The desolate grey mountain road stretches far into the near-solid fog. The Hunted Man, short of breath, trudges through. His tattered brown coat, his small dirty backpack, the only soul for miles.
Silence amplifies his struggled breathing. The fog plays nasty tricks on his vision, and he has to look constantly behind himself in fear of the Hunters.
Thus far it had been the fog’s deception. Reality merely shows a rock or a roadside tree. No sign of the towering shapes, a mass of dozens of old coats and scarves hiding their true nature.
Not daring to stop, he removes his backpack without breaking pace and pulls out a small unmarked pill bottle. He pours the last three small, blood-red pills into his left hand and swallows them. His breathing eases.
How far till the next town? He pulls out what looked like an ancient pager, checks a small green display, not far now.
Another shape at the edge of his vision. He turns to look, and to his fear, there is no shape there to see. How close were they? How long does he have?
The mist thickens further, and the man can smell rose petals. His panicked hiking bursts into a full-fledged sprint. They are closing in.
The Hunters, two of them, march unseen. Their forms, visible only in the peripheral. The hunted man continues down the mountain road at blazing speed, his muscles hurt, his head pangs, his scars sear, but he has to reach the next town. He has to.
Lights. Lights in the distance, he can see it. The next town! He just has to pass the border he just has to—
He feels light-headed, the lights blurred, his body is giving up. His willpower takes a few seconds to pick up the slack, and he worries how much the Hunters had closed in his moment of weakness.
The final sprint towards the town of Spring leaves him panting despite the medicine, and he stumbles through the streets seeking any sort of dining establishment.
By the time he finds Molly’s Diner he had regained his breath but retained his hunger.
The glass doors swing shut behind him. He pads toward the front counter, eyeing the menu.
The attending waitress looks up at him. “You look like hell,” she says
The Hunted Man tries to smile; it comes out a grimace. “You have no idea.”
“Take a seat wherever, sir, someone will be right with you.” The waitress nods slowly.
He makes his way to a small table near an emergency exit; he does not look at the menu.
It is snowing outside, and this seems odd to the man. In his experience, it tended to be a rainstorm outside diners at times like this. He wondered where he was, geographically speaking. The devices directions had weaved a tangled trail across the states, and license plates had proved an unreliable source.
A waiter greets him and breaks his Train of Thought; the Hunted Man orders a burger, medium rare, and the largest glass of water possible.
He pulls out the device. The screen shows the name of a local inn. He finishes his burger and has six more glasses of water before paying cash and heading to his prescribed lodging.
The Inn is small, five, maybe six rooms, he was in room three. When he gets there, there is a small orange box laying at the foot of the bed, he opens it and pulls out the following.
Two full, unmarked pill bottles, one containing the blood red pills, the other what looked like tiny black pearls; five hundred dollars cash; A new pager-like device; two pairs of sunglasses; a matte grey lighter; and a gun.
The gun has a single bullet, and the man knows it’s not for defense. He cannot horde the bullets he finds, or another hunted might be without an escape.
He sits on the bed and sets the alarm clock for midnight. It is six o'clock now, and the man needs rest before the three A.M, ordeal. He removes his coat but leaves on the brown button-up shirt and grey trousers. Tomorrow he could pick up a new set of clothes from the dead-drop at the laundromat.
He climbs into bed and attempts to sleep. A feat almost as challenging as his sprint to this town. He takes one of the black pills and lays back down. He does dream, but his dreams are of a still, black void.
His alarm shrieks and his eyes open. For hours, he sits attentively staring at the door. Waiting.
They never came. The gun went unfired. Now the man can leave the room. He can pick up the Dead Drop.
Snow swirls in the air as he makes his way through town. He passes from the light of grey clouds to that of fluorescent lights, from the quiet bustle of the street to the loud rumbling of the laundry machines. He makes his way to the back and finds the unattended machine. He checks the number, then the contents. It’s his. He stuffs the fresh clothes to his messenger bag.
The bell of the door opening strikes him like thunder. No footsteps company it. He turns and sees them.
Towering, hidden, shrouded. The Hunters are here.
The Hunted Man runs. Weaving through an emergency exit, not looking to see the hunters implied faces turn towards his scent.
He dashes through the streets, the shadows still there, still closing in. His panicked thoughts take stock; he had gotten everything he needed from this town, but a head start. He’ll just have to run that much faster.
The Hunted man continues down the valley road the fog draws in, and the hunt continues.