Pamplona Futuro

It was the year 2412, and we were all here to watch the running of the bulls. It was always a spectacle to behold.

In the past, attending the event was open to whoever could elbow out a place in the crowds. But the technology involved much more now. It was no longer the sort of world where there was free network programming or radio stations. Everything was pay-to-play—even this event!

You see, we all have circuitry in our ears and eyes. They can charge us for anything now, whether we're reading a book or listening to a favorite old song. As soon as you begin to read, watch or listen, the meter starts running.

Attending live events like this can be less costly than watching it on the screens later. There's been a slight drop in viewership over the past two years, so perhaps the discount is meant to encourage more fans.

In the original 'Running of the Bulls', brave souls volunteered to run the maze of narrow streets with tons of mad bulls trying to run down and stomp one to death. It was considered a sign of machismo for any man who put himself in harm's way.

Things are different now. The bulls are gone, long ago eaten in the mad rush for food in this new world. Once that last bull was gone, the last

of the bull sperm was gone as well. No bulls meant no pregnant cows, so they had also rid the world of future cows and milk. I sure hope those bulls were tough as tripe.

So, no bulls, but still running, you ask? The truth is, the men are now criminals (or at least those who looked like criminals), and the bulls are motorized vehicles equipped with alterations to make each a killing machine. The criminals run, and the bulls mow them down. On the off chance a criminal successfully runs the course, all his past criminal records get expurgated. He can attempt to live as a citizen again. If he gets arrested again, he gets executed on the spot. The law was no longer fooling around.

How did this all come to be? We don't use a penitentiary system anymore. Too many times, a criminal was released and committed a new jailable offense. The prisons couldn't keep up with the revolving doors of those prisoners going in and those getting out. So the government decided not to waste infinite resources on these souls.

Thus this game was a sort of housecleaning. The government ran these every quarter, so no prisoner was on the dole for longer than a few weeks. It saved a lot of money from the very beginning. Those citizens whom a criminal preyed upon were allowed front-row seats to the carnage. They paid in the blood of loved ones, and they had the desire to watch justice fulfilled.

I had a visitor. It turned out to be Maynard and Greta Slovine, the parents of Patty Slovine, a girl murdered in cold blood. They were eager to confront her killer.

"How can I help you?" I asked.

"You can get ripped to pieces tomorrow," Maynard said.

"Oh, I am sure I will be."

"Make it happen where we can see it."

"I will try."

They glared at me and turned away, too disgusted by being in such proximity to someone like me.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I still had a few more visits before I could sleep. I hope they were all as brief as the Slovines.

Next came the Graves family. They were a dour-looking bunch, and I struggled to recall which of the victims were theirs. I honestly couldn't remember killing anyone who looked as down-trodden as them.

"I'm Donald Graves, and this is my wife and kids. You killed our Erica."

I suddenly remembered her: large dark brown eyes, shoulder-length hair, and a nice body. Was she related to them? I asked them if she had was adopted.

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes."

"That makes more sense," I pondered aloud.

"Are you taking jabs at us? You think you're better than me--and my family?" He asked.

"Yes."

"I can't wait to see you die out there," he answered.

They left in a huddled group of muddled browns and dingy grays.

At last, the visiting hours were over. No more teary scenes from people who might never suspect how little I cared for their anguish.

I woke to find a large bowl of cookies. Now, normally, I won't eat something cooked by someone I don't know—or if I suspect any possible reason they want me to die.

I had a good number who wanted me dead, but I wasn't quite ready for that yet. I took one cookie, then asked the guard to pass them along to the other runners. I heard murmurs of enjoyment and smiled wryly. If they were okay, then I could go ahead and eat my cookie. I felt as though I had done a good deed.

Early next morning, a priest came along to hear my last confession and to comfort me about the ordeal to come.

"Did you get a last meal?" he asked.

"Yeah, a cookie."

"That wasn't a meal. Sister Magda baked those. She feels the running is a sacrilege, as do I."

"Tell her thanks."

"I will."

"Can I hear your confession?"

I told him I wasn't Catholic. I wasn't even a Christian.

"You can still unburden your soul to me. Ask God to forgive you for wandering off His path. It's your chance to right things. Go to God with a clear conscience."

"Save it for the other guys. Thanks for stopping in."

"If you change your mind, you can call on me."

"I'll keep it in mind."

I knew what they wanted to hear. I just refused to give it.

The run was scheduled for one o'clock that afternoon. Spectators would get there early and buy their lunches from food carts throughout the city. The aroma of so much street food made my stomach cramp painfully. I was hungry and not hungry, all at once.

The guards came to get us. We were to strip down bare and get a cavity search to make sure we had no weapons. That amused me, for the 'bulls' were heavily armored vehicles, and not even a handgun could save us from them. I decided the strip search only amounted to an extra degree of degradation.

Soon we were lined up at the starting gate. There were 324 of us, criminals marked for slaughter. None of us entertained the idea of escaping our fate. The streets were narrow and lined with onlookers. The 'bulls' were large and loud. There was zero hope of living through this experience.

I didn't look around me at the other runners. I didn't want to see that panicked gaze of someone wanting me to help them. I couldn't help them any more than they could save me. All one could do is try to get out ahead of the pack and stay there, all while looking for any chance of escape. It was all an exercise in futility.

Engines were revving, and horns were blaring as the 'bulls' readied for the killing. They were working themselves into a bloodlust, determined to kill their fair share of societal dregs. They neither knew our names nor our crimes, only that we must be brought low, like a pack of wild dogs.

