Riding the Lightning

Danny shut his eyes tightly and clenched his fists. This was it. The defining moment in his life was about to change forever.

He stepped inside the cylinder and was immediately awash in light and sound. A faint buzzing quickly cycled to a piercing wail in his ears. He clamped his hands over the sides of his head, but it didn't help. The noise was inside his head, almost a living thing chewing through his synapses like a worm. He screamed, eyes shut tightly against the pain pounding for release from his skull. But his screams were lost amid the screeching now pin-balling through his mind. He crumpled to his knees on the verge of unconsciousness when the noise stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Danny held his position, panting, trying to regain his senses. He needed a visual reference point to dispel his dizziness and the nausea now building in his gut. He lowered his arms, slowly, hearing his elbows pop, and opened his eyes. The cylinder was gone, replaced by a thickly wooded glen. Mist hung in the air dampening the scent of burned wood.

Danny leaned forward onto his hands, and vomited.

-----------------------------

"Tier B lock down."

The guard looked down the catwalk and watched his partner rotate a lever clockwise. A high-pitched scraping, and thirty cell doors slid shut simultaneously, announcing completion of the movement with a metallic clang. The guard turned on his heel and walked the length of the catwalk quickly, his steps echoing off the concrete and steel. It was late, and Lord knew he was not on the best of terms with his wife as it was. No sense in poking that hornet's nest unless he had to.

"Mr. Webb?"

The guard stopped at the voice coming from cell 776. "Yeah?"

"Just wondering if you were able to get those supplies for me sir."

"Not yet Danny. I'm doing my best."

"Thank you sir," Danny said softly. "I guess I'll just wait here."

Webb snickered at the joke and continued on his way.

-----------------------------

Danny wiped the back of his hand across his mouth then onto the leg of his orange jumper. In the muted colors of the woods his prison uniform seemed to vibrate with color. He sat back on his legs and tried to make sense of what had happened.

Had it really worked? Was he really here, or was he tripping through a drug-induced hallucination? The vomiting seemed real. He couldn't imagine that being part of a drug trip, but he wasn't sure. He felt his arms, legs and ribs. Everything seemed to be in place, functioning normally, and the dizziness was vanishing quickly.

Danny leaned forward on his hands again and put one foot on the ground. If anyone had walked up on him they would have been mystified over this orange-garbed man in a sprinter's position. He pushed up on one leg, and brought his other foot forward until he was in a squatting position. The dizziness washed over him again, and he stopped moving until it ebbed. Slowly, Danny raised himself up to full height and saw the landscape teeter sideways. He stumbled, throwing his arms out for balance and waited for the world to right itself. Once it had, he walked tentatively forward towards the trees. The mist closed around him until he was just an orange shape, shifting positions with every step. Then, he was gone.

-----------------------------

The metal food tray banged down beside him startling Danny and making him jump.

"Hey, what's wrong with you?"

Wellstone, a large-framed redhead with dirty nails and an even dirtier jumper plopped down beside Danny with such force it made Danny bounce up off the bench.

"Nothing," Danny replied, picking at his food.

Wellstone picked up his fork, nearly covering the utensil entirely in his meaty hand. He shoveled a pile of mashed potatoes into his mouth, spitting some onto the table as he talked. "You're moping. Got that, 'I got no friends' look again."

"'Stone; I don't have any friends."

Wellstone stopped chewing, his half-open mouth showing the potatoes he had yet to swallow. "Whadda' call me?" he said, poking himself in the chest with the fork.

"Cellmate," Danny said, dropping his fork onto the tray and lowering his head into his hands. "One of the better ones, but a cellmate just like everyone else."

Wellstone chuckled as another forkful of potatoes joined the first. "Yeah, screw you too Danny."

He smacked his potatoes slowly, but the noise seemed fainter than normal, Danny thought. He raised his head and watched the big man maul the potatoes before swallowing and filling his mouth with half a slice of meatloaf. Danny watched, and listened. The sound was fainter; in fact the entire cacophony of the room seemed diminished, but with a distinct echo. Danny stuck his fingers in his ears and moved them around vigorously. He removed them and the room sounded normal again, Wellstone's smacking rising above the din as it always did.

-----------------------------

As Danny left the center of the woods and approached the opposite tree line, a dark, hulking form obscured by the mist took shape in front of him. A one-story cabin rough-hewn from local timber, its porch slanting precipitously to one side, squatted just fifty feet away. Danny stopped at the wood's edge, watching.

