Wild

The boy ran down the dark alley way, looking behind him. He was running with everything he had. All his energy, all his adrenaline, disappearing with every step. His shoes were hitting the ground so fast it was like a woodpecker at a tree. His hood flew behind his head, bouncing up and down with the speed.

Just as fate would have it, the next turn he took, was a dead end. He ran into the gate, trying to find a place to climb it. He stepped up, but the wire broke, making him fall onto the concrete. The rocks bruised his hands, little beads of blood appearing in the palm. He turned on the ground, backing up so the wire grate pushed against him. 

He saw their shadow coming, and he pushed himself further into the gate, hoping he would be able to somehow go through it. He looked around urgently; nothing but concrete buildings and city rubbish surrounded him.

 "Help!" He called, hoping some-one would answer him. It was a desperate, helpless, plea. It echoed off the walls, but then fell silent. His heart pounded, nearly on the verge of giving up. "Help! Somebody!"

The shadows were getting closer, so close that he could hear them shouting. He swore, looking at the rooftops of the buildings, begging that he would see some-one. 

He heard the shouting stop, and he knew what was coming. He looked down, standing up, and reaching for his knife in his belt.  He took it out, holding it so tight his knuckles were white.

In front of him, stood what they all feared. Stood what every child had nightmares about, what every adult ushered their young inside for. Five of them, their positions placed just so, that whoever they were cornering had no where to go.

He put his hands in front of him, some sort of shield. "Please," He said, his voice wavering. "Just let me go. You don't want to hurt me," But he knew they did. He knew that talking didn't work, it just flew straight over their heads. He had known so many people, good people, who tried to talk sense into them. But it was pointless, if any of them had time to think. But when faced with the choice to try, and to not try, you know what you'd do.

They walked towards him, slowly, making the death a game.

"No, no. No. Please," he pleaded more, backing up against the wire again. He dropped his knife, every bit of fight in him leaving. His hand was trying to back them off, but it was shaking, and it wasn't like he could push them back with his mind. His skin was pale, colour draining from it before his eyes.

They took out their weapons; It was true what he'd heard. No swords. No knifes. No arrows. No guns. Just thick, heavy, wooden bats. Baseball bats. It was such an original weapon that no body believed that that's what they used. But, of course, no body did know, because they never got to tell the tale.

They crowded him, walking faster with every step. Rumors he'd heard rang in his mind.

"They leave them to burn,"

"They shoot them,"

"They skin them,"  

But he knew that they were wrong. They use baseball bats. To inflict the most pain possible.

He was muttering, over and over again. "No, no, no. " He prayed to be let to live. He prayed for any one to come. Not to be left alone, on the cold hard ground, with nobody knowing where he was or what happened. He was promised that they'd look after him. That if this happened, they'd save him, come from the rooftops. But nobody came.

As they all held up their bats, he screamed. "No!"