Running. The slapping sound that dirty white sneakers make when they strike wet pavement. The cold feeling that I get when the rain hits my hands and face. The fire in my lungs and heart, burning for oxygen. The lack of any feeling in my legs, the buzzing in my ears, the pain in my side. These are all familiar to me. For five years, they have been my closest friends.
The buildings tower above me, reaching up into a dark, grey sky. I run at their feet, an ant among giants. My breath is hot and ragged, leaving behind momentary bursts of fog wherever I pass. My throat is dry and nasty. I want to stop; not just stop for a breath, but stop running and just stand. But I know that if I do, the next breath I hear won’t be mine, and it won’t be human. So all I do is slow down a little.
I drift back as I run, putting myself on autopilot in a sense. I learned how to do this a while ago, before running became essential for survival. Someone called it meditation once, but he’s dead now, and anyway, he was wrong. Meditation is what funny men in robes do to get enlightened. This, this is the way I escape. The pain in my body fades away, and my motions are someone else’s. Only my mind is left.
I think about a man who lived a while back, long before the world went south. His name was Prefontaine. He was my idol, when I could stop running after two miles and collect a prize. He was good, better than me. I don’t know his exact times, or all the records he set. There are some things that a girl just knows.
He didn’t even have to run. He could have done anything in the world but run. And yet that was what he did. He went out and punished himself, going that extra mile. What I do every day for survival, Prefontaine did for fun. All this pain, every aching muscle, every frazzled nerve, was his pleasure. It’s a little hard for me to grasp.
My body hears something. I come rushing back, trying to determine a source. The first thing I do is look back over my shoulder. To tell the truth, I probably don’t even have to do that.
Shadows move behind me in the rain. But they aren’t really shadows. Shadows do not breathe. Shadows do not growl. And above all, shadows do not have eyes. These do. Horrible yellow eyes that pierce through the sheets of rain. The race is on.
I double my pace. There’s no way I’m going to let them get me that easily. If these things want me, want to eat me up like they did all of my family, my friends, everyone else, they’re going to have to really hoof it. Because I’ll die of exhaustion, hunger, thirst, anything before I let them lay one paw on me.
It’s a real race now. My legs are pumping hard, like organic pistons. I’m gasping for my breaths, acutely aware that one of them could be my last. I’m running wild-eyed and reckless. The course takes me through stores, around rubble. Above all though, I do not look back. You never look back at your opponents. You do that, deep inside you lose hope. And right now, hope is all I’ve got to run on.
The street is coming up to a river. I can hear the raging waters over my breath. The rain has let up. Ahead of me I can see a bridge that once spanned the troubled current. But even from here, it’s obvious that it’s broken in half. How badly? No clue.
They’re sounding closer now. A lot closer. I trick myself into thinking otherwise and rush ahead. The ruins of an elder time fall behind me. The monsters are still there. They always have been. Always will be, unless I fall.
Now I’m on the bridge. Someone appears, standing by the gap. I nearly stop, but instincts override my mind and I keep on. As I get closer I find I can see through him. He’s not real, not physically. But I don’t think he’s quite inconsequential.
I don’t recognize the face. It may be God, though I’ve never really seen what he looks like. It could be my mind’s idea of Prefontaine. Though I always pictured him looking much brighter. But it doesn’t matter who they are. They’re telling me all I need to know. “Keep running.”
The monsters won’t follow me over the gap. They hate water. They won’t even risk falling in it. If I can make it, it will be two days of walking before they catch up again. Of course, I don’t plan on walking. I’ve forgotten how.
Twenty more feet. The man who’s not there is still there. He’s cheering me on, towards the finish line. My opponents are still behind me, still coming on. All of a sudden I’m there. The gap is before me. I leap. I sail into the air over the dark, aquatic abyss. I feel the breeze rushing past me, the upward rise. But what really gets me is how it feels without any ground beneath my feet. Time creeps in those precious moments. I could fly. And in a sense I do. Right across the finish line.
-Curly
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