Pierre's Flight
Wednesday 21 March, 2045, 20:30. Montpellier, France.
Silhouetted against the night, the steam poured off Pierre Gaspard as he ran, conjuring a bygone age of the vehicle he sought. The train was close now, but so were they. He urged himself onward—pistons and valves working in unison against the darkness—spewing vapours with each stride.
He skidded turning a corner into the station car-park, astonished at his progress.
His body was not meant for this velocity. A hundred kilos of flesh, shrink-wrapped in beige - an overcoat struggling to cope with demands. Three sedentary decades of historic drag, taking him too far around corners, careering recklessly through puddles, dousing his beard with sweat.
And yet, he was still ahead of them.
Inexplicably, his body brimmed with energy. Vitality surged through his veins, energized his soul, catalyzed some deep power that had lain dormant. Speed! Unrelenting speed! This was his forte. His calling at last. That it should happen in these circumstances? Of course!
The car-park was set on an incline, giving a panorama of the platforms below, and Pierre’s eyes fixed upon a single grey carriage – his exit beckoned.
Upping the pace, he surged down the slope, face rippling with the force of each step. Momentum and acceleration took over, threatening their own anarchy, but Pierre marshaled them back under his command. His face, the very picture of determination. His glasses scattering regular pulses of moonlight back into the sky. A man possessed by a singular cause.
Arms like a sprinter, he exploded through a group of tourists and vaulted a turnstile into the station.
‘Sir!’ the cries rang out, as a girl was dragged from the man’s advance.
He could see the train lying parallel and took a running leap at the stairs.
Three steps at once, he climbed and blazed across the bridge, chancing a glance back before descending. No sign of them. He landed on the platform with a thud that near buckled his knees.
Warning sounds signaled the sealing of the train doors, but Pierre accelerated, regaining lost momentum.
Faster and faster. Nothing could halt him.
An unstoppable force. A well-dressed homing-missile. Only forty metres to target.
‘Stand clear!’ shouted a train guard.
Pierre gathered his remaining energies, releasing a karate shriek of self-encouragement.
Twenty metres. Fifteen. Ten.
Legs starting to fail him.
Five.
Some on the train edged aside, their bodies unconsciously registering what was to happen.
As the doors moved, Pierre launched himself to the opening.
Arms pinned down rigidly by his sides, he flew unflinchingly into the carriage like a bowling pin, and crashed into a drinks trolley.
