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18:30 Sunday 14 March 2077
Stephen Tufnell wasn’t the best partner to go on the run with. He’d done his best to keep up with Martin Dier but he just wasn’t athletic. He called out to the figure that was a few paces ahead of him.
“Martin. Can we stop? I’ve got a stitch.”
“I wish we could, but you saw what Liam and Connor did back there. You don’t want to end up like the others, do you?”
“Of course not, but I’m not as fit as you.”
“You’d be surprised what you can do when you try, Steve. Especially when you’re being chased. Our lives’ depend on us getting as far away from that place as possible. You want to live, don’t you?”
Martin waited a few seconds for Stephen to catch up with him.
“Look. If they catch us, they’ll kill us. We’re witnesses. We saw what they did. They’ll want to tie up loose ends.”
“What does ‘tie up loose ends’ mean?”
“Sorry, I keep forgetting that you’re only seven.”
“So are you. But you know a lot of long words. You know a lot more than I do. Why?”
“Yes. I’m only seven. But I remember things easily. That’s all. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got plenty of time to remember loads of things.”
“What if I haven’t?”
“You have.”
“But, what if I haven’t?”
“Look, don’t worry about it. We’ve got to get out of these woods. We’re way too close to the house. They can’t be far behind.”
Stephen stretched his arms out wide and then let them drop to his side, shaking them to loosen them up.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
Martin started to run again but was stopped in his tracks by a shout of surprise. He turned round to see Stephen falling to the ground. He wasn’t unconscious but he did have blood trickling from a wound at the back of his head.
Behind him stood Jazz with a small rock in his right hand. Stephen, who had always been an introverted child – he hadn’t even wanted to go to the twins’ party, but his mother had insisted, thinking it would do him good – suddenly found reserves of courage that he didn’t know that he possessed. He drew himself to his feet and punched Jazz hard on the jaw, but all it did was irritate Jazz even more and make Stephen’s hand hurt.
“Run Martin, run! The others can’t be far behind.”
“But, but, I can’t leave you here.”
“I’ll come back. I will get born again, won’t I?”
“Yes...but.”
“Then run!”
Martin didn’t like leaving the little lad, but he could see Liam, Connor and Rebecca running up the path to catch up with their accomplice. There was no point in both of them dying. Stephen would be reincarnated but he wouldn’t remember any of his past lives; he wasn’t a Recarn. He also knew that Stephen was right – if he stayed he’d be killed too. What a brave young boy Stephen had turned out to be.
Martin started sprinting through the woods, dodging low branches and leaping over fallen logs. He felt guilty about leaving his friend behind, but what else could he have done? It’s not as if Stephen hadn’t told him to save himself. It was odd because usually it was he who sacrificed his life to save others. The boot was now on the other foot and it felt distinctly uncomfortable.
He had to get out of this stupid Wolverine costume. His mum had packed a change of clothes into a backpack but that was back at the house with all the dead bodies. He had two alternatives really. He could find something to wear on the streets, in a bin or something maybe, but that wasn’t exactly fool-proof and he could spend all night rifling through rubbish bins but finding nothing. There were a couple of clothes recycling bins at a nearby mall but even if he could get some clothing out of them – the bins had a kind of one way clothes deposit system to discourage thieves – he couldn’t guarantee that anything he found would fit. The other option was to go back to the scene of the massacre and retrieve his own clothes. He weighed up the two options and decided on the latter. At first look it may seem the foolish choice, returning to a place that would soon be teeming with police, but it was certainly the one thing that Liam, Connor, and their cronies wouldn’t be expecting. Also, he didn’t want his parents to get more involved in this mess than they had to. If he stayed away from his own house there would be no need for them to have to deny that they had seen him. They could honestly state that they hadn’t seen their son since they had dropped him off at the party. Of course, they would be worried sick about him - not knowing if he were dead or alive - but that was a small price to pay.
Martin was a very fast runner and the school champion for his age group. His four pursuers wouldn’t be able to keep up with him and he knew it. Being an adventurous child, he often played in the woods and knew every rut and dip in the earth, the location of every fallen branch and log, and the height and positioning of every hanging branch. His parents called it playing but it was, in reality, training. He may have been only seven years old (nearly eight actually) but he liked to hone his survival skills and keep himself at the peak of physical fitness. Whilst most of his friends would be indoors, glued to their games consoles and computers, or wandering around their neighbourhoods trying to capture characters from the latest version of Pokémon Go, he would be mapping the woods in his mind. He had seen it principally as a mentally stimulating exercise and had never imagined that it would end up playing such an important part in keeping him alive. Having died and been reincarnated more times than most Recarns, he had no fear of death but he didn’t go looking for it either.
He was running on instinct. It was dark now, but he could have been blindfolded and it wouldn’t have made any difference. He was like a fusion between the speed of a cheetah and the agility of a Thomson gazelle. His legs were a blur as he weaved around trees and ducked beneath overhanging branches. He could hear the voices of the killers fading into the distance. That was a rookie mistake, trying to talk whilst running. They were wasting much needed oxygen, oxygen that would have been put to better use feeding their muscles (not that he was complaining). A heavy, moss-covered log loomed into view but he hurdled it without even glancing down at the obstacle. He knew it was there, he didn’t need to see it. His brain was rapidly processing any unexpected changes in the terrain and surroundings, whilst silently making minute adjustments to his body position to counter the possible threats. He allowed himself a lack of concentration for but a few seconds when he considered that perhaps he should be wearing a Flash costume instead of being dressed as Wolverine, but he didn’t let it break his stride or miscalculate a duck or a leap.
The woods were now silent and all he could hear were dead leaves dealing a glancing but harmless blow against the soles of his sneakers as the two surfaces made momentary contact. He was now certain that he was clear of the chasing pack and started to make a wide turn to the left so that he could head back to the house without, quite literally, running into his would-be killers.
Ten minutes later he was approaching the murder scene. There was no sign of his pursuers and he had to rely upon stealth rather than speed from now on. He could afford to spare a few seconds to take stock of his situation and formulate some kind of plan. Tucking himself behind a bush he scanned the scene that lay before him.
There weren’t that many people in the garden. Not live people anyway. Circulating around the dead bodies were a couple of people in white SOC overalls and four other people who were seated on plastic garden chairs a little away from the other two. They didn’t look like the police, maybe they were from the ONP Special Investigations Group. The challenge would be to get past these investigators, whoever they were, sneak into the house, grab his rucksack – if it was still there and hadn’t been hauled off as evidence – and to get out again without being seen. It wasn’t going to be easy.
He spent a minute or two inventing plans, dismissing them as impractical, and creating new ones. Finally, he settled upon a plan that he felt had a reasonable chance of success. He stood up, stretched his arms out wide and then stretched them behind himself, linking and pulling on his fingers, to make sure his muscles would be well charged for what he was about to do.
What he wasn’t expecting was to find his wrists suddenly bound together by a pair of Dyna-Cuffs. The handcuffs shrank to fit his wrists and offered no chance of escape. A voice behind him whispered in his ear.
“I think you’d better come with me.”