Devils Race

Devils Race
By Stephen A Abell

Number Of Words: 477



Lightning ripped open the dark blue sky, pinning me to the road in its glare. The ground under my feet began to quake as the thunder roared, “you have hell hounds on your trail boy.” On cue, the excited yapping and growls sounded behind me. Just down the hill, a little ways; out of sight, around that last bend I’d just ran. They were close, but I was fast and home was just the other end of the lane. Lord was I fast, and that was my downfall.

As I got my feet moving again, I could feel the warmth of the dogs’ fiery breath on my back. I focused on the road ahead and ran.

All I had to do was make this next bend, crest the hill, run down the long slope, and turn at the old oak to be safe. I was so sure I could be safe. Concentration kept the blinders on my eyes. I knew there were the town’s golf links to either side of the road. All I could see was tarmac and the little bit of countryside in my main vision. I should’ve paid more attention to the periphery.

I crested the hill and started down the long straight. The old oak a half mile in front of me, and I picked up my pace. Coolness brushed my back; I was leaving the hounds behind.

It was the smell I noticed first as I passed the half way mark to safety: Rotting fruit and dying vegetation. It hardly crossed my mind; I had more pressing concerns.

Ten feet away from the oak, he stepped from behind its thick trunk.

I stopped dead.

In the back of my mind, I heard my Granny saying, “When the blackberries turn the Devil is afoot.” She was one superstitious old lady.

Looking around now at the countryside hedgerows, I knew she was right. The poisoned juice of the rotted fruit had withered the entire hedge and was seeping into the farmer’s crops, and the golf club’s fairways. I stood in an ocean of death.

On the hill top stood five large hounds eyes glowing red, molten lava dripping from their mouths, flames flicking from their nostrils.

The fallen angel stood tall and wide in the road. In its claw-like hand was my contract. I wanted to be fast; I was. That’s what I signed for. And today, on the other side of this hill, two months before the Olympics, the car slammed into me, ending my life in an instant. I remembered the flaming decals on the black metallic body.

“You’re mine.” He said and stepped aside, sweeping his arm to let me past.

I took off like a bat out of hell, and rounded the corner, not to safety but to the first ring of hell.

Behind me the fiery gates clanged shut.