Neil took off, knowing exactly
the quickest route out of Downtown. Up North Street, down that street that he
used to go whenever he wanted to play with that one kid (what was her name?),
between two buildings that looked abandoned but were in fact un-abandoned, and
then up the road to the Supermarket, where Neil could lay low.
At least, those were thoughts that Neil had as he’d started to run. Neurotransmitters and hormones shot through his body like potentially lethal drugs, which they were, and his mind flooded with the instant need to get away, a need that isn’t conductive to planned escaping.
He certainly made it onto North Street alright. North Street is particularly well lit. Neil even considered stopping there to see if the goons would even bother to try to grab him there. After all, they’d sounded like they were much older than Neil. Too old to be playing catch with teenagers.
But Neil thought back to David, alone in the alley by the dumpster, and a different set of emotions rushed through his head. Ones that rhyme with lame and begin with the letter S. He was steeling himself to return to the alley when a man wearing a leather jacket and tight black jeans rounded the corner.
This man undoubtedly dressed like a mobster, and visually, fit the goon ideal to perfection. He even had a concentrated look of loathing etched on his face that perfectly embodied his intentions, or at least embodied the intentions the animal sections of Neil’s brain were screaming at Neil to avoid. Neil noted the absence of the second goon, and his heart dropped. And he hung there in the road for a moment, staring, expecting the slick goon ahead of him to stop running, or to at least slow. But the slick goon must have chased people before, and had anticipated Neil’s next move.
Which, obviously, was to run the other way
At the speed the goon kept up with Neil, Neil knew for certain he hadn’t been the goon who’d had the raspy voice. This goon was simply too fast. Neil kept his pace, quickening it every other second, as he flew down that street where he used to go whenever he wanted to play with that one kid. Neil began to consider the thought of being captured, and his run quickly turned into the fullest sprint Neil had ever experienced. It was the sprint that had been absent on the hundred meter dash last year.
As Neil slipped between the two beaten down houses, both of which had likely been constructed before the turn of the 19th century, Neil looked over his shoulder and slowed, and saw that the slick haired thug was further behind, but had not stopped. The same look remained on the goon’s face.
Neil kept running. The supermarket was ahead. If he could get inside, he’d be in a public place at least. The goon could come after him in there, but Neil would be safe. Neil could call his parents or something. It’d be lame, but he’d be safe.
The road up towards the supermarket was old and riddled with cracks. And additionally, it was uphill to the supermarket. Neil honestly didn’t notice the cracks at all. He was more concerned with the potential murderer behind him, who may or may not have pulled out a knife from his leather jacket, than with flaws in urban development that had been mentioned repeatedly at town hall meetings but ignored, year after year.
At the top of the hill, the final of the cracks found the toe of Neil’s shoe helplessly trapped inside. The crack gave way, busted open, almost shouting, “You’re free, Neil! Escape is so close you can almost taste it!"
But Neil had never been very good at ballet, sports, or regaining his balance after tripping. Instead of tasting escape, Neil tasted blood as he pitched forward into the ground.
Thankfully, there was no ringing noise. Neil had always hated the ringing noise in movies or games that came after someone suffered a head injury.
Neil slowly propped himself up on his arms, and turned his head.
At least, those were thoughts that Neil had as he’d started to run. Neurotransmitters and hormones shot through his body like potentially lethal drugs, which they were, and his mind flooded with the instant need to get away, a need that isn’t conductive to planned escaping.
He certainly made it onto North Street alright. North Street is particularly well lit. Neil even considered stopping there to see if the goons would even bother to try to grab him there. After all, they’d sounded like they were much older than Neil. Too old to be playing catch with teenagers.
But Neil thought back to David, alone in the alley by the dumpster, and a different set of emotions rushed through his head. Ones that rhyme with lame and begin with the letter S. He was steeling himself to return to the alley when a man wearing a leather jacket and tight black jeans rounded the corner.
This man undoubtedly dressed like a mobster, and visually, fit the goon ideal to perfection. He even had a concentrated look of loathing etched on his face that perfectly embodied his intentions, or at least embodied the intentions the animal sections of Neil’s brain were screaming at Neil to avoid. Neil noted the absence of the second goon, and his heart dropped. And he hung there in the road for a moment, staring, expecting the slick goon ahead of him to stop running, or to at least slow. But the slick goon must have chased people before, and had anticipated Neil’s next move.
Which, obviously, was to run the other way
At the speed the goon kept up with Neil, Neil knew for certain he hadn’t been the goon who’d had the raspy voice. This goon was simply too fast. Neil kept his pace, quickening it every other second, as he flew down that street where he used to go whenever he wanted to play with that one kid. Neil began to consider the thought of being captured, and his run quickly turned into the fullest sprint Neil had ever experienced. It was the sprint that had been absent on the hundred meter dash last year.
As Neil slipped between the two beaten down houses, both of which had likely been constructed before the turn of the 19th century, Neil looked over his shoulder and slowed, and saw that the slick haired thug was further behind, but had not stopped. The same look remained on the goon’s face.
Neil kept running. The supermarket was ahead. If he could get inside, he’d be in a public place at least. The goon could come after him in there, but Neil would be safe. Neil could call his parents or something. It’d be lame, but he’d be safe.
The road up towards the supermarket was old and riddled with cracks. And additionally, it was uphill to the supermarket. Neil honestly didn’t notice the cracks at all. He was more concerned with the potential murderer behind him, who may or may not have pulled out a knife from his leather jacket, than with flaws in urban development that had been mentioned repeatedly at town hall meetings but ignored, year after year.
At the top of the hill, the final of the cracks found the toe of Neil’s shoe helplessly trapped inside. The crack gave way, busted open, almost shouting, “You’re free, Neil! Escape is so close you can almost taste it!"
But Neil had never been very good at ballet, sports, or regaining his balance after tripping. Instead of tasting escape, Neil tasted blood as he pitched forward into the ground.
Thankfully, there was no ringing noise. Neil had always hated the ringing noise in movies or games that came after someone suffered a head injury.
Neil slowly propped himself up on his arms, and turned his head.
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