It wasn't the running and hiding that was so irritating, really, rather it was the reason behind it. A reason that was preferred not to think about, and unimaginable when it came to actually telling anyone. Of course, the right thing had been done, no matter what the actual cost.
The day was dismal. More could be said about it, but from the damp confines of an underused woodshed, it was mostly a moot point. The shed, of course was a boon of tools and interestingly, a 12 gauge modified Remington 820 shotgun with a shortened barrel. After two days in the shed with nothing to read except the different literature kept there on that particular shotgun, and finding all of the packaging to the "enhancements" made to it, certainly the running man had collected significant ability concerning the firearm, and in fact had now field stripped and rebuilt the weapon six times for lack of anything better to do.
In addition, he'd found a significant supply of ammo - both some nasty looking slugs and something marked Federal "Tactical" 00 buckshot. He also found a bandoleer. This was perhaps when our fugitive realized that he was probably dealing with a bit of a nutcase, and so loaded the bandoleer with alternating rounds of the slug and tactical buckshot, and then did the same for the magazine, chambering one round in addition to the 8 rounds contained in the extended magazine. He also found, when looking a package of bolo and beanbag rounds, which he tossed in his back pack.
At the end of two days, having found nothing further to do, and running low on food, our now armed pursuee fled the premises and headed into town, looking for all the world like any other roadside hitchhiker. Drawing on what he knew of survival, he stopped in to a 7-11 and grabbed a couple of cartons of power bars, throwing them into his pack, and a couple of 1.5 litre water bottles, placing one in his pack and securing one on top of it for easier access.
He was stocked on supplies now and noticed in a mirror that he could really use a shave, which was definitely a good thing. Before he started running, he'd bleached his hair and shaved clean, but the roots were starting to show now, so he took to the 7-11 bathroom, and with a box cutter he found lying about, trimmed all his hair very short an cleaned up his facial hair as much as could be reasonable with a tool that used a razor to open boxes.
From there, he headed back out into the daylight, marching towards the highway. Within two or three hours - without a watch it was hard to tell time, exactly, but he was getting better at doing so in his head - he'd picked up a ride that was heading east towards Raleigh. It was good, because once he was farther away from the Appalachians, he could change his look again. It was beneficial to not look the same as he doglegged towards the coast, trying to find a safe haven from his recent past.
As he bailed out of the car of the latest innocent supporter of his race from the law, he noticed something odd and out of place at the gas station. It was an older blue English police call box, and as he walked around it, curious and slightly disturbed, he ran face first into a tall, thin man with short hair and brown eyes, knocking him to the ground. Unexpectedly he dropped his duffel and helped the fellow up.
"Oh, right then," said the man, "Who might you be?"
"I'm James."
"Well, James, how do you do? I'm the Doctor."