by Ken Liu
“I’ll sue you for malpractice,” Lance called after him just before the door closed again.
The lawyer swung his head back inside the room for one last piece of legal advice: “Dead men can’t sue.”
Lance took the cover off his tray and looked at his meal. A KC strip steak, dark brown sauce spilling over mashed potatoes, and a slice of key lime pie. He stuck a plastic spork into the cut of beef and brought the whole thing to his mouth. He took a single bite, chewed it once and spit it back out. The cook had been too liberal with the spices. Pungent flavors hung in his mouth and he wished he hadn’t tried it at all. He stared at the closed door and wondered how anyone was able to eat a meal at a time like this. Ironically, the wait was killing him.
He hung his head and looked at Margaret's photo. It was an old prom photo from long before they had met. Her makeup and her bangs were ridiculous and she was standing next to a man who wasn’t him. But when you only have one thing to remind you of your love, you keep it. He wiped wetness off the picture and called out, “I’m done, let’s go.”
The door swung open and Wilbert walked in dressed in his blue and white standard. “Don’t they give you dress uniforms for these things?” Lance asked.
“No.” Wilbert gave an awkward chuckle. “I’m touched you chose me to walk you, Lance.”
“You’re the only guard with a half a heart,” he replied.
“Even so. We’ve got time, let’s walk slow for now. No sense in rushing things, you can run later.” He placed handcuffs on the prisoner and they began walking. Footfalls echoed through the hallway, accompanied with fits of crying by the sentenced man. Wilbert would pat him on the back and move him forward each time. They came to a room Lance had not seen since his first day in the maximum security facility. A man behind thick glass waved at the two of them and a buzzer sounded. They both moved into a small room and the door was locked behind them. Another buzzer, another door unlocked. They walked together to the main entrance. A light above the door moved from red to green.
Lance and Wilbert walked out the front door of the prison together. The prisoner looked up at the clear night, kissed the photo in his hand, and started to cry again. Wilbert finally spoke, “It’s almost your time; we need to go.”
They walked toward the double gates, the tops decorated with beautiful spirals of razor wire and the occasional camera. Wire keeping all the prisoners in. For the first time since his arrest, Lance wished he could be back in his cell.
They cleared the first gate, then stepped through the second.
“Hey,” called a man sitting behind the wheel of a parked car in front of the gate. He wore a white lab coat. The guard pulled a small clipboard from the back of his belt and handed it to the doctor in the still running car. The man behind the wheel yawned while he looked over the form, then his watch. “Close enough,” he said.
“Wait a sec, doc. Lance, let me see those.” The guard removed the handcuffs and looked him in the eye. “Good luck.”
“Done? Good,” the doctor said. He pulled a stethoscope out of his pocket and put it on as if he intended to use it. Instead, the chestpiece rested near the doctor’s lap, dangling from its rubber hose. “I don’t hear a heartbeat. I’m calling it. Time of death, 2:34 am.” The doctor scribbled on the pad a little more and handed it back to Wilbert.
DEATH
“Can I see it?” Lance asked, but the guard didn’t acknowledge him.
“Thanks, doc. See you next time.”
“Yup,” was the reply.
The guard never looked back at Lance, simply walked through the gates and back to his job. The doctor put his car in gear. Lance stood and watched the car drive away to avoid thinking about what he should do next. A problem he’d known he would have for over two years, ever since his sentence had been given.
Behind him was the prison he’d just been expelled from. Ahead of him, to the north, was a small field and a tree line. Painted on the ground three feet in front of him was a thick yellow line. He knew it would surround the whole facility. A warning that deadly weapons were not allowed near the prison, nor would projectiles be tolerated past the line.
In the morning, word of his death would hit the news, the papers, the Internet. He felt pressure in his soul to figure out something fast. He would need to leave the relative safety of the yellow barrier before anyone knew he was there. Lance pictured himself making his way, alone, to the treeline. Lance’s blood pressure went up when he thought of all the things he would have to find if he went into the world alone. Food. Water. Shelter. Safety.
The dead man inhaled deeply and shut his eyes. “I can do this,” he told himself, and Margaret, if she was listening. He only made it a single step when he heard the screech of a vehicle spinning out from the nearby town. His leg faltered and he pulled himself back across the line. “It won’t be that easy!” Lance yelled into the night. His echoing declaration belied his feeling of dread that someone might be out there right now, aiming a gun at his head, waiting for him to cross the thick line.
There’s probably no one out there, but there will be if you take too long, he thought. He willed himself time after time to make a run for the trees, to disappear. Quickly. Quietly. Completely disappear. Who would help a man convicted and dead? He could think of no reason anyone would help him, but he knew there were those who would. He finally took a tentative step past the line.
Crack.
A noise somewhere across the field. He jumped back to the yellow safety net. “What was that?” He wanted to be able to help himself. Wanted to choose self-reliance above all else, but his situation was too frightening to face alone.
