Estimated reading time — 14 minutes

DO YOU KNOW what nitrogen hypoxia is?

It’s how I’ve chosen to die.

Our state is the sixth to adopt this method, behind Alabama, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Oklahoma. Some human rights advocates and medical experts consider it cruel and unusual punishment tantamount to torture. However, haven’t they said as much about every other form of execution? As long as the wheels of capital punishment turn and convicted criminals grease them, no rational argument will stop them from making their appointed revolutions.

Such a waste.

You may know me by title if not by name. I’m the leader of that death cult you’ve been hearing about on the news and social media. You may also have heard of “Ultra Mortem,” the nineteenth-century book that explains our tenets. What you’ve never heard is my last confession, unfiltered by psychiatrists, law enforcement, and public opinion. I’ve kept it to myself for good reason. Now, for the sake of my followers, I’ll tell all. Only then will they know the truth of my actions. If they choose to continue down the path I have marked for them, they must do so with full knowledge. Other sects prefer to keep their sheep in the dark, but how will my chosen ones recognize the wolf if I don’t drag it into the light, snarling and snapping?

My story begins in the sterile halls of City Memorial Hospital. I was a surgeon there, renowned by staff and patients alike. I saved many lives. Physicians all over the country emulated my diabetic amputation techniques. I earned countless accolades and awards. I should have been content with this, but an inner siren kept me biting the insides of my cheeks and lying awake in the wee hours of the morning when I wasn’t on call.

I’ve always known that there is more to life than living, more than the grind that churns our souls to bits. What I had to discover, for a high price, is what this “more” consists of. No traditional tome or popular philosophy can explain it. It must be experienced firsthand.

“Ultra Mortem” details how to do this. Before one can understand it, one must know a fair bit of Latin and Greek, but one must first comprehend the human condition. We are lost. That much is true. We need illumination that shines through the near-impenetrable fog of our daily existence.

The Rite of Initiation provides such light. In exchange for forsaking all previous oaths of loyalty, including those to family and friends, one receives a glimpse of the beyond. A sip of olive oil from a consecrated cup, a whispered prayer, and three drops of one’s blood smeared on the plate glass of an antique lantern, and the first step is taken.

Don’t blink. Whatever you do, do not turn your eyes away from the glory of a hidden sun.

The endurance rituals come next. Suffering strengthens the spirit, as more than one orthodox faith proclaims. However, we take this several steps further. Initiates are allowed to partake of drink and drugs beforehand. Disciples and oracles are not. From hot wax to an ice-cold poultice upon the skin, we prepare for the future. We must prove ourselves, I myself first and foremost. If I cannot conquer my own body, how can I expect my acolytes to do the same?Not everything is so difficult. We celebrate in between our trials.That’s the reason I’m about to undergo the death penalty.

Whenever one of my followers is ready, according to their own time, we host their First Feast. The main course is a small appendage of theirs, served with relish. This is an ironclad rule. Another one is that I must perform the operation. A cleaver does what my surgical instruments can, but the brutality and blood loss involved there are too risky. Far better to use sterilized scalpels and knives than unsanitized kitchen utensils. I also use a local anesthetic for the procedure.

One must be conscious. Only then can one have the visions.

In the first, the light is too bright for anyone to view what lies within it. It’s meant to blind. That keeps novices safe until they are prepared to make sacrifices. Then, bit by bit, they see. Several members of my inner circle are in the medical field, so they are familiar with the proper protocols. They’re eager to begin the process, too, but keep themselves intact so that they may serve others.

Literally.

How does one make the leap from belief to practice, from drinking olive oil to eating one’s own meat? The answer is simple. Once the glory has been seen, its lure is irresistible. It’s not enough to behold what’s on the other side. One must stretch out toward it, try to reach it, and come to know it through the effort. There are seven epiphanies in total. One for the Initiation, one for the First Feast, four for the Feasts of Extremity, and the last for the Feast of the Threshold.

Only my closest oracle has had all of them. They’re why I’m here.

Cannibalism has been taboo since the beginning of time. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been done. Even in the Old Testament, it’s mentioned as a curse brought upon people who hate God and/or break their covenants with Him. Read Leviticus 26:29 if you’re curious. My point, and my mission, has been to turn this curse into a blessing for those who seek ultimate knowledge. Not all are strong enough to take part in the Feasts, even after the endurance rituals. They serve their purpose, which is to assist those who do. In the latter rites, the most faithful require hand-feeding because they have no arms.

Oracle Lux gave themselves willingly and completely. Every step of the way, I was there, guiding and mentoring while performing the surgeries. They never complained. They knew their path was an arduous one. What they had that others lacked, besides faith, was an iron will to see their journey through to the end. They suspected what was coming from the time of their First Feast. They could have stopped but didn’t. In for a toe, in for a leg, so to speak. At each juncture, a more detailed vision.

