Scorpion

by Hal Ellson

The tapping on the wall sounded again and Luis opened his eyes, blinked, yawned. Growing dark in the cell, hotter now than during the afternoon. The tapping had ceased, utter silence followed, then the sound of footsteps. Rodriquez pacing his cell like a mad tiger. Every evening he started and went on till the last man was long asleep.

“He’ll hang himself yet,” Luis thought, and a new sound came to life, a guitar speaking with muted notes. Luis closed his eyes and in the darkness saw nimble fingers idly plucking the strings of the instrument. A soft voice joined in and the words of the ballad melted the strength of twenty listeners.

As the song ended, the tapping started up once more and Luis stirred on the straw mat where he lay, eyes open now. The light in the cell was almost gone, the endless night moving in. Soon enough the bedbugs would begin their methodical tortures, the lice become voracious. Even in sleep one couldn’t escape, for there were nightmares to contend with, and dreams that always ended in a final denial.

The tapping continued, a faint sound, unreal. Rodriquez pacing his cell in maddened silence caught Luis’ attention again. He began to count the man’s steps, saw him in his mind’s eye moving back and forth between two fixed points like an animal in a cage. One—two—three—four. One—two—three—four. Luis put his hands over his ears but the steps grew louder—a pair of worn sandals walking across his brain.

“Luis!”

Suddenly he sat up. The voice didn’t seem real. “Who calls me?” he said to the dark.

To the right of him he heard a scratching against the thick wall, as if the man in the next cell had dug his nails into the very stone.

“Luis.”

“Juan?”

“You were asleep?”

“Not quite, old man. What’s up?”

“I do not want to bother you.”

“Ah, it begins. But you do, old man. What now?”

“Wait!”

Both men lay still. Footsteps echoed in the corridor, slow, even. They paused, came on, paused again. An explicit pattern. Then a light shone in Luis’ cell, revealing his inert form for a moment. The guard looked in and went on his way, came back and sat down to doze once more at the end of the corridor.

“All right, you old cut-throat,” said Luis. “What are you after?”

“You must know already.”

“A cigarette. Do you think me a millionaire?”

“He who has two and shares one with another is more than that.”

“I am tired of sharing.”

“As you say, my friend. I had hopes, but you have already given me more than enough.”

Luis smiled to himself, for he liked Old Juan and felt sorry for him. Not one to share with another, nevertheless he had been generous with the old fellow.

“All right,” he said, “be ready.” Which meant that Old Juan was to watch at the crevice. Time, or perhaps a mason’s dereliction had produced a crack in the thick wall between the two cells, one too small to cause the guards any worry and yet not too small to elude the ingenuity of the prisoners.

With a quick movement Luis produced a matchbox which contained no matches. Instead, a large and thoroughly virile cockroach occupied it. With two fingers acting as pincers, Luis deftly plucked the cockroach from the box, laid a cigarette across its back, and then tied it there with a piece of thread. That done, he put the cockroach into the crack and blew his breath after it to send it scurrying on its way.

Old Juan was waiting on the other side of the wall and, as the roach appeared, he seized it, stripped it of its precious burden and sent it back to Luis who caught it and put it back in the matchbox for future use.

Old Juan lit up, then said, “A million thanks, my friend!”

“Thank the cockroach,” Luis answered.

“My thanks to him too.”

Silence then. Old Juan lay back on his straw mat and smoked. Luis stared at the dark, listening to the “mad tiger” pacing in another cell. Only that sound for a while. Then the guitar, soft, muted, a sad song, music and voice carrying to the listeners in the dark cells and making them dream.

When the song ended, Old Juan put out his cigarette and placed it over his ear. Sleep wouldn’t come. Again and again his troubled mind approached the question. But perhaps it would be better not to tell, simpler for Luis. For he couldn’t escape and, if he did not know what was in store for him, at least he would not die a thousand deaths before the final terrifying moment. But still....

Old Juan turned over and scratched himself. The bugs were biting; his body welled sweat. In the dark, through which came Rodriquez’ ceaseless padding, he felt the cell walls closing in, an imperceptible yet certain movement slowly diminishing space and air....

