Running Scared
by
Philip Foster

 

He awoke from the nightmare yet wished he could have remained asleep.

The clock chimed 4am: one hour to report. Sixty minutes to get washed and changed. Then he could eat a hearty breakfast if he wished – before travelling to his final appointment because he must. The Earth would rotate a mere twenty-fourth more before his own world was scheduled to come to an end.

The inevitable route to destruction was long and – unlike any race he had ever won – far straighter.

If only in a metaphorical sense.

Unable to stop the countdown, Colin raised his head from the pillow and yawned. It was a yawn similar to the one he had experienced just before the beginning of the 100 metres final in the Honesty Games. An expression most would associate with tiredness.

Unless, of course, you were a soldier preparing to go over the top.

But then the soldier always has a chance.

Colin formed his fist into a ball and thumped it into a framed photo of a familiar-looking athlete on his dressing table. The picture crashed against the wall, causing shards of glass to fall to the floor. With tears in his eyes, he bent over and retrieved the photo of the smiling figure with the shiny gold medal hanging round his neck.

Then he scrunched it up into a ball and howled as a strong image formed in his mind.

This time, the object around the athlete’s neck was far less comforting.

Colin sank to his knees and sobbed more deeply than he ever had done in his thirty short years. Why? He asked himself. Why did you ever accept that package? Why did you take the substance? You knew how alert the authorities are these days. How could you have thought you’d get away with it? You should have disqualified yourself before the start of the race – you could have walked away from that gun.

A chill went down his spine, only to be replaced by a feeling of unreality.

Slowly, he began to rise. Mechanically, Colin went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth until his gums began to bleed. Then he gashed his right ear as he shaved.

He never even looked in the mirror.

And he didn’t feel a thing.

*

Colin was standing outside in the alleyway. He was vaguely aware that a certain amount of time had passed; that he had an appointment to keep; that perhaps he ought to run...

A rat scurried past him and disappeared into one of the shadows.

Colin felt a beep in his jacket pocket. Slowly, he withdrew the device and pressed a button.

‘Attention: Citizen Colin Redpath. You are five minutes overdue for de-briefing. Your duty is clear, Citizen: You have one minute remaining to contact us for immediate pick-up. Do so and we shall be merciful. You will die with your good name intact. Attention: Citizen Colin Redpath. You are five and a half minutes overdue for-'

Colin felt a sharp pain in his ear. He turned off the device and threw it in the gutter. The feeling of unreality had disappeared. Now Colin felt the adrenaline rush surging through his body. Sweat poured down his face as he rounded the corner, all the time looking for the next convenient shadow to hide in.

He heard the sound of the helicopter drawing ever-closer, shining its blinding lights into every hidden cranny.

The state had other ways of detecting its prey.

Colin ran. Faster than he ever had – even without medical assistance. His heart began to beat at world-record pace. His throat was dry. Sweat poured out over his body. Perhaps he could buy himself a few precious minutes...

But the searchlights illuminated him as he took the bend. Bullets pinged all around. He seemed to have a charmed life.

Until one of them cut him down.

Colin began to feel cold. There was, he thought with some surprise, no pain.

Then he closed his eyes. His race was finally over.

Colin smiled and welcomed the shadows – for the last time...

 

© Philip Foster 2009

 

 

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