As for me? How did I get to this point? What made me take the first steps on this fatal road?

As you might have guessed, I’m as much a student of the soul as the body. I collect religious and spiritual texts. To call it a passion would put it too mildly. I’m obsessed. I read everything I can about the connection between this life and the afterlife. Most of it is well-meaning but shallow. However, at an estate sale for an old colleague of mine, I found a book whose leather cover was so smooth and fine that I wondered what kind of animal it came from. I flipped to the title page.

ULTRA MORTEM: What Lies Beyond Death, by L. Wright Vollinger, 1887.

I did a double-take. Was this a first or an only edition? I was immediately intrigued, so much so that the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. The table of contents listed the endurance rituals, the six Feasts, and the seven sequential visions. I dared not read any more in the presence of those who also wished to buy my former comrade’s things. Instead, I hid the book in the inner lining of my winter coat and smuggled it home.

That was my first crime. I feared it would be priced at more than I was willing or able to pay.

Little did I know.Locked in my room with only a flashlight to guide me, I began reading.

It became clear to me that the author was no neophyte, but a skilled occultist. She mentioned entities and locations beyond space and time. I’d heard of them, of course, but never had them described in such delightful, horrifying detail.

That was only the foreword.

L. Wright Vollinger, first name Libra, had found a method of transcendence via transubstantiation. Through sanctifying and consuming her own body, part by part, she unlocked her soul, part by part. The endurance rituals made her ready. The visions made her certain. And, as they say, certainty is the devil. She underwent each Feast in order and miraculously survived the Feast of the Threshold to dictate “Ultra Mortem” to her most devoted servant.

If Libra had endured these steps and triumphed, who was to say I couldn’t?Not that I would cannibalize myself in full until my work was done.I needed money (of which I had much), time (not so much), and followers.

Accessories to murder, according to the court. Deadly dupes, according to the media. Pioneers and visionaries, according to me. Even those who did not or could not participate in the Feasts had taken their initial peek at life beyond the grave. They were my means to accomplish what Libra had without sacrificing myself too early. They were also the means to her final chapter:

Resurrecting the Dead.

Oracle Lux had experienced their seventh vision, then expired. They’d been strong, but not strong enough to exist as pure mind. Their loss devastated me, shook me to my core. It planted the first seeds of doubt along with fear, shame, and guilt: the four emotions that any sane criminal feels. That’s what the psychiatrist witnesses for the prosecution said. Those on my defense team said I clearly did not know right from wrong, in a legal or moral sense.

Not to mention my left pinky toe was gone. No more than that. I had to keep my balance to perform the Feast operations upon others. I told this to the court as part of my insanity defense.

The jury didn’t buy it. They found me guilty of first-degree murder, missing appendage or not.

When asked whether I wished to perish by lethal injection or nitrogen hypoxia, I picked the latter without hesitation. The drugs for the former are increasingly hard to get. I wasn’t going to risk my executioners not finding a suitable vein or suitable substitutes for the drug cocktail. Still, there is a chance I’ll suffer for much longer than the five minutes I’ve been told I’ll last.

I’ve informed the guards how I want to leave this world, but all they have to say is:

“Shut up. You want us to think you’re off your rocker, but you’re sane enough to kill.”

Ah, the paradox of mental health treatment on death row.

I’ve seen my lawyer numerous times. I’ve rejected every appeal. I yearn to die. If I can’t follow in Libra’s footsteps through self-consumption, I’ll let the nitrogen do the consuming for me. At least I’ll be buried instead of cremated. This is good news. Lock me in a casket and let the rest of my body rot. All I need is an intact brain to live forever.

Rattling outside my cell. A metal tray emerges through the slot in the door. Surf and turf.

I eat with undisguised glee. The ribeye is fall-off-the-bone tender, the lobster even more so. I let grease and drawn butter run out the sides of my mouth and down my chin without bothering to wipe them off. I imagine I’m having another last meal, all four extremities. Dozens of pounds of flesh, impossible to devour in one sitting, but I’m hungrier than any wolf. I bite into my arms and draw blood. It gives the meat an iron taste I enjoy immensely. Surely that counts for something.

My dinner is gone in a flash. All I have left now is time.

Given the nature of my offense, I haven’t been allowed any visitors today except my lawyer, whom I turned away again. I’m estranged from my family as per my Initiation vows. Even if I asked to see them, they wouldn’t want anything to do with me. I’m poisoned. Tainted. Unclean.Yet how come I feel more holy with each passing minute?

