THE RACE

Zip! A bullet whizzes by, just inches from my right ear. I keep telling myself I’ve already come this far and push myself to keep running.

Shit, you’re almost there—and when it’s over, you’ll be two million dollars richer.

Blam! I hear another shot. This time it’s found its mark in the right hip of another runner, Rory, who was right next to me, about a foot’s length ahead. When I hear an agonizing sound of breath mixed with gasping escape his lips and turn to see him drop like a sack of quarters, I know his days of running are over.

But there’s still a chance for me. Only a quarter mile, if that, of tar pavement and then this whole marathon business will be behind me. And I’ll finally make Sam proud of me, for once. She deserves that. And I swear to GOD, I’ll never do something so stupid again.

I find a lonely tree and duck behind it, lest I end up like Rory or worse. The poor bastard. It serves him right. He was the one that got me into this mess in the first place. Still, he didn’t deserve to go out like that.

P’too! Another gunshot. This time it hits the tree I am using for cover. It’s pretty damn close, too, because I can feel the vibration in my leaning shoulder.

Looking to my right, I can see the final banner that reads, “FINISH.” It’s so close but far enough away to become my detriment if I’m careless.

My heartbeat feels as though it’s in my throat, and not because of this grueling one-hundred-mile marathon. No, it’s because I gave up all rights to a madman hell-bent on killing me.

“Thomas, you get yourself moving, right now,” I say over and over to no one. Finally, I muster the nerve to run again. If I give it all I’ve got and zigzag a bit to throw off that sonofabitch’s aim, I have a chance to beat him.

But the second I burst from my hiding place; I feel those chances unhinge. My right leg that’s been feeling like a noodle since mile twenty locks up, sending a sharp, excruciating pain up the right side of my body. Then, the pain in my chest hits with such force, I nearly fall face down.

All of a sudden, my mind’s eye blossoms as if a switch has been turned on, and I see Sam’s face smiling in a way I’ve never seen.

I hobble and limp. I’ve no energy to do anything else.

The banner is now so clear, I can almost reach out and touch it. It’s there for me if I can just keep going. Just. Keep. Going.

I’m expecting another gunshot, but I hear none. There is nothing but my tear-smeared vision, my wheezing breath, and the irregular pounding of my feet on the dirty asphalt that resembles what I imagine a pegged leg sounds like. And the pain. The great pain in my chest. I’m too tired, too tired to make it. I extend an arm just inches from the banner. That’s when I see a blinding, white light as if fireworks are going off in my head. And then I hear it...

Pop!

I wish I could say it was love at first sight. That would be endearing. The truth is, Samantha pursued me...said she knew we would one day marry.

Eventually, I fell in love with her, but I’ve always considered myself a cheat because my real love is running.

The irony is, the day she decided that we should separate—divorce—I’d just come home from a run.

I can’t recall why Sam made me leave. It could’ve been my drinking, the scarcity of odd jobs I’d find every now and then…it could’ve been anything. She only said she didn’t feel the same...said she’d always love me, or something lame like that, that people use to get out of relationships. Truthfully, I can’t remember. Though I always suspected it was about money or the lack of it.

Nope, I don’t remember why, but I sure remember the last time I set foot on the other side of the home we shared for ten years. My heart did some funny shit as if it wanted to stop. I mean literally.

The truth is, I have a bum ticker. It’s been my Achilles heel since the day I entered this shithole world. At first, they told my mother it was only a murmur, then a leaky valve. Now, it chooses to stop for a second or two just to fuck with me.

Sam noticed my pause at the door, too. But it wasn’t enough of a scare to change her mind. So, I said something ridiculous, like, “Don’t forget to water the rose bushes.” I don’t remember, really. I carried what little clothes I’d packed, jumped into my shitty Volkswagen, and sped away, never looking back once. I wanted to. Believe me. But, I was afraid that if I stopped to look back, that deteriorating muscle that was masquerading as a heart behind my rib cage would kill me on the spot. That’s how much I loved her, even though she thought differently.

I drove to the best motel I could afford. A real humdinger that was only a few miles away and gave me an excuse to drive by my once-domicile if ever I got homesick.

The place was a two-story scrapheap called Last Stop Motel that sat conveniently between a liquor store and a gas station with a mini-mart inside. I’d struck gold. With the free cable, the liquor store, and the mart, I had all the porn, booze, and stale sandwiches I could handle. Yet, even with all the good fortune, I knew I was kidding myself. I was hungry for more than day-old hotdogs. I was hungry for a wife that had given up on me. I wished she hadn’t, and wished more that there was something I could do.

