The Day of Last Things

Kenny Osborne sat up on the edge of his bunk, yawning. He had been unable to sleep so he had spent the night staring at the ceiling and thinking about the hours that were ticking away. Hours - that was what he had left, some hours. For the past twenty-two years, ten months, and fourteen days, he really had only a certain amount of hours, although, until just a few days ago, he never realized it, never thought of it that way. Actually, that was all anybody really had, but for most people, the hours left at least held hope of happiness and new experiences.

In Unit K, nothing changed, not really; the lights never changed, the sounds never changed, the sights never changed. The utility fluorescents that lined the corridor were always on; whenever one of the long tubes burned out or began to flicker, an anonymous maintenance man would come onto the block with his step ladder and replace it. Kenny had seen many maintenance guys come and go, and they always walked as close to the wall opposite of the cells as they could. They would even put the ladder way over there and lean over to change the bulb. They never looked at the animals in the cages, and they certainly never spoke to any of them. They were on the ball, though, Kenny would give them that. As much as he could tell that they feared and dreaded coming into Unit K, one of them would be there within five minutes of a burnout, day or night. The Powers were deadly serious about illumination, and, unlike most prison cell blocks, Unit K's lights weren't even turned down a notch at night.

Likewise, there was no way to tell the time of day by the noises in Unit K. Men yelling, men sobbing, men screaming, men going insane; TV's, radios, slamming prison doors which have a sound unique to themselves, the steady dripping of unseen water, and the hollow echo of the guards' footfalls as they make their quarter-hourly trek around Unit K, looking in each cell to make sure its occupant was still behaving and being a good convict - if there was anything the guards hated, it was finding a dead prisoner in his cell. Christ, the paperwork! Of course, a dead prisoner usually meant suicide, as no prisoner in Unit K ever came in contact with any other prisoner on Unit K. Occasionally someone would die of natural causes, which speaks volumes about the efficiency of America's penal system. The old joke about "dying of old age" holds special meaning in Unit K.

Kenny stood, realizing that it could very well be the last time he ever got out of bed. He certainly had no intention of spending his remaining hours asleep (there would be plenty of time for that later, he thought grimly), so he walked to the bars of his cell, and waited for what could be his very last breakfast.

Most prisons move a condemned prisoner to a holding cell adjoining the death chamber at least a day prior to execution. Most prisons even had a doctor do a last minute physical on the inmate to be sure he was fit to be killed. Not Marshallville. The motto there was, "If a judge didn't order it, we're not going to do it." Unless the condemned went apeshit, or was a suicide risk, the man was left right in his regular cell until the minute the Gang came for him. Most lawyers had batteries of doctors come to perform examinations of all kinds - mental, physical, and even spiritual - in last-ditch attempts to prove their clients "incompetent." Most failed.

Kenny had no such visits, at least none he accepted. Oh, he'd had hundreds of requests -from law firms, doctors, death penalty abolitionists, and even Oprah and The Today Show - but he had refused them all. He had no desire to look like so many of the pathetic fools he'd seen come and go in Unit K, the guys who walked in all tough and with "I fucked your mother" attitudes, only to be dragged screaming and crying from their cells a few years later. The vast majority of inmates in Unit K spent every waking moment "working on their appeals." They were, after all, "fighting for their lives." Kenny held no such illusions. He had forfeited his rights to life on a cold December day, almost twenty-five years ago.

He heard the electric hum of the sally port door as it slid open, announcing the arrival of the morning meal. It being Monday, Kenny knew what he would find on his tray; powdered eggs, two slices of cold, rubbery toast, half-cooked grits, and a slice of some kind of boloney-type meat that was usually slightly green around the edges.

The door clanged shut, and Kenny heard the cart's squeaky wheels roll down the block. A guard always handed out the trays, as well as toiletries, books, and commissary items, since no trustees were allowed in Unit K. Most cons eagerly welcomed any chance to get off the block, just to see a different face and to breathe some different air. Many of them made up illnesses or even inflicted wounds on themselves just to get a chance to go to the infirmary, as if it somehow made them free men just to be walking out the IN door instead of going the other way.

