Runner

Chapter Six

The back of the open ended cargo truck smelt of burning rubber and petrol. The winter night blew through the cabin, slicing between our crammed bodies. The sun had fallen, swallowed by empty midnight skies.

A non-descript member of the team sat opposite me, and another to my side. Some of the men chatted under the cough of the engine. I focused on my breathing, not letting nerves, or the bumpy ride that tore waves through my stomach, to get the better of me.

The three hour drive had been tedious, and it had allowed for more than enough contemplating of my decision making skills. At the same time, it seemed to pass by in seconds. The uncharted dry lands, nor the clustered stars, were enough to distract me from what loomed. As the truck slowed to a silent stop, I knew I wasn’t ready, and that I probably never would be.

I was at the end of the bench, and one of the first to have my boots on the ground. I was horrified by the fossilised track that lay to our left, it ran for miles in front of us extending into blind darkness. Bodies began to file from the three trucks, movement polluting the still night.

Reaves sent two of his minions off on a task, before he came for me. He crossed his arms.

“Please tell me this is a gas stop?” I tested against his concerning straight face.

He pointed down the track, “Forty minutes that way you’re going to see the spot lights, another twenty and you’ll hit the first wave of guards.”

“And then …. Boom?” 

“Boom,” He agreed, before he pulled two flat blocks from his pack, two timers on top.

“Attach the timers before the guards, hide them in your palms, press the red button before you throw them. They’ll detonate on impact. Make sure you’ve got some form of cover. And, for the love of God don’t drop them.”

Taking a deep breath, “Piece of cake,” I assured.

 “Good luck Ash,” Reaves finished, his dark eyes moulding to reflect a regarding kindness. Maybe we were friends, on some sort of messed-up level.  

“Thanks Boss,” I nodded, brushing back my hair before I turned to the track.

I ignored the hustle around me, my thoughts stolen by the arising line of rickety timber and iron. A lone silhouette was the last barrier between me and my path. The explosives were weighing down my hands like lead, my palms sweating.

I paced closer, Elek steady in his oblivious stare, resistant to give in to the thought that he had lost, and I was going through with this. For the briefest second my eyes closed, he was going to let me pass him without a single word.

And he did.

I stopped a few metres after him, my feet dragging through the dirt, “I don’t have a choice,” I said to the black sky.

“We always have a choice,” his cold voice wagered.

“I’m doing this,” I finalised.

“Then I’m not going to watch you stain your hands with blood.” His tone was adamant and cemented.

“It’s not an easy position to be in is it?” I spat, turning to stare at his back, my eyes blurring with a film of tears. Tormented and tainted memories boiling to the surface.

How many times had I watched my brother do the same? For food, or shelter, to prove ourselves, to keep our façade as humans. I was yet to forget the many times I pretended to be asleep as he came home from a shift, or job for a local gang we were passing, needing to pay off, scrubbing his skin for hours trying to remove the stains of red that I would later find in his jeans and sweaters.