Smoke from the chimney rose into the damp air with some difficulty, making a lazy curling pattern before dispersing. This was the burning wood Danny smelled earlier and the memory of both his dizziness and what was about to happen inside the cabin made his stomach heave again.

He thought he saw movement through one of the windows but the mist made it difficult to see. He'd have to get closer to the cabin to see inside, and the thought caused bile to rise in his throat making him gag. He spun around, dropped to his knees and vomited again.

-----------------------------

Danny sat on the toilet in his cell, his pants around his ankles and a four-month-old newspaper in his hands. He scanned the stories he'd read a thousand times before trying to find a sentence he hadn't already seen.

A metallic rapping caused him to lower the paper enough to see over the top. Webb stood outside the cell with his nightstick resting on the bars.

"In the library Danny?"

"Yes sir." No matter how many he'd been caught in this position through the years, it always embarrassed him. "Just finishing up." He reached for the roll of paper.

"Don't bother," Webb said. "Just making my rounds."

Webb pulled the nightstick off the bars, slid it back into the ring attached to his belt and walked off. Danny sat, newspaper resting on his knees and listened as the footsteps echoed off the concrete. They continued for a moment then changed pitch and speed.

Forty-one, Danny thought. Forty-one steps to the change in pitch that signaled Webb was off the concrete catwalk and on the metal staircase. The man was nothing if not consistent. Of the dozen or so guards assigned to his block, Webb was the only one who took the same number of steps from Danny's cell to the stairs each time he made the trip.

On particularly sleepless nights, Danny would play a game with himself and count the steps each time Webb passed. For some time he fully expected to catch Webb changing his gait even minutely, but years of counting and timing pecked away at that belief until it was dead. With metronomic regularity Webb paced the cellblock, and that pattern joined dozens of others forming the rhythm of Danny's prison life.

Danny finished his business, washed his hands and folded the newspaper neatly. He'd read every word many times before, but you didn't waste a good newspaper no matter how old it was.

He laid the paper on his bunk and walked up to the bars at the front of his cell. The Block was always quiet at night but tonight it was unusually peaceful. Even Wellstone, in the cell next to Danny's was silent. He scanned the catwalk as best he could, decided no one was approaching and turned back into the cell.

He walked over to his bunk and pulled a brown envelope from under the mattress. The envelope was blank and ripped open along the top. He pulled the opening apart and stared at the folded document inside, an act he'd done several times a day since the enveloped had been delivered to him, anonymously. Mostly he did it at night when no one could see, but sometimes during the day he'd pull it out to remind himself that the paper and the offer were real.

Danny pushed his thumb and forefinger into the envelope, extracted the document and laid the envelope down. He unfolded the paper gingerly, as if it were sacred writ. Sitting on the bunk, he read the words again, much the way he pored over the newspaper, examining every word, testing it for meaning and nuance.

Daniel Morley - Inmate #83704
You have the chance to participate in a medical trial
to be conducted in one week's time. If you choose to
participate, you do so voluntarily and without coercion.
The details of this test are sensitive in nature and will not be
fully disclosed to you before, during or after the test.
This test is also highly classified and as such, it's existence
as well as your participation in it will be strenuously denied
by all parties involved, and disclosure by you of
participation in, or knowledge of the test will result in the
remaining 10 years of your sentence being carried out
in solitary confinement.
Successful completion of the test will result in your immediate
release and all details of your crime expunged from your
record.
Acceptance of this offer will be shown by your marking this
document with your initials, inserting it into the original envelope
and leaving it under the lower left corner of your mattress.
This letter and the envelope containing it are originals and will
be destroyed upon acceptance.

Danny lowered the paper and stared at the wall. He'd heard about some of the government tests done during the Fifties, radiating people to see what would happen, never telling the test subjects why they were contracting rare and aggressive forms of cancer. But the alarms in his head were drowned out by the words, "immediate release," and "expunged from your record."

Could it be true? Was this an elaborate hoax to use him as a guinea pig only to renege on the deal once the test was over? He'd certainly have no proof of the agreement if that happened. Even if he copied it word-for-word they'd just say he made it up.

But if they were serious, then this would give him his life back. He'd already spent 35 years in prison for various crimes that nearly escalated to murder.