Sanctification comes to those who persevere. Disciple Lumen did not. They were on the fast track, so close! They could have been more revered than the late Oracle Lux. However, they turned me over to the authorities after eating their left arm and leg. Why didn’t they act sooner? Maybe their visions weren’t intense enough to make it worth their while, so they feasted until they were satisfied. Yet I don’t think that’s entirely the case. Lumen wanted financial compensation for their lost limbs. I can’t say I blame them. A hundred-thousand-dollar reward is nothing to sneeze at. Yet it’s nothing compared to the glory. I thought Lumen understood. Instead, they refused to behold or believe anymore, leaving me at the secular mercy of the criminal justice system.

I don’t think my death will be merciful.

Lux fulfilled me. Lumen betrayed me. What of Libra, who inspired me? Where is she now? What ethereal plane does she exist on? Most of all, how on earth did she survive her last Feast?

I have to know before my time is up.

I try to meditate. No good. I try to pray. That doesn’t work either. Still, I make the effort. I exhaust every possible avenue I know of to contact the other side. Nothing but a dreadful quiet.

The inmate in a neighboring cell flushes his toilet, shattering the calm.

Two things I won’t miss when I’m gone: the nauseating smells and sounds of other people.

I pace like the caged animal I am. Soon I’ll be put down. I wish I had a watch or a phone.

(Heretic.)

What was that? A whisper at the edge of hearing, though I swear no one else has spoken.

(Blasphemer.)

There it is again. Am I hallucinating? I must be, due to fear.

A turn of phrase in my mind.

(You have done unto others what you’d never do to yourself.)

“That’s not true,” I mumble out loud. Slapping both hands over my mouth, I think: My work isn’t done. I must resurrect Oracle Lux, hidden in a locked drawer at the old city morgue.

(They’re too far gone. I wasn’t. My devoted servant made sure of it and brought me back.)

“How?” Again, I mumble, this time through my fingers.

(You’ll find out.)

The jingle of keys outside my cell door jolts me back to reality. So does the sound of my name.

“Are you ready?”

Yes. No. Never. Always. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Come on, then. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

I’m led down a long hall of faded linoleum, scuffed by scores of feet. This isn’t the Green Mile, but some part of me has christened it the Path. At the end of it lies the death chamber, but first I make a stop at the chaplain’s office. I refuse my last rites. An exit, a left turn, and there it is.

The gurney. At the sight of it, my knees buckle. It looks just like a cross.

“Whoa,” says one of the guards. “Steady. You’re almost there. Just a few more steps.”

My feet won’t move. My arms won’t support me. I’ve gone as limp as a rag doll, and I feel myself being dragged over and onto the instrument of my demise. Tears and snot are pouring down my face. This can’t be happening. I was supposed to progress piece by piece, revelation by revelation. As I’m strapped down, the realization of my death crashes in on me all at once, like a wave.

The clock in the chamber reads 11:45.

A curtain parts. There are only one or two witnesses behind it. I don’t recognize them. Maybe they’re family members of Oracle Lux, or any other one of my elect. They stare dully ahead.

“You have been found guilty of first-degree murder by a jury of your peers,” says the warden. “This is a capital offense. You have chosen nitrogen hypoxia as your execution method. Would you like to make a final statement before the sentence of the court is carried out?”

My throat hurts to clear. “There are none so blind as those who refuse to see.”

Silence.

“You shall now breathe pure nitrogen gas until you suffocate and die. May God have mercy on your soul.” The warden makes a motion, and the guards are on me again.

I struggle with the mask. It’s too tight against my face, won’t let me see a thing, and the rubber tubing scratches my chin. I think I hear someone say “relax,” but I’m not sure. How can I, anyway?I hear a steady hissing sound. I hold my breath.

It’s the first endurance ritual we practice. My personal record is six minutes. How long can I hold out against the nitrogen trying to force its way into my mouth and lungs? I kick and thrash all I can, but the straps hold me tight. It isn’t long before my vision blurs, then melts into brightness.

The glory. The first vision. My Initiation reward.

I force myself to concentrate and peer my way through the blinding light. Two wrought iron gates come into view, one with an upright-facing keyhole, the other inverted.

A skeleton key appears in my hand. This is the second vision, experienced after one’s First Feast.

My dearest follower was right. They said the key fit both holes, so they could visit both Heaven and Hell before deciding to inhabit one or the other, or try to move on to a third option.

“Who’d choose Hell?” I’d asked Lux. They shrugged. Even oracles don’t know everything.

I approach the gate with the upright keyhole and attempt to insert the skeleton key. It won’t fit. I twist and turn it with all my might, jamming it further and further into the lock, but it won’t yield. It takes all my strength to yank it out, like a pulled tooth that’s still healthy instead of rotten.

I expect the key to slide into the inverted hole like a hot knife into butter. Instead, the lock’s just as stubborn as the previous one, if not more so. I sigh with relief, feeling sweat drip down my armpits. I stink like a pig. I don’t know what to do next, because the effulgence beyond the gates won’t let me see. I haven’t had any more visions since my First Feast. Now I won’t be able to.