The first night at the motel was the worst. I spent the majority of the evening walking around, watching all the good Maryland families who’d fallen on hard times and laughed at the irony of at one time turning my nose up at those poor bastards. Now, I was one of them.

I could’ve done better...could’ve rented a room or an apartment. I’d accumulated some savings, but I didn’t believe I deserved better. Not with my failings as a husband. So, I continued to walk the premises like a security guard, smoke an occasional cigarette, and ponder where my life had gone wrong.

Somewhere in between watching an old bastard heave for fifteen minutes, I ran into a girl asking to bum a cigarette. It was obvious she was a working girl. A slender redhead with freckles, named Sarah or Tara or something like that. Honestly, I didn’t give a shit; I was lonely and in need of a little company. One thing led to the next and before I knew it, this girl who couldn’t have been any more than eighteen started to go down on me.

Somewhere in between the twenty I slipped her and the unzipping of my fly, I couldn’t seal the deal. She was okay, even attractive for someone living the way she was living, but the thought of Sam, and the way she teared up when I walked away made my noodle go limp.

Sarah didn’t mind. In fact, I believe she was relieved, really. I offered her the excuse that I was tired, gave her another twenty, and she handed me a wrinkled piece of paper with her number on it.

The second she was on the other side of the door, I tossed that wrinkled piece of paper in the wastebasket, cracked the cap on the bourbon I’d bought earlier, and drank until I passed out.

That night, I had a dream—and a weird one, too.

I was a flockless goose, a duck, or some other type of fowl, flying frantically toward the evening sun. I flew hard; I flew fast. It didn’t take long for me to figure that something was wrong. Black spots of metal flew past me in bundles. It was shotgun shot and I was being hunted. I flew harder, trying to reach a space where I knew I was safe. And just when I thought I’d evaded the range of fire; I felt a sting like molten lead strike one of my wings. Then I went down, fast.

The next morning, still in the clothes I’d worn the previous day, I was jolted awake by the ringing cell phone in my pant pocket.

“Hello!” I yelled into the handset after the fourth ring, and that exacerbated the pounding in my temples.

“What’s up, asshole?” a familiar voice answered back.

“Rory?” I asked.

I looked over at the cheap clock on the nightstand. It displayed 7:20, a typical time for Rory to call.

I’ve known him since high school when we ran cross-country together. For some reason, Rory latched onto me like a fly on shit. Even after I told him the friendship was a tolerated effort. Still, he was fun, and always called with some bullshit scheme for us that never panned out. So, when he called, I knew there was something brewing.

“I’m sure I’ve got something you don’t want to miss,” he said with the excitement of a child on the last day of school.

“What is it this time?” I chomped at the bit. “Oh, let me guess. It’s another stock option where I lose another thousand dollars in a day,” I said, rolling the painful and hungover oculars posing as my eyes.

“Nooo, buddy. It’s nothing like that.” The way he spoke made me believe for the first time that he was actually on to something. “It’s a race, man. A race! One hundred miles of pure running adrenaline.”

“A race? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Look. I can’t tell you the logistics over the phone. What say we meet up at your place?”

I waited a moment before replying. “That’s a negative. Things aren’t so good with Sam right now. I’m kind of holing up at a motel just now.” He knew of our problems.

“Yeah? Which one?” he asked.

“Ahh, I believe it’s called, ‘Last Stop’ something or other,” I said. I was hoping he hadn’t a clue.

“Last Stop Motel?” he said. “Yeah, I know where that is.” He would. “There’s a McDonalds a few blocks away. We should meet there. Can you be there in an hour?”

“I don’t know, man. I’m going through a rough time. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

I was hoping, praying that he’d get the message. He didn’t.

“Look. All I’m asking is that you hear me out. You can make your decision after that. Fair enough?”

I took a few deep breaths and thought for a moment, as if I was truly debating my decision. But I knew I was going. What else did I have to lose?

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

The sonofabitch was late, as usual. An hour and forty minutes to be exact. Normally, I was prepared, but that day, I wasn’t in the fucking mood.

I’d already devoured two Sausage & Egg McMuffins when I caught sight of his junk of a Ford Bronco. I mean, who still drives a Bronco? Anyway, he was all grins when he saw me sitting at the window. I was nursing what McDonald’s passes for coffee and wanted desperately to pop him across the face when he walked through the double doors. I didn’t. Instead, I did what I always do: feign a smile and pretend that I actually felt anything but annoyance for him.

He motioned a thumbs-up in my direction and headed for the counter. “Just a coffee,” I heard him say to the young Latina behind the counter. “Wait. What’s on the dollar menu? Never mind, I’ll just take the coffee.” Cheap bastard.

