by Stephen King
“Everything south of here is a suburb of New York City?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Holloway said.
“Thank you.”
Newark was sprawled and groined below them like a handful of dirty jewelry thrown carelessly into some lady’s black-velvet vanity box.
“Captain?”
Wearily: “Yes.”
“You will now proceed due west.”
McCone jumped as if he had been goosed. Amelia made a surprised coughing noise in her throat.
“West?” Holloway asked. He sounded unhappy and frightened for the first time. “You’re asking for it, going that way. West takes us over pretty open country. Pennsylvania between Harrisburg and Pittsburgh is all farm country. There isn’t another big city east of Cleveland.”
“Are you planning my strategy for me, Captain?”
“No, I—”
“Due west,” Richards repeated curtly.
Newark swung away beneath them.
“You’re crazy,” McCone said. “They’ll blow us apart.”
“With you and five other innocent people on board? This honorable country?”
“It will be a mistake,” McCone said harshly. “A mistake on purpose.”
“Don’t you watch The National Report?” Richards asked, still smiling. “We don’t make mistakes. We haven’t made a mistake since 1950.”
Newark was sliding away beneath the wing; darkness took its place.
“You’re not laughing anymore,” Richards said.
…Minus 018 and COUNTING…
A half-hour later Holloway came on the voice-com again. He sounded excited.
“Richards, we’ve been informed by Harding Red that they want to beam a high-intensity broadcast at us. From Games Federation. I was told you would find it very much worth your while to turn on the Free-Vee.”
“Thank you.”
He regarded the blank Free-Vee screen and almost turned it on. He withdrew his hand as if the back of the next seat with its embedded screen was hot. A curious sense of dread and déjà vu filled him. It was too much like going back to the beginning, Sheila with her thin, worked face, the smell of Mrs. Jenner’s cabbage cooking down the hall. The blare of the games. Treadmill to Bucks. Swim the Crocodiles. Cathy’s screams. There could never be another child, of course, not even if he could take all this back, withdraw it, and go back to the beginning. Even the one had been against fantastically high odds.
“Turn it on,” McCone said. “Maybe they’re going to offer us—you—a deal.”
“Shut up,” Richards said.
He waited, letting the dread fill him up like heavy water. The curious sense of presentiment. He hurt very badly. His wound was still bleeding, and his legs felt weak and far away. He didn’t know if he could get up to finish this charade when the time came.
With a grunt, Richards leaned forward again and pushed the ON button. The Free-Vee sprang to incredibly clear, amplified-signal life. The face that filled the screen, patiently waiting, was very black and very familiar. Dan Killian. He was sitting at a kidney-shaped mahogany desk with the Games symbol on it.
“Hello there,” Richards said softly.
He could have fallen out of his seat when Killian straightened up, grinned, and said, “Hello there yourself, Mr. Richards.”
…Minus 017 and COUNTING…
“I can’t see you,” Killian said, “but I can hear you. The jet’s voice-com ins being relayed through the radio equipment in the cockpit. They tell me you’re shot up.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Richards said. “I got scratched up in the woods.”
“Oh yes,” Killian said. “The famous Run Through the Woods. Bobby Thompson canonized it on the air just tonight—along with your current exploit, of course. Tomorrow those woods will be full of people looking for a scrap of your shirt, or maybe even a cartridge case.”
“That’s too bad,” Richards said. “I saw a rabbit.”
“You’ve been the greatest contestant we’ve ever had, Richards. Through a combination of luck and skill, you’ve been positively the greatest. Great enough for us to offer you a deal.”
“What deal? Nationally televised firing squad?”
“This plane hijack has been the most spectacular, but it’s also been the dumbest. Do you know why? Because for the first time you’re not near your own people. You left them behind when you left the ground. Even the woman that’s protecting you. You may think she’s yours. She may even think it. But she’s not. There’s no one up there but us, Richards. You’re a dead duck. Finally.”
“People keep telling me that and I keep drawing breath.”