Kenny hadn't been off Unit K in nearly five years. Although he was technically represented by a law firm doing some sleep-good-at-night pro bono work, he gave them no cooperation and returned none of their correspondences. The lawyers used to come and request visits, which Kenny had always refused, so they had finally given up. He knew that they were still "working" for him, behind the scenes, because they continued to bombard him with letters, letters that he routinely tossed in the trash.

He'd been in the Unit for an unusually long time (the state rarely implemented its death penalty option, but when it did, brother, it wasted no time - the average stay in the Unit was only about eight years. Seems like a long time still, but not when one considers that most states have an average stay of twenty-five years), so he figured the do-good lawyers had been doing something out there - whether that something was good or bad, Kenny couldn't really decide. He knew that he was going to die, sooner or later, in that electric chair, and he guessed that's all it really boiled down to. The when had really always been irrelevant. Until today, of course.

"Here you go, Kenny," Jameson said, sliding a thick plastic tray through the slot in the door. Kenny took the tray, and set it on the little steel table with the worn gray paint that was attached to the concrete-block wall, and then turned back to the cell door.

Paul Jameson was only about twenty-five years old, but had worked in Unit K for nearly five years. He was the youngest guard on the block, and was by far the youngest when he had first started. He was a large man, with Popeye arms and chest, but he had a quietness about him that Kenny admired. Jameson never taunted the inmates, as many other guards did ruthlessly, and he treated them with respect. Of course they could never be truly friends, but Kenny considered Jameson to be one of the most decent men he'd ever known. Sometimes, when the two of them were shooting the shit about a football game or the latest catastrophe in the Middle East, Kenny would catch himself feeling almost human again, and he'd quickly withdraw from the conversation. Feelings like that were dangerous in a place like Unit K, and Jameson seemed to realize it too, because he would look almost apologetic and then quickly mumble something about some unfinished work before disappearing down the block.

"Morning Paul."
Jameson glanced at him, and smiled awkwardly. "Morning Kenny. You sleep good?"
He instantly realized what a fucked up question that was, and turned away, red-faced. "What I meant was, uh-"
Kenny forced a laugh, not wanting Jameson to feel bad. "It's OK Paul. Actually, I slept just fine, thank you. Not as good as I'll sleep tonight, but..."
Jameson looked at him with horror in his eyes, but, seeing the shiteating grin on Kenny's face, was forced to smile.

"I'll stop back after a while," he said, shaking his head. Kenny just nodded and Jameson pushed the squeaky cart on down the line. Kenny's smile faded as Jameson disappeared.
There were currently nine inmates in Unit K, which was a very small number, even for a state that needed serious prodding before exercising its federal-given right to murder its criminals if it saw fit to. The building would hold fifty cons, although in all of Kenny's years he'd never seen the place anywhere near capacity. Once, about thirteen years ago, there were twenty-three of them in there, and that was the record during Kenny's time.

Since there was plenty of room, the inmates were spaced apart, so no two inmates were in adjoining cells. Right now, with just the nine of them, there were at least four empty cells between each occupied one, and no cells faced each other. The only time any Unit K inmate ever saw any of his neighbors was on his way in and out of the block, the yard, or the shower. Each inmate was allowed one hour, three times a week and alone, in the "yard", which wasn't a yard in any sense of the word; it was a twenty-by-twenty slab of asphalt completely surrounded by a twenty-foot tall concrete wall that was covered with chain-link and razor wire. The only thing that could be seen from the yard was the sky. There was a basketball goal on one end and that was that.
"Hey, Osborne!"

It was Simpson, the old man down the way. He was in the Unit for raping and murdering a five year old boy nine years ago. He was a mean son of a bitch, and crazy, and Kenny had no doubt he had a bevy of lawyers trying to get him placed somewhere where he could get the help that he needed.
"Osborne! I know you can hear me!"
Kenny leaned against the bars of his cell, knowing that his silence would do little to deter the old bastard.

