Author's Notes:
(1) I have no idea where this story was lurking in my subconscious. It's dark and horrible, and maybe it springs from a fear of isolation from love and human contact; I don't know.
(2) But for some reason I had fun writing this. And jeez, that's a scary statement.
(3) For all you trolls out there, blast away. This one's for you.
*****
Jack heard the voices come closer to him out of the wilderness of unconsciousness, an unintelligible cacophony of words and sentences that slowly began to merge and make some sense as the cobwebs cleared. He felt comfortable, and came to the conclusion he was sitting in an upright position, but also that something was wrong, or at the very least, different. His torso, arms, and legs were warm, but there was a coolness to his rear and genital regions, like a breeze was blowing there.
"He's coming around. Get Officer Case over here," came one woman's voice out of the fog.
He opened his eyes and found himself looking straight ahead at a bare cement wall about twenty feet away. It wasn't a damp, cellar type of wall, but more of an architectural concrete, with vertical fluting. Glancing his eyes upward there were bright lights and a drop-down ceiling just like in a hospital room. People circled him with surgeon's masks on their faces and he felt hands on his neck as something was adjusted under his right ear. He felt a slight pinching there, or a pull or a sting; he couldn't tell what it was, and when he tried to touch it, he found that he couldn't move his hand. Remotely alarmed, he tried his other hand and had the same outcome. When he tried his legs they felt like they were restrained somehow as well; he felt his muscles contract and tighten, but there was no resultant movement. He felt a peculiar wetness against his skin that should have been slippery if he could have moved, but he couldn't. To each side of his face there appeared to be a restriction to his peripheral vision, but he couldn't turn his head to see what it was. An antiseptic smell saturated the room and there was the faint sound of running or moving water.
"What's going on? Am I okay?" Jack mumbled, "I can't move. Jesus, was I in an accident or something?"
What looked like a male doctor leaned over his face and said, "No, you're absolutely fine Mr. Krepps."
"Thirsty," Jack whispered.
A female nurse put a straw in his mouth and he sipped water until she pulled it away. "Slowly!" she said, and then gave it back to him.
He swallowed the last bit after rinsing it around in his mouth. There were parts of his mouth that seemed resistant to wetting, a persistent dryness no matter how much fluid there was. The room and his awareness of it were improving by the second, so he tried to move something, anything, to shift his position and become an interacting part of the scene rather than just an observer. He could clench muscles but he couldn't move a limb, and even his head seemed anchored in place so that he could only move his facial muscles and his eyes.
"Why can't I move?" he asked, "What the hell is going on?"
A male police officer with a brush-like moustache, the only one without a surgical mask, leaned over him. He seemed officious and distant, and somewhat pompous as he spoke, "Your memories will come back shortly, but I've been instructed to make you aware of your circumstances."
"What is this place? Why can't I move? I don't understand!" Jack's eyes darted around at the masked faces with eyes that held a distant objective glare of detachment. Some even looked like they were filled with hatred.
"Why can't I move anything? What is this?" he yelled.
Officer Case looked down at him. He looked familiar. "You're in prison Mr. Krepps. As explained during your sentencing, you've been assigned to ePIC as the first inmate in the program. Although we have researched this extensively, there will be issues I'm sure, and we will deal with them as they come up. Since the death penalty has been revoked, it is our responsibility to keep you alive for as long as possible. The new law gives a life sentence for murder and you are here for life. On behalf of the state I welcome you to our facility."
Jack stared out at the uniformed police officer. The man's eyes were emotionless, as if he had read the last statements to him. Slowly, the memories of the courtroom came back, the stunned gasps of those who supported him when the sentence was read out.
"So, I'm at ePIC now? I was told that I wouldn't be put to death," Jack said, his voice trembling, "but I can't move anything. What have you done to me?"
"Mr. Krepps," the officer said with authority, "this is your cell. As explained to you during your sentencing, you were to be assigned to the experimental Permanent Immobilization Cell (ePIC) . In the absence of the death penalty for murder, it has been determined by the wisdom of the state that this shall be a just punishment for the murder that you committed. Surely you remember that this was debated at length in the senate. Those that were against the death penalty wanted to keep you and people like you, in prison for the rest of your life, at enormous cost to the taxpayer. Those that wanted the death penalty just wanted to dispose of you. A compromise was reached so that you will be kept alive, but in a very efficient way, reducing the costs to the taxpayer."