“I know I said I wouldn’t do this,” Lance whispered, “but what choice do I have?” He started walking the perimeter of the prison, looking for anything that could point him to those who would help. His right hand bounced between the holes of the chain link fence while he made his way to the northeast corner. The noise was comforting in the silence. He didn’t know if it was purpose or an illusion of purpose that drove him forward. There was no guarantee any side of the building was a safe starting off point. He turned to continue along the east side and his foot struck something hard. His knee took the force next, before he fell completely.
Lance pushed himself back to standing and saw a large container. He knew what it was: a gift for the dead. The box was an antique chest, like his great-grandmother used to keep valuables in at the foot of her bed. Some of the metal panels were rusted, but the peeling humanitarian sticker across the top promised him there would be help from his fellow man inside. A sign that morals were not dead even if the legal system loomed twisted over the populace. Here was his alternative to self-reliance: altruism.
He walked around the box to its front and and knelt down. Spreading his arms, he grabbed both heavy metal latches. He pried at them to overcome the rusting hinges. The locks gave way and he angled the lid up. Inside, he saw the remnants of a plaid cloth lining that had lost a war to black mold long ago, fed by a shallow pool of rancid water. A brochure was extracted from a plastic-locked bag. He started reading, ready for any information those who still cared could give him.
The death penalty is the most inhumane part of the United States legal system. Since the Supreme Court reaffirmed the use of the death penalty, but refused to acknowledge any means of death as humane, we have people in our country devoid of any rights. Upon execution, these poor souls are left without legal status as a human. They have no resources and can be exploited or hunted without legal recourse. We believe this policy is in direct violation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as adopted in 1948 by the United Nations.
Please donate to help us fight these unjust laws and support those who are currently suffering from a death penalty.
Stuck across the back flap of the brochure was a white label with the following message:
Call the toll-free number and we will find a sympathetic sponsor to take you to a safe house.
Lance pu
lled a second bag out of the stale water. It had an old cellular phone inside, attached by a cord to a large battery. He wasn’t sure the technology in this type of phone was used anymore, and there was no way the battery could still be charged. Even if the battery had been good, the phone had been sealed away sloppily and water had soaked it through. He recalled Margaret made a sizable donation to Life Force once. He had yelled at her for wasting their money. Now, he wished they had given more. They had argued a lot, enough to have the neighbors call the police several times, enough to make a jury think he had finally had enough and done the unthinkable. The jury didn’t seem to care he had never once been arrested, never once cited for laying a finger on her.
Lance considered the offer of this chest: to rely on the altruism of his fellow man. It was a good thought, but the state of the chest itself also told a tale. A good idea, probably well-funded for a short while, now left to rot and give false hope. Lance muttered, “What is it they say about good intentions?”
He took the brochure, held it in his hand next to his prized photo, and pushed the bags back into the box. There would be no help from his fellow man. Altruism was not something he could rely on. He started back along the east gate until it ran out. There was another box halfway down the south side. He picked up his pace until he was standing in front of a knee-high cube built of solid wood. A thick rope created a loop on the top, the lid. A wooden box could not be in this good a condition if it were not maintained regularly. This gave him hope. Both hands grabbed the rope and pulled up with all their strength. The lid was on tight, well fit to keep the weather out. Fibers dug in and burned his hands. He worked the lid off slowly and set it aside.
Inside, the box was dry and lined with fine red silk. Small crosses had been used to ornament the top parameter. There were at least thirty Bibles, each neatly wrapped in plastic. He picked up one of the books and tapped it against his forehead. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked. He knew, though. This box was his third choice, the one of religion. He’d read the book many times already. Before his wife was murdered, he read it and believed the book promised him an easy life if he believed and followed most of the rules.
After finding himself locked in a cell, Lance read it again, this time with a hard heart. Lance had thought he would find all those promises and use his own situation to disprove the whole of the Bible. Far from disproving it, he found that he had misread the scriptures the first time. The promises of God were not meant for this life, but the next. “Store up treasures in heaven,” he said to himself. God may want to redeem my eternal soul, but the death of my body may not be a priority, he thought to himself. Lance said a small prayer, kept one of the Bibles, and replaced the lid.
Lance felt lighter holding the book, but he couldn’t help feeling he needed something more immediate, more tangible to get him through his next few days and, with luck, his next few years. He walked on along the fence, faster this time. He needed to decide what to do soon, because once word got out about his death sentence, hunters would come looking for him. The more time he stayed close, the more likely they would find him.
Turning at the corner, he started walking north along the western fence. He stopped and looked at the concrete box that used to be his home. It held no promise other than non-life. Being told what to do. When to do it. Every movement scheduled. It was a terrible existence when he entered. It had felt like going back into the womb: everything needed to keep one alive and nothing else. Now, he wished he could return. There was safety in knowing all your basic needs would be met each day, in knowing no one thought tracking and killing you was a sport.
Lance shook his head to get himself back on track. There was no going back, no guarantee of safety for him. He continued along the fence. Near the far corner, almost to the front fence, was a final box. A final promise, inside a large green metal container. He knew this one held the promise of help, but at a cost. He looked at his photo and said, “I know I said I wouldn’t, but I don’t have a choice. Who else is going to help?”
