GameMiestro
31st May 2006, 01:42 PM
I felt like writing something the other day, and I ended up with this. It's still a draft, but I thought it came out well:
The Last Shot
The footsteps of the Warden echoed through the hallway. I knew what that meant, and I’d be a fool if I were going to let him get away with any of his spite. The sweat on my jail mate showed that he thought similarly about the situation, and a glace between us confirmed my theory. No words were needed- that would make me more like them.
“March.”
Every jail cell in our hall was thrown aside in an instant. The Warden was accompanied by a guard who hated us almost as much- a grimacing, stocky man that carried a gun almost the size he was. We lined up behind the enemy, in 2 rows of 3. And we marched, down the long stone hallway, with silence now filling our ears.
The Warden led us to the Holding Room; a cubicle made of concrete so thick a tank could not escape its grasp. Of course, this made it swelteringly hot, save a lone vent in the ceiling that provided relief for us victims. A single square foot Plexiglas window allowed the guards to prevent any possible plotting, though we were less aware of any conspiracy than they were.
Half a dozen chairs were carefully arranged in the center of the room, which shocked me. This was unexpected, garbling the serene routine of our lives. And it clearly had something to do with us. We all sat down, I in the fifth seat to the left. I did not realize this crucial evidence just yet- but it would all be apparent in the end of things. The Warden handed the guard a small packet, walked out of the room, and shut the door behind him. The last I ever heard of the Warden was the same, cruel footsteps as earlier that day.
The guard appeared to be reading a small label on the package. He seemed bored, lazily reading the message scrawled on the packet. Suddenly, he started laughing- a sickening cackle that did nothing to lighten the mood. “Well boys, with the chair manager off duty, it looks like you’ll have to choose the first who gets to go on permanent leave.” He walked in front of the man one the far right chair. “Hold out your hand,” he barked. The package turned over. A shiny metal object fell into his hand. “Six shots, five are blanks. You know what to do.” He spat some tobacco on the floor. “Well, get moving.” He then stood in the corner of the room, and grinned.
The man now holding the revolver looked as shocked as I. This was unbelievable, and certainly against any code or honor I had learned from my commanders. Being a POW was not part of our training, and I often had an urge to deny that anything was different from the norm. Now was not one of those moments.
Any attempt to escape was futile. The lock on the door was on the outside- why the Warden never used the Holding Room himself, lest an underling forget his loyalties. I had wondered about the vent on the ceiling for quite some time, though, and wondered now what would happen if we shot the guard and tried to- no, I would not think of this, I needed to follow orders. The first “click” made it all the more difficult.
The first man had already shot. I quickly calculated the probability of me getting the bullet, and I would have remembered had the next “click” not blasted any need for chance out of my mind. A relived prisoner clumsily dropped the revolver into the hand of the next man. He was paler than usual, making his enormous moustache stand out. He quickly grabbed the gun, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. He was spared.
The fourth man, a lean, dark skinned man of little quantity and much quality looked down at the gun, prayed, picked it up and aimed it straight at his temple. For a second, I hoped he would get the fatal shot, and was horrified for not the last time. He slowly pressed the trigger, and was saved.
The revolver dropped into my lap. The room suddenly became swelteringly hot, and I looked around. Nobody was sweating. The prison guard was gripping his gun tightly, he was ready, but he wasn’t looking at me. Why wasn’t he looking at me? Why wasn’t anyone noticing that I wasn’t shooting the gun? Did they forget, could I just walk through the door and never look back? Oh, I knew what was going on. They were tempting me. Just waiting for me to make a false move. Yes, I knew. I-
“Hurry it up, Mac. I don’t got all day.”
I snatched the gun, dragged it upped to my ear and threw the trigger. An audible “click” slowly filled the room. I felt lucky and sick at the same time. This was the true torture in the Wardens scheme- handing it off to the last man.
He was a lean man, young in face but old in spirit. I don’t know what he was thinking, but did it really matter, after all? I had survived, I had won, and when there’s a winner, there’s a winner. I played the game just as fairly as everyone else, and he should too. Even the guard seemed pleased with the outcome, which didn’t help to lift my spirits. I knew him for the first time that day. Tears rolled down his cheeks, yet I could do nothing.
He tightly gripped the gun, and his hand turned a deep shade of red. They stared, the man and his executioner. What I would have done in his place, I did not dare to think. I turned around to realize that every man in the room stared at him intently- even the guard cared what happened to the man now. It was his turn to bend the silence.
It happened so slowly, yet it was such a blur… we all sat captive to the spectacle. The man stood up and pointed the gun at the guard’s head. I heard a scream, and saw the man squeeze the trigger, with fury now in his eyes.
“Click.”
He looked down, horrified, and dropped the revolver. Bullets pierced through the man’s chest. A corpse now lay on the floor, bringing with it silence and blood.
“Attempting to fatally wound an official with lethal weaponry. Good enough for me,” the guard gleefully called. It was my turn to cry. He was my friend, killed through a fixed game of roulette.
Only one questioned remained- who was to blame? The guard had fired, yet he did it in policy- after all, it was self defense. Was it the Warden, with his crazed philosophy that caused his demise, even though he never actually asked the guard to shoot? Was it the old man’s rage that killed him, or was it because the rest of us did not do so much as question the rules of the game we were forced to play? I never knew, even as I mused in the silence.