"Nut fryin' day, ain't it?" The old man barely got the words out before he started cackling, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. Kenny just smiled, shaking his head, and turned back to the little table to eat what could be his last breakfast.

This was, of course, no ordinary day, and Kenny knew that his normal days were over for good. Today he would be a star, there would be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people outside the prison walls by tonight, and they would be fighting over a man none of them even knew. He wished he could get word to them somehow, and tell them all to go home and not to worry about him anymore. As he chewed the last powdered eggs he'd ever chew, he briefly rued not having made this request with the persistent lawyers.

Surely they could have released a statement for him; after all, the whole world wanted to have five minutes with him. He'd been offered inordinate amounts of money for interviews, his story, even just a picture. Most cons in the Unit would have eaten this kind of attention up, but Kenny wanted no part of it. He was ashamed of what he did to get here, and would give anything to take it back, but, since that was impossible, he'd at least have the dignity to maintain his silence. He'd made apologies at his sentencing (he'd pleaded guilty), and, as insufficient as he knew that was, it was the best he could do.

The warden himself would be here to see him, he knew, and he would have his last meal sometime this evening, around six o'clock. Marshallville carried out executions not at dawn or one past midnight, but at eight-thirty PM. No one Kenny had ever spoken with knew the reason for this; it just was what it was.

He would have no visitors, of that he was certain. The only living relatives he had were an older sister and a younger brother, and neither had wanted much to do with him before he got locked up - they sure as hell hadn't spoken to him since then. They could even be dead, for all he knew, but somehow he sensed that this was not the case. No, they were both out there somewhere, sitting atop of their high horses, looking down on the rest of the world with disdain. There were times, back in the beginning, when this saddened Kenny, but he'd long since given them up. He even felt kind of sorry for them, because they weren't able to see the forest. That's how he thought of it, and it didn't matter if it made sense to anyone else or not. It made sense to him.

Old man Simpson had been quiet for a few minutes, no doubt shoveling his grub into his toothless mouth. Kenny finished his last bit of toast (he had never once eaten the mystery meat), and then slid the tray through the door. Standing up again, he realized that would be the last time he would ever even do that. Last night and even earlier this morning he thought in terms of might be the last of this, and may be the last of that, but he suddenly realized that he'd dropped the might's and may's from his thoughts. This was it. He would go outside and look at the blue sky one last time, if it wasn't raining or snowing, and then he'd return to his cell to eat his meal, which would consist of lasagna and garlic bread. When the warden had skeptically asked him if that was it, Kenny had just nodded and said "That's it."
"What's that I smell? Oh yeah, it's Osborne's NUTS FRYIN'!!"

Kenny heard the old man cackle again and start coughing. Apparently he was done with his breakfast, and, as if to confirm this, a tray went flying out into the corridor, about five cells down. Simpson did this after every single meal, but no one cared. Hell, he practically licked the tray clean, so there was no mess.

Kenny heard other trays tumbling around, and the morning coughing and farting started. Unit K was a bit subdued this morning, as it always was on the Big Days. Many of the inmates really were crazy, or plain evil, and didn't give a rat's ass about dying; for the most part, however, they were living, breathing human beings who, although they'd been convicted of the worst crimes there were, still felt fear and the grip of panic at the thought of their own day of waking up to all the last things.

Last things - that was what the day was all about.
It was funny, in an ironic sort of way, because Kenny sat in his cell with so many things on his mind, so many things that he'd wanted to do in life, and yet could do nothing. He thought about all the people out there, sitting around and wasting their freedom, not even knowing how precious that simple concept really was.
He tried not to think about what lie ahead, but it was always there, tugging on his shirtsleeve and asking him to come out and play for a while.

