Catalyst

fiction by michael werneburg

"Doesn't look like it. Looks like he's hunting one of the survivors that escaped."

The doctor's husband said, "Are you still carrying your camera?" When I nodded, he said, "Hand it to me, you'll get it back when you come to the clinic. No sense in getting killed for it when you don't need it."

"I don't need it?" I asked. "I thought I had to take a photo at the finish line."

The woman with the screen said, "No, they've said that you don't, actually. Your photos have been uploaded, you just need to cross that finish line on your bike."

I finished the water and stood. I was already feeling noticeably better. I handed over my camera and wiped sweat from my face.

"Someone found your pannier on the expressway and is selling it online," said screen lady. "The bidding's at five figures."

I winced. The prize money I was looking for was in that range. "This whole thing has gotten completely insane," I gasped.

"How are they going to know you're not carrying your camera?" she asked.

I realized the answer. I took off my helmet and shirt and handed it to her. "Thanks for your help. Maybe you can auction this for a fortune?" She looked at the soaked shirt dubiously but took the items. "I'll hold them for you," she told me. I gave her my contacts, and told her, "Please do, I'd like to see you again."

But we were now at the dock. I grabbed my bike and headed to the bow half naked and still half stunned from the exhaustion and drugs. Everyone parted as I went. From the deck above, I could hear an angry voice. It seemed Harami was getting a different response from the crowd. I noticed his ultra-expensive bike standing rigidly 5-locked to the railing. How would I escape him?

The ramp went down and I was off. Moving now in open daylight without a map I just took the most direct route I could think of for the finish line.

I heard a whirring noise and knew that I'd been picked up by Megalomedia's drone. I took a path between the airport's sprawling property and the water. It took me a moment to cross the first quarter of the remaining distance, but as I neared the corner of the airport's fenced-in grassy space, I slowed. I didn't know where Goss was and I would need to make the final approach with care. I was pretty sure the man would kill me out of hand.

Rounding the corner at a glide, I made my bike light over a rough patch, standing and pushing the handlebars forward. My bike rattled disconcertingly and then I was riding on brick. Scanning frantically at the various benches, trees, utility sheds, and public washrooms I realized what a mess this approach would be. Between me and the finish line was an expanse of grass. No way I'd get mired in that, I'd be a sitting duck. Then I saw motion.

It was Goss, crouching low without a bike and following a low hedge row, crossing my path right to left. I veered to the right to circle him on a paved path that ran across the grass. There was almost no way that he wouldn't hear me.

When Harami crashed into me I didn't even hear it. I'd later see footage of him approaching me on the same paved trail, his futuristic bike silent and his muscled form moving like some kind of big cat from before the climate collapse. He'd leapt from the bike to tackle me.