Chase

Seven

The dog ran.

And ran.

Chipper was moving so quickly his body had moved aerodynamically lower to the ground, like a race car. The fur on his stomach brushed the surface of the subway concourse floor.

At first, all he wanted to do was get away. Get out of the subway station. Put some distance between himself and those people from The Institute searching the train.

But once he’d emerged from below ground and slipped in among the hundreds of people walking on the pavement, he headed northeast. He had to get to his destination, a place where he thought he might be safe.

A place where he could set things right, too.

He had dipped into his memory files long enough to know that the place he wanted to get to was a considerable distance from here. Well beyond the city’s limits. He’d do the trip on his paws if he had to, but it would take days, if not weeks. It would be better if he could travel in some kind of vehicle.

But a dog, even a dog as advanced as he, could not exactly rent a car and get behind the wheel, or even walk along the side of the highway and stick out his paw to hitch a ride. And while his software allowed him to think in ways that other dogs could not — by using actual words and language — he did not have the power of speech. He could not go up to someone and say, “Can I get a lift?”

Imagine if he could. The sensation it would cause. Just as well he couldn’t utter anything more than a bark. He’d be on the six o’clock news, or sold to a circus.

So even though he couldn’t go up to the counter at the bus station and ask for a ticket, it didn’t mean he couldn’t get a ride on a bus. He just couldn’t expect to get a seat. But maybe he could ride with the luggage.

He consulted his database, went into the map program, and found a location for a terminal that dispatched buses to places outside the city. It was only ten blocks away. At the next corner he made a left, then a right three blocks after that. Within fifteen minutes he was across the street from the bus station. He watched as the vehicles pulled in and out, diesel exhaust spewing from under the back bumpers. Even from across the street, the diesel fumes found their way into his nose. Chipper loved distinguishing between the thousands of smells the world presented him, but diesel exhaust was one he could do without.

He looked at the destinations over the front windshield. There was BUFFALO and PITTSBURGH and OTTAWA and NEW YORK and plenty of other places, but none of those cities was close to where he was going.

Chipper needed to see the schedule.

He darted across the street, narrowly avoiding getting run over by a taxi, its horn blaring, and dashed between a man’s legs as he opened the heavy, brass-framed door to the terminal.

“Whoa!” the man said.

The dog trotted into the terminal, craning his head upwards, looking for a schedule. His eyes landed on it.

BOSTON, TORONTO, SYRACUSE, RICHMOND, MONTREAL—

He didn’t want to go to any of those places. His eyes kept scanning the board.

PROVIDENCE, DAYTON, CANFIELD, CHIC—

Whoa! Hang on. There it was: CANFIELD.

That wasn’t the exact place he wanted to go, but it was as close as any bus was going to take him. Once he got to Canfield, he could walk the rest of the way. His GPS program told him it was eight miles from Canfield to where he wanted to be.

That might take Chipper a day or so, but he could do it.

He checked to see what time the Canfield bus left and was alarmed to see that it was due to leave the station in the next five minutes. Which meant that it was probably already here, loading with passengers.

Chipper scurried back outside and ran to the platform where the buses lined up. He looked at the destination boards posted over the front windshields. The sign on the fourth bus read CANFIELD.

Chipper had to get on that bus.

Passengers were lined up, waiting to board. Most were already on, and seated. A man Chipper figured was the driver was midway down the side of the bus, directing passengers to leave their larger bags with him. As passengers boarded, the driver, the name YABLONSKY stitched to his uniform, opened a low, large, rectangular door beneath the windows and between the front and rear wheels. He began tossing the bags into the empty, cavernous storage area.

Chipper assessed the situation. The driver, while loading the bags, was keeping an eye on the people getting on the bus, which meant he was facing forward. Chipper slunk down the other side of the bus, came across the back, and peered his head around the corner. The driver, his back to him now, was still loading bags. But there were only a few to go.

Chipper had to get in there without being seen. And that meant timing it just right.

There was a sudden squealing sound. Chipper looked towards the street that ran past the terminal, saw two large, black SUVs with windows so darkly tinted he could not see who was inside.

The Institute.

Four men jumped out of each vehicle. But these were not the White Coats, not the men and women that Chipper had seen most days — the ones who poked and prodded him, who put devices inside him and took them out again, who sat at their computers and typed and clicked and printed out results. These men and women getting out of the SUVs were like the ones who’d been looking for him on the subway. Black suits, white shirts — ties on the men — little wires running down from their ears into their jackets.

They conferred briefly, pointed up and down the street, then in his direction. They were dividing up the search.

One of them headed towards the buses.

Chipper crouched down below the massive vehicle, inching forward so that he tucked behind the wheel, hidden from sight. He peeked around the edge, saw a man coming in his direction.

Did The Institute have people searching for him all over the city, or were they tracking him? Were the implants that allowed The Institute to know where he was at all times activated? There would have been no need to have that program engaged when they had him locked up in a cage.

The bus driver loaded the last of the bags. In seconds he’d be closing the door to the luggage compartment. Chipper crept around the tire, his snout almost sticking out from under the vehicle.

The driver, who had been down on his knees pushing bags deeper into the cargo hold, stood. An arm went up.

This is it.

The broad, vertical metal door started to swing down. When it was halfway to closing, Chipper sprung out from under the bus and scooted into the cargo hold, unseen by the driver as he watched the passengers board. Chipper brought his hind legs in just as the door slammed shut, nearly closing on his still-sore tail.

It was completely dark inside the cargo compartment. Chipper, moving blindly, worked his way between and over the bags until he was near the back of the luggage hold. When the door next opened, he didn’t want to be spotted. He snuggled down between some bags and rested his head on his outstretched paws.

Moments later, the bus engine began to grumble and Chipper could feel the huge, lumbering beast back slowly out of its spot, stop, then lurch forward.

I’m getting away. I’m getting away. It’s going to be okay.

For a brief moment, Chipper felt encouraged. And then he coughed.

The smell of exhaust inside the cargo hold was strong.

He hoped he had enough air to last him till he got there.