He went through his meager possessions, organizing and straightening things. He had very little, since he'd never had one penny of commissary money to buy anything, and he'd never received a letter that he kept. All he had were some playing cards, a pad and paper to draw on (he'd tried drawing landscapes for years, and was fairly decent at it; but his drawings never possessed that magic of a true artist's work, like Wendell Kimball's), and a stack of paperback books he'd managed to appropriate over the years. Several times the Powers would order a shakedown, and Kenny would lose his collection, but they hadn't bothered with his books in a few years now and he had probably fifty of them shelved neatly across the back of the cell. He had soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste, and of course his laundry bag, which consisted of two jumpsuits, two pairs of ratty underwear, two pairs of ratty socks, and one threadbare towel. He carefully put all the items into the net bag, with the exception of the toothbrush and toothpaste (He'd taken his last twice-weekly shower two days ago, back when he thought that it might be his last). He would brush his teeth for the last time later this evening.

Then he came to the only item that really mattered; it was a large cross, made by a fellow K-man by the name of Wendell Kimball. Wendell had been his neighbor for five years, back before they decided to put space between the cons. He never spoke, Wendell hadn't, but he drew a lot. He drew the most beautiful landscapes that Kenny had ever seen; snow-capped mountains, lush tropical islands, forests and deserts. Late at night Kenny would just see Wendell's hand, with a piece of paper in it, appear around the corner of his cell. He would jump up and gently take it from the hand, which would then disappear again, and then Kenny would allow himself to be taken far away from the ugliness in which he lived, and would invariably fall asleep that night dancing with a beautiful woman under a full moon in Morocco, or snorkeling with millions of bright, neon colored fish in crystal clear water.
Then Wendell's day of last things had arrived, and Kenny remembered the feeling of horror as he thought about what must be going through the mind of the man next door. It was unfathomable, the anguish and torture that he must have been feeling, yet he remembered also thinking somewhere in the shameful shadows of his mind how glad he was that it wasn't him.

That evening, just after Wendell's last meal (Kenny remembered smelling fish, that's all), and right before the Gang came for him, Kenny saw the old gnarly hand reach through the bars one last time. That hand held a cross, about six inches in length that appeared to be made out of some kind of clear plastic. Kenny had slowly gotten up and walked to the front of the cell, where he just stared at the hand for a moment - a hand that still had muscles flexing and fingernails growing - before taking the cross. The hand lingered a moment before suddenly giving a thumbs-up and disappearing, never to be seen again. A few moments later they had come for him, and Unit K was silent, as usual on those nights. (Many times there was some son of a bitch that hooted and hollered as the doomed man left for good, but generally the thought of where that man was going would silence even the coldest and craziest of Unit K's residents.) The Road to Ruin, as the cons in K had always called the stretch between the cells and the death house, took Wendell and his entourage in the opposite direction from Kenny's cell, so he never got to see the man's face as he walked away. Wendell sure as hell didn't go kicking or screaming. No sir, Wendell Kimball never said a word.

Kenny now held the plastic cross in his hands, a cross that was actually a bunch of pieces of cellophane, twisted up and intricately interwoven to form a work of art. A tear formed at the corner of Kenny's eye as he held it in his hands. He was not only sad because he still missed the old man and what he'd represented to him, but because the plastic-wrap cross was the only thing he felt he would be leaving behind.

Around noon the sally port door did its humming/clanging thing, and the squeaky cart started on yet another of its eternal rounds. Lunch came in brown paper bags, and consisted of one mystery meat sandwich, one pseudo-peanut butter sandwich (both on stale bread), and a couple of small cookies wrapped in cellophane. (Kenny had often wondered how many months worth of those tasteless cookies Wendell Kimball had unwrapped before he had had enough plastic-wrap to make the cross.) Kenny could tell by the cart's squeaking wheels that Paul was pushing just a bit slower today and Kenny felt bad for Paul feeling bad. Just another small example of the ugliness he'd contributed to the world.

