by Andrew Allan
He just shrugged. Then, he walked out of the room through a door to my left.
My eyes glanced around the room for any chance of escape, something to break these cuffs, anything. My perusing stopped when I took a closer look at the large workbench. Not only was it chipped and scuffed from heavy, regular use. It also had crimson stains on it.
A shocking pain ripped through me.
My body convulsed and slammed back against the chair. My arms and legs seized up against the metal cuffs. They dug into my skin. I bit my tongue. The hair on my arms stood up and I could hear the electrical zip-zap as a burning, metallic smell stung my nose.
A second later the shocking stopped, but the pain lingered. I buzzed, numb. In shock from being shocked. And, the only clear thought that passed through my mind was that this was no prop electric chair. It was wired for action. They had me primed to kill. That thought was almost as defeating as the electricity itself.
For the first time, I felt it was over. I had lost. Dread came from knowing I’d never see Ilsa again. I wouldn’t be able to protect her. I wouldn’t be able to help her with her bum leg. I’d never see my kids’ beautiful faces again. Never kiss their soft cheeks or hear their voices. And worse, they’d have to grow up without a father. Without even knowing what happened to me. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair!
I braced for another jolt of electricity.
But, the death shock didn’t come.
Instead, I heard the squeaking of caster wheels rolling from the direction Remy had just exited. I turned as far in that direction as I could. But, I couldn’t see much.
The squeaking and rolling sound got louder. Remy backed in through the doorway he’d departed through moments ago. He dragged whatever was squeaking. Something tall and wooden. Two vertical beams situated atop a thick wooden platform. A cross beam connected the vertical beams at the top.
Then, I looked down. Connecting the two vertical beams at their base was a three foot-tall wood panel. But, on the top and in the middle it had a U-shape cut out. The top of the U was about eight inches wide. Wide enough for a man’s neck. That entire lower panel was stained brownish crimson and looked well used.
The entire piece looked like a sturdy, made-the-old-way, genuine antique.
Remy smirked when he saw the shock on my face.
The shock of me recognizing the guillotine.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
HE WHEELED THE guillotine over to the worktable. The guillotine’s rolling platform base fit flush between the table’s legs, as if by design. Remy extracted a set of thick wooden pegs from inside his leather apron and plugged them into the table legs, securing the guillotine. Then he removed a wide metal sheath and revealed the gleaming, ghastly blade. It was beyond sharp and angled for effortless slicing – through flesh, spine, tendons, and arteries.
Remy twisted to peek at my face, to see what I thought about that. I wanted to vomit I was so scared. But, I tried not to show it.
He set the blade cover down on a nearby bench. He strolled over to the blast furnace and picked up a thick cut of wood that had been sitting on a pile of logs next to the furnace. He brought it back over and set it on the worktable, situating it so the wood hung over the table edge and under the blade.
As if working through a well-rehearsed and choreographed routine, he stepped to the side of the guillotine and extracted a rope out of a groove in the wood. The rope was tied to a metal cleat bolted to one of the vertical beams. He untied it, then let up a bit on the slack.
The blade started to fall down it’s grooved path between the beams. Even though it had only dropped three inches it still made that nauseating ‘shwink’ sound you think of death blades making.
I struggled under my restraints. No luck. I wasn’t getting out. Not until they let me out, which I presumed would be once they were ready to take me over to the guillotine and chop my head off.
Remy pulled the rope until the blade reached the top of the wooden arch. Then he threaded it through a series of what looked like gears that lead to a three-foot high metal pull lever. With the rope properly threated, he locked the lever in place. It kept the rope taut. All he’d have to do now was yank that lever to release the rope and drop the blade. I had to agree; This was a much classier approach.
“You know what this is?” he said, allowing his French native tongue to bleed through.
I nodded. “I’ve seen ‘em. Never up close.”
“This was the official guillotine of France.”
“Charming.”
“Is marvelous,” he said as he took it in with an admiring glare and caressed it. “This is the only Guillotine ever used for execution in France,” he said. “Dating back to the very first execution of Nicholas Jacques Pelletier. Twenty-five Avril 1792.”
“So, I’ll ask again. Why the hell are you killing people for hire when you could make a mint selling that thing?” I said.
I glanced around the room, “Your lifestyle doesn’t appear to be too ostentatious. You could ride that payday for quite a while.”
“No, no. You do not understand,” he said. “It was used for every execution since 1792. All the way until 1977, when executions were banned in my country.”
“You lost your job and that this was your severance package, that it?” I said. I didn’t point out the awful pun.
“When one loses any other job they simply go and get another with what skills they have. But, when we lost our job, we lost our place in society.”
I wasn’t really in the mood to hear his sob story since my current sob story of impending death trumped his. But, I was latched into an electric chair. He had a captive audience.
“When you are an executioner you carry a burden. It is the dirtiest of work. And, no matter how much you accept it or reconcile it with the public good, you are tainted by it. Society needs you, but they do not accept you. They do not want to acknowledge such a person exists. So, you are forced to live on the fringe. So it was for my family for generations. Because a child of the executioner is tainted from conception as well, no? The only business for the child to learn is the family business. Death.”
