The Race

He had to run, run away fast. Turn left at the next street. They were coming, he could hear them barking. The moon was high, the streets were dark, and they were empty. Midnight. He surprised himself wishing he could be caught. Running, running for so long, it had tired him. But he also had no time to think about stopping. An opening on the left, he turned, slipping on the wet cement. In the dark, he noticed the problem too late. It was a dead end. But he did not want to end up dead, so he improvised. He spotted a dumpster, climbed on it, and jumped up to a nearby fire escape. He had seen it in so many movies. He kept going higher and higher, up to the roof. He was safe from the dogs; however the slow beating sound of a helicopter reminded him that the dogs were the least of his worries. He was not spotted so for now he could still run. Luckily, this neighbourhood was built with most building being within one floor of each other. He started running towards the edge of the building, hopped over the brick divider and landed on the next building. As he ran, he realized he had turned around and started going back on his steps. No time for panicking. He jumped to the next building, down one floor. Something cracked. It wasn’t time to think about a possibly broken bone. He stood up and ran. Pain assaulted him. And after the pain, a spotlight found him. The helicopter was over him. He had to get in, go somewhere safe. He turned around, started running towards a door that led in the building. He slipped. Blood. His blood. He got up again; he had to reach the door. It was locked. His hand slipped on the doorknob. They were coming. A step back. He tried to break the door. His shoulder cracked, but so did the wood. Another attempt. His shoulder was now dislocated but the door was open. He started running down the stairs. He slipped again, and tumbled down a flight of stair. Breathing was painful. He probably had a broken rib. He got up. His head was spinning. He fell down again. Not enough blood, not enough time. He crawled to the nearest door. His hand was on the doorknob. He could not turn it. It was over.

[Very short story today, but I would like to think I was not being lazy, but rather that the action sequence was over and all I wanted to do was an action sequence. And that was it.]