Finally he was there, in front of Kenny's cell, and was sliding the sack through the door, just like he'd done a million other times. Except this time, when Kenny accepted the lunch, he realized that it would be his last. Suddenly he didn't feel hungry, and slid it back through.
"Give it to the old man down there, would you Paul?"

Paul just looked at Kenny for a moment, partly to see if he was serious and partly because those words somehow encompassed the goodbye that they could never say, not really.
"Sure Kenny, if that's what you want." He took the bag and looked at it for a moment, and placed it on the side of the cart instead of just tossing it back in the bin with the others, as if it was somehow very important that Simpson received that exact bag.
"Sorry I haven't had a chance to shoot the shit, Kenny. I've been real busy all morning..."
"Hey," Kenny said, forcing a grin, "don't sweat it. Hell, you got a job to do here, right?"
Paul looked at Kenny. "I'll see you. You want to go out, don't you?"
"Sure."

Paul nodded, and pushed the squealing cart on down the block.
After he'd gone, Kenny sat down on his bunk. His mind raced to the fact, the fact, that in a few hours he would be strapped into that chair and then electrocuted to death.
To Death.
Suddenly Kenny was terrified, and he began to shake violently. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he clenched his teeth as he sobbed quietly. He never knew any God, but he hoped there was one and that He was very forgiving. He thought about how the preachers that he heard on the TV had always said that God would forgive anything as long as a person was truly sorry and asked for forgiveness. He clutched the cross in his hands and closed his eyes.
For the first time in his life, at least that he could recall, Kenny prayed to a God he had never really thought about before.

Four PM. Other than the usual sounds of the TV, the slamming of doors, and the shower down the way, Unit K was more subdued. Even that mouthy old bastard Simpson had been quiet since lunch. Every man in the unit was thinking about Kenny, and the thoughts and horrors that must be running through his mind at that exact moment. Every man was, at the same time, grateful that it was Kenny and not them. Not yet.

It wasn't until Kenny heard the footfalls approaching that he realized that Paul hadn't made a round in quite some time, and that he'd be getting off at three. Kenny had no clock, never could see the reason for one, but he could tell that the footsteps nearing his cell belonged to Schaefer, one of the evening guards. Schaefer wasn't exactly an asshole; he was just an older man there to do his job. He could be nasty if he was having a bad day or if a con gave him any shit, but for the most part he was neutral and unfeeling. It was Kenny's opinion that seeing both Jesus Christ in person and a man cutting his own throat would elicit the same expression from Officer Schaefer.
"Yard, if you want it Osborne."

Kenny stood up and walked to the bars. Schaefer stood pretty much right in front of the cell, which was generally a no-no in any prison, let alone death row. He wasn't worried, though, as weren't any of the other guards who'd been there for a while, since they just knew that there was nothing to fear out of Kenny Osborne.
"Paul left already?" Kenny asked.
"It's past four, Osborne. You know shift change is at three."
Kenny just slowly nodded, thinking that when he had given Paul the sack lunch for Simpson was the last time he would ever see him, and he hadn't even known it at the time.
"Well," Schaefer said. "You want your yard?"

Kenny just nodded and grabbed his state-issued wool coat off of the little peg next to the cell door and slipped it on. Then he reached his hands through the bars and clasped them together so Schaefer could slip on the cuffs. Any time a con left the block for any reason, he was to be handcuffed and shackled. A yard call warranted only the handcuffs, which Schaefer put on so loosely Kenny could have easily slipped out of them, which of course he had no intention of doing.

The cold air slapped Kenny in the face when Schaefer opened the door, and Kenny couldn't remember the last time a rush of frigid air felt so good. He turned and let Schaefer remove the cuffs (he was supposed to close the door and have Kenny reach through to have them removed, but he couldn't be bothered), and then began walking. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as the door slammed shut behind him, and looked up at the bright blue sky. The sun was already past the wall, so Kenny couldn't see it. He'd been coming out at four o'clock for many years, and the only time he could see the sun was during the summer months. As fall wore on, he could see less and less of it every day, until around the first of December, when it was gone again until April. It never occurred to him that when he'd last seen the sun in November, nearly two months ago, that it would be the last time. He probably could have asked for an earlier yard, it being a special occasion and all, but it hadn't occurred to him, and now it was too late; the next time the sun drifted over the open yard Kenny wouldn't be here.

