GM-46

Hunting the hunters

7.

"No... no..." Alexandra murmured in an almost inaudible breath.

In her restless sleep, her fists pounded against her pillow, askew at the head of the bed. A tear beaded at her left eye.

8.

Still crouching, Nathaniel let most of his weight rest on his uninjured side. Hands on the ground, arms outstretched, he was almost on all fours. With a drooping head and panting breaths, he was defeated. He didn't even have the strength to stand up. On his back, his labored breaths made the tattoo rise and fall, accentuating the macabre dance of the red dots aimed at his heart. He waited for the inevitable, motionless and resigned.

His right hand rested in a wide crevice in the asphalt, worn down by time and the onslaught of roots from nearby vegetation. They had progressed unhurriedly, claiming underground what concrete and tar still denied them on the surface. They had skirted the black crust from beneath, like veins flush with the skin. They had begun their unfaltering work of undermining, blistering the asphalt, pushing away the layer of dry sand and stony fill that supported this dark screed. His fingers brushed against a radicle, lingering at its touch.

His breathing abated, became slower, deeper, more regular. He raised his head towards the edge of the forest: it was not the gaze of a beaten man assessing the distance. Pupils dilated; irises rimmed with a bright green halo. His hand still grazed the nascent root, which quivered beneath his caress. His eyelids narrowed, his nostrils flared, his jaw clenched. A long shiver ran through his entire body. A fierce determination took shape on his face. Imperceptibly, his stance changed to that of a sprinter in the starting blocks. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Behind him, the order to fire cracked the air like a whip. He reopened his eyes...

The projectiles found nothing but emptiness. They crashed in a myriad of shards that shattered around the crevice, shredding the tender growth that was making its way through.

Nathaniel hadn't just leaped, he'd taken off, filled with a newfound energy. Elbows to the body, his run was so powerful, so fast, that the shooters couldn't readjust their aim in time.

"Shoot it! Shoot it!" shouted the noncommissioned officer, rushing forward.

The troop set off, and the stalking resumed. Some of them let off short bursts as they ran. Inaccurate, they were lost in the dawning night. Sprays of tar and sand shot up on either side of the fugitive, who this time was running in a straight line, taking the shortest route to the nearby forest.

The equipment was running at full speed, increasing the commando's velocity tenfold. Logically, the man would have had no chance of covering the distance separating him from the vegetation without being caught. Yet the gap with his pursuers didn't decrease. He leaped over a bulge thicker than the others, landed six yards away effortlessly, accelerated again, crossed a strip of tall grass, jumped a small ravine with one stride, and disappeared behind the fringe of the first shrubs.

The troop came to a screeching halt, battered metal squeaking. The effort they were putting into stopping was at odds with the momentum generated by their motors. The sergeant shouted:

"Keep going! Catch it, that's an order!"

The soldier with his torn off visor, and two of his comrades hesitated.