S.L.A.V.E. 2

The cold air hit Warren's face as sweat droplets that formed on his head created little pockets of cold rivers running down his brown cheeks. His legs seemed to move of their own accord, the grass beneath him squelching with each thunderous step. Lungs that had been conditioned for a war with the diaphragm rose and fell like great bellows. His heart pumped ferociously as he picked up his pace. His short, coarse, curly hair grabbed moisture from the air, little droplets of rain becoming part of the network of curls, disappearing beneath strands of hair and wetting his scalp. His broad nose sucked in air, snorting out snot and grime. His fingers had dirt and grime caked beneath them. The rags he wore tugged viciously with the wind, both seemingly working against the tired boy.

Veins expanded, blood rushed, his adrenaline pumping as he neared another checkmark. There was no cover, just shin high grass. The blades were a vibrant green, the treeline in front of him just half a mile away. He looked frantically to the left, then the right as runners pulled up next to him. Shoving others away with desperation, his eyes opened up wide as the crack of thunder resounded through the meadow.

One of the people running next to him cried out in pain, his brown flesh torn from his chest as he fell to the floor and breathed his last breath. His eyes, yellowed from liver disease and malnutrition all too common among their ilk, saw no more pain. Now, the torrent of barrels blasting in the clearing could be heard from all directions.

Bodies began to drop in threes and fours. Warren was hit in the leg, the projectile immediately flooring him as he continued to crawl. The clearing was only a mere 400 meters away, true safety. Runners passed him up, some also crawling on the floor as they neared salvation.

100 meters from the treeline, Warren could almost taste freedom. His elbows were bloodied from crawling in the mud, his knees battered, his shins skinned, but his will was indomitable. A girl just twelve years of age with a bullet graze on her side and fear in her heart darted past Warren. She could taste freedom, the eyes of her kin were full of hope as they ushered her to the clearing.

The last man to fire his weapon aimed his model 1876 Winchester rifle at the back of the little girl, eager to put one last shot in the escapees. Warren could feel it, he was bleeding out. It wouldn’t be long till he would be just another black body strewn across the field. In a final hurrah, he stood up on one leg and held his hands up high.

George Miller was a coward. A sheriff’s deputy turned slave catcher who’s only joy left in life was booze and killing blacks. Truely, he was a serial killer, much like his kin who were toting rifles in the grass. Much like his kin with pasty white skin, who shunned the sunlight and politicked behind closed doors. Much like his kin who led everyday lives, never concerned with the plight of the negro, nor the sad crocodile tears of their poorer, ignorant, landless, white brethren. No, George Miller was a man who had the privilege to have a last name. A man with white skin and a pink pecker. A man who’s murderous nature was allowed to run free because of the nation’s hatred of blacks.

So, Mr. Miller did what he did best, leveled his rifle, then pressed the trigger.

The lead seemed to fly in slow motion. Warren had already closed his eyes as it zoomed down range. It smashed into water droplets that came too close, the little ovals of wetness patting the lead with glee. The wind had seemingly stopped howling, allowing the bullet to fly undisturbed. Even the Earth itself seemed to stop spinning so as to not displace the lone projectile.

As the hot lead slid in and out of Warren’s chest, his last moments were of a casual glance behind him. The bullet had passed through him without trouble, bursting from his body to the girl’s.

“It had all been for naught.” He said as his vessel crumpled down and he met his ancestors.

Mr. Miller jumped up with excitement as he was joined by his countrymen who hoisted him up and cheered. Then, suddenly, everything went black.

“Okay! That’s enough, this one is tainted too! Next in line please.”

George saw who was speaking, it was a woman with a lab coat on. Fearfully, he looked left and right then down at his legs. He had been strapped down on a hospital gurney in what looked to be a laboratory. As George went to yell he noticed he couldn’t speak. A man leaned over him, needle in hand as he smiled from behind his face shield.

“Cat got your tongue, slave catcher?” He said as he plunged his needle into George’s neck.

The last thing that he would see would be the initials in big bold lettering on his tormentor’s lab coat that read: S.L.A.V.E.