Chapter one, part two

-Chapter 1-

continued

Part Two: “Kill him…”

“Kill him. Then find his ID number and have a replacement for whatever his pitiful job is.”

The officer’s voice rang clear and loud. Its sound echoing deep into Roland’s mind. Kill him… kill him… kill. That was it. Kill. He was dead. Felix Wilhelm Roland was to be no more. No more… no. These two singular thoughts held for a moment in Roland’s mind.

Kill… no…

No.

He could have sworn it was his own thought, but it came from somewhere he was not sure of.

In his mind’s eye he saw four men. One stood surrounded by the other three. They all appeared to be scruffy, mismatched attire. And it seemed the sound of gulls were echoing in the distance. Sailors? He wasn’t sure. The three attacked and the man lunged into action. As he countered his opponent’s attacks, the world shifted. It was now in the dark corridors of his dreams, the attackers wore uniforms not unlike the Imperial Police, and the man’s attire was but a simple black blank uniform. The man’s face held him now, it was no longer scruffy, thought grizzled. But more importantly, it was his own.

How? But I’m just an accountant! I can’t, He thought to himself.

No longer.

He knew what needed to be done, for he watched himself do it. But how could he be sure it would work? He had never done any for of fighting in his life. However there was no choice. It was this or die.

Two guards shoved him against the alley wall and and reached out to hold him there against the bloody stain from the informant’s execution while a third guard prepared to take aim. It was now or never. With a burst of speed he reached out with his right hand and seized the pistol from the holster of the guard on his right. His left hand grabbed the arm of the second guard and pulled him in front of himself in time to catch the the bullet hastily fired by the third guard. He fired the pistol point blank into the ribs of the first guard, shoving the second forward into the third. Shocked, the third hastily attempted to pull free of the dying embrace of his comrade. This delay gave all the time needed for a shot to the head.

One shocked officer and an equally shocked Roland stared at the carnage. The officer was speechless. So was Roland. But it appears some wit found its way into the poor accountant’s mind, for he ran. He rand fast, and he ran hard. Harder than ever he had run before. First he simply ran to his apartment, but the sight of himself in the reflection in the door glass nearly frightened him him to death. His dark jacket, open, showed a white dress shirt now red with blood. Looking down, he still held tight the pistol he pulled from the first guard. He couldn’t hide, the officer still lived and would recognize him. They would search every house, as they had done before, and he would be found. He either died, or he ran. So he ran.

Haunted by visions of what had occurred, images from his dreams, and that particular strange vision that came to him when he thought he would die, he ran blindly as hard as he could until he fell. He dreams rushed in to claim him, but not before he felt the sensation of being dragged.

Night passed, alarms range, troops stormed out into the streets searching. The man was identified, and his apartment raided. His office at work as well. The Imperial Intelligence and Investigation, I.I.I. Or the “Eye” found no evidence that this man was a resistance sympathizer, or any recent event that could motivate such action. Combing the streets they found him not. Reports found all as it should be, no evidence of Mr. Roland or any resistance activity for that matter. The only thing of interest being a side note of a report where an officer encountered a young woman with unusually white hair. When he and his squad attempted to catch up to the woman in order to question her as to why she was out past curfew, she rounded a corner and they inexplicably lost her, though where to the officer was puzzled.

Headquarters staff dismissed the report as myth, and reprimanded the officer not to take to drink when important searches are supposed to be underway.

The search was called off just before daybreak the next morning.

The sun rose and life continued relatively normal to the casual eye. This, however, was not really so. The city was buzzing with rumors, juicy fiction and twisted truth, of a mysterious dark stranger who violently hunted down a squad of guards, tearing them to pieces with his hands. The officer barely escaped alive, and lost his left leg in the process. At least that is how the story was being told. The tale grew to include claws, and the perpetrator was lo longer human, but some dark evil beast crawling out of the sewers to slay the strongest of men to drink their souls. Faster than a train at full steam, and able to leap over entire city buildings in one bound, the best was said to be strong enough to rip up and Imperial Battle Tank with its own claws. This beast killed an entire detachment of Elite Imperial Death Corps with no effort, snapping the Commanding Officer in half with only its mind, leaving him paralyzed to watch his own men killed. The I.I.I. arrived in time to learn what happened before the poor man died.

