Stephen King - The Running Man

“Sure,” Richards said.

“There will be a lot of booing from the audience. We pack it that way because it’s good theater. Just like the killball matches.”

“Are they going to shoot me with fake bullets?” Richards asked. “You could put a few blood bags on me, to spatter on cue. That would be good theater, too.”

“Pay attention, please,” Victor said. “You and the guards go on when your name is called. Bobby will, uh, interview you. Feel free to express yourself as colorfully as you please. It’s all good theater. Then, around six-ten, just before the first Network promo, you’ll be given your stake money and exit-sans guards-at stage left. Do you understand?”

“Yes. What about Laughlin?”

Victor frowned and lit a cigarette. “He comes on after you, at six-fifteen. We run two contests simultaneously because often one of the contestants is, uh, inadept at staying ahead of the Hunters.”

“With the kid as a back-up?”

“Mr. Jansky? Yes. But none of this concerns you, Mr. Richards. When you exit stage left, you’ll be given a tape machine which is about the size of a box of popcorn. It weighs six pounds. With it, you’ll be given sixty tape, clips which are about four inches long. The equipment will fit inside a coat pocket without a bulge. It’s a triumph of modern technology.”

“Swell.”

Victor pressed his lips together. “As Dan has already told you, Richards, you’re a contestant only for the masses. Actually, you are a working man and you should view your role in that light. The tape cartridges can be dropped into any mailslot and they will be delivered express to us so we can edit them for airing that night. Failure to deposit two clips per day will result in legal default of payment.”

“But I’ll still be hunted down.”

“Right. So mail those tapes. They won’t give away your location; the Hunters operate independently of the broadcasting section.”

Richards had his doubts about that but said nothing.

“After we give you the equipment, you will be escorted to the street elevator. This gives directly on Rampart Street. Once you’re there, you’re on your own.” He paused. “Questions?”

“No.”

“Then Mr. Killian has one more money detail to straighten out with you.”

They walked back to where Dan Killian was in conversation with Arthur M. Burns. Richards asked for another Rooty-Toot and got it.

“Mr. Richards,” Killian said, twinkling his teeth at him. “As you know, you leave the studio unarmed. But this is not to say you cannot arm yourself by fair means or foul. Goodness! no. You-or your estate-will be paid an additional one hundred dollars for any Hunter or representative of the law you should happen to dispatch-”

“I know, don’t tell me,” Richards said. “It’s good theater.”

Killian smiled delightedly. “How very astute of you. Yes. However, try not to bag any innocent bystanders. That’s not kosher.”

Richards said nothing.

“The other aspect of the program-”

“The stoolies and independent cameramen. I know.”

“They’re not stoolies; they’re good North American citizens.” It was difficult to tell whether Killian’s tone of hurt was real or ironic. “Anyway, there’s an 800 number for anyone who spots you. A verified sighting pays one hundred New Dollars. A sighting which results in a kill pays a thousand. We pay independent cameramen ten dollars a foot and up-”

“Retire to scenic Jamaica on blood money,” Richards cried, spreading his arms wide. “Get your picture on a hundred 3-D weeklies. Be the idol of millions. Just holograph for details.”

“That’s enough,” Killian said quietly. Bobby Thompson was buffing his fingernails; Victor had wandered out and could be faintly heard yelling at someone about camera angles.

Killian pressed a button. “Miss Jones? Ready for you, sweets.” He stood up and offered his hand again. “Make-up next, Mr. Richards. Then the lighting runs. You’ll be quartered offstage and we won’t meet again before you go on. So-”

“It’s been grand,” Richards said. He declined the hand.

Miss Jones led him out. It was 2:30.

Richards stood in the wings with a cop on each side, listening to the studio audience as they frantically applauded Bobby Thompson. He was nervous. He jeered at himself for it, but the nervousness was a fact. Jeering would not make it go away. It was 6:01.

“Tonight’s first contestant is a shrewd, resourceful man from south of the Canal in our own home city,” Thompson was saying. The monitor faded to a stark portrait of Richards in his baggy gray workshirt, taken by a hidden camera days before. The background looked like the fifth floor waiting room. It had been retouched, Richards thought, to make his eyes deeper, his forehead a little lower, his cheeks more shadowed. His mouth had been given a jeering, curled expression by some technico’s airbrush. All in all, the Richards on the monitor was terrifying-the angel of urban death, brutal, not very bright, but possessed of a certain primitive animal cunning. The uptown apartment dweller’s boogeyman.

“This man is Benjamin Richards, age twenty-eight. Know the face well! In a half-hour, this man will be on the prowl. A verified sighting brings you one hundred New Dollars! A sighting which results in a kill results in one thousand New Dollars for you!”

Richards’s mind was wandering; it came back to the point with a mighty snap.

“… and this is the woman that Benjamin Richards’s award will go to, if and when he is brought down!”

The picture dissolved to a still of Sheila… but the airbrush had been at work again, this time wielded with a heavier hand. The results were brutal. The sweet, not-so-good-looking face had been transformed into that of a vapid slattern. Full, pouting lips, eyes that seemed to glitter with avarice, a suggestion of a double chin fading down to what appeared to be bare breasts.

“You bastard!” Richards grated. He lunged forward, but powerful arms held him back.

“Simmer down, buddy. It’s only a picture.”

A moment later he was half led, half dragged onstage.

The audience reaction was immediate. The studio was filled with screamed cries of “Boo! Cycle bum!” “Get out, you creep!” “Kill him! Kill the bastard!” “You eat it!” “Get out, get out!”

Bobby Thompson held his arms up and shouted good-naturedly for quiet. “Let’s hear what he’s got to say.” The audience quieted, but reluctantly.

Richards stood bull-like under the hot lights with his head lowered. He knew he was projecting exactly the aura of hate and defiance that they wanted him to project, but he could not help it.

He stared at Thompson with hard, red-rimmed eyes. “Somebody is going to eat their own balls for that picture of my wife,” he said.

“Speak up, speak up, Mr. Richards!” Thompson cried with just the right note of contempt. “Nobody will hurt you… at least, not yet.”

More screams and hysterical vituperation from the audience.

Richards suddenly wheeled to face them, and they quieted as if slapped. Women stared at him with frightened, half-sexual expressions. Men grinned up at him with blood-hate in their eyes.

“You bastards!” He cried. “If you want to see somebody die so bad, why don’t you kill each other?”

His final words were drowned in more screams. People from the audience (perhaps paid to do so) were trying to get onstage. The police were holding them back. Richards faced them, knowing how he must look.

“Thank you, Mr. Richards, for those words of wisdom.” The contempt was palpable now, and the crowd, nearly silent again, was eating it up. “Would you like to tell our audience in the studio and at home how long you think you can hold out?”