Then, he came over, grinning from ear to ear. Seeing that always turns my stomach. “You finally made it,” I said, rolling my eyes at the same time he plopped down in the booth’s seat.

“Yeah, I forgot how bad traffic is this time of day,” he said. The time was 9:50.

“Well...why’d you want to meet up?”

From his back pocket, he pulled out a damp newspaper clipping, unfolded it, and slammed it down on the table in front of me.

“What the hell is this?” I leaned back in the seat and tried not to show signs of interest.

“Read the damn thing,” he demanded. Every yellow tooth in his conniving head gleaned by the light of the window.

Finally, I glanced down at the ink-smeared paper and made out five words that immediately jumped out: death, race, one, million, prize.

“It’s the ultimate race, man.” His face glowed with the excitement of a madman. “A death race.”

I looked up at him in disbelief.

“A fuckin’ death race,” he blurted between uncontrollable giggles.

I picked up the clipping and scanned more. It was a race sponsored by the seventy-year-old megalomaniac, Derek Trench.

Anyone up on current news knew of Derek “The Retch” Trench. The spray-tanned real estate mogul that touted he was God’s greatest gift to the planet. A narcissistic draft dodger that garnered his wealth by a handout from ancestors that were brothel-owning, bootlegging derelicts. But the main thing about Derek “The Retch,” the thing that most people overlooked, was that Derek was a sociopath.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“A friend of a friend…does not matter. The thing pays two million dollars, and all we have to do is get to the finish line intact.”

“Intact?” I said, just loud enough to draw looks from a couple walking past the table.

“Well, yeah. Didn’t you read the second paragraph?”

I scanned more and picked out two more words that should never be associated with a marathon: underground and hunt.

Now, I read slowly.

It was a race, somewhere in Maine, where participants had two days to run one hundred miles’ cross-country while being hunted. The hunter was none other than Derek, himself.

“Is this for real?” I asked.

“Hell yeah.” The grin that he’d been flashing since he’d arrived faded, as did the color in my face.

I was afraid to ask, but I had to know. “How’s this possible?”

“Trust me,” he said. His eyebrows rose while his eyes grew larger. “It’s possible.”

He then looked over his shoulder and leaned forward. And for the next forty minutes, I listened to every detail until the blood in my veins went as cold as ice.

When he was through, I said nothing, couldn’t do anything except throw the clipping into the shocked expression pasted all over his face and bolt. I didn’t stop until I was face to face with the filthy green door of my motel room. Once I had slammed the door behind me, I swigged from the open bottle of bourbon from the previous night.

The more I contemplated what had transpired, the more I paced. And the more I paced, the more I drank, until any fear or reason had disappeared.

Rory was crazy. To consider something so heinous, he had to have been off his rocker. Money makes people do the weirdest things. Truth be told, though, two million dollars is a lot of money. More money than I’d ever see in multiple lifetimes. Money that would prove my love to Samantha.

But the thought of being out in the middle of nowhere with an egotistical and maniacal killer hunting my every move was too much to envision.

I took another shot, then another, and another until, by the evening, I was good and drunk. Drunk enough to believe I had a chance of winning the two million.

There was only one thing to do. Call Rory, who’d left at least four messages since I stormed out, and tell him I was considering it. But first, I needed to meet with Samantha.

She agreed when I reached out…told me to come by the house when she got home from work.

Already, she’d changed the locks, so I was forced to wait in the portico until she arrived. Only a day had passed, but she looked as if a month had passed. She looked beautiful. After I’d followed her through the garage, she led me to the small island in the kitchen where we always talked.

“I’m thinking of doing this marathon,” I said.

She acted as she always did, half-listening and preoccupied with domestic chores. This time, finding something to prepare for dinner. “That would be good for you, Thomas,” she said.

I watched her mill about, grabbing light food items that could only be equated to Tapas. “You can’t be serious about having that shit for dinner,” I scolded.

“What?” she shot back. “It tastes good and it’s healthy. What can I say? It feels great to not have to make an entire meal.”

“I imagine so.” I dropped my head in embarrassment. Not once had I made a dinner for her. “Well anyway, this marathon is a big deal.”

“I don’t know why you insist on running so much,” she said. It was the first time she looked me in the eyes since I’d arrived. “It can’t be good for your heart.”

“It’s managed to keep ticking so far. Besides, I love it; you know that.”

“You won’t stop until one day you—”

“Die? I can’t think of a better way to go than doing what I love.”

She said nothing.

