The Run Around

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He pulled the air into himself, panting, the effort burning his throat, grunting as he stumbled and collided with undergrowth that threatened to pull him down and tree branches which whipped his body and stung his face. The wetness, the torrential downpour, seemed to make it worse, which didn’t make sense because it should actually have helped, but in his terror it was difficult to think properly about anything. Only one important thought: keep running. Had to keep running: stay ahead of them all the time. Not get caught. Terrible if he got caught. Rather be killed than be caught. He’d do that, instead of being captured: refuse to stop when they shouted the order, so that they’d shoot. What if the bullets didn’t kill, only wounded? Unlikely. He knew, like he knew so much else, that the border guards carried machine pistols so it wouldn’t be a single shot. A sprayed burst. People rarely survived a sprayed burst: weren’t intended to. Definitely wouldn’t stop, not if they got close enough positively to challenge him. Far better to be killed. Why the hell couldn’t it have gone as he’d planned? Dignified. Not like this. Not running like some common criminal through some forest he didn’t know towards some people he didn’t know. Would he already have been listed as a criminal? That was how they’d regard him. Worse than a criminal; far worse. That’s why he couldn’t allow himself to be caught. He stopped, needing the wet-slimed support of a tree to stay upright, legs trembling from the unaccustomed running. The rain slapped and hissed into other trees all around him but beyond he could hear the other noises, the shouts of those pursuing him, calling to maintain contact with each other. And – worse – the barking and baying of their dogs.

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