The Night of an Execution

It was 2 a.m. Emilio leaned back in his chair, eyes on the security monitors, watching the prisoners sleep. He saw them toss and turn, heard faint snores through the static, and felt his own eyelids beginning to grow heavy. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but the night shift on death row had its own rhythm in that it was quiet, eerie, and always reminding him that every cell he scanned had once held someone who was now gone.

Later that day, one of those empty beds would have a new vacancy. Reverend Franklin was scheduled for execution, fast-tracked compared to the others. He was the wing’s newest resident, and soon to be its quickest departure. On the monitor, The Reverend sat upright in the dark, murmuring prayers. Emilio could barely make out the words. He wondered what kind of prayers came from a man who had led a cult, stockpiled weapons, and chained children in basements. What was he asking for? Why did he look up, when every part of him should be looking down?

Emilio took a sip of coffee and checked his phone. Night shifts didn’t bring many messages. The caffeine kept him awake, but really it was the staring, the constant watching, that pulled him through.

Lucas, the other guard on duty, walked in with two fresh coffees.

“Hey, what was his final meal?” Emilio asked, leaning back.

“Chicken cutlets and spaghetti with red sauce,” Lucas replied, taking a sip.

“Chicken cutlets? For a last meal? Man, you gotta go bigger than that. McDonald’s, Popeyes, maybe a steak. Can’t waste your last shot on prison chicken.” Emilio shook his head.

“You’re too judgmental,” Lucas said, settling into the chair beside him. “What about you? Put yourself in his shoes. What’s your last meal?”

On the monitor, The Reverend rocked back and forth, still praying. Emilio thought for a moment, then smirked.

“Szechuan beef. One last time.” He chuckled, knowing it was just as ridiculous a choice as chicken cutlets.

The two guards drifted back into their routines. Lucas walked the halls. Emilio kept his eyes on the cameras. A couple other guards were scattered around the facility, but one had called out, and another was home with a newborn. That left things calm but not peaceful. Calm in a way that buzzed with unease, the kind of quiet that felt like waiting for a storm.

Death row lived in that tension. Everyone here is just waiting for their day. Some of them have been here for years, some of them have been here for a short time. Some believe their day will come, some believe that they’ll be spared. Emilo learned when he first started working this shift that everyone ignores that day until it actually comes. Call it naivety, call it ignorance, but it's the type of attitude you have to have when you are sitting in a room all day waiting for your death to come.

The sergeant’s voice crackled through the walkie:

“Lucas, get to the cameras. Emilio, bring the Reverend to the interview room.”

Emilio paused before answering. Who the hell wanted to talk to the Reverend at two in the morning? Lucas slipped in to take his spot at the monitors.

“I think this is about today,” Lucas muttered.

“It’s his execution, so what?” Emilio replied.

Lucas shook his head. “No, not that. The rumor about the rest of the cult.”

Emilio frowned. “What about the cult? You think they’re gonna try a breakout or something?”

“Worse.” Lucas gave a low chuckle. “They’re all gonna off themselves at the same time.”

Emilio headed down the tier, the sound of his boots echoing in the quiet block. His thoughts tunneled in on Lucas’s words. Shit. This is the next Jonestown.

At the Reverend’s cell, he slid the key into the lock. The Reverend was still on his knees, whispering into the dark.

“Get up,” Emilio ordered.

The Reverend tilted his head, sweat glistening beneath thick-rimmed glasses. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in days.

“Has He come to save me?”

“I don’t know who’s coming,” Emilio said flatly, “but you’ve got a visitor.” He pulled the man to his feet and cuffed him.

“Is this necessary for a dead man?” The Reverend asked.

“Just doing my job.”

Emilio kept his tone neutral, but his mind spun. He pictured The Reverend’s followers in their rural compounds, mixing chemicals or tying ropes, ready to follow him into death. He pictured supporters outside the prison gates, waiting to collapse in unison, while protestors hawked shirts stamped with 8-13-2025 – The Rever-end. He wasn’t part of any of that. He was just a cog, an unwitting piece of a machine rolling toward something ugly.

At the interview room, the sergeant waited.

“You’re going in with him, Emilio. Don’t do anything. Just stand by.”

Orders, but unusual ones. Normally Emilio would cuff the inmate to the table and leave. The sergeant was worried but about what?

Emilio didn’t ask. He just nodded, led the Reverend inside, and chained him to the table. Then he planted himself behind the prisoner, hands folded, face set. The Reverend tried small talk, little attempts to bait him into something, but Emilio ignored him, standing silent and firm.

Minutes dragged. Then the door opened.

Governor Charles walked in first, rumpled, reeking of whiskey, eyes bloodshot with anger. Behind him came a young aide, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair neat, not a day over twenty-two.

The room felt suddenly absurd: the cult leader in chains, the drunken governor, the pristine aide and Emilio, the nobody guarding the corner, caught in their orbit.

“Who the fuck is that?” the Governor barked, pointing at him.

Emilio didn’t flinch. “Don’t mind me. I had orders to be here.”

The disheveled Governor scoffed at Emilio, then slumped into his chair. The pristine aide stood behind him, arms crossed.

“Call off the fucking troops, Franklin. This madness ends tonight. Challenging my authority? Who the hell do you think you are?” The Governor leaned in, then spat in the Reverend’s face.

