#1
Run a contest – The flier made
it sound easy enough: run the race, win fifty pounds. You didn't even have to
come first; just cross the finish line. ‘Everyone who makes it to the end will
win a prize!’ Harry needed the cash to pay off the lay-by on his tv and, he
reasoned, he certainly enjoyed a leisurely jog now and then (‘then’ being one
of those abstract sort of times that we always think about happening but never
seems to arrive). So he called the number and got the address of the race track
from the automated voice and turned up at the given time.
The address
was for a big building in an industrial part of town, a warehouse-looking
structure clad in shiny corrugated steel. Spray-painted on the double doors was
a large red spiral. The doors made harsh scraping sounds along the concrete
slab as Harry pushed them open. He found himself in front of a row of gates set
into a mud brick wall, each with a light above it, some glowing red, some green.
Directly before him was something resembling a music stand, bearing a laminated
sheet of instructions on top of a pile of forms, and a blue biro tied to the
stand with a length of string. The instructions were printed neatly in an Arial
font, and at the top of the page was a logo of a red spiral in a black box.
‘Please
sign the attached form,’ they read, ‘then take a numbered vest from one of the
hooks behind you and enter a gate. Available gates are those with a green
light. The race will begin at the sound of the horn. Please keep to your lane
and move straight ahead. Thank you for your participation and good luck’.
Harry
signed a form without paying too much attention to what it said, then took his
vest and entered a gate. The light above the gate’s entrance flicked from green
to red, lighting the space with a strange glow. The gate was a crude archway,
leading to a poorly lit tunnel which appeared to be made from the same
mustard-coloured mud brick as the wall. A door made of metal bars blocked the
tunnel entrance.
Harry had
just started doing some warm-up stretches when the door swung open and a horn
sounded. He had been expecting an air-horn, something loud and startling, but
this was different; rumbling, primal, called forth from bone and penetrating
him like the call of a predator. He began to run.
As soon as he had left the gate the concrete
floor gave way to roughly paved earth and he stumbled repeatedly, knocking into
the wall and grazing his elbows. Flakes of mud brick settled on his t-shirt and
mingled with the blood from his cuts, forming a paste. After a few minutes of
frantic sprinting Harry slowed, a stitch stabbing painfully in his side. He breathed
deeply, clutching his ribs, laughing to himself at his sudden fit of panic but
unwilling or unable to stop walking.
He looked
up, trying to identify the source of light. The roof of the tunnel was
surprisingly high, but he could make out what appeared to be shallow bowls of
burning oil hanging from chains. There was no sound in the tunnel save for his
own panting, and the air smelled like dust and iron.
Harry
wondered about the other participants; there had been at least seven other
occupied gates when he had come in. He felt a little proud at how fast he had
just run, and thought that for sure he must have gotten a decent head start. He
decided to pick up the pace a little, determined not to lose his edge; what if
there was a bigger prize for coming
first? Harry started jogging, humming gently to himself. He continued on for
quite a while, pleased with his stamina, noting absently how the floor seemed
to be gradually sloping downwards.
There were
gaps at random intervals in the wall, tall archways leading to other tunnels
which seemed more or less identical to his, but he paid them no attention. He just
kept following the path as best as he could, keeping his eyes on the ground so
he didn’t trip on the uneven stones.
Hot wind blew
from the archways, occasionally making a shrieking sound as it blew past. And there
was a smell that came on the wind, like farm animals and rotting meat. After a
while Harry began seeing things through the archways, just out of the corner of
his eyes, like glistening red streaks on the ground or the spectre of an
outstretched hand. Something ran in front of him, across his tunnel from one side
to the other, a scrabbling, stumbling, human-shaped thing that looked at him
with one wide, rolling eye before disappearing through an archway.
Harry assumed
they were just trying to find a short cut and was miffed that the others were
trying to cheat, and resolved to go faster and try and beat them through sheer
skill. Surely the race must finish soon? How much further could it be?
After a
while he realised there were footsteps behind him, not just the echo of his own
but independent, another participant trying to muscle in on his track. He put
on a short burst of speed, sprinting a couple of metres around the long curve
of the wall. The footsteps behind him kept their pace. Harry was sweating
heavily, and could feel a hot wind blowing behind him. It was thick with the
rotting animal smell, and he hoped he would soon be past it.
He tripped
on something which rolled out from under his foot, putting his hands out to
steady himself and landing palms-first on a small pile of bones. The force of
his fall splintered them and yellowed shards stuck out of his palms. He swore,
struggling to his feet and pulling out the splinters of bone with his teeth as
he kept walking. His palms were slick with blood and the footsteps behind him
quickened.
Harry’s
whole body ached and his breath was wheezing out of his body, and he wondered
if he couldn’t cut a deal with the race officials to take the winnings of
anyone who didn’t cross the finish line. He’d have to buy antiseptic on the way
home and he didn’t want that coming out of his
fifty quid.
Whoever
was behind him seemed to be gaining, and Harry realised he hadn’t looked over
his shoulder once the whole time. Were they close enough to see yet?
The curves
of tunnel were beginning to get very tight. He should have read that form more
closely. He felt like he’d missed something important. It was in an ancient
language, something he didn’t want to
read. Why did he sign it?
He must
be close to the end now. He hadn’t heard any screams on the wind for a while. Maybe
the others had given up. Or maybe they’d all gotten to the end. Maybe he should
have tried cheating too.
Why hadn’t
he looked over his shoulder? It seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do. He hadn’t
even really thought about going through one of the archways, even though he
might have been able to find another participant. They could have chatted. He could
have told them about the tv he was paying off. He might have even made a
friend. After all, they weren’t really competing.
Everyone who made it to the end won a prize.
The footsteps
were very close now. Harry could hear their breath, could feel it like a hot
wind. What if he just peeked over his shoulder a little bit? He must be very
near the end now, and everyone else was dead. Surely that should win him a
little something extra.
The smell
was terrible. It was all around him.
Harry
turned his head, just a little, just enough. And then he started to run.
