The double rounded the final curve of the channel with twenty miles an hour of zero-drag speed behind its boots.
It was covered in lime dust and black river slime from the collapse in the stable, its gray wool coat torn away along the right collar bone to reveal the dense, bloodless muscle beneath. But its face was entirely smooth, pale, and motionless, untouched by the physical hard effort that was turning Len’s lungs to fire. Its flat gray eyes locked onto Len’s dark shape standing on the narrow eight-inch footing along the south stone face. It tracked the line of his spine with the clockwork certainty of an iron transit measuring tongs.
The creature didn’t pause to check the water depth beneath its feet. It didn’t look up at the cracked, sweating brickwork of the ceiling. It saw only its original claimant, pinned against the stonework wall with a locked still left forearm. It carried nineteen pounds of postal freight in a water-stained canvas satchel, cut off from any lateral retreat. To the cold, office logic of the closure directive, the meet had reached its end-post math: one living body, one pending milestone, and zero physical routes of evasion.
