Escape
Run!! His body screamed. Muscles tightened, nagged at his already racing brain. They’ll be coming soon! He plunged onwards, feet slippery on the springy, wet grass of the golf course. His feet slapped the cropped lawn of the green. Which one was it? The twelfth? He didn’t know, at that precise moment he didn’t care. All that mattered was that it was away from them, not far enough away, not yet. That wouldn’t happen until he was off the island. He tried to fool himself that then he would be safe, but inside he knew better. Inside he knew he may never be safe. The thought tried to surface, jumped to the fore in his mind, like a child in class who knows the answer to the question the teacher has asked. Please, sir! Me, sir, please! I know! He turned his mind away, the teacher turning his back on his class, facing the blackboard. The only answer that mattered was escape.
Through the green, skirting the wide bunker on the far side. His feet skidded as he ploughed through the thick rough that marked the end of the hole and the beginning of the woods. He fell to one knee, scrambled back up onto both feet, not noticing the dampness that soaked through his jeans. He was already wet, the rain beat down mercilessly and he was soaked through, his sweatshirt clung to him like hands, reaching out, grasping, trying to pull him back. The cold seeped damply through, mixing with the ice cold sweat that coated his body, sinking into his flesh, numbing his muscles. He didn’t notice. His eyes fixed on the line of trees emerging out of the darkness before him, the sheeting rain revealing their bulk to him. He glanced behind him, an instinctive reaction. There was no one there. And then, the woods. He crossed the threshold into their welcoming embrace not pausing for an instant, not daring to. His breath was ragged in his throat and he realised he could hear his own breathing. The trees surrounding him cutting out the sound of the rain as it beat out its tattoo on the leafy canopy above. Below the branches, in the thick of the woods, it was almost as if he were in a cavern. The air was warmer here, trapped in, and sound was kept out. His breath rattled out of his lungs loud enough to startle him in the sudden quiet.
He forced himself to slow down, not because he was tiring but because the darkness had become overpowering. Inky blackness obliterated his vision. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight. He held his hands out in front of him, could barely see them, and pressed forward as quickly as he could. Moving from tree to tree, hands running over rough bark, feet stumbling over fallen branches, wading through drifts of leaves. Lower branches, thin and spindly, clutched at his hair, scraped his face. One scratched sharply at his brow opening a small, thin line above his left eyebrow. He lifted a hand to the small wound, fingers rubbing at the viscous quality of his blood. He kept his hand at his head, protecting his eyes as he made his progress.
His breathing was normal again and he listened for other sounds, sounds of pursuit. He could hear none. His heart leapt at the sounds of his own passage, the rustle of leaves, the snapping of twigs and he paused often now, fear making him nervous. He wondered at the time. It had been after midnight when he’d made his break for freedom. It couldn’t be more than half an hour ago, forty-five minutes at the outside. It seemed a lifetime as time itself seemed to lose all meaning. Half an hour? An eternity. Minutes might as well be months. Seconds were endless. Should he measure time another way? In heartbeats perhaps? How many times had his heart beat in the last forty-five minutes? It felt like millions. Trip-hammering, crashing against his ribcage, trying to burst out of his chest as it pumped his adrenalin charged blood around his body. Even now, with the speed of his flight reduced to a careful stumble, that tough, hard muscle pulsed rapidly, playing a tune of fear that echoed around his very being.
What would happen if they caught him? Stupid question, he berated himself. He knew exactly what would happen, they would kill him. The only questions that mattered were the How Question and the Who Question. The How Question was the worst. Would it be quick? Or would they drag it out? He thought the latter, perhaps to teach him a lesson. Perhaps because they would want to do tests on him, though what tests there could possibly be, he had no idea. Or perhaps it would be slow because they would enjoy it. A shiver ran down his spine at that thought. Enough! I don’t want to think about it anymore. That’s too bad! His inner voice spoke up. This discussion isn’t over until I say so.
“Yes it is.” He spoke aloud, whispering to himself. The trees had thinned. Rain had begun to dribble through the upper branches as the vegetation became sparser. Light too, trickled weakly down from a pale, washed out moon. He stood at the edge of the woods, allowing his eyes to adjust to the change in light and figuring out where he was. He visualised the layout of the island in his mind and realised he was not far from where he had intended to be. He’d reached the coast. He was on the Northwest side but he’d come out of the woods too far down. The boathouse was higher up, around the next outcropping of rock. He shivered, this time from the cold and turned to his right. He began to jog, keeping near the tree line and the shelter it provided from the sheeting rain, a watchful eye on his destination and all points in between. If anyone was there, he did not see them, if they had made noise, he would not have heard them, all sound was drowned out by the howling wind and the pelting rain. Heavy droplets struck his body and face, cold and hard, stinging like hailstones.
He rounded the outcropping and there it was, the boathouse. A small expanse of rock and loose stone led down to the small jetty and a large wooden shack housing the two powerful motorboats. He could see no sign of life, no one waiting there for him to arrive. A moment of cheer heartened him. Maybe they hadn’t discovered he was gone yet. Still he had to be careful, if he wasn’t, he was going to be dead, and that brought him back to the How Question.