His first theft occurred when he was nine. He'd run away from home then, just after a visit to his Uncle's place, and took to foraging from restaurant garbage cans. That had been fine enough for a few days, but soon hunger gnawed at his gut, and the glistening sweat of grease on the convenience store hot dog had been too much. He nabbed the dog, a bottle of Coke and had his hand on the door when his shirt collar jerked backwards choking him, spilling the loot from his hands. The store clerk held onto the collar and dialed the police.

Once they'd had a look at him, the officers took Danny home where his six day homeless journey ended.

From there his criminal resume lengthened and became official once he reached eighteen. Breaking into empty homes and stealing stereos, jewelry and loose cash became his crime of choice. He always carried a gun when he pulled a job, even though he had a strict policy of knocking over only the empty homes. It was this policy that had saved a man's life.

The home was empty when Danny slid the window open and slithered inside. But before he could take a good look around, the lock on the front door turned and the owner stepped inside. The two men stared at each other, motionless, until Danny reached for his gun.

Because he'd only ever robbed empty homes, the presence of his victim scared Danny, making his hands shake so badly he couldn't aim straight. The muzzle of the gun bounced around as Danny squeezed off a shot, striking a glancing blow off the owner's skull. Any cooler under pressure and Danny would have taken off the top of his head.

He ran, but was so disoriented by the confrontation the police soon caught him. And now he sat here, his current home courtesy of the grinding wheels of justice. He often thought how his reaction that night might have actually saved his life. A few inches lower... .

Danny reached up to the shelf hanging over the toilet and grabbed the only book in his cell; Essays, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. He removed the pencil serving as a bookmark and smoothed the offer sheet on the book's cover. He stared at the offer once more before neatly writing "DM" at the bottom.

-----------------------------

Danny wiped his mouth and spat into the damp ground several times. He turned back towards the cabin and watched for signs that anyone inside had heard or seen him. He scanned the decrepit building and noticed everything was just as he remembered it.

A metal chair with flaking, lime-colored paint and rust spots sat on the porch, canted at the same angle as the boards beneath it. Near the chair was a dented paint can completely rusted over. A few rotten pieces of firewood lay beside the porch, half hidden by aggressive weeds. To the left of the cabin was a clothesline supporting two pairs of jeans and a dingy shirt.

This last item held Danny's gaze. He needed to get out of his jumper, but getting to the clothesline risked exposure. He could follow the trees until he was even with the clothesline, but he'd have to cover more than fifty feet of open ground after that.

He looked once more at the windows, saw no movement and began moving through the brush.

-----------------------------

As he walked through the metal door into the open air, Danny squinted against the sunlight. The recreation yard was already full of inmates and Danny sauntered over to his usual spot and sat in the dirt with his back against the prison wall. The coolness of the concrete on his back balanced the day's heat, and Danny closed his eyes, enjoying the warming effects of the sun on his skin.

He listened, trying to gather as many sounds as he could. He picked up an argument between two inmates over the location of the three-point line and whether the basketball had been shot from beyond it.

Another conversation a bit closer concerned how many magazines, concealed beneath a prison shirt, provided enough thickness to stop a thrust from a homemade knife. Two was the current standard, providing adequate protection but not so bulky the guards would notice and confiscate them.

Still another voice, this one low, guttural and hard, described the sexual exploits of the voice's owner while he was on the outside. Danny had heard similar stories a hundred times and knew as often as not, they weren't true.

He smiled to himself, and felt the point of a boot poke into his side.

"Hey scum-bag."

Danny flinched and looked up, shielding his eyes. Wellstone loomed over him, showing a nearly toothless smile. Danny leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Stone. Need something or just sharpening your boot on my ribs?"

"Just saying hello, piss-ant."

"You know Stone," Danny said shifting his weight as he pulled his knees up to his chest, "you'd have a lot more friends if you called people by their names instead of those cute labels you use."

"Whatever," Wellstone grunted as he plopped down by Danny. "My way of showing affection."

"Please, don't ever love me, okay? I'd hate to think what you'd call me if you felt like I was family."

Wellstone kissed the air in Danny's direction, put his hands behind his head and leaned against the wall.

"Never happen. You're too dumb to be in my family."

Danny chuckled. "Whatever."

