The Training Run, Part 3

            We realized that spooking the animals was problematic. Even when you had the jump on them, you could ruin your chances of getting in close for a kill. This was especially true of deer and turkey. Squirrels were never calm, but they were quite easy to trap. The nine of us tried to hunt together, but often times a handful had to protect the cove we had found in the Woods. The trails were still present, but they were of little use to us because they were never any use to the wild. The deer went where they went. We had to learn to run a different way: through nature not amongst it. Our footfalls got quieter particularly before the chase began. This was the way hunting had been done a few millennia ago. If you keep a deer in sight for long enough, you can actually run it to death. Animals have but two speeds: hurry-up and wait. Humans and their ancestors can pick any speed between those two.

            That is how you drive beasts to their demise. You have to keep them in sight as they sprint fifty yards at a time. You hold your same pace and just keep making them sprint. Even Usain Bolt can only go all out for a short time. Eventually he will have to stop. He could start again, but it will only be for so long… and it would not be as fast. Eventually, he would have to stop. This was true of our prey. Yet, when they finally stopped, they ceased breathing.

The respect runners have for animals is immense, but it pales in comparison to the respect we had for the animals we ran down. It turned out to be around six-minute mile pace that would kill a deer over the course of hours. And, because our talents rested between sub-4 minute miles or sub-2:15 marathons, a string of six-minute miles would barely cause us to breathe deeply. Part of the problem with this technique was the distance it took you away from camp. After hours of chasing game, it could be challenging to track your way back home; and you would have to consider getting meat back to the members of the tribe who were defending your home in your absence.

            The first days post-bombs were chaotic and scary. We barely ate, and hid most of the time when tribes neared our haven. We didn’t know what to think, and did not want to know what their story was—if they needed help or wanted us dead. A week and a half after the bombs, Pickens (the oldest and most daring member of our group) wanted to break into one of the houses that lined the dirt road that lead to our safe haven. His competitive drive at the US Olympic Trials had earned him one final contract with the group. That was a year before the bombs, and I had to wonder if he regretted that tenacity now.

            Pickens point was obvious though: We didn’t know what was happening elsewhere; we could have been doing better than everyone. We assured him he was nuts and that he would find nothing but a couple of hicks who had holed up good and tight for the zombie apocalypse that actually seemed possible now that the bombs had fallen. He would not be dissuaded. He wanted information. Who had attacked us? Was there news of a war? What was left? We discussed what to do next. Meyer suggested we split up temporarily—Zephyr, Pickens, and I would go to the house; Meyer would take the rest of the group to the edge of the Capital Circle beltway to see what was happening where civilization had once been.

            The three of us ventured from Haven together, and jogged the two and a half miles through the brush and trail with him. It was a cloudy day, and we walked a lap around the house before approaching it. Zephyr and I were certain a shotgun blast was going to be the first thing to welcome us as we approached the bungalow. All we wore were our running shorts and t-shirts. We were thankful that whoever bombed us did so in April and not October—we would have died of exposure within weeks. Instead, we had a few technical shirts and sweats from the missing team van. The house looked empty. We continued with a lap around it, calling within to try and draw out any survivors. We continued to close in around it, finally knocking on the doors and windows and telling the insiders that we meant no harm—that we just wanted to know what had happened.

            The door was locked. Pickens had had enough, and broke the front left window. No alarm sounded. We didn’t expect there to be. We began crawling through the window, calling out as we did hoping this would give any occupants pause before discharging any firearms. Once we were inside, Pickens headed straight to the TV to see what the news was saying… No response. We checked the light switches… click up, click down. Nothing. Power company had not gotten to work—did they care we wondered. Were they able to care? Zephyr was in the kitchen looking through the newspaper.

 

What’s the date on it? I asked.

The seventeenth, he replied.

The bombs fell on the nineteenth, right?!

Yes.

            Silence. Rain had started outside. I scratched my face, noticing for the first time a beard slowly growing on my face.

            We all tried to grasp at what that meant. Were things so bad before the bombs that the newspapers (or at least the Tallahassee Democrat) did not even send out an edition? Did all periodicals leave their offices for safety? It was that or someone stealing this house’s newspapers two days in a row.

            No, that ain’t fucking likely, remarked Pickens. They abandoned us—all of us. Talk about betraying the public trust; it was these people’s jobs to keep us informed about the coming and goings of the world around us: big or small. They left us.

            It must have been pretty bad to leave us all to the bombs, I offered.

Doesn’t excuse it, Zephyr corrected—do you think we would have gone for that run if NBC had reported that we were going to be stranded outside of our own city because there was no city left?

Maybe. They must have bombed everything—no city must have been safe.

            Was someone invading? Or had someone just got bored at the switch and started bombing or let someone else start bombing? Someone fucked up. It was all fucked up. Snafu. Fubar. All of it. I wondered where these people had gone. Had they had fair warning? Did they leave their home when the bombs started? Did someone phone them to say, “Tallahassee is screwed. All the capitals are. Get out.” I laughed: what if they had been on vacation? Surely, Armageddon could occur on someone’s vacation.

            We walked around the house to investigate. They had left in a hurry though. Half a glass of Basil Hayden’s on the mantel. The bottle was uncorked. Pickens poured himself a glass and sat on the fireplace.

            Yeah, that’s real good: add actual theft to the B&E charge.

            Do you think there are any lawyers taking cases right now? Do you think any judges are working? Hell, man. We haven’t even heard any sirens.

            Pickens point was obvious.

            Professions did not matter now. Law was meaningless. Medicine was now a crapshoot. The reset button had been pressed. Everyone back to zero.

            A bottle of Basil Hayden’s might have been a hundred thousand dollars in the new world order. The house was eerie. These people were here one minute, and gone the next. A firesale. Except all the people must go. The pantry was close to empty. Mostly condiments left behind. Probably not on vacation then; these people booked it as soon as they could. We helped ourselves to a few pop-tarts that had been overlooked in the housecleaning.

            We should get out of here.

            We should set up shop here. We should go back to get the others and use this house as our shelter.

            I don’t think that is such a good idea—

            Whoever left this place is not coming back.

            Do you think we’re the only ones looking for answers right now? Or a place to live?

            And, we found one. Everyone else can fuck off.

            Everyone else might be willing to kill you for this, Pickens.

            He thought about this. The rain had stopped the way it does in the Panhandle; the sun was already trying to come back out. Only the freshmen who were new to town every year previous did not expect it to start back up again. It usually did, and always harder than the last.

            Pickens broke the silence. I’m staying. I’ll be fine here. Go get the rest of the crew.

            Zephyr and I shared a look. We left Pickens with his feet up reading from the Scribner Anthology of Fiction sipping from his highball.

            It was Day Twelve, and things were maybe starting to look up. The two of us quickly made our way back through the brush setting a solid 5:50 a mile pace. We’d be back to the haven in about 13 minutes, and hopefully back to Pickens in forty. This was the first and last time a decision was made that affected the group without the entirety of the group consenting… this was how we found out about the Dealers, and why we would never make the same mistake twice.