“Would you believe the payoff is two million?” I said.

“You should do it.” That was all she said before grabbing a can of Dolmades and ham slices.

“You don’t understand,” I said. I was becoming irritated. “The two million would be for you. I mean, isn’t that the reason you got rid of me? Because I couldn’t give you the money you wanted?”

She stopped what she was doing and stared at me through squinted eyes. I’d seen the look many times and it was never good. “Why don’t you keep the money? It doesn’t matter. I can make do.”

That shit burned me to a crisp. The lackadaisical attitude while she stuffed her face full of ham and cheese wraps, and never once asking me if I wanted any, disturbed me to the point that I flew to my shitty Volkswagen and drove away without another goddamn word.

I dared not tell her the seriousness of such a race. That there was a chance that I could be shot and never come back. But, she never bothered to ask, and I knew why. I knew what she was thinking. I always know what she’s thinking. That, once again, I’d latched on to another get rich quick scheme instead of getting a real job. A stable job. So, I knew there was no way I was going to tell her Rory was mixed up in it. She hated Rory. I can’t say I blame her. Still, money is money, and if I had a good chance to make the biggest score of my life, I’d be a fool to pass it up. This would be my chance to show Sam how much I love her.

I made the call to Rory.

The plane was small and unassuming. It was just enough to seat the ten of us, including me. Not sure why I’d expected more participants, but I guess people aren’t as crazy as I thought.

We flew through the night to be at the destination by dawn, Saturday. When we arrived, old Derek was sitting in a tent, high up on a hill overlooking us. Dressed in some getup that looked like a scene from Out of Africa (safari hat included), he was flanked by five people. One of which served him something from a thermos. The others were milling about writing things on notepads.

The air was crisp and possessed a slight sting that bit at the tips of my fingers. Blowing into and rubbing my hands together for warmth, I studied the competition, including Rory, who’d found an old tree stump on which to adjust his shoelaces. There were six other men and two women, all either pacing, stretching, bouncing or performing other pre-run rituals. Most looked just as apprehensive as I did. All but a Norwegian-looking dude with a sticker boasting the number seven on his shirt. He looked as though he’d done this before. That bothered me.

No one felt the need to introduce himself or herself. There was no need for niceties. We all knew why we were there and why the wilderness of Maine had been chosen. In the event that one of us didn’t return, it would be easier for us to “disappear.” This was off the grid, Maine. Where people go to disappear.

Around eight forty-five, a representative of “The Retch” walked down to the starting line where we were gathered. A tall brunette with a clipboard, she looked about twenty-years-old. I recognized her face from news reports on TV. She was Angela Sterling. A flavor of the month, a spokesperson with whom he was having a not-so-discreet affair.

“Mr. Trench would like to congratulate each of you for your participation in this momentous event,” she said. Her voice was syrupy and nasally, and its pitch irritated my ears.

“Why didn’t he come and tell us himself?” said one of the female participants from just behind me. I turned to see a short, sinewy girl with a purple pixie haircut, and muscles everywhere. She was military. Army, in fact, by the insignia tattooed on her right bicep.

“Mr. Trench never speaks before a hunt,” Angela said.

There was that dreadful word again—hunt, and once again, I found myself in disbelief of what I was about to do.

The military girl raised a stubby middle finger. “Tell Trench to hunt that,” she said before leading a few of the other participants into loud and drawn out woooos.

Angela smirked and began to read from the clipboard. “Rule number one,” she said. “There are no rules. You are free to use whatever resources are at your disposal.”

Apparently, “The Retch” wasn’t big on formalities. He enjoyed watching humans scramble like mice in a maze for his amusement.

Just before the race would begin, we would be given a topographical map of the course. The maps indicated not only the structure of the land (most of which was hidden beneath forests of trees) but areas where it was forbidden to be shot. They were the safe zones, and there were nine of them spaced twenty miles apart. There, we would load up on Gatorade and carbs.

“What’s this red dot?” said another runner, pointing to the map.

Angela laughed. “Those are safe houses, silly. There aren’t as many of those as the safe zones, and they’re tiny. But they beat having to sleep on the cold ground.” I looked over to Rory, who’d refused to acknowledge me since we had arrived. “Oh,” she continued. “There’s just one caveat. Only one participant per house. I guess if two of you get there at the same time, you’ll just have to fight it out.”

“I thought you said no rules,” said another runner. A lanky Asian dude who looked like he was still in college.

“Hmm. I guess I forgot that one,” Angela said. “If there are no more questions, the race will begin in ten minutes.”

Everyone had questions, but no one wanted to ask. Not even Rory.

