Free Target by Joe Craig

of dust.
    Jimmy’s face was deep red. He scratched at his neck to loosen the strap but it did no good. He could feel his brain crying out for oxygen and his vertebrae straining not to snap. Without realising what he was doing or why, his fingers reached into his mouth. The taste of soil cut through him, but still no air.
    He gripped one of his back teeth. Then came a burst of pain so intense he prayed to pass out, but his programming quickly swamped it and neutered the agony. Blood prickled on his tongue. He gripped his tooth tightly in his fist. It had come away whole; he felt for the spikes at its root.
    He could hardly see now. Debris slammed into his face and his eye sockets were swollen with bruising. It took all his effort to prevent himself blacking out. Still not able to think, his life in the hands of his programming, he punched the tooth into his neck with a sharp jab, just above the strap. Trapped somewhere in his head was a human boy convinced he was about to die. His fingerstwisted the tooth down and in, then ripped it straight out again. It tore his skin from the inside, but burst through the leather strap as well.
    Felix and Georgie trudged into the farmhouse, covered in mud and bruises. Georgie’s mother caught them in the hallway.
    “What happened to you?” she asked.
    “Horse riding,” Georgie grumbled.
    Helen Coates gave a little chuckle. “You were the ones who wanted to go out and have fun. Where are the others?”
    “They were better at riding,” Felix replied, as miserable with the afternoon as Georgie, “and Jimmy wanted to follow them.”
    Helen stood between them and the kitchen. “What do you mean, ‘them’?” She stared into Felix’s face. “Who else is there?”
    Georgie glared at Felix. He looked sheepish, realising he’d given her away.
    “I suppose it’s OK to tell you,” Georgie sighed. “We met some boy in the village a few days ago. He wanted to come with.”
    Helen’s shoulders tensed up instantly. Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t be paranoid. “What boy?” she asked as casually as she could.
    “He’s just some boy, OK?” Georgie shrugged, turning to go upstairs. “His name’s Mitchell.”
    Helen froze. “He’s English, about your age,” she gasped, “a little shorter than you, with light brown hair probably shaved very short.”
    “How do you know?” Georgie spun round to see the deadly serious look on her mother’s face.
    “I saw his projected imagery programme thirteen years ago.”
    Georgie and Felix were stunned. Georgie tried to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth.
    “Get in the truck, both of you,” Helen said firmly. “You need to show me where they went.”

CHAPTER SEVEN – ALWAYS RECYCLE
    J IMMY HEAVED IN a desperate lungful of air. He spat the grime from his mouth and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Instinctively, he patted the wound in his neck. It felt dry. But he couldn’t rest yet. The ground was drumming under him. Looking up from the mud, he saw the silhouette of Mitchell turning his horse. He was charging back for Jimmy. He clearly wasn’t going to stop until Jimmy was dead.
    Jimmy pushed himself on to his feet then ran towards his own horse. It was galloping past to meet its stablemate. Jimmy caught the pommel in his hand and threw himself up into the saddle. It took a commanding heave to wheel the horse round. He managed it with Mitchell still a few metres away.
    “Come on,” Jimmy whispered through his teeth as if the horse could understand him. Somehow it must have sensed Jimmy’s desperation because it kicked away with a burst of speed. Mitchell responded bydigging his heels in and they both dashed across the field.
    In the open country Jimmy had nowhere to hide. The leak of blood in his mouth was already clotting, and the incision in his neck exposed only a smudge of grey beneath the surface. Still every gash cried out for him to stop. He fixed his eyes on the buildings up ahead. If he could make it