He slept, awoke, centuries of time devoured in a few minutes of fitful sleep, the dark still there but eternal, he thought, till he put out his hand and touched the wall. Two soft notes plucked from the guitar fell into silence, and now along the corridor all but Rodriquez slept. Old Juan sat up, listening.

“Luis,” he finally called.

A mumbled answer.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Save it for tomorrow, old man. We have much time for discussion.”

“Tomorrow I may not have the courage to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“What I know. It concerns you, something frightening.”

Luis smiled in the dark. “You have had a bad dream, go back to sleep, old man.”

“Not so. Listen. For your own good I did not want to tell you this, but now I think you should know. You have done me many favors....”

“Get to the point.”

“All right. Of course you know there is no such thing as the death penalty here.”

“And that is lucky for both of us.”

“Perhaps, but there are ways of getting around such things. Which puts each of us in a different boat.”

“Old man, I don’t follow.”

“Wait. Listen. Some of us are here because of a single grave mistake. Others, to put it baldly, are men who have repeated the same acts....”

“You are talking about me,” said Luis.

“True. I mean no offense. To go on, both of us have committed murder, I for one reason, you for another. That makes us alike and at the same time different.”

“How?” said Luis. “We’ve both killed and that makes us both the same.”

“To a degree. Mind you, I am not seeking to criticize. Each of us has his cell, but you know what you have done, your reputation.”

“Come to the point, I am sleepy.”

“Each of us is separate, different. We are regarded so by those who keep us here. I know what they think of me. As for you....”

“I know what they think of me.”

“You may think you do, my friend. But as I was saying, legally there is no death penalty, yet there are ways to get around the inconveniences of the law. Should they think that a man has not earned the right to live, they find ways of eliminating him.”

“So they are preparing something for me,” Luis said, amused.

“It is what I heard.”

“Tell me what you heard, my friend.”

The old man paused, then went on, saying: “This has happened before, I know. The others know. Any one who has been here long enough. Sometimes they decide to get rid of a man.”

“Perhaps I am to be shot in the back.”

“No, they have another method. The Scorpion’s Cell.”

“What is that?”

“When they decide to do away with a man, he is sent to that cell. A scorpion lives there. When one lies down to sleep the scorpion comes and stings him. In the morning the stretcher-bearers go to the cell and carry him away. It is simple as that. No one has ever come out alive.”

Shaken, Luis was sitting up now. “But how do you know they are preparing me for this?” he asked.

“I have heard. Yesterday I swept the Captain’s office.”

“And when does this take place?”

“Tomorrow. They will change your cell, that is all. You will know then. But perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. It is easier when one doesn’t wait for death.”

“Perhaps,” said Luis, and he spoke no more. Nor did the old man.

One went to sleep; the other lit a cigarette and lay back on his straw mat, staring at the dark. The cells were quiet, all but that of Rodriquez. From there came the endless sound of his footsteps as he paced in his madness.

Near dawn, Luis closed his eyes—for a minute it seemed—then a clamoring brought him to wakefulness, discordant voices and the sound of a club rapping across the bars of a cell.

A long day began then, the longest Luis had ever known. There was no suggestion that what Old Juan had told him would come about. The guards were indifferent, the other prisoners knew nothing. It was a day of agony nevertheless and, as it approached its end, he was ready to believe that nothing would happen.

Finally he called to Old Juan. “My friend,” he said, “it seems you were wrong. What have you to say for yourself?”

“I told you only what I heard,” the old man answered. “Perhaps I was wrong, I hope so. But the light of day still remains.”

About to answer, Luis stopped himself, for there was a stirring at the end of the corridor, then footsteps. Not one guard but several. Their heels clicked on the concrete. Moments later they stopped in front of Luis’ cell. The heavy iron door was swung open. Luis was already on his feet and he met their eyes but there was nothing to see. Their faces were masks.

“Come along,” said one. “You’re moving to another cell.”

At another time Luis would have questioned them, but now he knew. This was it and words would alter nothing; questions would only elicit lies or silence. He stepped out of his cell.

They moved down the corridor and turned into another wing of the prison where a cell was waiting, the door open.

“In there,” said one of the guards.