There were no birds in the air either, and the afternoon was silent. If there was even a breeze out there, Kenny couldn't feel it within the confines of the walls. He walked in circles, trying not to think but thinking anyway. At that moment, he knew, they were making the preparations in the death chamber, making sure that all the cables were clean and intact, and that all the fuses were fresh, or whatever they had to do to ensure that all went smoothly at tonight's show. He knew that right now there would be a crowd growing out front, some with candles and some with vendettas. There would be no lack of emotion for him, a man that nary a soul out there had ever even met.

His last meal was being prepared too, and Kenny wondered exactly who cooked these last meals - it certainly wasn't any member of the prison's kitchen staff, that was for sure. They must have a restaurant prepare the meal - that would be his guess. Lasagna with meat sauce and garlic bread. He hadn't had lasagna since his mother used to make it, many years ago. He knew that there was no way it could possibly be anywhere near as good as his mom's was, but he could think of nothing else he'd rather have.

He walked around and around, his legs working just fine, as if all was well. Stupid legs, as far as they knew, he was strolling down to the corner store for a beer. That thought somehow made him grieve, and he'd had enough of the yard. He went to the door and pounded on it, knowing that normally a con stayed out here for his full hour whether he liked or not, but that they'd have special consideration for him today.

Sure enough, Kenny could hear the keys in the lock just a few seconds later, and he turned and looked at the sky for the last time. The door opened, and Kenny held his hands out for the handcuffs. Schaefer slipped them on, and stood aside to let Kenny in.
"Warden wants to see you," Schaefer said as he slammed the door closed and jiggled the key in the lock. He tested the door and then turned around. "He's in visitation."
Kenny had to walk past two other Unit K inmates' cells on his way to the visitation room on the far end of the building, and neither man looked at him as he passed. Kenny looked in both cells, and could almost feel the smell of fear on those two men, as if Kenny were the Grim Reaper walking by, which, in a way, he was. He was the ghost of their Christmas Future.

The visitation room was long and narrow, with a long bench and table on either side of a block wall that had a piece of inch-thick Plexiglas dividing the two sides. Communication between visitor and prisoner was accomplished using phone handsets that lay on the tables. There was never any physical contact between inmate and visitor. Kenny hadn't been in the visitation room since he'd finally decided to give the lawyers the brush-off nearly five years prior. He felt like he was walking into a foreign land.

To his surprise, the warden sat on the same side as the inmate entrance. He'd never met this warden, the fourth one since Kenny arrived, according to rumors. Unit K inmates had no reason to expect visits from the warden; after all, he had a prison to run.
The latest warden stood up when Kenny walked in. He was a young man, perhaps 35, with a neatly trimmed blond beard and mustache. Instead of the usual suit and tie, he wore a polo shirt and dark blue jeans.
"Mr. Osborne?"
"Yes sir."

The man actually looked like he was going to approach Kenny and shake his hand, and then quickly recovered by thrusting his hands in his pockets.
"I'm Jeffrey Krantz, the warden of this institution."
"Pleased to meet you," Kenny said.
"Yes, well, I wish we could have met under different circumstances."
"Would have been nice," Kenny said, wondering where all of this small talk was leading.
"I'll be frank with you Mr. Osborne. I've spoken to the governor. Barring some miracle, there will be no stay."

Kenny nodded, fully expecting this piece of news.
"Um, Mr. Osborne," the warden coughed and looked away for a moment. "I understand that you have no family or friends coming tonight. Is this true?"
He returned his gaze to Kenny.
"It is."
"I see," Krantz said, rubbing his jaw. "No religious advisor? A priest, or reverend?"
"No, nobody."
Krantz didn't know what to say for a moment, and then finally stood up. "Well," he said, "I surely wish you'd change your mind. I can arrange for a spiritual advisor of your choice to come see you."