The Last Shot
The footsteps of the Warden echoed through the hallway. I knew what that meant, and I’d be a fool if I were going to let him get away with any of his spite. The sweat on my jail mate showed that he thought similarly about the situation, and a glace between us confirmed my theory. No words were needed- that would make me more like them.
“March.”
Every jail cell in our hall was thrown aside in an instant. The Warden was accompanied by a guard who hated us almost as much- a grimacing, stocky man that carried a gun almost the size he was. We lined up behind the enemy, in 2 rows of 3. And we marched, down the long stone hallway, with silence now filling our ears.
The Warden led us to the Holding Room; a cubicle made of concrete so thick a tank could not escape its grasp. Of course, this made it swelteringly hot, save a lone vent in the ceiling that provided relief for us victims. A single square foot Plexiglas window allowed the guards to prevent any possible plotting, though we were less aware of any conspiracy than they were.
Half a dozen chairs were carefully arranged in the center of the room, which shocked me. This was unexpected, garbling the serene routine of our lives. And it clearly had something to do with us. We all sat down, I in the fifth seat to the left. I did not realize this crucial evidence just yet- but it would all be apparent in the end of things. The Warden handed the guard a small packet, walked out of the room, and shut the door behind him. The last I ever heard of the Warden was the same, cruel footsteps as earlier that day.
The guard appeared to be reading a small label on the package. He seemed bored, lazily reading the message scrawled on the packet. Suddenly, he started laughing- a sickening cackle that did nothing to lighten the mood. “Well boys, with the chair manager off duty, it looks like you’ll have to choose the first who gets to go on permanent leave.” He walked in front of the man one the far right chair. “Hold out your hand,” he barked. The package turned over. A shiny metal object fell into his hand. “Six shots, five are blanks. You know what to do.” He spat some tobacco on the floor. “Well, get moving.” He then stood in the corner of the room, and grinned.
The man now holding the revolver looked as shocked as I. This was unbelievable, and certainly against any code or honor I had learned from my commanders. Being a POW was not part of our training, and I often had an urge to deny that anything was different from the norm. Now was not one of those moments.
Any attempt to escape was futile. The lock on the door was on the outside- why the Warden never used the Holding Room himself, lest an underling forget his loyalties. I had wondered about the vent on the ceiling for quite some time, though, and wondered now what would happen if we shot the guard and tried to- no, I would not think of this, I needed to follow orders. The first “click” made it all the more difficult.
The first man had already shot. I quickly calculated the probability of me getting the bullet, and I would have remembered had the next “click” not blasted any need for chance out of my mind. A relived prisoner clumsily dropped the revolver into the hand of the next man. He was paler than usual, making his enormous moustache stand out. He quickly grabbed the gun, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. He was spared.
The fourth man, a lean, dark skinned man of little quantity and much quality looked down at the gun, prayed, picked it up and aimed it straight at his temple. For a second, I hoped he would get the fatal shot, and was horrified for not the last time. He slowly pressed the trigger, and was saved.
The revolver dropped into my lap. The room suddenly became swelteringly hot, and I looked around. Nobody was sweating. The prison guard was gripping his gun tightly, he was ready, but he wasn’t looking at me. Why wasn’t he looking at me? Why wasn’t anyone noticing that I wasn’t shooting the gun? Did they forget, could I just walk through the door and never look back? Oh, I knew what was going on. They were tempting me. Just waiting for me to make a false move. Yes, I knew. I-
“Hurry it up, Mac. I don’t got all day.”
I snatched the gun, dragged it upped to my ear and threw the trigger. An audible “click” slowly filled the room. I felt lucky and sick at the same time. This was the true torture in the Wardens scheme- handing it off to the last man.
He was a lean man, young in face but old in spirit. I don’t know what he was thinking, but did it really matter, after all? I had survived, I had won, and when there’s a winner, there’s a winner. I played the game just as fairly as everyone else, and he should too. Even the guard seemed pleased with the outcome, which didn’t help to lift my spirits. I knew him for the first time that day. Tears rolled down his cheeks, yet I could do nothing.
He tightly gripped the gun, and his hand turned a deep shade of red. They stared, the man and his executioner. What I would have done in his place, I did not dare to think. I turned around to realize that every man in the room stared at him intently- even the guard cared what happened to the man now. It was his turn to bend the silence.
It happened so slowly, yet it was such a blur… we all sat captive to the spectacle. The man stood up and pointed the gun at the guard’s head. I heard a scream, and saw the man squeeze the trigger, with fury now in his eyes.
“Click.”
He looked down, horrified, and dropped the revolver. Bullets pierced through the man’s chest. A corpse now lay on the floor, bringing with it silence and blood.
“Attempting to fatally wound an official with lethal weaponry. Good enough for me,” the guard gleefully called. It was my turn to cry. He was my friend, killed through a fixed game of roulette.
Only one questioned remained- who was to blame? The guard had fired, yet he did it in policy- after all, it was self defense. Was it the Warden, with his crazed philosophy that caused his demise, even though he never actually asked the guard to shoot? Was it the old man’s rage that killed him, or was it because the rest of us did not do so much as question the rules of the game we were forced to play? I never knew, even as I mused in the silence.