He walked up to the box. It was covered in hinges and seals. On the front was a large red button surrounded by a well-known logo. Second Chance it said. He put his free hand on the square. It reminded him of the large buttons on soda machines when he was a child. He loved pushing those, feeling the firm press just before a soda clunked down the shoot. It was always a gamble if the soda would explode when it was opened after such a fall. The gamble behind this button was certainly more important.
With bated breath, Lance pressed. Electronics whirred to life inside. Seals popped and cracked. The top half of the unit split in two halves, leveling to his right and left. A metal arm flexed out holding a camera aimed right where he was standing. Light flooded his space. The camera was flashing a red light. Recording. The man looked around and saw flashing red lights coming from several places, even some inside the prison gate. Had they been recording before he’d pressed the button?
A platter rose up and pushed toward him like a desk. It split open to reveal a headset, a screen, and an envelope. The envelope gave a command. Put on the headset first. Lance placed the circular faux-leather pads around his ears. The screen came to life and the host of Second Chance, Jack Hendrix appeared before him. “Hello!” Lance started to respond, but the talking head continued with a recorded message, “You look pretty good for a dead guy!” He gave a fake laugh and an even more fake smile. “I know and you know that you’re not going to survive on your own. It’s just the way of the world. Lucky for you, I want to help. My people are ready to come find you--in fact they’re probably on their way right now. All you have to do let us record your life for our documentary show on the death sentence.”
Lance couldn’t help arguing with the depiction of Second Chance. “Documentary? You mean reality show.”
The pitch continued, “I’m sure you’ve seen the show. We’ll give you challenges to win items helpful to you along the way. And if you survive long enough, you could even find yourself on Second Chance Island, which is technically not on US soil, so you will have rights again.
“All you have to do is sign the contract in the envelope and we will pick you up and whisk you away to get television-ready. Your first step in a life away from the hunters and the exploiters of the dead.”
“This isn’t exploiting?” Lance asked the screen. As if in response, Jack’s face became serious.
“You have ten minutes to read and sign the forms, friend.” Jack’s face vanished and a timer started ticking.
Lance set the brochure and Bible down on the platform and tore open the envelope. He pulled out a thick contract and thumbed through the pages. “What good is the signature of a dead man?” Then it hit him. The contract wasn’t to protect anyone legally, it was for the viewers. When he signed the contract, the audience would think he signed up for this. Lance would have no way to stop Second Chance from following him if he refused to sign the tome, but the viewers might not watch without the dramatic first scene where he signs the form.
He watched the timer until he had only a minute left. Why give him only ten minutes? Why did it matter when he decided to sign up for the show. But he knew: this was his first task to let the producers know he was willing to play, to follow their rules. He picked up the pen and watched the seconds tick down.
SECOND CHANCE
Ink bled into the document. Survive the next few minutes first. Reevaluate when you're in a safer spot. The pressure in his chest increased.
“Come on! Come on!” A woman standing outside a van holding a camera yelled at him and waved him over. Lance did not think, he just ran straight for the safety of the van’s metal walls. He dove in the back door and saw stacks of recording and monitoring equipment along the walls. Before he could ask any questions, the woman shut the door, leaving him inside with only a small overhead light illuminating the interior. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. The van started moving. For a moment he panicked, thinking he’d left Margaret's photo
back on the platform, but he found it stuck to the sweat in his hand, and he kissed it. Moving to a small chair in front of a bank of monitors, he pressed buttons. Nothing turned on.
After half an hour of listening to road noise, he lost interest in his surroundings and exhaustion set in. He untied a cushion from the chair and used it as a pillow. He dreamt of being tied to a stake while people waited in line to shoot him.
He woke from the dream to bright sunlight entering through the back door. The woman again stood at the back of the van, this time holding a long trench coat. He gladly put it on to cover his recognizable orange suit. She rushed him into the side door of a tall hotel. His time on the street was so brief, he was not sure where he was. A city somewhere, probably St. Louis or Kansas City. Maybe Chicago. He couldn’t know how long he’d slept. He was led to a hotel room with a nice bed and little else. The window had been taped over with paper from the outside. The television and clock were missing. He tried the door, but it was locked from the outside. He yelled through the door, “You can’t lock me in here, it’s against fire code!” The only answer came from his own mind. Fire codes don’t apply to dead men.
Lance filled the tub with burning hot water and slipped in. He couldn’t decide if he’d made the right decision going along with this charade. In the silence, he wished he had the Bible back, but he’d left it on the Second Chance platform. Whoever vetted his room took the customary copy out of the side table. What help they thought he could glean from it he couldn’t imagine. Peace of mind must make for bad TV. The door to the room opened and shut while he was still in the tub. A quick towel around his midsection and he came out of the room to find a meal waiting for him on the desk. It was a simple fast food hamburger and fries, but Lance was famished. After downing the meal, he tried to get dressed again, but found his prison garb was missing.