“You couldn’t ask one goddamn question?” I said to him. He claimed to be looking for a tree to take a leak when I cornered him. “And don’t think I don’t see you trying to avoid me.”

“I’m not. I didn’t see you ask anything either,” he said.

“That’s because I’m still in fucking shock, you asshole.”

“Look. We can do this. We were the best in school, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was what, seventeen years ago?”

“I know that, but you were the best runner I’d ever seen. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.” His eyes welled up. “I got you into this; I know that. So, I’ll promise you this. If I get to the finish before you, I’ll split the money with you.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. I’d run out of words.

“Now, can I take a leak? I always have to piss before a race.”

The second I stepped aside; Derek’s voice came booming through a bullhorn.

“Runners! Who will be the first to claim the two-million-dollar prize? It is time to get to the starting position! You have until sundown tomorrow to complete this magnificent challenge! Good luck to you all!”

The camp went silent. Only the sound of birds and the wind rustling through the trees could be heard. That, and the sound of our own heartbeats.

We took our marks. No one dared look into the faces of the others. There was just a moment of uncanny peacefulness. So peaceful that I was able to close my eyes and drink in the cold breeze as it caressed my face, when...the sound of a single gunshot echoed through the wooded landscape.

We were off and running. Some going full speed, while others paced. I paced, determined to run my race.

A rush of adrenaline intoxicated me into a foggy excitement that gave birth to a grin on my face as I bumped elbows with another runner. One I hadn’t noticed before.

Blam. A shot rang out and shook the ground beneath my feet. Both the grin on my face and the elbow that I’d bump for the first mile disappeared.

Everyone ducked for cover. That was when I caught sight of the runner lying motionless on his side.

I’m not ashamed to say, I didn’t know what to do. The moral thing would’ve been to check on him. But when Rory yelled, “Run!” I bolted.

Pop. Another shot cracked the air around me. This time, it was followed by an awful, female scream that caused me to find cover behind the trunk of a tree the size of two men.

I wasn’t alone.

The Asian runner with the collegiate looks already had his back pressed against it.

Rory had found a tree adjacent to ours.

“Fuck,” I said.

“He’s using some serious firepower,” the Asian runner said.

“What? What did you say?”

“Those are 30 caliber rounds,” he said through panting breaths. “I’ll bet 7 mm rounds.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my father was a die-hard buck hunter...used to take me out all the time. I’d know that sound anywhere.”

Fear tightened itself around me, making me wish I hadn’t filled up on liquids before the race, because it had now found an escape down the front of my compression tights.

“I’m Stan, by the way,” he said, peeping from around the tree.

Jesus. Now, why did you have to go and tell me your name? I thought. “Yeah, good to meet you. We’ve got to get moving. There’s no telling where this nut is.”

There was no waiting for a reply. I scanned the hillside, trying to locate the origin of the gunfire. No luck there.

Stan squatted as if he were debating on where to move next. I didn’t. My eyes locked onto a large tree with auburn leaves—Sam’s favorite color, and I took off for it at top speed.

Within twenty paces, I noticed a figure engulfed in a patch of thick moss. Everything in my mind said to keep moving, but my heart seized my steps. Easy does it, or you’ll be next.

The figure was clearly female. And from the build and short hair, I already knew who it was.

“Are you all right?” I said.

Not really wanting to touch her, I inched closer and kneeled down. She was in a fetal position, with one muddied arm extended unnaturally behind her head as if it were a pillow. Grabbing a fistful of her jersey, I jerked the motionless body toward me. At the same time, Stan shot past me with complete abandon.

Like a fool, I looked down at open eyes that were as shallow and empty as a puddle after a rain. But what freaked me out the most was the subtle grin on her face. It was as if the bullet had captured her thinking something pleasant.

She was gone. And when my mind finally grasped that fact, I fell backward and puked myself empty.

Another shot resounded and that brought me out of my fixation. It was further away from me and reminded me of rifle fire cutting the air in old westerns.

I jumped up and ran until I’d reached a cadence that hypnotized me. All the while, shots called out just to be sure I was listening.

Through thick forests and meadows, up and down hills, over mossy terrain, and rocks and dirt, I ran. Through water, through ditches, and the occasional wild animal, I ran until the time on my watch had moved two hours and twenty-two minutes ahead. Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve just run twenty miles.

I slowed down my pace when I spied a group of runners coming into view. They were huddled beneath a long table, drinking and eating. A large and blindingly white circle etched in the ground around them signaled it was a safe zone.