-----------------------------

Danny made it back to the tree line, crouched low, clothes in hand. He stayed motionless for several minutes scrutinizing the cabin for any signs of movement.

Nothing.

He eased back into the woods until he felt sufficiently hidden, then kicked off his boots and stripped off his jumper. He pulled on the jeans, fastened the waist and was reaching for the shirt when he noticed the bruise. Small, round and dark purple, right where Wellstone has kicked him. Danny ran his fingers over it.

"Son of a..."

He'd have to get Wellstone back for that one. Maybe plug up the toilet in his cell or loosen the drain nut in his sink when he got back.

If he got back.

Danny stared into the heart of the woods. A breeze stirred the tops of the trees, shifting the mist and sounding a high-pitched hiss. Would he get back? Just how did all this work anyway?

He'd been able to convince them to send him to this day and location without divulging his reasons, but could he count on them to be able to bring him back? They had their own agenda after all, and if the experiment cost an inmate's life, well then that's the price of progress, isn't it? They wanted to change the world; he just wanted to change his life. If his plan worked, he'd have a new existence and never see them again.

He slipped his arm into the sleeve and grimaced at the smell. He hadn't experienced that smell for decades and the memory of what had happened the last time he smelled it rocked his stomach. He paused for a moment, eyes closed, then pulled it over the other arm and began buttoning the front. As he worked he noticed the dirt and grease stains on the arms and front of the shirt. Did the guy even wash the thing or just air it out?

Danny finished buttoning and rolled the sleeves up to his elbow. He looked up through the tops of the trees trying to estimate the time. If their machine had worked, he should have arrived about an hour before it happened. But how long had he been on the ground at the exit point, dizzy and incoherent? How long had it taken him to get though the woods to the cabin? Deciding he'd have to rely on a last-minute signal, he knew he needed a weapon quickly.

He crawled through the brush back towards the cabin and looked it over again, trying to align his memory with what he was seeing. If he remembered correctly, there was an old shovel under the porch. That would serve his purpose, but its location meant he'd have to grab it at the last minute. If his memory was off, then he'd only have his hands, an option he'd rather not consider.

-----------------------------

"Pssst. Danny."

Danny lay in his bunk, eyes open, listening to the night sounds of the prison. He'd just counted Webb's steps and knew he was on the lower floor. Wellstone's whispering had broken his concentration and he wasn't too thrilled.

"Danny!"

Louder now, Danny knew he'd have to answer or risk getting in trouble along with him.

"Danny!"

"Would you be quiet!" Danny hissed back. "You think Webb can't hear us?"

"Forget that bastard. He don't scare me."

Danny sighed. "What do you want?"

"What was it?"

Danny was getting irritated. These kinds of cat-and-mouse interrogations of Wellstone's could go on for hours. It was his way to pass the time until he got drowsy.

"What was what?" Danny asked.

"The envelope."

Danny froze. He'd been very careful to pull the envelope out at night only when he knew Wellstone was sleeping. He'd never mentioned it to anyone, and took great pains to keep it hidden during the day. He and Wellstone had been together in the recreation yard when Danny suspected they'd planted it under his mattress, so he couldn't have seen it then.

Danny had to be careful how he answered. The deal was based on his silence. He didn't think Wellstone would expose him, but how well can you really trust someone whose sole common ground with you is criminal behavior? If he blew the deal, Danny knew he'd die in this cell a very old man. He decided denial was the best option.

"What envelope?"

"You know what envelope. The one you've pulled from under your mattress more times than you've pulled your crank."

"I'm tired Stone," Danny said. "I'm not in the mood to play these games with you. Besides, Webb hears everything and he'll..."

"Somthin' from your lawyer?" Stone interrupted.

Danny thought quickly. His suspicions might be the perfect cover, at least for someone of Wellstone's intelligence.

"Yeah Stone, it was from my blood-sucking lawyer."

"Gonna' get you sprung?"

"Sure Stone. I'll be eating steak in less than a month thinking of you with every bite"

Wellstone cackled. "I bet you will pal. I bet you will." He chuckled a few more times, then fell silent. A few moments later his rhythmic breathing told Danny he was asleep.

Danny relaxed a bit and turned onto his side, lost in Wellstone's last question.

-----------------------------

"Daniel!"

The booming voice caught Danny by surprise and he jumped. The voice had come from the cabin's back stoop, and this meant it was time to move.

