Deathrun
Of the twelve in the room, Ezra Jude and Rowan included, one would survive. There were Caucasians, Mongoloids, and Negroids, and aside from Ezra—he did not know about Rowan—they each had their own families to return to. Some wore rings, others stroked portraits, but most had it etched onto their faces that they wanted to survive. They were eyeing their surroundings, their competition, with hawklike eyes and sharklike teeth. Ezra had seen those looks before. They were the looks of a burglar when he passed by a jewelry store. That hunger, that thirst—the worm in his eye stirred like it detected his heartbeat.
Rowan did, too. He pat Ezra’s shoulder with a soft hand, to which Ezra reciprocated with a lean. They had sworn before this that if one of them died, the other would live, and it showed in their eye contact before the officials arrived. With a stamp of their boot, they stood at attention, then introduced themselves from left to right. Vivienne Grace, Elizabeth Snow, and Charlotte Peach—an all-women squad. Did they omit their ranks for a reason? Ezra had no time to ponder as Elizabeth, the one in the middle and therefore the leader, began the briefing.
“You twelve have defiled natural law, the harmony of yin and yang, and as such, you will die as monsters in deathrun.”
Half of the inmates shuddered. One even prayed through his handcuffs. The word deathrun rang like a death knell in everyone’s ears, even Ezra. As for Rowan, it seemed to instill something else in him—something that drove him to yell at the officials.
“It is you who defiles this so-called law! What harmony of yin and yang can we find in a system like deathrun?”
The room reacted with shock. Ezra especially. Was Rowan doing this for their sake? That shock soon turned to anger from the others, and they joined in after Rowan, their jeers even harsher than his, but not harsh enough that the officials acted. Instead, Vivienne, Elizabeth, Charlotte—the three stood, three statues together, as the loudest noise Ezra ever heard blared from the speakers. The inmates covered their ears, Rowan among them, and after a second or two, the noise faded. And when they did, the officials drew their pistols.
“What you just heard,” Elizabeth said, racking the slide as her subordinates followed, “was a sample of the training we endured as officials.” She turned to Rowan, aimed the muzzle at him. A sound flew past Ezra’s ear, a sound he did not want to be real, a sound that, if it were wind, would mean the end of all things. Rowan sprang back in his seat, a hole in his head. There was a bang after that. And blood on the wall.
Ezra could not tell what had happened. His vision blurred, heat rose to his face, he twitched his body, but it did not move. He saw the worm, the worm in his eye, it danced to a tune, but he heard no music—did that mean something or did it not? Where was Rowan? he wanted to ask. Rowan could answer every question. Ezra just had to find him, but where? In this room? This room with a corpse in it? Everything was coming back to Ezra, and it came back faster than he wanted it to. First, he heard Elizabeth and her voice, second the inmates and their fear, third, himself and his breathing. He was still alive. He felt dead, but he was alive. So were everyone else, everyone not named Rowan Cedarstaff. That had to change.
With the smallest glimmer of hope, Rowan could survive.
“Hey,” Ezra raised his voice. No one but Elizabeth had in the silence after the gunshot, so it reached everyone loud and clear, and they turned to him, a majority of them confused. “I heard that the state grants the winner of deathrun any wish.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms, and eyed Ezra up and down. He had a madness to him that she as an official sensed more than anyone else. “You heard correct,” she said.
“Then I can wish for the revival of a dead person?”
She smirked. “You can.” Her answer brought a smile to his face. He never expected to feel warmth after Rowan died, but he did, and it was like Rowan was embracing him from the afterlife. Ezra, for the sake of Rowan, swore to participate without reservation, without qualification and without demur in the ninth circle of hell known as deathrun.