Then it dawns on me… Holy crap, it’s an execution.
“By order of the great Commander, you are all charged with the possession of unauthorized weapons. The penalty is death.” Wilson pauses for effect as an evil smile splits his pale face. The silence disconcerts me. Never have I heard the Hole so deliberately quiet.
Wilson stands in front of the accused and yanks off each blindfold, one after the other, tossing them off to the side of the platform. Starting from the right, he takes aim, pointing the barrel of his pistol at the first man’s forehead. Without hesitation, he pulls the trigger, sending a bullet right between his eyes. Then he fires three more shots and finishes the others.
I gasp with each blast.
“Don’t watch,” Cole says.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t rip my eyes away. Wilson forces the spectators in the front row to carry the bodies off the stage. They struggle under the dead weight, so minutes pass before they pile the bodies in a heap. Their blood leaves a sickly, foul trail behind.
I feel a small raindrop hit my forehead and roll down my face, but I’m too afraid to wipe it away. It’s as if someone hit a pause button, and Cole and I stand frozen in place.
Once the stage is cleared, Wilson announces with disgust, “The next punishment is reserved for the worst offenders.”
“There’s more?” I ask in a whisper. I know Cole stands next to me by the familiar sounds of his breathing, but he doesn’t reply.
A young woman with long, golden hair and fair skin is shoved onto the stage.
“She’s a model,” the same lady says behind me. “I guess being beautiful isn’t always a good thing.”
Bruises mar the woman’s neck on stage, making her purple brand barely distinguishable, and her right eye bulges, dark blue and swollen almost shut. She possesses no blindfold and wears only her torn underclothes, stained red and clinging to her body. Her eyes stay glued to the floor, but her terror is evident even from where I stand.
Then to my surprise, two guards drag another guard in full uniform up the stairs, casting him next to the woman. He reaches over, taking her face between his hands. Tears track down his cheeks as he stares only at her. His lips move, but I can’t hear what he says. She nods her head and he kisses her.
“Guard Mac!” Wilson shouts. “Evidence has been set before us that proves you have been consorting with this sinner—this disgusting, worthless, prideful leach.” He pauses for effect. “The penalty awarded those who proclaim to love the branded is”—he licks his lips—“death!” he screams and points at her with his thick, sausage-like finger. “And you, my friend, will watch her die.” The kneeling guard cries out, but a sharp blow lands upon his head, silencing him. “But first, you need to learn to keep your hands off these filthy sinners.”
Wilson motions for others to come. They carry a small wooden table to the platform, set it down, and proceed to secure the concussed guard’s right hand to the table with solemn faces. The once guard—now prisoner—struggles against the restraints.
“Stop! You’re the lowest of the low. You bring shame to the guards,” Wilson says. The pitch of his voice rises to a squeak and his eyes focus on Mac with unwavering intensity as a crude smile makes its way across his face. In another life, I might’ve laughed at him but not here. Not now.
With all eyes riveted upon them, Wilson arches his back and swings a machete down to the table with all his might, attempting to slice off the man’s right wrist. A terrible, bloodcurdling scream escapes the man’s throat and splits the air. Thinking it’s over, I cover my mouth to keep from screaming, but then he swings again and again, chopping roughly through the wrist bones. Vomit rises in my throat when I see the blood spurt from where his hand once was. Splinters of bone, broken and uneven, lie limp on the table. A collective groan flows swiftly through the crowd like a wave.
The guards lift up the man, who’s almost unconscious, and place him face-to-face with his lover. She cries and pulls him to her.
“I love him,” she wails.
Don’t they have any remorse? Any at all? I begin feeling woozy and sway slightly to the right, but Cole’s arm steadies me for an instant. And then it’s gone.
Mac looks at Wilson, who now stands at the woman’s side with a red-hot iron as large as a bat. A sanguinary light forms in Wilson’s eyes and froth bubbles at the creases of his mouth like a hungry beast waiting for the final slaughter. Then Wilson torches her skin with the heavy iron as another guard restrains Mac.