Crouched low, Danny shuffled quickly to the highest end of the porch.

"Daniel! Get in here boy!"

Danny stopped, breathing hard. He held out his hands and saw them tremble. He clenched them into fists and slammed them down on his thighs. He could not let his fear take over again.

He poked his head under the porch and saw the shovel lying where he'd remembered. He grabbed the handle, feeling the weather-worn wood soft and warm beneath his hand. He slid it out, the weeds that had grown over it popping as he pulled. He held it to his chest like a soldier with his rifle and listened.

"DANIEL!"

From somewhere off in the woods, faintly, a child's voice.

"I'm coming Uncle Lucas!"

Danny stopped breathing. He hadn't counted on hearing his own, younger voice affecting him this way, and now he was frozen to the spot, knowing what the boy, what he was walking into. He gulped in air and tried to slow his heart rate. He knew he had to move now if he was going to do anything at all. Slowly, he stood until he could just see through the grimy window above him.

Looking through the cabin, Danny could see his overweight uncle standing in the back doorway facing out, in overalls and shirtless, his flabby arms hanging loosely down at his sides. His dark hair, uncombed and dirty stood in knotted clumps on his head.

Hand shaking, Danny took hold of the front door knob. He turned it gently until he heard it click open, then gingerly pushed the door aside.

"Where you been boy?"

Danny jumped at the question. It was hard to keep from answering knowing his uncle was talking to him, but as a boy when he was last here so many years ago.. He continued until the door was just wide enough for him to slip through, and ease it shut again.

The cabin reeked of rotten meat and stale beer. A small fire burned in the fireplace adding heat to the oppressive smell in the room, making it even more difficult for Danny to breathe. The wooden floor, undulating as it ran the length of the room, was more dirt than wood. A shabby, ripped recliner squatted in front of a small television whose plastic casing drooped and twisted, the results of a previous encounter with flames.

Just to the right of the fireplace, the bathroom door stood open. This would give Danny a place to hide and still afford him a sweeping view of the rest of the cabin's interior. He knew his nine-year-old self would be in the cabin in seconds so he moved deftly into the bathroom somehow avoiding every squeaking floor board. He pushed the door closed until he had just enough space to see what was happening in the other room.

"I asked you where you'd been?" Lucas said as he stepped back from the door allowing nine-year-old Daniel to step inside. From his vantage point in the other room, Danny looked at himself as he was 39 years ago.

The face was clear and unmarred by the rough times that lay ahead. The cheeks red from the exertion of running to the cabin. His shirt, jeans and bare feet were all marked by dirt at one place or another. Danny knew just where he'd been and what he'd been doing. About three hundred yards into the woods, there was a cave, and on this particular day, the floor of the cave had been the perfect place to lay and think; to get away from his uncle really. His uncle's bellowing had awaken him, and the harshness of his tone had brought him running back.

"I was at the cave Uncle Lucas."

"'Spose you don't remember me telling you to stay out of that cave."

"Yes, sir I do."

"Stupid brat." Lucas yanked Daniel's arm causing him to stumble into the cabin. "It's time to eat."

"Yes sir," Daniel said, grabbing a pan and moving to the stove. "I'll get it ready."

"Not yet!"

Daniel stopped, but didn't turn to face his uncle. Lucas walked up and stood just behind the boy, looking down at him.

In the bathroom, watching the scene through the crack in the door, Danny felt his stomach tighten. He knew what was about to happen, and knew he had to stop it or nothing would ever change. Unless he acted, the boy he now watched would soon run out the back door directly into the teeth of a wasted life.

He gripped the shovel tighter, feeling sweat squeeze out from underneath is hands. His breath came in short, raspy bursts. He pulled the bathroom door open slightly and took a tentative step forward on legs that felt wooden.

Lucas placed one hand on Daniel's shoulder and stroked the boy's hair with the other.

"Not time for food just yet, Daniel, " Lucas said.

"Yes sir." Daniel's voice trembled slightly and he set the pot down on the stove. He moved from beneath Lucas' grasp and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Lucas watched him, leering, and licked his lips. He unsnapped one of his overall's straps and followed Daniel.

A few steps from the bedroom door, the spade of Danny's shovel landed squarely on the back of Lucas' head with a wet crack, sending him sprawling head first onto the floor.

