The Runner & The Dethroned

I look out from underneath the brim of my hat, waiting for my moment. Quickly, I make a swipe at the nuts and grab a handful. Continuing on, I run my fingers along the counter, nodding at another customer. I sneak another glance at the store owner, but he's not in the least bit suspicious of me. Sauntering over to fabric section, I start scoping out the clothes. Fingering the hole in my dirty white tee, I bite my lip. I can't sew for my life, but maybe-



“Can I help you, Sir?”



Those five words freeze my heart, and I'm very aware of the store keeper standing behind me.



“No,” I say quickly, keeping my back to him. “I'm fine.”



He ignores my protests and comes up beside me. “If you need new clothes, I would suggest this.” He reaches over me and grabs a roll of colourful fabric. “The colours fit yo-.” Glancing up at my face for the first time, his sentence fades away, his face almost immediately flashing with recognition. With wide eyes matching his, I take a small step back, knowing I'm in trouble. The customers around us start to notice that something's up.



“Is that-?” I hear someone whisper.



“That's Maverick Steele,” someone else growls.



Keeping my head, I let out a loud and awkward laugh. “You’re right! I think this red really brings out my eyes!” I say, grabbing at the roll of fabric the store owners holding, but he yanks it out of my reach.



My eyes dart to the customers, hoping somebody will be supportive of me, but unfortunately, everyone is lookin’ pissed.



Out of the corner of my eye, I see the storekeeper slowly pull a pistol from his waist.



“Now Mr. Steele. I want you to put your hands up and surrender, and that way no one will get hurt.”



I take another step back, looking behind me to see if I could run.



The storekeeper cocks the gun. “I'm warning you, Steele. Put, the, bag, down.”



I close my eyes, inhale deeply, then make my decision.



Letting out a nervous laugh, I raise a hand up. “Okay, okay. You got me. You finally got me.” I slowly bend over to set the bag down. Staying bent, I wait for the right moment. A wrong move and I'll have a bullet through my heart.



“Get up, Mr. Steele,” the storekeeper barks.



I exhale, then in a quick snap, straighten up. Grabbing the owner's wrist, I give it a sharp twist. He drops the gun, surprised, crying out as he does so. Not wasting a second, I snatch up my bag and tear through the door, outside into the pouring rain. My worn, thin shoes barely give my feet protection as they slap on the cobblestone. Behind me I hear angry voices followed by footsteps, meaning I'm being chased.



“Steele!” I hear someone scream.



I wince. My chaser was Mitchell, a guard I've gotten to know way too well over the years.



“Stop running, Steele!” Mitch yells after me. “Or I'll blow your foot off so you'll never walk again!”



I shake my head. How cute. Although it sounds threatening, we all know Mitch ain't got a gun. I hear his footsteps quicken, and despite my cockiness, my heart also. I fix my eyes on the tree line just ahead, knowing there I'll find safety. I grit my teeth, tighten my clench around my bag, and increase speed, pouring all my energy into the sprint. Step by step, I pull ahead of the guard. We reach the forest, and without hesitation, I run in and am swallowed by the darkness. I can't hear Mitchell behind me anymore. I slow down a bit, laughing.

Mitch is fat, but I thought he was better than that.



Like a pin popping a balloon, my confidence goes away as so as pain explodes in my right ankle and I collapse to the ground. Glaring at the cursed rock I stepped on, I blindly fumble for my bag. The sound of footsteps are approaching fast, too fast.



I find my bag, but before I can jump to my feet a heavy hand grabs the back of my shirt and by sheer force yanks me to my feet, spinning me around to face him.



“You thought you could get away, didn't you?” he hisses, his face inches away from mine. Wincing, I close my eyes, stopping the struggle for a moment as his rotten breath wafts into my nose. Gross.



Shaking my head, I open my eyes again, forcing myself to look at his wretched face.



“I knew I could,” I spit, lifting my chin in a prideful way.



But I can’t help to worry a bit about my well being. Saying Mitch is strong is an underestimate. I mean, the guy's a brute. But he is short a few brain cells. A lot more than a few, actually.



“You know, Steele. It feels so good right now, seeing you writhing around. You know, I’ve spend so many days chasing you down, and-”



The guard rumbles on, giving me a chance to sort things out. I will escape, I know that. But how, is a different matter. The idea of fighting Mitch is extinguished as quickly as it came to me. That’s definitely on the no list. Another possibility would be to let him take me, than try to escape later. But that ideas almost as ridiculous as the last. That only leaves one option left. My good ol’ friend, the brain.



“Mitch.” I say abruptly. “Please stop talking, you’re giving me a splitting headache.”



For the next 30 seconds, he tries to think of something to say, and I take it as a opening. His hand, still tightly locked onto my shirt, is jerked free as I become a dead weight.



“Hey!” he yells as I drop to the ground, my shirt ripping in half. I bring back my arm, clobbering my forearm into his knees. Crying out, Mitch falls to the ground as he grabs at his knees. I snap up my bag, scramble to my feet, and run for all my life was worth. My ankle throbs, my belly aches, and I gasp for air like an asthma patient, but I keep running. After taking many turns and diving through thick shrubs, I arrive at my hideout. From the outside, it looks like a useless batch of plants, but the inside is a different story. Struggling as I push past the thick shrubbery, I stumble into my “home”.



I stand at the entrance for about the count of five, then collapse. I rest my face in my lap, still shocked at how I managed to get away. When the air starts coming easier, I straighten up. Yanking off my shoe, I roll up my pant leg, grimacing. My already swollen ankle throbs, hurting more than a twisted ankle should. Frowning, I start to rub it, cursing myself for being so clumsy. I won't be able to walk much with a bum leg, forget out-running pissed off guards. Pushing those thoughts aside, I pull the bag onto my lap, dumping out my treasures. My bag consists of a handful of various nuts, a book, a few oranges and apples, and a roll of bread. Unsatisfied, I grab the bread, shove the rest in a hole I'd dug, then trudge over to my bed. And when I say “bed”, I don't mean a plush, feathery, soft bed. I mean a nest of grass that I change out every week and a sheet and pillow I managed to smuggle. But hey, it's home. I drop on my bed, pulling my legs underneath me. My shirt is ripped nearly down the middle, so I pull it off. My body is covered in cuts and scrapes from bushwhacking, my head hurts from being dropped by that buffoon, and my ankle sends pulsing waves of pain up my leg. Flopping back on my pillow, I rip a piece of bread off, savoring every bite. I wipe the rain out of my eyes, pull my sheet up to my chin, and before I know it I'm out.