Safe inside the circle, I downed one, two, and then three cups of a semi-sweet, obviously electrolyte-filled liquid and swallowed a couple of sticky, pasty bars in a few bites.

After I had taken a seat on the ground with the others, I peeked over a fourth cup at the three runners. Two of which resembled soldiers at the end of a battle. All but the Norwegian. Aside from sweat, he looked as fresh as he had at the start.

“The sonofabitch has taken down two of us,” I said, directly to him.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he poured the electrolyte fluid down his gullet and turned his attention to a field of violets nearby.

“That’s a negative,” said the sole surviving female runner before putting her head down between her legs. “There was a guy hit just in front of me.” She looked up to reveal eyes swollen from crying. “I saw half his head blown off. It was like the Kennedy assassination...and...I don’t think I can continue.”

No one said a word.

“You’ve gotta pull yourself together,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t yet shaken off the image of her partner. “You. You there.” I turned my attention to the Norwegian. “What’s your plan?”

He crunched up the cup in one hand, tossed it out of the circle, and glanced at me through intense blue eyes. “To win,” he said before exiting the circle.

The other runners followed, but I didn’t. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like the way he drank from the cup, didn’t like his cockiness, or the way he had looked at me with those beady, Nordic eyes of his and said, ”Win.” I looked forward to wiping the smug look off his face. As long as I ran smart and remembered why I was putting my life on the line, that sonofabitch wasn’t going to best me.

Somewhere in mile thirty-three, I’d passed two of the runners from the safe zone, puking their hearts out on the side of a dirt road. The Norwegian was nowhere to be found. Neither was Rory. I hadn’t seen him since the first shooting. What if he had been the guy that was killed Kennedy style? I’d forgotten to ask his description. Although he wasn’t top on my list, I couldn’t take him ending up like the others. But there was nothing I could do about it now. Only to keep moving and stay alive.

Then, it happened. The worst hamstring cramp in my life. The damn thing left me writhing on the ground in tears, and for a moment, I considered throwing in the towel.

P’too, P’too! There it went again. Somehow, I’d pushed that sicko’s bullets to the back of my mind. Even convinced myself that I was on some cross-country vacation (complete with mosquitoes that killed on impact).

Again, ducking for cover, I located a large boulder that had seemingly sprung up from nowhere. (It’s funny how you find shit like that when your life depends on it.)

Out of my peripherals, I could see figures darting throughout the trees nearby. I’m going to find this sick sonofabitch, and I ain’t moving until I do.

He was there, all right, sitting safely inside a topless Jeep, surrounded by two others and grinning like the bastard he was as he lowered his rifle. If that asshole hadn’t been so high up on a hillside, I would’ve crawled for the satisfaction of pulling his trachea out.

Instead, I waited until the Jeep had advanced, then crawled down to a stream that was about twenty feet away.

The map that we’d been given meant nothing at this point, except death. From now on, I was going off the grid, using things like the environment and the sun, which had started its descent, for guidance.

Off the beaten path, my swollen feet pulverized fallen and decaying leaves that outlined a creek. Next was the thick, cold mud that was akin to running through quicksand. For necessity, I ran through the water to wash away the mud. But now the temperature was dropping, and my feet were growing colder, numb, despite the constant pounding.

I was nowhere near the forty-mile mark.

I needed to get to a safe house, and this meant two things, neither of which I looked forward to: returning to the map’s path and risking a shooting or having to fight if the safe house was occupied.

I had no energy for either, but the darkness that was blanketing my surroundings urged me to get there.

A half hour of hiding beneath a rickety, old bridge, I checked the map for the safe house’s coordinates. Come to find, it was only two hundred yards north of the bridge.

With an increasingly cramping leg, I headed in its direction. Barely, I could see the structure off in the twilight sky.

There it was, just beyond a clearing of about one hundred yards, beckoning me. Stealthily, I crept along hunchbacked when two shots startled me to the grassy ground. Damnit, this sonofabitch even works in the dark. The grass was high enough to conceal me, but I took no chances and stayed low the remainder of the way.

My quad was nearly spent when I noticed a light illuminate the safe house window. Someone was in there, but I couldn’t go any further. So, I resolved to fight it out once inside.

Slam. I bolted myself against the door once through.

The house was a shed. A shack, really. A ten-foot-by-ten-foot room with a crackling fire in the middle of it. And there, facing me with a yellow-toothed smile, was Rory. Behind him, in a corner on the floor, sat a figure clutching in pain. A blood trail on the planks of the wooden floor led in their direction.

Rory pointed to the figure. “This one’s not gonna make it to the finish line.”

