Panic Read Online Free PDF

none.
    It was only when he was almost at the threshold that Michael noticed spots of blood on the path leading to the door, and felt his pulse quicken. Trouble had found its way to the cafe, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.
    He paused, and shot a glance back at the car. Carl was on the radio, his eyes fixed on Michael.
    Michael cocked his head to the side. Still no sound. Nothing at all.
    Michael thought about the multitude of American cop shows that were strewn across the television channels; thought about some grizzled homicide detective approaching a closed door, gun in hand, ready to face the danger head on.
    On TV, the detective would kick the door open, pop three rounds into the perp's chest and head back to the station to get shouted at by his chief. Michael didn't have a gun or a chief: what he had was a can of long-unused pepper spray and judgement that hadn't been called upon for so long it had probably rusted over.
    He reached for his belt and pulled the spray out of its holster, briefly wondering if the damn thing could possibly be out of date, and as much use as a can of deodorant.
    He took another step, and could now see that there was more blood than he had realised at first. A small pool of it gathered around the base of the door. The sight made him waver for a moment, and he felt his nerves getting the better of him.
    "Fuck it," h e whispered to himself, trying vainly to persuade his courage to up its game. Adrenaline kicked in, and Michael stepped in front of the door, peering into the dimly lit café beyond.
    His eyes adjusted, pupils widening.
    Then he bent double and retched.
     
    *
     
    He ran.
    He loved to run.
    He very rarely got the chance, not to really run. Sure, there were times when he managed to break into a jog; more often into what could best be described as a disappointing trot . Hardly ever an outright run.
    The main reason, naturally, was her . She didn't like it when he ran, and he always got a telling off that left him feeling humbled and fearful. And there were the obstructions, of course. Where he lived, it seemed to be all obstructions; all strange shapes and blockages. Pointless corners and walls that were sometimes there, sometimes not. No chance at all to run there .
    And inevitably, when he tried, the admonishment was especially severe.
    The infuriatingly short occasions on which he was allowed to visit other places was when he could sometimes up the pace a little, but he had learned the hard way that he could only get so far before he was stopped suddenly, and painfully.
    It was torture. Because he wanted to run so very much. Things in the distance were always so much more intriguing, and he worried that by the time he got to them, they would be gone. Running was the only solution, and it was forbidden. It was a source of terrible frustration and confusion to him. He did not understand why it was bad to run; only that running had consequences. He hated the consequences.
    Now, however, he was run ning, and it was glorious: flat-out sprinting, and the feel of the wind pushing back his ears and the cold numbing his tongue was truly wonderful. Strangely, he found that he suddenly did not care about the consequences. He only cared about the running.
    "Bad dog Sniffer!"
    She sounded distant, but there was no mistaking the words. The same words he heard most days, though this time there was steel in the tone; menace that could not be overlooked.
    It angered him, and that surprised him. Ordinarily that tone meant consequences. At the very least it meant that she would not fish into the paper bag of delicious treats today, and he would probably end up with nothing more to eat than the dry, tasteless pebbles that came out when he was Bad Dog . That was usually enough to stop him, but today felt different.
    He felt different.
    Felt something stirring inside him, some thing powerful and irresistible; something that felt oddly like it had been taken away from him and now returned. Something