Incarceration

Chapter Twenty-Five

When I wake up next, it's in a dark cell. I roll over and am relieved to see Wyatt lying on the cot next to me, his eyes closed and holes scorched through his uniform. I sit up, wincing, touching the tender parts of my stomach.

The room is dimly lit by a single flickering light bulb hung from the ceiling by a fraying wire. It swings back and forth sending light across the old wooden floorboards. My feet meet the ground and the floor groans.

The room is smaller than a solitary cell and the door is completely solid, thick, and with no opening.

"Maxwell!" Wyatt bolts upright, his whole body still trembling. "Max, where are you?"

"I'm here," I say.

He looks at me, terror on his face.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know."

The moment I answer there is a harsh clang and a plate of food skids across the floor. We both jump.

"Do you want to get that?" Wyatt asks.

"Not hungry," I mutter.

He lies back down and I follow his lead.

"What are they going to do to us, Maxwell?" His voice is very quiet.

"They're going to kill us," I say, swallowing hard and closing my eyes.

"When?"

"I don't know."

The next day comes too quickly and Wyatt is out of bed before I am.

"Come on, Maxwell, get up." He's prodding me in the back and I groan, rolling over and pulling the covers over my head.

"Come on," he says, growing annoyed. "Come on, Maxwell, get up. We have to start planning."

"Planning for what?"

"Our escape."

"It's over," I say from under the covers. "Let's just enjoy the time we have left."

"In here? No. Max, get up!"

Grudgingly, I roll out of bed, rubbing my eyes.

"We can't give up."

"You come up with a plan," I retort. "There's no way out. We tried. We failed."

Suddenly, the door is flung open and two sadistic-looking guards stand in the doorway.

There is nothing I can do besides obey when they order me to turn around and put my hands behind my back. They carry guns that stick into my spine menacingly as my wrists are bound with handcuffs and my eyes are covered with a cloth blindfold. A rough hand buries itself deep in my hair, grabbing a fistful and forcing my head forward so I am bent over and unable to see in front of me.

"Maxwell!" Wyatt's voice comes from beside me full of dread. "Maxwell," he says, "thank you."

"Hey!"

There's a loud thud as wood comes in contact with flesh. I hear Wyatt gasp and my heart breaks.

I don't respond. The knots swell in my throat and quickly become so big that I have trouble breathing.

I am forced forward, still doubled over with the pressure of the guard's hand on my head and back. We're in motion now, and I can hear Wyatt and his escort following us down the long hallways and through doorways.

I have lost all sense of direction. When the blindfold is finally taken off, I am overcome with emotion. I am in another dark room. It's empty, except for Wyatt. He and I embrace each other as soon as we are alone.

"I don't know what they're going to do to us, Wyatt." I'm nearing tears. "I'm so sorry."

Wyatt holds me tight and we hang on to each other until a bright light flashes on.

"Wyatt," I say, my mouth is dry as I watch two people climb into the glass box on the wall, sitting joyfully in front of monitors. "This is a game room," I stammer, my heart racing with fear at the realization that this is not an execution, but something possibly much worse.

"Welcome to your first game," says a robotic voice.

I watch Wyatt as his head tilts upward toward the ceiling and the seemingly magical lights flutter down around us. His face fills with amazement, then apprehension, as we are transported into another world.

It's bright. The sun beats down with a strength that makes my skin bubble as soon as the harsh rays touch my body. I look around at the dirty sand that covers most of the ground through a pair of thick sunglasses before the noises reach my ears. Screams come from far off in the distance, followed by yelling that sounds much closer.

I look over to Wyatt. Our black prison uniforms have been replaced with camouflage jumpsuits. We are both crouched behind a wooden box staring over the top at many small, beaten down sheds and an assortment of debris nestled in the sand that kicks up and stirs as it is met by small gusts of wind.

My hand moves to my waist where I feel the handle of a gun. I swallow hard, my heart racing faster now.

My body is forced forward over the crate. I am now standing in the firing field, orange sand kicking up around my black combat boots. My hands slide down to my waist where they meet two pistols strapped to my hips by a black utility belt. I feel my fingers curling around the handles. Taking a gun in each hand, I turn swiftly on my heels, my arms outstretching in front of me.

Ready to shoot, I walk slowly past the rust and graffiti-covered shacks and down the track. Hair whips across my face. There's a catch in the wind and more screaming comes from far off in the distance. A shiver shoots up my back and sweat begins to bead on my forehead.

I round a corner, still creeping through the camp. And suddenly there is a man in front of me. He stumbles out from behind a storage container, back turned to me and out of breath. Closing my eyes, I wince as I feel my fingers tighten around the trigger of the guns. My arms are thrust back by the recoil and the shots are followed by a gasping cry. A bubble forms in the bottom of my throat and I begin to sweat. What did I just do?

When I open my eyes again, the man is on the floor, still conscious. Red stains encircle two bullet holes in his back. He moves slightly as I step carefully over his nearly lifeless body.

I continue down the path, nauseous. My fingers stay curled around the guns' triggers, but I want more than anything to just drop them and run away from the scene. Dimly, I wonder how Wyatt is doing, if he's killed any Sims yet.

I continue down a winding maze of wreckage, passing other bodies lying in pools of blood. My bones begin to shake inside me but I remain still and emotionless on the outside. More screams. More gunshots. And soon there are bright red flashing words in front of me.

"Final two." The words blink a couple times before they disappear completely and I realize their meaning. There's a noise behind me and I turn to see Wyatt, rifle in hand, but it's too late.

As the bullet hits me, my body is thrown forward. I meet the sandy ground and my head bounces twice before finally settling into the powder. I can feel the tears welling in my eyes at the pain.

It's excruciating, unlike any I've ever experienced. Lying in the sand, I slowly feel my body letting go. Shutting down.

The pixels break and fall away in a wonderful light show. The background dissipates, and soon I feel myself lying on the cold floor of the game room. It's dark except for a single woman celebrating, illuminated by the player box.

Wyatt's arms wrap around my body. "I'm sorry, Maxwell."

I can hear his voice repeating the apology, but it registers in my brain as an echo. A voice from far away.