The figure was Stan. And by the look of his foot, which dangled by a piece of flesh like a broken twig, Trench had nearly shot it off. THAT was the gunshots I’d heard.

Miraculously, he was silent. In shock, no doubt. But the foot needed to come off, or the unfortunate bastard would bleed out.

Rory, who always carried a pocketknife, had performed the operation. That poor kid. I could still hear his screams in my head after we left. Especially when Rory had cauterized the stump with a hot poker. Lucky for us, he had passed out, giving us four hours to sleep before continuing through the night.

Leaving him behind had been the only option, but I couldn’t help wondering what happened when the cleanup crew found him.

That night was as cold and dark as I’d ever known. If it wasn’t for Rory’s breath and the sound of his feet slapping through mud, I would never have known he was there. Through sporadic openings, I received small glances of the moon, but that only made things lonelier.

We continued to run the creek until our feet were numb. Until we found another empty safe house.

Throughout the night, gunshots blared in the distance.

“Sorry, I got you into this,” Rory said as we dried our feet in the safe house.

“Let’s just get out of this alive,” I said.

I was too fatigued to talk.

“I know what you think of me...what everyone thinks of me. Truth be told, you’re the only friend I got,” he said.

“That’s impending death talking,” I said.

Rory smiled. “I’m serious. If I get there before you, I’m sharing the loot.”

“Loot? Who says that?”

Again, he smiled. “Just have my back, man.”

“Always.”

I paid homage to the rising sun. One, because it meant we’d lived through the night, and two, we’d reached the sixty-mile mark. But I was hurting, more than I cared to admit. Rory could see that. He knew of my heart issues. In fact, everyone from our high school’s cross-country squad knew it. So, for the next few miles, we walked. I felt bad about that.

Ironically, there were no gunshots and no sight of other runners. For me, there was only Samantha’s face that kept me going. Shit. I could actually win this. The thought swelled every inch of my mind. There was nothing that could stop me now. And, for the first time, I felt this was an act of God.

By the time we’d crossed the eighty-mile mark, my body ached down to the marrow, but Rory and I kept moving. Surprisingly, he never showed any signs of quitting. He even talked me through moments when my body, my heart especially, wanted to stop.

And there was Samantha. The one person who’d given me a life when all I did was take her for granted. Winning the race meant everything. Having that money was the only way to redeem myself.

Yet, I could barely keep going. The strain was taking its toll. Urging Rory to think of himself and get to the finish line no matter what fell on deaf ears. But after we’d reached mile ninety, a side stitch exploded with ferocity, and I gave in to the pain.

Once again, I’d found refuge at the base of a tree, where I gazed at the afternoon sun as it peeked from behind moving clouds.

Rory stopped and dropped to one knee, pretending to catch a second wind. But he refused to look at me. Instead, he feigned fumbling with the tongue of his shoes while staring at the ground.

“I can’t do it, man,” I said, barely able to breathe from the cramp in my side.

Rory affirmed with a head nod but said nothing.

“I was crazy to think I could win this,” I continued. “You need to get going. I’m not going to be the one responsible for holding you back.”

He looked up at me. “So this is it?” he said. “I thought we were going to fight this until the end.”

“Look at me. I’m a fucking heap. There ain’t much left in the tank.”

“What about Samantha?” he asked as he stood up and began to come toward me. “Don’t you want to get to the finish for her?”

“I’ve done all I can, man. Stop worrying about me and get your ass moving.”

Rory resisted. “But—”

“But, nothing. Now would you please go?” He stood there like a child leaving for the first day of pre-school. “And don’t give me the doe eyes. Leave.”

“I can’t just—”

“Rory! GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!”

With that, Rory left. I was sorry that I spoke to him like that. Sorry to hear his footsteps trail away into nothing. It was stupid, especially that I yelled at him, because…

Pop-Pop! The gunshots started again, and they were close.

Old Trench was lurking about sixty yards away. He was alone and easily spotted. Although wearing camo from the neck down, the idiot continued to wear a stupid safari hat that was much too large for his head.

Now, that sonofabitch had an idea of my whereabouts. Thank God he isn’t using dogs, or I would be looking up the barrel of his rifle by now.

I remained under that tree for a while, hoping he wouldn’t see me. Then, I attempted the oldest trick in the book: the locational fake-out, by throwing a rock away from my position. It worked. As soon as Mr. Man Killer’s back was turned, I used the same structures that had kept me from meeting a lunatic’s bullet—the trees.

With what little strength I had, I shrouded myself by the trees, counting them off as I used them. One, two, three, four, until I’d counted thirty-seven. Until Trench was out of sight. Until I’d come to a clearing.

