03 POV Simon on the track 877

I glance ahead at the track, visualising the moment I'll cross the finishing line. Forty seven steps, that's my goal, to make it to the end of this one hundred meter track in a few as forty seven long strides. My record so far is forty eight. Usain Bolt managed to complete it in forty one steps, but Usain is no mere mortal. 

I concentrate on my breathing,  I look up and around the field as I have practiced a thousand times before. Not another soul in sight. It's nice having this space to myself. No distractions, I can focus completely. 

I take my starter's stance, breathe deep and count down in my head, three, two, one... then I launch into my sprint. 

As I run I concentrate on the technique I have refined so diligently over the past year. Keep your eyes locked on a point beyond the finish line. Keep your arms close by your side to reduce wind friction. Launch high on every step, aiming for longer strides. Swing your arms as hard as you can using their momentum to carry you forward. 

At the halfway mark I feel I'm going well. My breathing is clear and regular, my footwork is tight, I keep pressing hard toward that finish line when suddenly an immense burning sensation strikes like lightning down the back of my left leg causing me to lose my rhythm. I try to keep running but the pain only worsens and I tumble about fifteen meters shy of the finish line. 

I hit the ground hard, grazing my hands and knees as I go. I collapse onto my front with such force the wind is knocked out of me. I take a moment, gathering my senses, then sit up and inspect the damage.  My hands and knees are bloody from the fall, this doesn't worry me, skin heals fast. The real cause for concern is the immense pain shooting up and down the back of my left leg. 

I try to stand, but I'm unable to put any weight on my leg at all. I sit back down, extend my right leg in front of me and try to do the same with my left but I'm unable to get it straight. I look over my shoulder to my back-pack that has my cell in it. I'm sure there's no way I'll be able to get home alone tonight. I'll need some help, probably to get to hospital first. I'll have to call my father, Covek, see if he's finished his shift and free to pick me up. 

As I roll over onto my front to crawl back to the start of the track I notice three men walking intently toward me from the side of the field. Normally this wouldn't worry me, I'm a big guy, six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pounds. I've boxed and done a slew of marital arts since I was ten, so I know I can take care of myself, even against three. 

But right now I have a busted leg and these three men are dressed in military gear, two hold hand guns, aimed at me, while the third has an AR15 assault rifle pressed to his shoulder also fixed in my general direction. 

I realise that these men obviously know what they're doing when they spread out and form a pincer attack. The two with hand guns take opposing flanks, increase the speed of their approach and have soon circled around behind me, triangulating my position. I look for any kind of insignia that might give away who they work for but there's no rank or other defining markings on any of their outfits. I doubt they're US military, it makes no sense why a US soldier would approach me like this. These guys have to be a private security force of some sort. 

I do what any sane person would do in this situation, I place my hands on my head and kneel, keeping my sight fixed on the man with the AR15. His presence and swagger screams alpha. 

He soon stands over me. His two cohorts behind me, barely visible in my periphery. 

"Simon Fischer?" AR15 speaks with an accent. Asian of some sort. Japanese, Chinese? I'm terrible at discerning the difference. 

I manage a nod and a weakly pronounced, "Yes."

"Son of Covek Fischer?"

I pause before answering this time. Wondering what the hell they want with me and what it has to do with my father? The man repeats his question, "Are you the son of Covek Fischer?"

My mind races, processing how best to answer. Yes, Covek is my father, but if I lie and say he isn't maybe they'll let me go. But then again, if these guys have tracked me down, odds are they know a hell of a lot about me and perhaps lying will only antagonise them. I decide to play it straight and reply. 'Yes.'

The moment they get their confirmation AR15 nods to one of the men standing behind me and I feel a sudden flash of hot white pain at the base of my skull where I can only assume I've been struck by the butt of his hand gun. I collapse face first on the track, my hearing fades fast then suddenly everything goes black.