Epilogue to a Story that I May Add More to. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Epilogue

He awoke with a start, believing he was still running from them. The boy frantically leapt from the gray cot he previously lay and attempted to run full speed forward. Only he was cut short by the several metallic posts enclosing the front of his cell. He was confused at first, why would they put a metal gate here? Looking around, he realized that he wasn’t outside at all. There were no roads or street signs to guide him. The familiar landscape had seemingly vanished. The boy ran his hands through his long blond hair, trying to make sense of it all. Then it all came flooding back.

He had been caught a day after Project Ares, desperately trying to flee from the doom that awaited him. It had happened to so many others, why not him? Escaping the initial event proved to be very hard, nearly being compromised on several occasions. Hiding the length of a day proved to be impossible. The boy had been captured during the mere morning hours of the next day, found by the searchers in an abandoned cafe.

The boy, upon realizing his predicament, immediately began to take note of his surroundings. He thought that he might find a weak point to break through. Maybe even a key some careless guard had left behind.

It was a relatively big cell he thought to himself. The floor was about the length of a sedan, as were the walls and ceiling. The entire place seemed to be constructed of a dirty gray concrete, but the boy knew that if this was in fact a cell, it was simply cover for the steel frame beneath it. A dirty and grimy porcelain toilet stood in the corner with a paper roll next to it.. On the side opposite to the toilet, a gray mattress lay in the corner while a white sheet, dotted with holes and being too short, covering it. The light source, being very dull, was created by a single bulb held aloft by the wire that powered it from the high ceiling.

As he observed the cell, he noticed something peculiar, a chair. The chair was poised in the middle of the room, and upon further examination, the boy noticed that it was made of wood. Most strikingly though was that it adorned many different patterns carved onto the top and cross rail.

However, before he could see what these patterns were, he heard a slight tap on the barred door of the cell. The boy spun around to see a man standing there, clad in the traditional navy blue police uniform. Around his waist was a black walkie-talkie, a pair of rusted handcuffs, and a handgun secured in a brown leather holster. The uniform had but one prominent feature. Near the outfit’s breast pocket was a golden badge pinned to the shirt, it read,

LIPTON GROVE YOUTH CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

OCCUPATION: PRISON GUARD

“Go away!” the boy yelled at the guard, “Leave me to rot like they always have.”

The guard, in response to this, merely chuckled as he took a bite from a burrito he had in his right hand. Then, in a soothing slight southern drawl, the policeman said “Settle down now, no need to get all riled up.”

This tone of voice puzzled the boy, he was confused as to why the guard was being calm. Then it infuriated him. Clenching his fists, he walked briskly up to the cell door. Before he could get there however, the officer whipped the handgun out of its holster and pointed it directly at the boy’s forehead. A red dot appearing on the boy’s brow as the laser pointer kicked into action.

“Now, now,” soothed the guard, “let’s not do anything rash.” Then, with the boy still fuming, the guard pulled up his right sleeve to show a glowing orange wristband encircling his wrist. The band was decorated with several ornate gems, all of them the same brilliant orange.

The boy’s face changed from being angry and resentful to a state of shock. He thought that he would never see Warrick again. He thought that during the closure, Warrick and his brother had been captured.

“Oh my god, am I glad to see you,” said the boy enthusiastically.

“Shh, quiet,” whispered Warrick, the slight drawl replaced by a Midwestern accent, “No one is awake at the moment, try to keep your voice low.” He put a finger to his lips as he slowly pulled a ring of keys from his back pocket. Warrick fumbled through them, looking for the correct key. Once he found the correct key, he opened the cell and let the boy out.

At first glance, the boy saw that he hallway was a short one, with only 3 cells between them and the two doors at both ends. All of them had the same steel-barred doors and iron wrought keyholes. The floor and ceiling were made of the same gray concrete as everything else. 4 lights hung were suspended from the ceiling by their wire, all emitting a dull glow. All in all, the boy concluded that it was a much under managed prison.

The two walked down the hall and approached the first door. The boy tried the handle, but to no avail. Cursing under his breath, he took Warrick’s ring of keys and used every one of them. To his surprise none of them worked.

“I’m gonna try the other door, maybe that door will be a little more considerate.” Chuckling at his own joke, the boy started down the other hallway. He scarcely turned his back when Warrick, unbeknownst to the boy, silently pulled his handgun out of its place. He then placed its cold, black muzzle against the boy’s skull. The boy froze.

“Actually,” Warrick quietly said, “I have a different idea.” A million different thoughts flew through the boy’s head. What’s happening? Why is there a gun placed on my skull? Is that actually Warrick? Before the boy could act, Warrick pulled the trigger, a loud bang echoing through the silent penitentiary.

The boy fell face first onto the concrete floor, a dull crack emanating from his head as it hit. Blood was gushing out of the hole in his head, drenching his hair that now lay in a red pool forming around his body.

Warrick planted his foot on the corpse, a sneer appearing on his face. Suddenly, he grabbed his forehead and began to pull. A layer of skin began to come off, revealing that he had been wearing a mask. Beneath it lay another, a face with stern features, complete with forehead and frown creases. No hair adorned the top of his head, but a small brown goatee sprouted from his face. This face also had a scar running across his left eye, and the eye itself was constructed of glass, simply resting in the socket.

He reached down to his waist and took hold of the walkie-talkie. He held it to his lips and, with a gruff and gravely tone said, “One down, two to go.”