NOVEMBER 5, 2019

Chasing Freedom

“Chasing Freedom” is my story for the 91st episode of The Word Count Podcast, also the 9th Halloween episode. The story is based on the following image which required we incorporate Murder, Mayhem, and Horror in the theme.

Story Inspiration: “Chasing Freedom” was inspired by a manhunt of two men in Canada, summer 2019. They allegedly killed three people in British Columbia and went on the run, ending up in Gillam, Manitoba.

My version is not a telling of the real life event, but merely a hint at the different ways we chase freedom, whether it’s to escape capture, for financial gain, or merely to live a simple life.

I hope you enjoy it.

You can listen to me reading “Chasing Freedom” on episode 91 of R.B. Wood’s podcast.

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I murdered a man for less than a hundred dollars and got caught. I was young, stupid, no family. None of this excuses the crime, but maybe I’m getting a second chance.

Six years into a life sentence in one of the most remote areas in Manitoba, I win the monthly “Get out of Jail Free” lottery. The prison is overcrowded. The warden deals with the problem as he pleases. No one wants his shitty, low-paying job, so no one dares question his methods—not even the mayor.

The rules of the lottery are simple. If I survive three days in the bush, I go free. The state erases my criminal past and secretly re-integrates me back into society. They’ll even find me a job that’s not near a major city. It might be tree-planting or some other back-breaking work, but it will be better than prison. I didn’t always participate in the lottery, but as I aged behind bars, I started thinking about all I was missing on the outside. I wasn’t yet thirty and had the rest of my life ahead of me. I wanted to be free.

Two years ago, I entered the draw, and today, my number finally came up.

Before dawn, I’m driven to an isolated drop-off point by two guards in a police van. It’s not a van, really, more like a monster truck kitted out for the wilderness. In this part of the country, the terrain is rough and unforgiving. Parts of the interior could swallow up a small car. After the hour-long ride from the prison, my kidneys feel battered.

One guard pulls me out of the truck and removes the cuffs from around my wrists and ankles. The driver gets out holding a shotgun. I’m shaky and stumble backward but quickly regain my balance.

“The clock starts ticking now. If you’re breathing in 72 hours, you’re a free man,” the guard says, as easily as if he were wishing me Good morning. He lifts himself back in the vehicle, rolls down his window and yells, “We’ll send out the dogs. If you hear them, you’ll know you’re almost at the end.” The driver snorts and spits on the ground before getting in the truck. He guns it out of there.

I slowly walk in the opposite direction from where we came then start running. The fresh air, the openness, the freedom! I soak it in, unencumbered but for the polyester prison jumpsuit identifying me by number 523877, and a wrist watch that also acts as my tracking device. Dead or alive, the authorities will find me. I’ve been told there is only one road in and one road out of this swampy bush, but I don’t have to get out. I just need to survive.

As the sun rises, the densely-wooded area teems with insects. I hear them before I even see or feel them biting the nape of my neck. The forest hums with the sound of my legs pounding the ground. My shoes sink into the damp soil where erosion splits the earth like decaying flesh.

I keep up the gruelling pace for most of the morning, snapping twigs and shoving branches out of the way. I feel like I’m being chased even though I’m not. Distance from the prison will buy me freedom.

At some point though, my legs turn to stone pillars. I bend over, hands on hips and let out a loud, sharp cough that echoes like an explosion in the forest. My heart thumps in my head along with the cacophony above me. In an open patch of sky, I see a flock of small black birds funnel upward like a tornado. They chirp loudly in unison as if admonishing me for destroying their peace.

I wish I could fly.

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72 hours later

The warden flips through papers on his desk. He loves his job, loves the freedom. He’s the king of his own little world. The mayor said if he could reduce prison overcrowding, it would save taxpayers millions of dollars every year. That savings would translate nicely to a raise for him. Maybe he’d be able to take an extra hunting trip next spring.

He had to meet the mayor today to crunch numbers anyway. His men were escorting a prisoner into the wilderness every three days. They’d stop doing it in November though, take a break to round up the bodies from the previous months, the ones that hadn’t been eaten by bears, that is. October was particularly good, but he had to be careful. He could justify missing prisoners, but not too many at a time.

At the top of the warden’s stack of papers was a document with the heading: October Lottery.

Underneath the title was a list of numbers.

Amongst them—523877.