Even as he stepped in the door was slammed shut behind him. Angrily, then, he put his face to the barred aperture in the door and shouted after the guards, “Why am I here?”

No answer. Only the sound of retreating steps.

Luis turned around. Already the light was fading quickly in the cell. The walls were dark, smelling of dampness, the air heavy and almost chill. Soon the dim light faded and a single shadow filled the cell. Luis stood in the center of it.

He began his preparations now, taking the newspaper he had concealed upon his person and spreading it on the floor around him. He squatted then with hands clasped about his knees and began to wait, never moving.

Hot now, the air close and still. Sweat oozed from him; as the minutes passed his fear intensified. Things began to happen; he heard the guitar playing softly, invisible fingers plucking the strings, and a song the player had never before sung—faint, then as if he were there in the same cell, then faint again. Old Juan, too, whispering, tapping on the wall, whispering again, an insistent plea for a cigarette. And Rodriquez padding across his cell like a jungle cat. All illusory sounds that marched across his brain to destroy that needed silence through which he hoped to hear the approach of the scorpion. Even his heart conspired against him now, beginning to boom, and his breath came in great painful gasps.

Somewhere in that dark cell the scorpion waited. Or perhaps it was already moving toward him. Impossible to hear, though, with his heart thundering and his breath rasping across his teeth. He strained to listen for the sound the scorpion would make as it crossed the paper and his heart thundered louder yet, his breath rasped harder. Sweat streamed down his face and the salt burned his eyes.

He wanted to scream out for help, but help would never come. No one would hear, no one would lift a finger. Best to squat there, as he had planned, with the newspaper spread around him. But already his legs were aching and there was no telling when the scorpion would come, nor from what direction it would strike. Sleep was out of the question, even to relax might mean sudden death.

And so the minutes passed, melted, became hours; his legs numbed but at least the thunderous noise of his heart and the awful rasp of his breath abated. He could hear now, for there was nothing left but silence.

How it happened he didn’t know but somehow he dozed off, squatting in that tiring position, then suddenly came awake. A sound had alerted him. And now he heard a scraping on the paper, the tentative and yet progressive movement of something crawling toward him. In another moment the sound became harsher, louder, as if not a scorpion but some monstrous insect was coming toward him.

Frightened, he struck a match and held it from him. Nothing to be seen, no matter which way he turned. Then the flame died.

It was like a blow, a tremendous thunderclap in his mind, for he had wasted a match. Only one left now. If he wasted the next, he knew he was doomed. Only a light could save him.

He began to pray, over and over he beseeched the Virgin of Guadalupe to save him, made promises, if only she would help. And then somehow he mastered his fear, not that it vanished. For it was still inside him.

Nothing now but silence and time lost, the dark of the cell the only thing. The minutes oozed, then at last he heard a sound so faint that it was beyond belief but the hair on the back of his neck bristled. Nothing again, then the same scraping on the paper. He didn’t move, couldn’t have if he had wanted to. Something coming toward him, steadily now. He tried to time its progress, judge its distance from him. Slowly, slowly, nearer and nearer, and at last, unnerved, he struck the remaining match.

As it flared and the yellow flame appeared he saw nothing. Then, there, almost within arm’s reach he saw the scorpion. It had stopped and raised its deadly tail. Luis stood up suddenly, hesitated a moment and stepped on the waiting insect, crushing it beneath his heel.

Morning and the corridor echoed to the steps of the guard and stretcher-bearers. Finally they stopped before Luis’ cell. A guard unlocked the door and flung it back. Then he and the stretcher-bearers stared as if at a ghost, for Luis stood in the doorway, smiling at them, a cigarette at his lips.

“Has any one a match?” he said.

Guards and stretcher-bearers seemed ready to run. Finally a guard stepped forward and struck a match.

“Gracias!” said Luis, taking the light.

The door was slammed shut in his face. Rapid footsteps retreated down the corridor. One guard reported to the Captain, a moody man who held as many superstitions as the others under his command.

“An act of God,” he exclaimed on hearing that Luis was alive. Then he spoke again. “Release the prisoner,” he ordered, and the ignorant guard was only too glad to comply.