John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Everything had changed. He wasn’t avoiding capture anymore. He no longer cared why Ricky had done what he had. That was all irrelevant now. All that mattered was that the police were trying to kill him. They knew he had killed Ricky, they thought that he’d killed those other cops, and now they were going to kill him.

Even Nathan’s purpose for running had changed. Staying free had taken a back seat to staying alive. Here he was, seeking out a cop who said he was trustworthy, just so that the cop could take him back to where it all started in the first place. And once he was back at the JDC—if that’s where they were sending him—that Petrelli asshole and others just like him would go right to work getting the state to take care of what the crazy cop with the gun thus far hadn’t been able to do! It was a ridiculous world people had built. Just to keep going, Nathan forced himself to believe that one day he’d be able to change it somehow.

As he ran on, dodging people and ducking in and out of corners and alleyways, sweat poured off his body, soaking his tattered T-shirt, and lighting afire the pain in his ribs. When he thought it was safe to take a break, he ducked behind a Dumpster and sat down on an old milk crate.

Breathing hard through his mouth, he dared his first look at his side, where blood had begun to soak through his shirt in spots. The bullet hole in his T-shirt was through-and-through, a kill shot for sure if the shirt had fit him properly. Nathan gently eased the shirt over his head and laid it across his lap. By slinging his right arm over his head, he could get a good look at his injury.

It looked awful, a swollen purple mass about three inches below his armpit surrounding a gash in his flesh the width of a magic marker and the length of a birthday candle.

“Oh, my God, I’ve been shot,” he said aloud, leaning against the Dumpster. The metal was hot against the bare flesh of his back.

The flow of blood had slowed to a trickle now, but a wide, crimson road map down his side and into the waistband of his shorts was testament to a respectable wound. The tear in his flesh hurt no more than a bad scrape, but he still couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The real pain came from the area around the gash, which felt every bit as bruised as if he’d been kicked by something big.

He thought vaguely that he should feel more than he did, that being shot should be a more frightening experience. Maybe on a different day or at a different time. Today, though, it was just one more jolt of pain resulting from one more attack by one more grown-up who didn’t understand anything.

Knowing it was time to move on, Nathan stood and slipped the Bulls T-shirt back over his head. It was filthy, smeared with blood and snot and road grime, and torn in a dozen places, not even counting the bullet holes.

Sorry, Tubbo, Nathan thought, remembering the huge closets and thick carpets of the Nicholsons’ house, you probably won’t want this back after all. The thought made him smile as he shoved his arms through the sleeves.

“Hey, you!” a man yelled from the back door of a restaurant. Nathan reacted instantly, dashing out of the alley without even turning to see who was shouting.

“Hey! You’re that kid! You’re Nathan Bailey! You get back here, boy!” The man, who was about fifty and had consumed way too much beer and pizza to entertain any serious notions about catching his quarry, nonetheless chased him as far as the sidewalk.

“Stop him!” the man yelled to no one in particular. “Stop that boy! That’s Nathan Bailey, the kid that killed those cops!”

Half a block away, Pointer heard the shouting and was drawn to it like a beetle drawn to a sex lure. He was close and he knew it, but until he saw the old cook pointing frantically down the street, he had no idea just how close he was.

At about the same time that Sheriff Murphy received word from the SWAT team leader that the kid had left the Vista Plains Apartments, Nathan sightings began pouring into the Pitcairn County Emergency Operations Center faster than the call takers could keep up with them. Each sighting was sent out over the police net as an update, providing a reliable route of travel for the boy. Sheriff Murphy’s job was to plot the sightings on a map in the command van and try and figure out how to get ahead of him. Initially, he assumed that he was getting the sightings in the wrong order, figuring that the last place a kid would go would be back toward the center of the town where his crimes had been committed. Sure enough, though, that’s where he was headed.

“What’s he trying to do?” Murphy wondered aloud, and finally the answer came to him. “Michaels, you son of a bitch!”

All of the news agencies monitored police frequencies, and reporters all over town plotted the same map that Murphy made. News vans joined the fleet of cop cars as they tried to close in on the fleeing boy. Overhead, news choppers from Buffalo and Syracuse TV stations followed the action from the air, the reporters and cameramen concentrating on the ground while the pilots concentrated on avoiding a midair collision.

The network affiliates had all been notified to stand by for a special report at any moment when the action got interesting. CNN was already showing live footage, even though there was nothing more to show than a lot of marauding police vehicles.

In Washington, D. C., a tiny television had been brought into The Bitch’s studio at NewsTalk 990 so that Denise could track the events as they unraveled. She was prepared to give a play-by-play rundown to her audience regarding what was going down in Pitcairn County. During a commercial break, she told Enrique to air only those callers who were on the boy’s side.

“We don’t need any more fuel on this fire,” she told him. Enrique assured her that the calls were running three-to-one in that direction anyway.

Once he’d reacquired his prey, Pointer moved through the crowd like a torpedo racing toward its target. He walked swiftly without running, steadily closing the distance between Nathan and himself. They were about fifty yards apart now, separated by just enough people that he couldn’t take a clean shot.

The kid moved smoothly, clearly wanting to avoid being recognized, and clearly unaware that Pointer was so close. The Hit Man had decided to play the takedown as an arrest rather than just popping him on the street. He’d cuff the kid and haul him into “custody?’ When they were alone, he’d do him where there were no witnesses.

The kid was fast, though. He’d have to wait until he was nearly on top of him to make his move. Pointer figured about three minutes more.

Then events took yet another unexpected turn.

Nathan was getting close. He could see the obelisk in the distance now, rising above the heads of his fellow pedestrians. He walked among them as though he belonged, avoiding eye contact, and receiving none in return.

That guy behind the restaurant had unnerved him, shouting so loud. If the killer cop had been within a hundred yards, he would have heard that buttinsky shouting his name. Why couldn’t people just mind their own business?

Someone grabbed Nathan from behind in a crushing bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off his feet. “It’s all over now, kid! I gotcha!” All Nathan could see was a pair of beefy forearms across his chest. The pressure of the man’s grip drove Nathan’s elbow squarely into his bullet wound. The pressure and the pain made it impossible to take a whole breath.

“Let go of me!” Nathan yelled. “Help! Get this guy off of me!” He kicked wildly and wriggled in every direction. As the man’s grip weakened, Nathan started to slip through his grasp. The man grunted and staggered back as a flailing heel found his kneecap. When Nathan drove the back of his head into the man’s nose, he let go completely and staggered backwards. Nathan landed on his feet and coiled into a half-crouch, preparing to defend himself against the next attacker.