Two figures approach. Angels? They’re certainly haloed, their eyes like burning coals.

(Come.)

Both gates fall open. Startled, I tumble to my knees, then crawl my way through.

Before me, a great wheel spins, welcoming souls onto it, then within it. Beings of light, some dim, others brilliant as Sirius. It resembles nothing sacred, more like a slaughtering machine for pigs.

Reincarnation? I think not. My third vision is a disappointment, as is the lack of imagination in this realm. Are these three choices the only ones we have after death? If so, I’d rather go on living.

Even though I can’t.

I follow the entities past the spokes of the monstrous wheel, ducking underneath them and feeling like an ant must feel under the raised foot of an elephant. I barely make it out without being crushed. Oracle Lux mentioned this, of course, but they did not describe the full horror.

Before me lie the Elysian Fields, full of bountiful fruit trees and rivers clear as glass. Sages and philosophers walk among them, sharing their wisdom, learning and growing. A beautiful vision, but I’ll grow bored here. I’ve learned more in leading my cult than any wise man or woman could teach me. The entities wait on the other side, and it isn’t long until I reach them. We wander on.

(Behold yourself. You’ve lost more than you think you’ve gained.)

When I look down, I notice that I’m without my left arm and left leg.

No wonder I have so much trouble crawling.

(Do you wish to continue?)

I nod.

(Then follow us.)

Past the Elysian Fields stands a city, a vast maze of buildings and people that twists back upon itself once you reach the center, forever. This is samsara, I am told: the constant craving of every being on every planet. This is where the desperate and the hungry go, those who cannot find peace because, in one way or another, they’ve refused it. It lacks the active punishment of hell, but it also lacks the hope of heaven. I fear this is where I’ll stay, but the beings shake their heads.

They lead me to the place of the sixth vision, an ivory tower. More sages? No. Here, there are hundreds of scribes, even thousands, recording every deed that every person has ever done from time immemorial. Good ones, bad ones, those that seemed inconsequential but turned out to be monumental. The scribes write because they remember, and the Orthodox funeral prayer “May their memory be eternal” is a reality here. The entities gesture toward an empty desk.

“No,” I reply. “I don’t want to commemorate. I want to transcend. To ascend, as you both have.”

(Then cross…the threshold.)

I’m without arms. I’m without legs. All I am is a head and a torso. I’m almost there.

I notice that my guides are holding knives engulfed in flames. They ask if I’m prepared.

“I’ve spent my whole life preparing. Don’t make me spend my whole afterlife getting ready.”

Libra Wright Vollinger and Oracle Lux make a gesture of blessing, then plunge the daggers down.

They feed me. I consume my own heart, piece by pulsing piece.

I feel myself being pulled away from the light, toward darkness and everlasting space…“Put me down. Put me down. Put me down. Put me down,” I mumble through the mask.

“Oh, God. He’s still alive. It’s been fifteen minutes, but the nitrogen hasn’t – ”

“Turn it off!”

I feel the mask being ripped away from my face. I gasp for air, drowning in it like a fish.I can’t feel my body.

“A botched execution. He might be paralyzed from the neck down. This is bad. Real bad.”

“That’s why we gotta make sure it doesn’t make the papers. We keep our mouths shut.”

“Even if we do, people are going to wonder why this asshole’s not dead. We’ll have to try again.”

“Lethal injection?”

“I guess. Nothing else is legal in this state.”

I lie there on the gurney, listening with razor-keen hearing. I want to scream but can’t.

“If it were up to me, I’d just shoot them.”

“That’s why it’s not up to you.”

“Shut up.”

I can’t move. I can’t talk. All I can do is blink against the glare of the death chamber lights.

Libra and Oracle Lux have condemned me. What I thought was a gesture of blessing was a curse.

“Get them to the infirmary. Now.”

“Hang on a minute. If they’re responsive, how come I’m not getting any breathing or a pulse?”

“That’s fucking weird. Try again, and try not to misuse the blood pressure cuff this time.”

The guards and medics tend to me, finding nothing wrong.Is this how I’ll spend eternity? In the flesh, yes, but in my mind, I’m reeling in outer darkness. Worse than hell, because the flames are those of radiation. I’m being cooked alive from the inside out, although my heart’s been eaten. My empty frame and full conscience, burdened with pain.

It’s been a month since I faced the gas. They’re going to try the needle on me next, although I know it won’t work. I’m fed through IV fluids. Every day I grow a little stronger. Not weaker, as you’d expect. Instead, I’m fully conscious of my body in agony, regrowing itself.

I’ll never find rest, as Libra and Lux have. I’ll outlast everyone here, including the warden.This is my reward. I’ve crossed the threshold, and there is no turning back.

Credit: Tenet