“You’ve been drawing breath for the last two hours strictly on Games Federation say-so. I did it. And I’m the one that finally shoved through the authorization for the deal I’m going to offer you. There was strong opposition from the old guard—this kind of thing has never been done—but I’m going through with it.
“You asked me who you could kill if you could go all the way to the top with a machine gun. One of them would have been me, Richards. Does that surprise you?”
“I suppose it does. I had you pegged for the house nigger.”
Killian threw back his head and laughed, but the laughter sounded forced—the laughter of a man playing for high stakes and laboring under a great tension.
“Here’s the deal, Richards. Fly your plane to Harding. There will be a Games limo waiting at the airport. An execution will be performed—a fake. Then you join our team.”
There was a startled yelp of rage from McCone. “You black bastard—”
Amelia Williams looked stunned.
“Very good,” Richards said. “I knew you were good, but this is really great. What a fine used-car salesman you would have made, Killian.”
“Did McCone sound like I was lying?”
“McCone is a fine actor. He did a little song and dance at the airport that could have won an Academy Award.” Still, he was troubled. McCone’s hustling away of Amelia for coffee when it appeared she might trip the Irish, McCone’s steady, heavy antagonism—they didn’t fit. Or did they? His mind began to pinwheel. “Maybe you’re springing this on him without his knowledge. Counting on his reaction to make it look even better.”
Killian said: “You’ve done your song and dance with the plastic explosive, Mr. Richards. We know—know—that you are bluffing. But there is a button on this desk, a small red button, which is not a bluff. Twenty seconds after I push it, that plane will be torn apart by surface-to-air Diamondback missiles carrying clean nuclear warheads.”
“The Irish isn’t fake, either.” But there was a curdled taste in his mouth. The bluff was soured.
“Oh, it is. You couldn’t get on a Lockheed G-A plane with a plastic explosive. Not without tripping the alarms. There are four separate detectors on the plane, installed to foil hijackers. A fifth was installed in the parachute you asked for. I can tell you that the alarm lights in the Voigt Field control tower were watched with great interest and trepidation when you got on. The consensus was that you probably had the Irish. You have proved so resourceful all the way up the line that it seemed like a fair assumption to make. There was more than a little relief when none of those lights went on. I assume you never had the opportunity to pick any up. Maybe you never thought of it until too late. Well, doesn’t matter. It makes your position worse, but—”
McCone was suddenly standing beside Richards. “Here it goes,” he said, grinning. “Here is where I blow your fucking head off, donkey.” He pointed his gun at Richards’s temple.
…Minus 016 and COUNTING…
“You’re dead if you do,” Killian said.
McCone hesitated, fell back a step, and stared at the Free-Vee unbelievingly. His face began to twist and crumple again. His lips writhed in a silent effort to gain speech. When it finally came, it was a whisper of thwarted rage.
“I can take him! Right now! Right here! We’ll all be safe! We’ll—
”
Wearily, Killian said: “You’re safe now, you God damned fool. And Donahue could have taken him—if we wanted him taken.”
“This man is a criminal!” McCone’s voice was rising. “He’s killed police officers! Committed acts of anarchy and air piracy! He’s…he’s publicly humiliated me and my department!”
“Sit down,” Killian said, and his voice was as cold as the deep space between planets. “It’s time you remembered who pays your salary, Mr. Chief Hunter.”
“I’m going to the Council President with this!” McCone was raving now. Spittle flew from his lips. “You’re going to be chopping cotton when this is over, nig! You goddam worthless night-fighting sonofabitch—”
“Please throw your gun on the floor,” a new voice said. Richards looked around, startled. It was Donahue, the navigator, looking colder and deadlier than ever. His greased hair gleamed in the cabin’s indirect lighting. He was holding a wire-stock Magnum/Springstun machine pistol, and it was trained on McCone. “Robert S. Donahue, old-timer. Games Council Control. Throw it on the floor.”