"What good would that do me?" Kenny asked. "I've never been a religious man, have never darkened the door of any church of any kind. If there is a God - and don't get me wrong, I certainly hope there is - surely He wouldn't appreciate me getting the hallelujah only because I was going to die."
"It's never too late, you know, to make things right with God."
"Do I need a preacher to do that?" Kenny asked.
"Well, no, of course not."
"Then I'll be fine. Thank you though, for your concern."
Krantz once again stared at Kenny for a moment. "Well, it's your choice," he said, "but I really wish you'd reconsider."

"Thank you, Warden. I really do appreciate it, but I'm in this alone."
Krantz just stood there with his hands in his pocket. Finally he nodded, and then turned and left the room. A guard let him pass and then followed him out, slamming the door as he went. Schaefer looked at him and made a "this way, Mishoo" gesture, and Kenny walked out of the room. He returned to his cell, once again feeling the static electricity as he passed the other inmates.
The dinner trays were rolled in around six, and Schaefer stopped and asked Kenny if he wanted one.
"What happened to my lasagna?"
"It'll be here in a little bit."

"Well," Kenny said, "I certainly appreciate the offer, but I believe I'll pass."
Schaefer simply nodded and moved on.
By now Kenny was doing a lot of pacing, and he could tell his blood pressure was up. He was sweating and shivering at the same time in the cold cell. He thought of his grandmother's house, the one safe haven he'd had as a child, and all the fun he'd had there. He thought of little Erika Pressman, his first love back in the first grade. She came from a wealthy family and was already snobby towards a farm boy like Kenny Osborne, but he'd adored her anyway.

He thought of the first time he'd actually noticed a girl's ass in tight jeans, and how profoundly that faceless girl in the Levis had changed his life. He'd been about twelve at the time, and then suddenly there were boobs, legs, and pretty faces everywhere. He remembered the first time he'd actually gotten laid; it had been with Tricia Johnson, a cheerleader who was a year older than Kenny and in the tenth grade. They'd met at a party and wound up doing it in a bedroom closet, and he had fallen so in love with her. Oh, how he'd been heartbroken when she brushed him off the next day! But he met another girl soon enough, and hadn't thought about Tricia anymore. There were all the fun times at the Cinema Ten, the local theater and popular teenage hangout on Friday and Saturday nights. He had been so young, with his whole life lying wide open before him.

The clang-hum of the sally port door snapped Kenny back to the present, and then the squeaky cart was approaching once again. Kenny knew that it would be his last meal, and was waiting for old man Simpson to make some kind of remark as the food passed his cell. But the Unit was silent, except for the faint noise of canned laughter on one of the TV's that some con was fortunate enough to have in his cell.

The cart stopped in front of Kenny's cell, and his last meal was sitting there in Styrofoam containers, like the kind you get at a takeout Chinese restaurant. Schaefer silently handed the cartons through the tray-slot, and then handed him a large Styrofoam drink cup through the bars. He hadn't even asked for a drink - hell he'd had nothing but water and the occasional cup of coffee for over twenty years. He looked questioningly at Schaefer, who just nodded once and handed him the cup. Then he pushed the cart away.

Kenny sat down at his little table, careful not to spill his drink all over the place. He opened the two containers, and there was a decent-sized slab of sauce covered lasagna in one and a huge piece of garlic bread in the other. The strong smells of the sauce, cheese, and especially the garlic brought back memories of his mom, and he could see her in the kitchen, working over the stove and laughing.