Amidst all the hubbub about the “Souldrinker,” no one seemed to notice the small article published in the corner of the newspaper detailing a police report regarding a supposed resistance sympathizer who killed three Imperial Policemen before fleeing.

Morning found itself looking upon a rather pathetic looking Felix Roland slowly coming to his senses. Eyes still closed, he gradually became aware that he had been awakened by some form of discomfort. Lying there listening, he came to a few conclusions as to what the origin of discomfort was. First, it sounded like someone was yelling outside his apartment window that he most likely left open. Second, a screw must have worked loose on his fan and now the room was filled with faint rattling sound. Third, he could feel he was still dressed in his clothes, and must have forgotten to take them off the night before. He dimly recalled a strange dream during the night, while not his usual haunting dream it was certainly a nightmare in its own way. He opened his eyes and was greeted by a world that normally would have shocked him bolt upright, but in his foggy half asleep state failed to do so. Three more conclusions were then made. He was not, in fact, in his bed, but lying underneath a bridge. After glancing around this was followed by the puzzling fact that he held a pistol, even though he clearly recalled it was strictly forbidden that a citizen own a weapon of any kind. The final conclusion made then was that he was wearing a dark red almost black suit, and he knew he owned no such suit.

It was around this time that reality forcefully asserted itself upon his half operational mental facilities enough to perform their functions correctly. No one was yelling outside, but rather that was the sound of a propaganda loudspeaker calling for anyone with information regarding the “runner” to report to the Imperial Police as soon as possible and claim a reward of 50 trade coins and a bonus ration packet when the runner is caught. Runner. Those men who resist the Empire and yet somehow live long enough to run for the rest of their lives. The events of the previous night came rushing back and Roland realized that he himself was now a Runner. And his suit was not dark red. It was bloody.

The rattling sound grew louder and he turned to his head to see something far worse than a fan with a loose screw. Roaring down a road off to his left was a half-track loaded with Imperial Suppression troops. Trained for putting down rebellions and hunting “Runners.”

Roland allowed himself a groan of self pity before dragging himself upright. Though everything in his mind screamed that he ought to be a wreck of emotions. This was not so. He felt no guilt for fighting against an oppressive foreign regime that sought to squeeze every last resource from his now captive homeland. Though he felt obligated to be disgusted at himself for ending life, he was also all too aware that if he was to live for very long this would most certainly not be the last time.

He dusted himself off and walked out from under the bridge, all the while pondering just what exactly he was going to do. A glance up and he discovered the sky to be full of war zeppelins, turning off their search lights one by one as dawn lights up the still sleeping world. He had to keep low until those went away, unless he was keen on being hunted down from the air. Last time he checked, accountants weren’t bomb-proof. Though technically, he mused, he was no longer an accountant. He was a Runner. But before he could really be a Runner, he needed to actually run and survive the experience long enough to make a lifestyle of it. Dangerous as it may be, it actually began to sound exciting to him.

Train. Yes, that is how he’d get out of this city.

Roland found he was somewhere on the outskirts of the city. He could see the railroad that curved around either side of the city stretching out before him. More importantly, he saw the maintenance shed directly ahead. That’ll do.

A few moments later found him looking a different man. He washed the blood and dirt from his face and hair in the washroom sink, borrowed a pair of worker’s coveralls and heavy work boots to replace his bloody dirt covered suit. He also added to his attire some wool gloves that would keep him warm in the chilly autumn air. Cutting the tips off to keep versatility, he pulled the gloves on satisfied for now that he much better attired for what the future might hold. As an afterthought he grabbed a filtration mask from an emergency safety locker as he went out the door, just in case the Empire should decide gas was a better way of dealing with problems. The railway workers were equipped for cleaning up all sorts of nasty messes of toxic things, he hoped this mask could handle whatever gas the Imperial troops might think to use.

He checked the pistol he had taken when he fought the guards. Five shots. He would need to do something about that at some point. Nothing he could do now though, and not worth staying in this city to try to get more ammunition. This place was crawling with people looking for him.

Visgard Northern Shipping, twelve o’ clock sharp and right on time. Hauling loads of coal mined from a mountain range to the south, the only men on board were the men up front running it. No one close enough to hear Roland drop from an overpass into a coal filled cart.

Knowing he is safe for the moment, he manages to drift to sleep, his last thoughts coming to terms with his new place in life, and his new identity and a Runner.

Something changed in that young, timid former accountant that day.