesting to say?"

"I was told no, sir."

Joubert returned to his reports. "Well, keep a man on it anyway. I’m interested in what he has to say."

***

Arid night found Herbert restless in bed, tangled in his sweat soaked sheets. The crimson neon of the motel sign burned through the blinds bathing him in the garish glow of never-ending dusk. Despite the lethargy which burdened his body, his mind was manic with fleeting thoughts capriciously skirting consciousness. Caught between worlds, his senses sharpened uncomfortably. He could hear the water trickling in the sink, the settling moan of the motel’s foundations, the desert wind scraping against the window. The thirst for whiskey was unbearable, his parched mouth tasting of bile.

Dragging himself from his torpor, Herbert trudged to the bathroom. He didn’t even bother to flip on the light before entering the shower. With a twist of the handle water cascaded down upon him. He reached out putting his palms against the wall letting the heat pour down his back to eat into his stiff muscles. It relaxed the tension wearing away the weight of so many hard days. Herbert’s obsessive thoughts gradually sloughed off and ran down the drain carried away by that comforting warmth which left him blessedly hollow. But that warmth soon waned forcing him to turn the shower off. Grabbing a towel, he wiped away the already cooling dew from his body.

Stepping out onto the cold tile, Herbert strode naked through the mist back into the bedroom. He collapsed limply onto the bed. His breathing deepened and he gradually lost hold of his senses. In a way, it was like floating; his soul flying away from where he lay. Before the void took him, he heard a soft voice call his name; so fragile that it was lost upon speaking.

Next Chapter: Revenans