We, the so-called bad guys, looked terrified, while they, the good guys, looked like murderous thugs. Something was wrong here. Something was not making sense.

Don't be mistaken. I am here for crimes committed. I wouldn't claim innocence, even if it could save my skin. Just don't get the wrong idea about who is talking to you. I am guilty as hell, and I was ready to get out of this rotten world. I might have regretted my part in making it a more evil place, but I was only a drop in a vast ocean of crime and corruption.

I want you to know I spared no one. I killed men, women, children, housepets, and newborn babies. I didn't make a distinction between them. If I could earn a little money taking out people who should have known better than to get behind in their payments, I looked at it as though I was not the one who loaned them money. And I played no part in their inability to repay. I just batted clean-up for a living.

I looked over the cars intended to kill us. There was a wide variety of both new and old, fast and slow, and each was tricked-out for the occasion. I even saw a Hennessey Venom F5 in the pack. It, too, was made over to resemble a hunch-backed vicious bull. I shook my head in disgust upon seeing that. I could only imagine the privileged man who could sacrifice such a car to what amounted to a demolition derby. And they say I am the criminal.

We were allowed a slight head start, though not in hopes we might escape. No, they gave us a bit of lead so the 'bulls' would not become deadlocked at the starting gate. If they all sprinted forth at once, imagine the knot of twisted metallic fury which might ensue. We couldn't risk that. That would spoil their fun.

I ran blindly, propelling myself forward with only one intent—to outrun the monsters behind me. All my strategies of looking for ways out and finding shelter somewhere were gone. My mind only channeled pure panic and the urge to run.

I could hear the crescendo of engine squeals as the bulls were released. It was one of the angriest, most hopeless sounds on earth. Adrenaline provided me with extra gear then, and I flung myself forward, blindly hoping for a miracle. I saw nothing but the other runners, each as scared as I was.

Then the screaming began. Back at the hindmost part of our pack, bulls were catching up with runners. Tires screeched on cobblestones, and runners voiced their agony. I tried not to hear it and moved on, but that was not easy to do.

My adrenaline surged anew, and I used every bit of it to push myself to the front of our pack. I ran forward in a panic unlike any I have ever known. The screaming behind me amplified and became one steady shriek of suffering.

It was then I felt hands upon me. I was dragged to the side of the pack and hurled into an open doorway.

"Can you run some more?" a man's voice asked.

I nodded breathlessly.

"Come on!" he urged.

We ran through the villa and out into a corridor behind it. From there, we ran almost a quarter mile until we reached the edge of a private garden. I was almost out of energy. I don't think I could run another

step.

He led me to a fountain at the garden's center. He motioned for me to help him lift it. I thought he was joking but bent to help anyway.

The fountain was a fake! Its base was a lid that lifted via a hinge and revealed a tunnel below. He motioned for me to get in the tunnel. When I did as asked, he closed the lid and left me there. When I tried to lift the cover, it wouldn't budge.

I don't know how long I was there, holed up in a tunnel in the darkness. I had plenty of time for my mind to imagine scenarios. It was encouraging I was still alive, but why was I removed from the pack of runners? Was I chosen by chance—or was there some plan for me? Eventually, I surrendered to my exhaustion and slept.

I awoke to the aroma of food. There was one candle burning, which illuminated both the food and the faces of those who had watched over me while I rested,

"We were hoping to present you as a runner who outraced the machines. So you could get a new chance at life. But, the officials already announced no winners this year. So you cannot find redemption that way."

"Who are you?" I asked.

"We are P.R.A.Y., the Pamplona Runner Assistance Youth. We are not young, as you can see. But the 'youth' part keeps them looking in other directions. Most fascists are literal to a fault, you see. We save at least one runner from each quarterly running. They are onto us, so to speak, but they have no idea how to find us."

I laughed. It was too perfect. They wore the vestments of friars (because they were). I noticed a woman amongst them.

"Sister Magda?" I asked.

She smiled and nodded.

"We have a problem," she told me. "You cannot be named a winner, and you cannot go back out into the world. Your crimes were many, Brother Mikal told us. You would be recognized and gunned down."

"So, what can I do?"

"You can stay here with us, in hiding. You can help us rescue other runners. You can make a difference in the world for someone like yourself. You could seek redemption."

"I am beyond that."

"That is not for you to decide. Maybe it was no accident you were the man we were able to rescue."

"I don't believe in all that stuff."

"It's fine. Maybe it's enough for 'that stuff' to believe in you for now. Think it over?"

I did. I remained in captivity until I reached a decision. I finally reasoned that perhaps it was time to help others. I would never save as many lives as I have taken, but I was willing to balance the scales as much as possible. Maybe doing that was just as important as honestly accepting their deity.

"I want to stay here and help," I announced.

"Good," Sister Magda replied. "We will usher you into our group. You will need new clothes, a bit of training, and to get baptized."

"I don't want to be baptized. I am not sure what I believe about all that."

She looked to Brother Mikal to gauge his reaction. He smiled slightly and nodded. He turned to me and gave me a mysterious smile.

Years later, when I finally opted to receive baptism, he was the one to do the job. He smiled at me as if he were my father, which in some ways he had come to be.

During the ceremony, I received the name I would answer to forever. I wish I could tell it to you, but I have sworn to secrecy.

The runnings still occur, and we do our best to rescue people from these games. If you are ever unlucky enough to find yourself in the pack, do yourself a favor and look for a friar who looks like an ex-biker.

I'll do my best to help you.