Emilio glanced at the corner of the room to see the camera’s red light was dark. Ah. That’s why I’m here.

He stayed posted behind The Reverend’s chair, silent, listening. For the next hour, the Governor and the Reverend circled each other: Franklin’s crimes, the execution clock, the threats of mass suicide. The Governor grew more agitated with every refusal. Finally, he snapped.

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

The Reverend smirked. “When? Before or after the execution in ten hours?”

Emilio gave the faintest chuckle. It slipped out before he could stop it. The aide shot him a disapproving look; the Governor, drunk and furious, didn’t. Instead, he slammed The Reverend's face into the steel table with a sickening crack. Blood spilled from the Reverend’s nose as he laughed, glasses bent, grinning through the pain.

“Your daughter’s not going to like that,” The Reverend taunted.

The Governor froze. “You don’t know shit about my daughter.”

The Reverend howled with laughter. “Oh God; no one told you? How the hell did no one tell you?”

The Governor whipped his head toward the aide. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

The aide threw up his hands. “Sir, I just started last week. They don’t tell me anything!”

That sent the Reverend into hysterics, jerking against the cuffs, rocking back and forth, howling with delight. Emilio’s chest tightened. The air felt thin. He glanced at the two-way mirror, hoping the Sergeant saw his silent plea.

The Reverend calmed, leaned forward, and delivered the blow.

“You haven’t spoken to your daughter in a year, poppa,” he mocked.

The Governor shot to his feet, his chair clattering against the wall.

“She left home,” the Reverend continued, eyes wild. “She joined my family. Who do you think’s been handing out the cyanide?”

Emilio’s blood ran cold. He froze where he stood.

The Governor didn’t speak. He just grabbed The Reverend by the hair and slammed his face into the table. Once. Twice. Again. Over and over. The aide tugged at his arm, shouting, but couldn’t stop him.

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

The door burst open. The Sergeant stormed in.

“FUCK. Emilio, do something!”

Emilio’s body locked, mind racing. The Reverend’s face was pulp against the steel. The Governor’s fists rose again.

Emilio drew his weapon. The Governor paused, still gripping the Reverend’s blood-slick head.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, son?” he growled, blinking fast, drunk rage blazing.

Emilio fired. The bullet tore through the Reverend’s skull, spraying the Governor, the aide, and the Sergeant with blood.

The room froze.

“Emilio…what the fuck,” the Sergeant whispered.

Emilio was not sure why he shot the Reverend. Something in him told him it was the right thing to do. Something else in him told him it was the easy thing to do. Imagine having to explain why the Governor was in the jail sail at 3am and bashing the skull in of a highly controversial prisoner? Sounded like more paper worth then was expected. Something else in him told him that the whole situation was fucked anyway and this was the easiest solution. One part in him hope that it would lead to something.

The Governor wiped blood from his cheek, straightened his shirt. His breathing slowed.

“He just saved the state. Fucker was trying to extort me for his indepence. Who the hell did he think he was? I am the one in control. Now he’s gone and I don’t have to worry about it.” He jabbed a finger at the Sergeant. “Grab a gurney. We’ll cremate the body before morning. Say he broke out.”

The Sergeant hesitated, then returned with a gurney. His face twisted with doubt. “Except…how do we explain the breakout?”

The Governor turned, eyes narrowing.

“Emilio. Shoot your Sergeant.”

Emilio froze, eyes wide, gun lowered. The Sergeant stood rigid, chest rising and falling with quick, heavy breaths.

“For fuck’s sake, I didn’t say kill him. Just shoot him in the leg or something,” the Governor barked.

Emilio didn’t move. He couldn’t. He wanted no part of this madness anymore.

“Jesus Christ.” The Governor ripped the gun from his hand. “You’re not the main character here.” He spun and fired, the shot punching into the Sergeant’s chest. The man dropped instantly, dead at the Governor’s feet.

The pristine aide scrambled, snatching the fallen weapon.

“Now look at that,” the Governor said, voice oddly calm. “Your hesitation made a bad thing happen. Should’ve done as you were told. Still, you did a hell of a thing tonight. Your contributions to the safety of this state won’t be forgotten.”

He rambled on as Emilio caught the distant echo of another gunshot. Lucas. Emilio didn’t need to see it to know.

“Please, sir. I tried to save you,” Emilio said, his voice breaking. Death was in the room now, closer than it had ever been during all those long nights watching condemned men count down their days. He’d spent years staring at the inevitability of death. He just never thought he’d be sitting in its chair.

The Governor’s gaze hardened. “Sorry, son. But here’s how it went down: the Reverend got loose. Took your gun. Shot the Sergeant before he came through the door, then made his way to surveillance and caught your partner off guard. The coroner says you had a bullet in your head and blunt trauma to the side. Died instantly. After the massacre, the Reverend vanished. Never seen again.”

The Governor had crafted the story already, word-perfect.

In that final instant, Emilio wondered if this had been the plan all along. No court orders. No public execution. No mass suicide. The Reverend disappeared into legend, erased from the state in silence. In reality, he’d died right here, in the death wing. Just not the way anyone expected.

Emilio’s last thought, right before the Governor’s bullet tore through his skull, was simple and cruel: he had spent his life in the background, and the one time he stepped forward would be the last.