…Minus 015 and COUNTING…
McCone looked at him for a long second, and then the gun thumped on the heavy pile of the carpet. “You—”
“I think we’ve heard all the rhetoric we need,” Donahue said. “Go back into second class and sit down like a good boy.”
McCone backed up several paces, snarling futilely. He looked to Richards like a vampire in an old horror movie that had been thwarted by a cross.
When he was gone, Donahue threw Richards a sardonic little salute with the barrel of his gun and smiled. “He won’t bother you again.”
“You still look like a queer-stomper,” Richards said evenly.
The small smile faded. Donahue stared at him with sudden, empty dislike for a moment, and then went forward again.
Richards turned back to the Free-Vee screen. He found that his pulse rate had remained perfectly steady. He had no shortness of breath, no rubber legs. Death had become a normality.
“Are you there, Mr. Richards?” Killian asked.
“Yes I am.”
“The problem has been handled?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let me get back to what I was saying.”
“Go ahead.”
Killian sighed at his tone. “I was saying that our knowledge of your bluff makes your position worse, but makes our credibility better. Do you see why?”
“Yes,” Richards said detachedly. “It means you could have blown this bird out of the sky anytime. Or you could have had Holloway set the plane down at will. McCone would have bumped me.”
“Exactly. Do you believe we know you are bluffing?”
“No. But you’re better than McCone. Using your planted houseboy was a fine stroke.”
Killian laughed. “Oh, Richards. You are such a peach. Such a rare, iridescent bird.” And yet again it sounded forced, tense, pressured. It came to Richards that Killian was holding information which he wanted badly not to tell.
“If you really had it, you would have pulled the string when McCone put the gun to your head. You knew he was going to kill you. Yet you sat there.”
Richards knew it was over, knew that they knew. A smile cracked his features. Killian would appreciate that. He was a man of a sharp and sardonic turn of mind. Make them pay to see the hole card, then.
“I’m not buying any of this. If you push me, everything goes bang.”
“And you wouldn’t be the man you are if you didn’t spin it out to the very end. Mr. Donahue?”
“Yes, sir.” Donahue’s cool, efficient, emotionless voice came over the voice-com and out of the Free-Vee almost simultaneously.
“Please go back and remove Mrs. Williams’s pocketbook from Mr. Richards’s pocket. You’re not to harm him in any way.”
“Yes, sir.” Richards was eerily reminded of the plasti-punch that had stenciled his original I.D. card at Games headquarters. Clitter-clitter-clitter.
Donahue reappeared and walked toward Richards. His face was smooth and cold and empty. Programmed. The word leaped into Richards’s mind.
“Stand right there, pretty boy,” Richards remarked, shifting the hand in his coat pocket slightly. “The Man there is safe on the ground. You’re the one that’s going to the moon.”
He thought the steady stride might have faltered for just a second and the eyes seemed to have winced the tiniest uncertain bit, and then he came on again. He might have been promenading on the CÔ;te d’Azur…or approaching a gibbering homosexual cowering at the end of a blind alley.
Briefly Richards considered grabbing the parachute and fleeing. Hopeless. Flee? Where? The men’s bathroom at the far end of the third class was the end of the line.
“See you in hell,” he said softly, and made a pulling gesture in his pocket. This time the reaction was a little better. Donahue made a grunting noise and threw his hands up to protect his face in an instinctive gesture as old as man himself. He lowered them, still in the land of the living, looking embarrassed and very angry.
Richards took Amelia Williams’s pocketbook out of his muddy, torn coat pocket and threw it. It struck Donahue’s chest and plopped at his feet like a dead bird. Richards’s hand was slimed with sweat. Lying on his knee again, it looked strange and white and foreign. Donahue picked up the bag, looked in it perfunctorily, and handed it to Amelia. Richards felt a stupid sort of sadness at its passage. In a way, it was like losing an old friend.
“Boom,” he said softly.
