Harold Buchannan pushed the plunger of the syringe and watched the look in the man’s eyes slowly change from panic to calm. He stopped struggling against the table restraints as the lethal dose of morphine entered his bloodstream and moved towards his heart. Doctor Bobby Wilson stood pensively across the room watching in clear distaste. Harold didn’t much care for it himself, but it was better than the alternative.

My initial plan was a good one, he thought, but I probably should have foreseen the problems.

The firing squads went smoothly at first. His men were marksmen and professionals. Moreover, the inmates on death row had long ago accepted the fact that execution was their due and their resistance had been minimal. Most of these approached their death with resignation and some even said dignity. The shots were clean and death was quick.

Problems arose when they began with those serving life sentences and the men who guilty of committing murder since N-Day. These seemed to have some sort of fantasy about walking away from their situation. They were most vocal in their innocence and in attacking the legitimacy of their executions, demanding to see lawyers and to speak to the governor. Many broke down and begged loudly for their lives.

Harold discovered that his trained and hardened marksmen couldn’t fire a true shot when the target was a man looking at them and begging not to die. They tried having the prisoners hooded, but it didn’t help much and Harold just couldn’t bring himself to gag the men. These prisoners were consistently either only wounded or all four firers impossibly missed from only twenty feet.

The breaking point came when Harold gave the command to fire and nothing happened. He repeated the order more forcefully and someone started to speak. Harold knew what was coming next, there would be appeals to reason, and mercy, and more discussion. All of it would be aimed towards relieving the executioners of their duty and their guilt. Harold felt the guilt of what they were doing too, but knew the job had to be done.

As the firers looked at him while lowering their weapons sheepishly, Harold drew his pistol and walked purposefully up to the prisoner tied to a post. The man must have sensed what was happening because from beneath his hood he began screaming, “Oh, God please no! No, no, NO!”

His words were cut off as Harold shot the man in the side of the head from a foot away. He dropped the pistol to his side so the others could not see his hand shaking. Knowing he could not trust himself to maintain his composure, Harold looked at everyone and walked with outward calm to his office where he shut the door. Once there he pulled a bottle of scotch from the cabinet and with difficulty poured a small amount into a glass instead of drinking directly from the bottle as he wanted to. The liquid burned as it went down his throat and seemed to steady his nerves some.

Harold craved another drink, but was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop and if he lost control of himself now, everything could break down. He put the bottle away and went into the bathroom down the hall to splash water on his face and noticed the small specks of blood spattered on his face, hands, and clothes. After washing up and changing clothes, Harold went to find Doctor Bobby Wilson.

“Sure, enough morphine can kill a person, easier way to go too. I thought you would want to save it for possible injuries or even surgeries.”

“I do,” Harold sighed, “but I don’t think we can go on with the firing squads. We’ve got at least a dozen more and the guards are already at their breaking point.”

“Well,” said Wilson, “we probably have enough morphine to do the job, but you have to know up front that as a medical professional, I will not participate. I’ll tell you how to do it, and must out of duty advise against all this business, but I won’t stand in your way.”

“Thanks,” said Harold, not sure if he meant it or not.

“Should be easy to do,” continued the Doc. “All the tables have straps and restraints. Just have the guards bring them in here and secure them. You then take 120 milligrams of morphine, maybe 150 to be sure, and inject it into a vein in the arm. They’ll go right to sleep…and die.”

Since that time Harold had injected fourteen prisoners with the morphine. The guards seemed simultaneously ashamed and relieved by the change in executions. Although it was certainly easier on the executed, and the guards who didn’t have to kill them, it was a terrible ordeal for Harold. Watching the light go out in each man’s eyes seemed to slowly tear at the foundation of his being. Bobby had made it sound so nice and peaceful, he thought, like floating away on billowing clouds.

Harold was pondering these thoughts beside the now dead man as Jim Meek’s stuck his head in the infirmary. “Got a minute, boss?”

He nodded and Jim moved in passing him a folder.

Opening the folder Harold saw it was the inmate file for Jacob Daniels. He knew it well. Overall, Daniels was a model prisoner, exhibited good behavior, and done what he was told. Despite this history, he made several guards feel nervous and most were convinced something wasn’t quite right in the head with Daniels, although the psychologists pronounced him sane after several referrals. His crimes were repeatedly breaking and entering people’s homes where he simply stood over the sleeping residents until they woke and called the police. On the last occasion, he even sustained serious injuries from a baseball bat when the house’s owner woke to find Daniels standing over his ten year old son in the middle of the night.

“So?” asked Harold.

“The board has decided to release Jacob Daniels,” said Jim with dismay.

 “I take it you don’t agree,” said Harold.

Jim moved forward and sat down in a chair leaning in to Harold in a conspiratorial manner. “Something is seriously wrong with this guy. I’ve seen a lot of cons in my time and this one is bad news, we can’t let him out.”

“You’re saying we should put him down?” asked Harold while pointing a thumb at the cooling body beside them.

Jim just looked at Harold grimly.

“For a repeated B and E offender? Are you serious?”

“Boss,” said Jim, “you’re the final authority and can overrule the board. This guy is bad. You don't have to do it, just give me a nod and he'll have a tragic accident or something.”

Harold was sorely tempted to give in to Jim, but it just didn't feel right. Besides, even if his friend took care of the execution or subsequent accident, it would still be on his head ultimately. The board had made a decision, he needed to support them or their decisions were worthless. Harold made up his mind handing the folder back to Jim.

“I’m going to go with the board on this one. They have reviewed the case and I'd like to think people can change, Jim.”

Jim stood and his huge form shadowed down on Harold solemnly for a moment. “I hear you boss, but you’re making a big mistake with this one.”

He turned and walked out the door giving a long look to the dead body at Harold’s side.