Gilead Homeplot: Part IX. Tough Old Mid-World.
"When I was just a baby, my mama told me, Son, always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns..."
The words were thick, trembling in the dusty air of the dungeon, and there was a note in there that wasn't usually present in Johnny Cash's famed tune.
Fear.
Lloyd was trying hard not to lose his shit (not that he had much left), but the stillness that had settled on him wasn't any kind of serenity -- it was shock. His forehead was pressed against the bars, hands wrapped tightly around them, palms sweaty and knuckles white. Cort had dropped him off maybe an hour ago, maybe more, and while there had been no torture or even a beating, Lloyd's situation was still miserable as fuck.
Flagg had said he'd be back, but much as Lloyd would have liked to imagine him bursting in like some kind of demonic Terminator, he knew better. Flagg was a fucking liar, and he hadn't had much trouble leaving Lloyd behind before. Fucking figured, too, that he would end up with that magic ball of his, while Lloyd got stuck with the ball and chain.
Only it was worse than that. He'd heard the guards talking, and it wasn't talk he wanted to hear. Turned out stealing from Steven Deschain carried a heavy price all right, and that he was going to be hanged in the morning. Jesus Christ, how fucking crazy was that? Not crazier than the electric chair, he supposed, but that was like comparing apples and oranges, just really gruesome ones. In Phoenix, he'd had some time to think about what riding the lightning would feel like: whether he would try to thrash and scream all the way to the chair or stay stupidly mute, unable to make a sound until his lungs turned into hot coals. He had lost count of how many times he'd woken up with his heart in his throat, expecting to be strapped in and ready to fry, and each time it felt as real as this.
Now he was wondering how it felt when your neck snapped. What sound it would make. It was getting hard to breathe already.
"But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die…" It barely even sounded like a song anymore, more like a choked-up whisper -- almost a prayer. "When I hear that whistle blowin', I hang my head and cry."