The Running Man

MINUS 021 AND COUNTING

Richards found himself drifting in and out of a daze, and it frightened him. The steady drone of the engines were insidious, hypnotic. McCone was aware of what was happening, and his leaning posture became more and more vulpine. Amelia was also aware. She cringed miserably in a forward seat near the galley, watching them both.

Richards drank two more cups of coffee. Not much help. It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on the coordination of his map and Holloway’s toneless commentary on their outlaw flight.

Finally he drove his fist into his side where the bullet had taken him. The pain was immediate and intense, like a dash of cold water in the face. A whistling half-whispered screech issued from either side of his clenched mouth, like stereo. Fresh blood wet his shirt and sieved through onto his hand.

Amelia moaned.

“We’ll be passing over Albany in about six minutes,” Holloway said. “If you look out, you’ll see it coming up on your left.”

“Relax,” Richards said to no one, to himself. “Relax. Just relax.”

God, will it be over soon? Yes. Quite soon.

It was quarter to eight.