FutureImperfect by Stefan Petrucha Page A

him.
    An alarm shrieked as a blast of cold air hit him. He was facing a tall fence, eight feet at least, topped by barbed wire. Beyond that was a small forest of pines.
    Go left!
    He did, leaning against the chain-link for balance. The shrill alarm pierced his ears. After rounding a corner of the building, he spotted a section of fence that had been crushed by a fallen tree.
    There!
    He raced to the gap and nearly cut his face on the dangling coils of fallen barbed wire as he made his way to the other side. Another alarm went off closer, louder, angrier. He heard doors open. The field of tall, thin pines opened up in front of him. Maybe if he made it to the woods, he could find a place to hide.
    Wait!
    Wait? Wait for what?
    Look!
    Where?
    A pink clown balloon, its string caught in the barbed wire, dangled in the air. A soft wind turned the face, the face of the Fool, toward him. Harry started, expecting the figure to speak, but instead, it graced the razor edge of the coil and popped.
    Oh , he realized.
    He turned and pushed the thick cloth of the straitjacket into the barbed wire, moving up and down. The thick cloth of one of the arms of the jacket caught and tore, exposing his flesh. It was the first time air had touched his arm for many, many hours, and the sensation made him shiver. He jammed the torn cloth against the barbed wire and pulled. This time, he managed to extend the rip all the way down his arm, scratching himself badly in the process.
    Now, go!
    Shredded cloth dangling down his side, he raced for the trees, snapping his hand out from the torn jacket as he moved. With one bare arm free he wasn’t afraid of falling anymore, so he ran even faster. It wasn’t like running in A-Time, where his breath never seemed to give out. Here the cold air hit his lungs hard, making it hard to breathe very deeply, and he hadn’t eaten since he’d been in Windfree. He pushed his weakened body as hard as he could, but after a few minutes his legs went rubbery, and he wondered how long he had before he collapsed.
    Already slowing, he came to a concrete drainage ditch, some sort of runoff, which he followed to a small tunnel of corrugated metal. A stream of water flowed in it, carrying bits of silt, twigs, and leaves. Harry knelt, crawled into the tunnel, and sat in the shallow stream. A final surge of energy, its source unknown, hit him, so he twisted, writhed, and tore at what was left of the straitjacket. Ten minutes later, he was out of it completely.
    Shaking but satisfied, he lay back in the cool water, letting his arms dangle freely in the air. He rubbed his palms with his thumb, wriggled his fingers, scratched his scalp, and let the little stream roll over his shoulders and down his chest.
    And Harry Keller exhaled and closed his eyes.
    Alarms and sirens droned in the distance. He didn’t hear any footsteps or rustling brush, no hint of danger, just the gurgling water as it flowed around him. He turned his head to look out the far side of the tunnel. Through the twisty curve of the metal’s end he caught a glimpse of the nearby town of Billingham.
    The horizon was a quiet one, with a ten-story building in the center, but nothing taller. If they didn’t catch him, he could sneak into town, snag himself a shirt somewhere, and try to get on a bus back to the city.
    But for right now, though the water was sharp and bracing, he had to rest. He closed his eyes, lowered his head and let the shallow coolness slosh around his ears. Then he passed into a long and dreamless sleep.
    Â 
    Thump! Thump!
    Something hit Harry Keller’s forehead. It wasn’t hard, it wasn’t heavy.
    Thump! Thump!
    It was hollow, rubbery.
    Thump!
    Like a balloon?
    He opened his eyes, uncertain whether he was awake. The clown balloon was in the tunnel with him, floating over his head, thudding against him. It looked lifeless, like a printed illustration, but these days Harry was perfectly comfortable talking to