Danny stood over Lucas, breathing heavily, the shovel hanging from his limp, trembling hands. Lucas lay on this stomach, motionless, moaning softly. Small spatters of blood covered the wall in front of him and a dark pool was slowly forming beneath Lucas' head.

Danny blinked, forcing himself to breathe. He re-gripped the shovel like a dagger and lowered it until the point of the spade touched the junction of Lucas' head and neck.

"Uncle Lucas?"

The sound of Daniel's young voice startled Danny. His head snapped up and he stared at the bedroom door. He hadn't thought about what might happen if Daniel saw him. He had to move now.

Danny raised the shovel as high as he could; paused to look at the red dot the spade had left on Lucas' neck, then brought it down with all his strength.

At first Danny thought the noise was Daniel screaming, but he looked up and the bedroom door was still closed. He looked at Lucas next and saw the shovel rigid, its point buried in the wooden floor. Lucas' head had been neatly severed and rocked slightly from the force of the blow, his fingers and feet twitching in a bizarre dance.

The noise was painful now, slicing through his head like razors. He dropped to his knees, a bright light washing out the cabin, Lucas, everything. His neck muscles contracted, pulling his head back and he grabbed his skull, squeezing, as a line of blood oozed from one nostril. And then the noise was gone.

In the silence that followed, Danny heard his breath rasping in and out. His tried to move his arms, but they were paralyzed by fear or something else he couldn't determine. Cool water suddenly cascaded down his head, over his face and trickled slightly into his mouth making him gasp. Danny closed his lips, tasting the water. Salty.

He opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the harsh glare of a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The bulb was dirty, it's light yellowed by years of dust and neglect. Wherever he was, these people didn't pay too much attention to maintenance of their equipment.

Danny lowered his head, his neck popping, until he was looking at a small audience assembled before him. Sitting in metal chairs arranged in small, neat rows sat a dozen or so people, all watching him. One lady to his left dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. A man in a gray suit, glasses and distinct toupee coughed hard into his hand, then crossed his legs and continued eyeing Danny. Another man sitting next to Cougher, younger, mopped sweat from his forehead.

What was this? Why were they all sitting there watching him? Was he on a stage of some sort?

Danny looked down and for the first time realized he was seated as well. Perched on a bulky wooden chair, he saw his wrists and ankles strapped down by four leather belts. Even with a layer of grime on the bulb, Danny noticed how brightly the light twinkled off the chrome buckles. Jutting from his right calf, bare from the knee down, was a metal post with a wire attached that ran under the chair and out of sight. Around his chest a wider leather belt held his back upright and firmly against the chair.

Danny opened his mouth to speak but all he heard was thick saliva crackling, and a dry groan creeping from his throat. A hand grasped his forehead from behind and pulled it back against the chair. Danny's eyes widened and rolled upward straining to see who it was, but only saw the industrial-gray paint of the ceiling. He tried to speak again but was cut short as a leather strap was snaked around his chin and fastened tightly behind the chair. His mouth now drawn closed, he could only moan and did so rhythmically.

"Daniel Morely." A voice from behind him. He tried to turn his head to see who it was but the chin strap was too tight. He twisted his torso, straining against the belt that began to cut into his ribs. His fists clenched and twisted trying to free themselves. Blood oozed from his left wrist, darkening the leather strap.

He moaned louder, more urgently as a black hood was pulled over his head and cinched loosely around his neck. His hot breath filled the hood, making him sweat all the more, except for the top of his head where he felt cool air.

Something cold and wet was placed on top of his head and Danny felt it make contact with his bare scalp. Salty water trickled over his head once more.

He struggled harder.

Water droplets mixed with salvia sprayed onto the inside of the hood with every breath. He grunted and moaned loudly trying to stop them, to tell them they were making a mistake.

Danny felt something squish down on his head and knew a metal cap was being lowered into place. Another strap was pulled under his chin and buckled. He heard feet shuffle backwards, and then stop. Cougher sounded again and cleared his throat. Danny held his breath and listened. The woman dabbing he eyes sobbed softly. The feet that shuffled away a moment ago were replaced by rhythmic breathing. His own heart hammered in his chest.

The voice continued:

"Having been convicted by a jury of your peers for the murder of Lucas Morely, you have been sentenced to die by electrocution."

Danny shut his eyes tightly and clenched his fists. This was it. The defining moment in his life was about to change him forever.

The End