He watched my eyes to see if he’d made a connection...if I was starting to understand the meaning behind his history lesson. Not really.
“Where are you going with this?” I said.
His expression grew stern, “You continue to ask why we kill. We kill because it is simply what we do. You look down on it. But, this...” He gestured to the guillotine. “Is a job the world demands but does not respect. It is a job we sacrifice our lives for. It is our fate.”
“Oh. Sounds more to me like you’re society’s garbage men taking out the human trash.”
His face grew dark. He was insulted and simmering.
“We lost everything in France. We are forced to lower ourselves working in your grimy prison. And now, you insult me for doing your dirty work!”
“You kill people for money. You’re soulless whores. You killed my friend. You almost killed my girlfriend—“
“Will,” he inserted.
“Listen, jerk. You better not slip up. Because if I get the chance – just one fucking chance – I’m going to kill you better than you’ve ever killed anyone in your long, goddamned illustrious career.”
“This will not happen. You will not escape. You will not ‘get lucky’,” he said. “The only reason you are still alive is because we respect your tenacity and determination. You are a capable adversary. It is the French way to respect such from an enemy.”
“Well, isn’t that evolved thinking.”
He nodded, thinking I agreed with him.
“That doesn’t mean much when you have me strapped into an electric chair.”
He leaned back on the table, crossed his hands in front of his crotch, and looked at me. A curious smile worked cross his face.
“You will appreciate this guillotine more once Luther returns. My brother.”
“I would appreciate you guys fuckin
g off, letting me go, and laying your own heads under that blade.”
He looked up at the guillotine blade and shrugged.
“It would be a good blade to die by,” he said.
The double doors at the far end of the room kicked open. And, there was brother Luther of the big boots. He stared me down as he entered. I only broke the stare to see what he lugged in.
Teddy.
He was hogtied, hands to ankles behind his back. Luther held a handle rope that looped around Teddy’s shoulders and crotch. He carried him like a heavy duffle bag full of human.
Luther walked and, with one hand, lifted Teddy up and set him belly first onto the worktable. He grabbed Teddy’s ropes and dragged him to the edge of the table, until his neck rested in the guillotine slot.
Teddy looked at me. Little boy scared.
Guilt punched me in the heart.
I jerked in the chair. “No!”
Luther stared at me as he walked over and took hold of the guillotine lever.
“He didn’t do anything and he doesn’t know anything. He just gave me a ride to town. That’s it! I swear! Please don’t!” I said.
Teddy let out a sob. I heard Luther yank the large, wooden lever. I heard the rope hiss through the channel and the blade start to drop.
I saw Teddy’s tear hit the floor.
I saw his head splash into it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I SQUEEZED MY eyes shut, as tight as I could. I was shaking, trembling. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t see what I knew lay on the floor in front of me. I couldn’t not look.
But, there it was. Teddy’s head – eyes closed, face expressionless while blood from the body above poured on top of it. His face and hair were soaked and glistening like he had been swimming in a red lake.
It was the worst thing ever.
And, I had caused it.
Teddy was dead and headless because I didn’t stop snooping. Because I didn’t go to Holland. Because I tried to avenge Ken. Who would avenge Teddy?
Grief, guilt, rage, and fear. I felt them all. I wanted to cower and hide. I wanted to snap my arms off so I could get out of this damn chair and run. I wanted to pick the chair up with my broken bleeding arms and smash it down on their faces and drive the sharp corners of metal brackets into their eyes and wipe their stupid faces across the sharp edge of the guillotine blade and shove their battered, shredded bodies into the blast furnace. Nothing was too much for them. Nothing would ever be enough payback for what they had done.
But, I could do nothing. Just look and fester and hate. The worst thing they could do to me at that moment was simply let me sit and look at Teddy. See what they’d done. See what I had caused. No torture existed that would hurt worse than what they had already done to my mind.
But, Luther spoke as he and Remy walked over to my chair.
“You will not be so lucky. You get something even more special.”
They unbuckled my restraints, starting at my ankles. I screamed in their faces.
Luther cold-cocked me in the face, stunning me, neutralizing me, shutting me up. Then they unbuckled my handcuffs and dragged me out of there.
Each killer had one of my arms. My feet dragged behind as they lead me through a maze of hallways in the house. Parts of it seemed perfectly normal – a quaint, French-inspired kitchen, past a tidy bathroom, past a row of bedrooms, each with a different decorating twist. We walked down hallways lined with family photos. I caught glimpses of Luther, Remy, and Clovis. Different ages, different stages of life. Pictures of them posing in brick paved public squares.
They stood next to bleeding corpses in black execution hoods. Were they smiling under them?
Pictures showed them leading prisoners to their fate. Pictures of Remy making swords. Pictures of the family in their poor countryside home, the only home around. Pictures of them with a political type. Pictures of them with their old, toothless mother. Pictures of them as boys with their corncob pipe smoking father. Each holding up an executed prisoner’s head. They were smiling.