Kneeling down on the outer edge of the clearing, a feeling of dread swallowed me up.

A perfect circle of maintained grass with a radius of about one hundred and fifty yards, set within a curtain of dense trees surrounding it. It was definitely man-made, otherworldly, really. Like the photos of crop circles with all their elaborate designs. Except this clearing had no design. But it was created for an undeniable purpose.

There was no time to debate. All logic narrated a list of reasons why I shouldn’t venture forward. A trap was at the very top. But there was no turning back. Rory was right. To get so far and stop—there was no wonder why Sam wanted separation. In hindsight, I’d given up rights as a husband. I had never done much for her, never showed her what she meant. For me, there was only one love in my life, and that was running. Running to the end would be my only chance at redemption. I prayed it wasn’t too late. Prayed she would forgive me.

The urge to get to the finish line began to course through my veins as if I’d taken a B12 shot. I began to trek through the field. One, Mississippi, two, Mississippi, three, I counted to myself with each step. By the time I was a little over half the field, I’d calculated one hundred and forty-four steps. “You’re almost there,” I said.

“Owwweee!” A blood-curdling scream came from a short distance behind me. I turned to find the Norwegian runner, bare-chested, brandishing a weapon, his skin smeared in what looked like military paint. He looked angry, deranged, and without warning, began running full speed in my direction. I realized the threat and took off for the tree line.

Run faster, you idiot. I could hear his thunderous feet strike the grassy field, along with grunts that sounded more like an animal than human.

I’d nearly reached the woods when I heard his breath bearing down on me. Out of the corner of my eye, I made out the shimmer of what looked like the sun reflecting off a metal object on the ground beside me. I stopped and turned, only to be knocked to the ground when he lunged. The wind had been completely pressed from my ravished frame, and I went semi-unconscious.

The next thing I heard was the struggling of bodies just a few feet away. The grunts seemed to go on for a while before there was one final grunt. And then there was silence.

I opened my eyes to see Rory’s face staring down at me.

“You okay?” he said, before pulling me to my feet.

I said nothing.

“I should’ve known it was him,” he continued. “That was no ordinary marathoner.”

“What are you saying?”

“At first I didn’t recognize him,” he said before putting his hands on his hips. “Then it hit me at the halfway point. This muthafucka is Trench’s nephew, Sven. I kind of figured something shady was going on, but I didn’t think they’d go this far.”

Rory reached down and rolled his body over until it faced us. The both of us stood and watched the life leave his body. “Don’t worry about it,” Rory said, never taking his eyes off Sven’s corpse. “Anything goes in this race.”

Immediately, the gunshots began again, but this time they went longer, desperate, like the finale of a fireworks show. Rory and I nodded and kept going.

The finish line was fast approaching. Rory finally began to show signs of fatigue. I, on the other hand, was beside myself. The body I once knew behaved as if it belonged to someone three times my age. Three times, I believed I’d had out of body experiences. I could no longer run, but if I placed my mind elsewhere, and put one foot in front of the other, the pain would not have been in vain.

Then, it happened. A bullet came within inches of my ear. So close, there was no time to think. Trench squeezed off another round and Rory yelled in anguish before dropping to the ground. My running partner’s body went motionless. I couldn’t bear it, to see another wounded or dead body, so I pushed ahead with all my might. Thump-slip-thump-slip-thump, my feet struck the ground. I was almost there. With what little strength I had, I extended an arm toward the ribbon that stood at the threshold of victory. When, suddenly, I heard a pop! that stopped me in my tracks. Then I went down, hard. Face down on the pavement, I noticed nothing but silence. There were no congratulatory cheers, no clapping, and no catcalls—nothing at all. At that moment, I was struck with shocking clarity. It wasn’t the sound of a bullet exiting the barrel of a sociopath’s rifle that had ended my struggle, but the very thing that had plagued me my entire life—my heart had finally betrayed me for the last time.

All I needed was seven inches to cross the finish line. Seven lousy inches, and I would’ve won it all.

It would’ve been nice to have read the headlines, though. MARYLAND RUNNER DIES AT THE FINISH LINE OF SO-CALLED DEATH RACE.

And it would’ve had me on my knees in tears to know that Derek Trench’s days were numbered, after an employee had had enough and blown the whistle on that sicko.

Most of all, Rory. That sonofabitch made it to the finish line after all. Just when I was certain he was a goner. Man, I wish I had seen the look on Samantha’s face when he handed her half of the money. For once, he came up trumps.

Heh, heh. I sure as hell didn’t see that coming.

End