He paused for effect, cleared his throat, and then continued, "This is where you will finish your days. We'll feed you and, unfortunately for you I suspect, keep you alive all that time. No TV, no books, no computer, nothing. You're immobilized in a block of special plastic Mr. Krepps. You've been in an induced coma in order to deal with the heat from the curing of the plastic. You're the first one. You are free to urinate and defecate into the trough that is situated below you. Note that your plastic crypt has squared edges so that others like you can be stored beside you efficiently, taking up less room. Feeding will be done by a very minimal staff, and perhaps machines in the future. Failure to eat will not be tolerated as it is our job to ensure that you live. If necessary you will be intubated for sustenance. We'll see; it's still evolving. I don't know if you have the ability to feel it, but your fingers and toes have been removed so that the nails don't continue to grow within your mould. You have no rights other than to be kept alive, and we intend to do that in observance of the criminal code."
Jack did try to move his fingers, and his hands did feel strange, like there was nothing to them. But that was the least of his worries.
The officer walked briskly around the crypt so that Jack had to follow him with his eyes. His boots clicked on what sounded like a hard tile floor. "You are wired so that electrodes on your skin can be activated regularly to exercise your muscles and keep them toned. This is a well thought out, efficient system of incarceration Mr. Krepps, and we are very proud of it. Would you like to see?" he said proudly.
No one waited for his answer. Jack looked into a large mirror that had been wheeled over and angled in front of him. What he saw took his breath away, and he tried to get it back in short gasps of terror. He was encased in a transparent block of plastic which fixed him in a position similar to President Lincoln at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, except that his hands were closer to his knees. There were dark patches at regular intervals all over his body, with wires extending from them, all coalescing behind his head like a ponytail and traveling off somewhere out of his view. He flexed all his muscles and was unable to move any limb. His hands were reddish stumps.
"My God, what have you done? What is this? I didn't understand it would be like this. Nobody does! Nobody told me it would be like this at all! This isn't right! You can't do this!" He was out of breath in shock, and the encasement of his chest also made it difficult to get extra air when needed.
The gravity of the situation had finally sunk in. His voice shook as he said, "Please. This can't be true. Please!"
The officer said, "The state decides what is right, Mr. Krepps. At least you're alive; the person you murdered of course, is not. You should be grateful. Remember her? Your wife? You killed her. The evidence was overwhelming. The court had the utmost confidence when it convicted and sentenced you."
A coldness began to creep into him as it all came back. Sallie. She was on the floor. Her head was in a pool of blood staining the hardwood, and a gun lay beside her. Yes, they had a fight, but they were going to bed. It was make-up sex. She was so pretty.
She was so dead.
A hand picked up the gun. It was his hand. It had blood on it and he threw it down as he screamed. He picked her up, limp in his arms, pressing her against him. He screamed until the police smashed the door in.
Then the memories switched to a courtroom. Gladys, the lady next door said, "Yes, they were screaming at each other and he called her a fucking bitch and that he would kill her. Then I heard crying and sobbing. It was her. I was about to phone 911; then it got quiet and stayed that way for about twenty minutes and I thought it was over, so I put the phone down. Then I heard the shot. That's when I picked up the phone again and called 911. I didn't hear anything else until the police arrived."
Jack's eyes were rolling around, the only part of him capable of full movement. "I didn't do it; I told them I didn't do it! It was just an argument...we were going to make up! I went into the hot tub to think things through and came back when I heard the shot!" He started sobbing.
"Apparently that's what you said in court too. But there was no one else there with you and your wife. There were no fingerprints, no other DNA, nothing, and your prints were on the gun. You killed her Mr. Krepps. And here we are."
"I didn't kill her," he said pathetically but emphatically.
"You shot her in the head. That was the transcript of the court as I see it here." He looked down at some paperwork that Jack could not see.
Jack called out in near delirium, "No, no, no, please, I didn't. Please, no..."
"Your wife's loved ones can see her no more. No one will be allowed to visit you either. Sounds like justice to me."
"This can't be happening," Jack screamed, "This just can't be real. This is a dream, a nightmare, right? This is just a nightmare right? Right?"
They just ignored him, and Officer Case told a nurse somewhere behind his head to check his vitals to make sure he would be okay. Jack felt hands on his neck.
After a few moments of the staff conversing, they all left. The lights went out, and in the pitch black there was the sound of the sewer water below him carrying his effluent away. Off in the distance a pump hummed. He closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up. Instead he went to sleep; there was nothing else to do.
Time loses all meaning when there is nothing to judge it by; it just becomes a theoretical thing, like blue sky to a blind man. Initially he tried to keep track of time by counting the feeding periods, making the assumption that there were three a day. After 320 days, he lost track and wondered if it was 3,200 or 32; he couldn't believe his senses and counting any longer. The exercise periods were agony, as his muscles were forced to spasm by the electrodes regularly throughout the day. After many days he allowed himself the luxury of screaming incessantly, and like dogs in a kennel, this spurred the growing number of other inmates to do the same. He wanted to die; he would want to die for a very, very long time.
