The Runner

Chapter 1

Run. Don't stop. Keep going. Dawson's mind was reeling. If he'd stop, They would catch him and who knows what They would do to him then. You can do it. He had to fight against his body begging him to stop running just for a second. His lungs on the verge of collapsing. But he can't. He can't stop running. Because that is what he is now. A runner.

He looks up at the sky. It's a clear night and you can see the stars through the glass of the dome. Dawson glances at the houses either side of him. People sleeping peacefully in their beds, oblivious to what is going on. Day after day, they remain in a blissful ignorance as they feed on the lies provided by Them.

Dawson's feet barely make a noise as he moves swiftly over the cobblestone paths that meander all through the dome. He turns into an alleyway but he still does not stop. His feels his heartbeat echoing through the streets, fearful that it will give him away.

He arrives at the place. The cottage is destroyed. The framework has collapsed under the singed woodwork. The burnt black rubble is messily scattered over the place where a beautiful home once stood. It belonged to Milo, Milo Richards. Dawson walked up the cramped path that lead to the pile of wooden remains. He looked with grief at the small stretch of grass that extended to the cobbled path.

Milo was lucky, he had one of the few houses that had a front yard. Well, it was barely a front yard. Milo used to tell Dawson of the times when they had enough space for everyone to have a plot of grass for themselves but those times were long gone. He was only lucky enough to still have one because he had worked for Them. He retired really early and so he had enough time to spend with Dawson. He would take care of him while Dawson's father worked for Them. Most of Dawson's fondest childhood memories had taken place in that stretch of grass, where Milo taught him about growing food like carrots and tomatoes. When one day, it was all over. Dawson heard of the fire but couldn't bring himself to see how it looked.

Dawson pushed the pang of sadness and remorse away from his thoughts, he needed to concentrate. The note said in the kitchen. Dawson tried to visualize where the kitchen would be if the house was still standing upright. Through the hallway and take a left. Dawson started removing the planks of singed wood.

Distant voices and barking stopped Dawson in his tracks. They're getting closer. They'll find him. Frantically he worked faster till he found what he wanted. A heavy iron handle. Without hesitation he pulled with all his might. Slowly the hefty iron trapdoor gave way and Dawson slipped inside. The stone rungs were cold and rusted hurting his hands as he climbed down the shaft.

The darkness encompassed him and he felt truly alone. Keep going. Don't stop. His Father's words echoed in his mind. He knew that he still wasn't safe. They were still close behind. Stretching his arms out so that the cold damp walls of the tunnel can lead him, Dawson fumbled through the passageway. His eyes adjusted to the gloomy darkness as he came to a parting in the passage and now three openings stood before him.

As a child, his father made him repeat a sequence of numbers over and over again. It was the same sequence each time and when Dawson would ask why he had to do this, his father would respond curtly that it was for his own good. He never understood till the day he had to run. The sequence was his way out. He repeated the number in his head, 1323314211. On the first parting, he stuck to the left and made his way through the first opening. On the second parting, he had to pass through the third opening. Just follow the sequence, he assured himself.

Worry seeped it's way into Dawson's thoughts, as he gruelingly found himself getting tired as he wearily kept going. Loosing his sense of time, it felt like forever before he reached the last opening. He passed through the first opening on his left and picked up his pace. He was met with the end of the passage. A handle, it mus be here somewhere. He couldn't see it. He tried to look for it with his hands meeting nothing but the cold emptiness of the stone wall. Nothing. There was nothing. He must have taken a wrong turn. He was in a labyrinth of tunnels. There is no way he could find his way back.