…Minus 014 and COUNTING…
“Your boy is very good,” Richards said tiredly, when Donahue had retreated again. “I got him to flinch, but I was hoping he’d pee his pants.” He was beginning to notice an odd doubling of his vision. It came and went. He checked his side gingerly. It was clotting reluctantly for the second time. “What now?” he asked. “Do you set up cameras at the airport so everyone can watch the desperado get it?”
“Now the deal,” Killian said softly. His face was dark, unreadable. Whatever he had been holding back was now just below the surface. Richards knew it. And suddenly he was filled with dread again. He wanted to reach out and turn the Free-Vee off. Not hear it anymore. He felt his insides begin a slow and terrible quaking—an actual, literal quaking. But he could not turn it off. Of course not. It was, after all, Free.
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he said thickly.
“What?” Killian looked startled.
“Nothing. Make your point.”
Killian did not speak. He looked down at his hands. He looked up again. Richards felt an unknown chamber of his mind groan with psychic presentiment. It seemed to him that the ghosts of the poor and the nameless, of the drunks sleeping in alleys, were calling his name.
“McCone is played out,” Killian said softly. “You know it because you did it. Cracked him like a soft-shelled egg. We want you to take his place.”
Richards, who thought he had passed the point of all shock, found his mouth hanging open in utter, dazed incredulity. It was a lie. Had to be. Yet—Amelia had her purse back now. There was no reason for them to lie or offer false illusions. He was hurt and alone. Both McCone and Donahue were armed. One bullet administered just above the left ear would put a neat end to him with no fuss, no muss, or bother.
Conclusion: Killian was telling God’s truth.
“You’re nuts,” he muttered.
“No. You’re the best runner we’ve ever had. And the best runner knows the best places to look. Open your eyes a little and you’ll see that The Running Man is designed for something besides pleasuring the masses and getting rid of dangerous people. Richards, the Network is always in the market for fresh new talent. We have to be.”
Richards tried to speak, could say nothing. The dread was still in him, widening, heightening, thickening.
“There’s never been a Chief Hunter with a family,” he finally said. “You ought to know why. The possibilities for extortion—”
“Ben,”
Killian said with infinite gentleness, “your wife and daughter are dead. They’ve been dead for over ten days.”
…Minus 013 and COUNTING…
Dan Killian was talking, had been perhaps for some time, but Richards heard him only distantly, distorted by an odd echo effect in his mind. It was like being trapped in a very deep well and hearing someone call down. His mind had gone midnight dark, and the darkness served as the background for a kind of scrapbook slide show. An old Kodak of Sheila wiggling in the halls of Trades High with a loose-leaf binder under her arm. Micro skirts had just come back into fashion then. A freeze-frame of the two of them sitting at the end of the Bay Pier (Admission: Free), backs to the camera, looking out at the water. Hands linked. Sepia-toned photo of a young man in an ill-fitting suit and a young woman in her mother’s best dress—specially taken up—standing before a J.P. with a large wart on his nose. They had giggled at that wart on their wedding night. Stark black and white action photo of a sweating, bare-chested man wearing a lead apron and working heavy engine gear-levers in a huge, vaultlike underground chamber lit with arc lamps. Soft-toned color photo (soft to blur the stark, peeling surroundings) of a woman with a big belly standing at a window and looking out, ragged curtain held aside, watching for her man to come up the street. The light is a soft cat’s paw on her cheek. Last picture: another old-timey Kodak of a thin fellow holding a tiny scrap of a baby high over his head in a curious mixture of triumph and love, his face split by a huge winning grin. The pictures began to flash by faster and faster, whirling, not bringing any sense of grief and love and loss, not yet, no, bringing only a cool Novocain numbness.
Killian assuring that the Network had nothing to do with their deaths, all a horrible accident. Richards supposed he believed him—not only because the story sounded too much like a lie not to be the truth, but because Killian knew that if Richards agreed to the job offer, his first stop would be Co-Op City, where a single hour on the streets would get him the straight of the matter.
