Beginnings
“Blue-sky thinking” – Business buzzword – refers to the corporate vision of Utopia – the emptiness of the skies, the consideration of all valid possibilities without limitations.
Beginnings
Darkness.
He could hear the rustle of bodies and the heavy breath of laboured lungs on the other side of the room. His pursuers, knowing they had him cornered, were not being as careful as they might.
He edged his way further behind the sheltering bulk of a stack of crates, hoping they contained something that might give him some protection: a consignment of Kevlar body-armour, perhaps, or maybe a ready-to-assemble tank if he was lucky.
Whatever the crates contained their shelter was only temporary. The men who were chasing him were professionals. They would split up and try and take him in a pincer movement, bearing down on him from both sides at once so he would be unable to defend himself properly.
That’s what he would have done in their place, anyway.
It would give them the advantage, but it wasn’t necessarily the end. There was still one course of action open to him, equally as dangerous perhaps, but with more chance of success than if he stayed here, a rat in a trap.
Suddenly, two explosions of light and noise shattered the darkness.
He lunged forward, grasping his stomach, his gun raised and spitting bullets as he raced towards the door. The two men guarding it fell backwards either dead or badly injured, his plan, as dangerous as it was, actually working.
He almost made it.
Grasping at the door handle, his hand slick with sweat, he wrenched the door open, the bright light from outside silhouetting him in the doorway for a moment.
It was enough.
Another explosion of noise echoed out from behind him.
His hands flew to his head, his back arching spastically under the impact of the heavy projectile. He heard himself scream and then he was falling backwards, back into the room, back into danger.
He felt his hands flailing by his sides, trying to find something to stop his fall, but there was nothing, only the warehouse floor, and as he crumpled onto it a cloud of old dust billowed up around him.
A single breath of air escaped his winded lungs and then he was silent.
His head hurt. It felt hot, a fire burning at the back of his skull, yet icy cold at the same time.
He heard the creak of a floorboard from above his head and a wave of panic passed through his body. He tried to move his arms, his legs, anything, but nothing seemed to be working properly.
Another creak, this one closer, less cautious.
He knew what it meant, knew that his assailants were closing in; knew that he was going to die.
He’d always imagined, if he’d ever been unlucky enough to find himself in such a position, that he’d fight hard to live, that he wouldn’t go easily into the darkness but would put up the fight of his life.
But now he knew he wouldn’t.
He almost felt like a casual observer, uninvolved, outside of events, watching peacefully the violent demise of his self.
And then he was plummeting downwards into an abyss, into that place where there is no coming back from.
Into the unknown.
Into darkness.
