Death Row Apocalypse Read Online Free Page A

that night. For those boys, their nights would be forever clouded in blood and sweat as they recalled the horrific scene. None in fact would ever be able to sleep without first locking the bedroom door and keeping at least one light turned on.
    The small dormitory was covered in blood. Arterial spray had reached and covered each of the four walls, and the ceiling now resembled a piece of abstract art. In some places the blood had pooled on the ceiling, which was slowly dripping crimson raindrops, which sometimes landed on the already-drenched pajama-sporting boys. No one escaped the soaking that night.
    The whole event was somehow kept from the newspapers. The children of that fateful dorm room were treated for shock over the following years, and to this day I doubt that their sanity has been fully restored. In any case, I seriously doubt any of them regained full control over their bladders when I consider how freely they were released that night.
    Those events are not the end of my story, though, for I was immediately sent back to the US, to a facility specializing in extreme mental conditions. It was there that, after being analyzed by doctor after doctor, they resorted to electroconvulsive therapy to try and “fix” my inner demon. The treatments seemed to continue forever, with injections, medications, therapists, psychologists and, of course, a priest or two thrown in for good luck. They never gave up, and they never ran out of drugs to try. I must give them their dues, however. Before using the drugs, they talked to me at length, and at first I endured weeks of conversation, followed by question upon question, my sarcastic responses to which annoyed them to high heaven. During these sessions, they would ask me to describe the events of “that” night, and I usually responded by asking them if they would like a reenactment and to witness it firsthand, adding that perhaps one of them would like to volunteer. Usually I would be drugged and knocked out immediately without any further conversation! I guess it didn’t help when I also suggested they should volunteer their daughters to spice things up a bit.
    I think I eventually caught on after about four years of this punishment, and I decided to play the game their way. Behaving myself, I answered their moronic questions correctly, and eventually my doctors started to believe in the treatments they were administering to me. My case evolved and became a research success, whereupon their theories and treatments were then recorded as cures for my unique condition. All the while during my extended incarceration, my parents distanced themselves from me. Understandable, I guess. They were the only ones who had any idea of my full potential.
    My eventual release became academic and was just a question of time. Likewise, it was then only a question of time as to when I could fully immerse myself in my chosen pastime. I would endeavor to excel in my new career, as any dutiful son should do . . .
    A little later I was considered healed, and I was released on the unsuspecting general public. Put nicely, I was given a new identity, including a specialist education in a chosen field. They even covered the costs of embedding me in Tallahassee, a back-end town in Florida. This part was cheap, as I had no private possessions to speak of. I was given a new wardrobe, a small but decent apartment, and they helped me establish myself in business in my chosen field.
    In many ways I reckon this process was more or less identical to the witness protection program that one hears about in newspaper articles and, more commonly, in the movies. I’ve hinted several times now as to my new profession, and you’re probably assuming murder or burial services or something equally morbid, or at least on the same lines, aren’t you?
    In fact, I decided that I wanted to cook, specifically to be a baker. Now a baker not only bakes bread; he also creates a wonderfully broad range of doughs, cakes,