A Long Time Coming
By Steve McCain
The men had survived years of prison together, but were now parting company, going home. Pages were turning, their lives progressing, and this chapter was closing. The final stage of out-processing required escorts to complete and they had already been awaiting them for hours. Knowing this would be the last they would see of each other; they had each said their final goodbyes soon after their arrival here. Small talk was all that remained between them now. Not knowing when their escorts would arrive, only that they would, they talked only to ward off a dreaded silence.
A faint click rose to be heard above the conversations; it quieted them. Silence, apprehension and anticipation rolled over the room, like September’s fog over London. Could this be it? Might they have changed their minds about letting us go? The tension, on hearing the lock click, was immediate, foreboding and palpable. It was a fog, damp and heavy in the air, grey and depressing; it fitted the concrete holding cell like a well-tailored suit.
There came another click, this time louder than before. The door swung open, it seemed in slow motion, and it creaked with a low, slow, gentle wail, a sound suggestive of an element in mourning. Was the prison mourning its loss? As the door completed its cry and came to rest, a figure stepped through the opening. A collective gasp and swallow ravished the silence. The figure which now consumed the doorway appeared to be more mountain than man. Tall and broad he was, with boulders for biceps; his shoulders might have been mistaken for a precipice tableland, from which the summit of his bald head had erupted from somewhere deep within the earth.
He made not a sound, but looked, ever so slowly, around the room. Silence once again consumed the air. Behind him stood two other men; he seemed not to notice. Had someone’s escort arrived? The question went unasked.
With a uniform of granite grey and over-starched, its creases as sharp as obsidian, he had the look of a six-and-a-half-foot diecast model, he seemed a giant toy soldier, new and shiny and ready to play. As a toy, he would have made the perfect Tyco collectible: The Intimidator. But no toy was he. The scar beneath his left eye deep, jagged and an angry red, reinforced the effect of his structure and stature.
The men could but stand and stare. None were able to move, or even to breathe. Everything about them presented in stark contrast to the Antean soldier who was now towering over them. Their white uniforms were a picture of imperfection, tattered and torn, stained, and as unkempt as their hair, their demeanor had long since become timid, their eyes dim. They would clean up and be outfitted in street clothes before being released, but that would be later.
The Antean, Captain Rheins, as declared by his name tag, raised his left hand and pointed. In the voice of a rumbling volcano, he said, “John James, it is time for you to go. Come with me.”
With that, he turned, ducked, and exited the door. John followed in silence and was himself followed. As the door closed behind them, the only sound was the captain’s boot strikes …
Click, Clack… Click, Clack… Click.
“It’s real”, John thought, “This day has been a long time coming.”
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