Holding his breath, he stepped out onto the rocks and stone. He tensed his body in preparation for the expected sting of a bullet or more probably a tranquilliser dart. None came and he expelled his breath in a whistling sigh. Across the stone onto the wooden planks of the jetty. He peered through the grimy, rain-streaked windows into the boathouse. Both powerboats were there, as he knew they would be. Covered over, moored tightly. He stared wistfully at them, wishing he could take one. But he could not. The boathouse was locked and secured, protected by an alarm system far more sophisticated than its appearance belied. Motion sensors and infrared beams would instantly detect the presence of an intruder. Alarms would be triggered, silent here, giving no warning to alien parties, but in The Clinic, they would know. Within ten seconds of unauthorised entry a response team would be on the move. No, he could not take a powerboat. He had no intention of doing so. The rowing boat was always kept outside, lashed securely to a leg of the jetty. He ran to the end of the pier, planks groaning in protest as he ran, their moans lost in the wind and the crash of the waves.
The boat was there, blue tarpaulin stretched tightly over its open shell. He paused at the end of the jetty, looking back along its wooden trail at the trees that hid him from the rest of the island, took a deep breath and dropped the few feet to the rowing boat. Air squeezed from under the tarpaulin as he landed, expelled with a loud phutt! He pulled back the covering, folding it untidily into the bow of the small craft. He unlashed the mooring rope and pushed away from the jetty. Instantly the waves caught the boat, tugging it away from the safety of its rest. He fell backwards over the seat as the boat was spun around by the pull of the tide. Righting himself, he took up the oars and began to row. Light from the moon, disappearing now behind clouds pregnant with rain, shone on his watch face. It was less than an hour since he began. Less than an hour, but everything had changed. There’s no going back now, Alex, his inner voice spoke again, I just hope you realise that. I do, he answered himself, and there’s no way that I’m going back, not ever. Then I hope you know what you’re doing! He had no answer for himself, instead he just grimaced and increased his efforts with the oars, concentrated on getting as far away from the island as quickly as he could. The boat reared and bucked like a wild stallion under the administrations of the storm. Waves crashed over the sides of the boat flinging icy cold water in his face, soaking his already sodden clothes. His hands were numb, he could not feel them, only knew they were still attached to him, were still alive and working because he could see them, see the oars working in the circular motion he was struggling to maintain against the force of the storm. It was three miles to the mainland. The night, black again now without the moon, and the rain conspired against his vision. How far had he come? Not far enough, that was sure, not nearly far enough.
His muscles strained, his shoulders were beginning to ache, oh how they were beginning to ache. Don’t think about it, don’t think about how it hurts to pull back on those oars, about all the effort, or it’ll all become too much. Think about something else. “Like what?” He groaned as he pulled back once again. That was easy, he discovered when he put his mind to it. Encouragement can be easy to find when you’re running for your life. What he thought about was the Who Question. Who would be given the task of killing him if they caught him? Which one of their Technicians would be given the honour? He would have laughed then, but there was nothing funny about the very real possibility of his death at the hands of one of The Clinic’s Technicians. It was too polite a word to use, too innocuous. Think of a technician and you think of a science lab, a little bald headed guy in a lab coat. It just didn’t fit.
Assassin. Now, there was an altogether more appropriate word. Somebody says to you “assassin” and you know exactly what they’re talking about, it cuts right to the chase. Alex found “Technician” just a tad too ambiguous. Better to think of them as what they are, it helped focus the mind.
Would it be Kyle? He hoped not. If it came to it, Alex did not want to die staring into Kyle Ricci’s soulless eyes. Maybe it would be Chazz Borkan. Chazz, who looked like a movie actor, not a star, but a supporting performer. The sort of man who isn’t supposed to be noticed but who steals the show with his easy smile and his casual elegance. Even more than Kyle, he hoped it wouldn’t be Chazz.
Maybe it would be Shelton himself? His stomach rolled over at that, his mind was headed dangerously back towards territory clearly marked, The How Question with that thought. It could be anyone, of course, someone he had never met, or even…
A huge wave reared over the side of the rowing boat. Hundreds of gallons cascaded over Alex burying him in a marrow-freezing shroud of ice. The boat was picked up and hurled across the water. The oars were wrenched from his grip and he was thrown into the air before plunging head first into the numbing water. His sudden immersion was a shock to his system and he involuntarily opened his mouth in a silent cry. Water rushed in and he swallowed coldness into his lungs. Panic creeping over him he kicked hard, trying to push him to the surface. It was totally black under the waves and he had no idea if he was right side up. If he weren’t, the storm and the sea would have done The Clinic’s job for them. His lungs were sore and he was choking. He kicked again, if he didn’t break the surface very soon it was over. One more kick.
He shot out of the water as if fired from a gun, a writhing, thrashing, coughing, human bullet. He sank back down under the waves but this time bobbed back up quickly, spluttering and spitting out water. He dragged a precious breath into his lungs and coughed some more as he trod water. Another breath and another. At last he began to feel as if he was no longer drowning. He looked for the rowing boat but it was lost from sight. He thought he saw a brief flash of the blue tarp but then that too vanished.
He wasn’t drowning, but if he didn’t get out of the water soon, that would not matter. It was winter and the water was quickly draining all the heat from his body. Hypothermia was a killer every bit as deadly as The Clinic’s Technicians, and it could creep up on you just as stealthily. Alex began to swim, his only thoughts now of survival, of dragging himself through the water. Arms, numb and senseless, making circles, pulling him through the freezing curtain of water, feet kicking behind him, lungs dragging in breath from the rain sodden air. He swam, for how long, he didn’t know. He did not know if he was still headed away from the island or back towards it. After a while, it did not seem to matter.