August 2022: Hit And Run - Rita Campbell
Think of it like a hit and run, he’d said. No one will ever know except us. No one really gets hurt.
Glistening beads of sweat on her forehead mobilise, building to a slow-motion descent down her cheeks, dripping onto the keyboard, silently marking time.
How hard can it be? He’d challenged. Persuasion was his superpower.
She exhales - stretching her stiff neck back till she hears the distinctive crack. Wipes her palms on the well-worn white coat hanging on the chair behind her.
All that remains is to trigger the 12-hour time-delay that will sabotage the continuous analysis.
She checks the time. Three minutes till the CCTV cameras are restored. Three minutes. Hit and run, like he said. No one will ever know.
Swiping at the shining beads on the keyboard she sends a file flying. Charts and reports splay over the floor. Cursing, she squats - icicle fingers fumble with the contents, trying to restore order.
A photo surfaces.
Dark frightened eyes framed with winged lashes gaze out at her from under a fringe - judging her.
TERMINAL is stamped in red above her name.
Alexa (Lexi) Phillips DOB 7/6/2017.
Christ - only five. Kid must be in the next clinical trial. Her shoulders slump
as the enormity of what she’s about to initiate resonates.
4.58 flashes on the computer screen.
Two-minute window.
There’ll be fallout, sure. Research lost - research that can be replicated though.
And crucial time gained - time for their plan to evolve.
No one gets hurt, echoes in her ears.
She places her left hand on Lexi’s file, recalling the fear in her eyes. It leaves a moist palm-imprint on the jacket. Some will though. Her right index finger lingers over the mouse.
Just one click, and its done.
Shivering.
Heart thumping so hard it threatens to leap from her body.
More drops on the keyboard. Tears this time.
She jerks her hand back like its touched scorching metal. A wave of nausea washes over her - bile burns her throat, she tastes it’s bitterness.
I can’t do it... too much at stake.
Lives - can’t be replicated.
I could go down for this. He didn’t think this through...
Reality kicks in. The lab’s icy air infiltrates her lungs with each painful gasp. Her mobile vibrates, showing the time 4.59. She knows it’s him, even without looking.
Swallowing hard, she tries to ignore the sparkling, shimmering spot that’s slowly expanding outwards in both her eyes. The jagged zigzag edges preceding the inevitable throbbing pain in her head. Instead, pictures his face – smiling. Then shape shifting if she fails, his eyes - glassing over, his mouth contorting... His rage...
Inching her hand over the mouse she wishes she could vaporize like her program. Bites her lip, tastes metal.
Her mobile vibrates again.
A reflex action - her hand stabs at the mouse.
INITIATION COMPLETE flashes on the screen between the jagged edges of the aura overtaking her vision.
Ten seconds to run.
By Rita Campbell.
#RightLeftWrite’s August genre prompt was Mystery.
September’s competition is open now - genre prompt: Sci-Fi. Submissions of short fiction (max. 500 words) close at the end of the month - submit your entry.
Right Left Write’s August genre prompt was Mystery.