The Running Man

MINUS 054 AND COUNTING

He had a very bad dream that night, which was unusual. The old Ben Richards had never dreamed.

What was even more peculiar was the fact that he did not exist as a character in the dream. He only watched, invisible.

The room was vague, dimming off to blackness at the edges of vision. It seemed that water was dripping dankly. Richards had an impression of being deep underground.

In the center of the room, Bradley was sitting in a straight wooden chair with leather straps over his arms and legs. His head had been shaved like that of a penitent. Surrounding him were figures in black hoods. The Hunters, Richards thought with budding dread. Oh dear God, these are the Hunters.

“I ain’t the man,” Bradley said.

“Yes you are, little brother,” one of the hooded figures said gently, and pushed a pin through Bradley’s cheek. Bradley screamed.

“Are you the man?”

“Suck it.”

A pin slid easily into Bradley’s eyeball and was withdrawn dribbling colorless fluid. Bradley’s eye took on a punched, flattened look.

“Are you the man?”

“Poke it up your ass.”

An electric move-along touched Bradley’s neck. He screamed again, and his hair stood on end. He looked like a comical caricature black, a futuristic Stepinfetchit.

“Are you the man, little brother?”

“Nose filters give you cancer,” Bradley said. “You’re all rotted inside, honkies.”

His other eyeball was pierced. “Are you the man?”

Bradley, blind, laughed at them.

One of the hooded figures gestured, and from the shadows Bobby and Mary Cowles came tripping gaily. They began to skip around Bradley, singing: “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf?”

Bradley began to scream and twist in the chair. He seemed to be trying to hold his hands up in a warding-off gesture. The song grew louder and louder, more echoing. The children were changing. Their heads were elongating, growing dark with blood. Their mouths were open and in the caves within, fangs twinkled like razor-blades.

“I’ll tell!” Bradley screamed. “I’ll tell! I’ll tell! I ain’t the man! Ben Richards is the man! I’ll tell! God… oh… G-G-God…”

“Where is the man, little brother?”

“I’ll tell! I’ll tell! He’s in-”

But the words were drowned by the singing voices. They were lunging toward Bradley’s straining, corded neck when Richards woke up, sweating.