Kenny quickly pushed the thoughts aside and ripped open the little package that contained a plastic fork and spoon, as well as a napkin and little packs of salt and pepper. He grabbed a piece of the garlic bread and took a large bite, forked a large piece of the pasta into his mouth, and then closed his eyes as he chewed. Although it wasn't, of course, nearly as good as his mom's, it was heavenly nonetheless. Twenty-some years of eating prison food did terrible things to the taste buds, and the wonderful food in his mouth awakened yet more memories - memories of all that was and all that would never be. He felt his eyes grow hot and suddenly realized that the meal had been a bad idea.

With tears streaming down his cheeks, he took the containers over to the steel toilet in the corner and emptied them into it. He took the lid off of what appeared to be a cup of cola, and dumped that as well. He then filled the cup up with the lukewarm water from the little sink and gulped it, swishing it around in his mouth to remove the taste. He flushed the toilet and watched the food drop immediately from sight, and then drank some more of the water.

He took the Styrofoam containers to the front of the cell and shoved them through the slot and onto the floor outside. He sat down, shaking, and drank more, desperately trying to get the taste of garlic out of his mouth and not succeeding. He realized with horror that he was going to die in a shroud of garlic and his mother's face in his mind.
The next two hours were pure hell. The overwhelming sense of panic and doom invaded Kenny's cell and soul like a wildfire out of control. He paced and cried, sat and stared, closed his eyes and prayed. He had never been so terrified in his entire life - of course he hadn't. What could possibly be more frightening than dying?

The image of Wendell's thumbs-up came to him, and it calmed him some. Maybe he had known something that Kenny did not. Maybe there really was a better place waiting for him. Maybe the second they threw that switch Kenny would instantly wake up in a beautiful new world, like waking from a bad dream. Hell, maybe this whole thing called life actually was just a bad dream, and he'd wake up in a little while and find himself in his mom's loving arms, and she would hold him and stroke his hair like she used to, and there would be no more pain or death.
Maybe.

At eight o'clock, the sally port door did its thing, and then there they were - the Gang. There were four of them, Schaefer and Captain Thomas, the head honcho of Unit K, and two others that Kenny had seen before but never had spoken with. He figured that their primary job was to escort the diseases to the eradication point. All four men wore grim faces, and they just stood there in front of Kenny's cell as the door slid open. They were of course wondering if Kenny would go peacefully, or if they would have to drag him down the hall like a squirming, shrieking sack of worms.

"It's time, Osborne." Schaefer said, and Kenny nodded. He took a deep breath and stepped from his cell for the last time. One of the anonymous guards stepped up with shackles and handcuffs, and Kenny just clasped his hands in front of himself. The guard cuffed him loosely, and then shackled his legs. He then put a belt around Kenny's waist, and attached the handcuffs to that. When he was finished, he stood up and resumed his position with the other guard.

Captain Thomas was reading something from a piece of paper that he held in front of him, which Kenny knew was his death warrant, but he didn't hear a word that he was saying. He was looking into Wendell's old cell, at the folded up mattress on the bunk, and thinking how maybe, just maybe, he'd see him again too, really soon.

Schaefer took one of Kenny's arms while Captain Thomas took the other, and they began the long walk down The Road to Ruin. Kenny looked straight ahead, thinking about the futility of his poor heart, still slaving away in order to keep the precious blood pumped to all the right places, how his poor lungs still demanded oxygen and would have his brain override him if need be in order to get it. He thought of the people outside, all fools, really, and he thought about the long lost summers at his grandma's house, the summer's that lasted forever.

None of the cons said a word as Kenny passed, not even Simpson. They all just stood at their bars and watched with horror at what Kenny must be thinking, and relief that they weren't the ones thinking it. Kenny noticed none of them as he walked, shackles clinking and jingling, towards the death house door. He didn't notice the Chair itself, when they'd opened the door and led him inside. By the time they seated him and strapped him in, Kenny was far away, looking for his mom and his grandma and Tricia Johnson. He didn't notice the looks of hate and revulsion coming from the spectators, and he didn't notice the cap being secured to his head or the other electrodes being attached to his ankles.
He noticed none of this; however, when they placed the hood over his head and he took a deep breath, all he could smell was that goddam garlic.