Luther kicked open a back porch door. A trio of ragged, filthy poodles ran up, sniffed, and licked blood splatter off Luther’s pant leg. He kicked them away. They yipped and fell in line behind us.
Luther and Remy dragged me down wooden patio steps and across a dead leaf covered yard. They dragged me down a well-worn trail that lead into the woods. A lizard darted past.
My senses amplified. I felt the humid air on my skin. I could smell the minerals in the dirt, the piney aroma of the trees. I could hear the insects buzzing, the owls hooting, frogs croaking, Luther and Remy’s feet stomping through leaves, and my feet dragging across them.
We arrived at a wide, circular clearing. The setting sun shot golden beams between trees. Magic hour sunlight. The kind that made it possible to look at someone and clearly see all the details and imperfections in their eyes. And, see all the beauty, too.
At any other house this cleared space would serve well as a meditation garden. But, this was different. The lone stump in the very middle of the circle told me so. So, did the giant double-bladed battle-axe leaning against it.
It was massive. Bigger than any axe I’d ever seen.
The handle seemed as thick as a two-by-four and was wrapped in X-crossed leather strap. The blades were shaped like back-to-back Ds with curvature down the spines that created piercing tips at the top and bottom. An ornate, medieval looking design had been smelted onto the blades.
And, of course, the angled edge of the blades gleamed showing how just sharp a blade could be.
Luther and Remy dragged me over to the stump. Luther picked the axe up by the handle as if it was as light as a baseball bat, then he and Remy slammed me down belly first on the stump. It knocked the wind out of me. A poodle pranced over and licked my nose.
I couldn’t move. My arms were numb from being dragged for so long. I could feel the blood rushing back into the parts where their vice-like hands had been squeezing. My legs were still weak from the electrocution.
Luther set the top tip of the battle-axe down on my back. It felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. At least.
“Vous n'êtes pas un homme ... vous êtes la viande!” said Luther.
Remy laughed, “Would you like a translation, Monsieur Asher?”
“Huh?”
“My brother stated, with total accuracy, that you are not a man...you are meat,” he said. “What do you think of that?”
Insult to injury.
I said, “Why don’t you just get it over with. I’m sure you have clients eagerly awaiting your services.”
Remy nodded, “A fine idea.”
Remy took hold of the axe handle.
With a snicker he said, “We must take care of you so we can return to our previously scheduled assignment.”
Jerk.
I peeked out the corner of my eye as Luther stood over me pulling a black executioner’s hood over his head.
Everything inside me sunk. I didn’t feel so tough or mouthy anymore.
He pulled a long, leather strap from his pocket. He knelt down and attached it to a metal stake hammered into the ground a few feet from the stump.
I knew he intended to wrap my neck and secure the loose end of the strap to another stake on the opposite side of the stump. Once that happened, I was done. They’d cut my head clean off and my blood would soak down into the earth never to be spoken of again. The rest of my body? I’m sure they had a place in the woods where they could dump it.
Ilsa was right. DG was right. This wasn’t a fight I would win. I wished I had listened to her.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
REMY SPUN THE axe on my back. I could see through peripheral vision when the sharp, wide blades would windmill past my head.
He said something to his brother in French. I got a sense it was about their next assignment. Luther’s response sounded impatient, with curt talk and a gesture to me like they gotta get this shit over with first.
The blades spun past my head.
Luther approached with the strap. Time was running out.
Remy looked off into the horizon. His hand held the spinning axe up right.
Luther stepped over, his knees aligned with my shoulders. I felt the warm leather from the strap loop around my neck.
I saw the huge axe blade swing behind my head, running parallel with my spine.
Now!
I rolled hard and fast towards Remy and used my shoulder blade and elbow to shove the heavy axe his way.
I caught him off guard. The blade split his shin wide open.
He screamed and fell over.
I yanked the strap off my neck just as Luther made a grab at me. He missed.
I grabbed for the axe. It was too heavy to swing. I could only pick it up to my waist before dropping it – blade first into Remy’s sternum.
His scream stopped short as his sternum cracked and blood pooled into his throat and mouth. His panic convulsions shook the axe deeper into his body.
Luther stopped, stunned to see Remy dying on the ground. He looked to me with rage in his eyes. Did you just kill my brother?
Who knows and who cares, I thought.
Luther steeled his nerves then pulled the axe out of his dead, cleaved brother. He cocked it back and stalked towards me, ready to swing.
I staggered backwards, almost falling but keeping my balance.
There was hate in his eyes behind the black mask.
I looked around for a weapon, anything. There was nothing.
Luther roared as he brought down the massive axe. I jumped back, just avoiding the blade. The axe chopped so deep into the stump Luther needed a second to wiggle it out.
That bought me time. So, I ran deeper into the woods. I never would have made it past him had I gone for the house.
I stopped to look back. He marched towards me, ready to straight up slay me.
I found a few large rocks buried in the soil. I dug two out and kept moving into the forest. I had to keep space between us. If he caught up to me, there was no way I’d be able to fight him. He was all muscle and hate.
