Stephen King - The Running Man

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 FreeVee 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.”

“I can’t see you,” Killian said, “but I can hear you. The jet’s voice-com is 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.

“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.”

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.”