The Training Run, Final Part

We were doing our best not to spook it. Ask any group of runners how they feel about the deer and most likely they will hold it in high regard. Those of us who were lucky enough to run over trails and mountains in our time of 100-mile weeks had had multiple run-ins with the majestic member of the Cervidae Family. We felt like we had a connection with the animal world in general and the deer in particular that other members of the Sapien race just did not possess. Months ago, we felt this connection made us superior. We simply knew more about nature and the world more than the members of our race who sat in cubicles all day pounding cheeseburgers within their sedentary lives. We did not have time for such things. We were runners and we knew best. We ate better; we lived better. That made us faster. That was our edge.

            But none of that mattered now.

            We were on par with all those mindless, unmoving humans in their cubicles. Those who were cursed enough to survive the blitzkrieg were on a similar hunt to ours now. They were after the same thing we were: sustenance. 

            We were face to face with our first meal in six weeks, and this was as close as we had gotten to a deer in ten sunrises. The last time, she got spooked just as Zephyr was getting ready to throw his spear into her chest. I had slipped on a fallen tree we were all leaning on while we watched him close on her. She left in an instant; gone as quickly as she arrived. Zephyr took off after her. I jumped up too in pursuit feeling the other sets of eyes pissed at me for fucking the whole thing up. 

            Guilt makes you react quickly, and Zephyr needed back up. I launched myself over the fallen tree, spear in hand hoping to get to 5-minute mile pace before the deer got into her stride. When that happened, we thought that was the ballgame. We learned. We adapted. The brush was a three-minute run from our location just off the dirt road. If she got away from us, it would be because she got a few good jumps over the brush that took us more than a few seconds to get through. Zephyr had figured out the trick that you could not give a shit about your body when you went through a bush. Most elite runners learned that is how you get through races: you have to simply not care about the pain you are inflicting on yourself in order to get to the line before anyone else. 

            This was tougher. This was blood and pain. Harsh reality. 

            The first two pieces of brush were no problem, but the third the deer jumped over brought us to a screeching halt. Zephyr went down trying to jump it. I went down, tripping over him. 

            We had found her again though. While I was curious why or how she had gotten separated from her group, I knew it I did not matter so I decided not to bring it up to the others. This time we spread out. She would run—that was known to us. We spread out over a half mile in an ellipse around her as she ate her greens—receiving her own nourishment. When she ran this time, we would run with her for as long as we could. This run would have to end with a kill if we were to continue with our survival. 

            The plan was for the first few of us to start the movement of the beast. Our wild card was the trail system—Meyer planted himself there a kilometer away to oversee the hunt as it got closer to him. Having one or two tribesmen on the trails was good because they did not have to worry about the brush at all. They could change directions to an extent as the deer moved away from the rest of us. We started moving, walking slowly toward her. Venison was about to be back on the menu, and then…

            CRACK! went a branch underneath Slim’s foot. She looked at us for a moment, gauging our motive as sinister and bolted. The game was on. Keep her in sight. We keep her in sight for as long as we can and we can get her. The run had started and we went from standing still to 5:30 pace in an instant. She was moving quicker than the last time we saw her. I was reminded of the first time I had almost hit one while driving—it jumped over my car's hood, took three big strides, and then cleared a five-foot barbed wire fence as if it were a doorstep. The chase was on, and we were springing as quickly as we could after it. She cleared a bush, then a tree stump and was nearly out of sight—the hunger would continue, as we had not eaten anything substantial since right before Pickens died.

            Just then a stroke of genius from Zephyr, he broke ranks and made a crossing move toward the beast. While he exposed an opening in our ellipse, he was able to clip the back hooves of the deer just enough for her to stumble for a few strides. 

            We were back in. 

            Imagine a middle school basketball team doing three-man weave drills down the length of the court. That was our aim as we pushed the deer closer and closer to her red line. We would let her get a few seconds away then as she slowed we would put in a surge like our cross-country coaches had taught us years ago. When you want to put someone behind you, go hard off of a turn. Do that enough times on a winding course and you'll put them behind you in a matter of minutes. I longed for that simplicity of sitting in a classroom learning about running from my coach. 

            Never again. 

            In no world would that happen. Not in this world. Not in this apocalypse.

            We held onto our up-tempo pace as if we were doing threshold training for an upcoming 10K or half marathon.  As we went through the cycle of turns taken to surge on the beast it would also be somebody's turn to take a recovery jog. A classic speed workout known as a Fartlek was the name of the game now. The beast was not getting as far away from us with each leap and bound. As her effort intensified, ours was lessening. We just had too many legs working against her.

            We did this for over an hour, never getting too far away from where we began because of the way we had her surrounded from the start.

            I could start to smell the aroma of cooked flesh in my nostrils. I never wanted to eat berries or leaves again. I knew I was not the only one feeling this sentiment. We started to share knowing looks as we traded positions in the pack. After a final fifteen minutes of this, we saw openings for th

            In a track race, it would be something subtle: the heel of your opponent kicking out too far or too hard on a particular step. A sign that they were beginning to tie up. Our deer began to do the same. On certain steps, she would incessantly kick her hooves out as if she was trying to push off the thin air to give herself an extra boost. 

            No luck.

            She was tying up. 

            During all of this, Meyer had been running along the front of the pack sometimes even getting ahead of her and trying to take a kill shot with his spear. He never threw it; he was a patient hunter. Throwing was a sign of desperation. We had learned that over the last month. 

            In the weeks since the bombs, we had evolved. We had to push our spear into the flesh. That was the only way now. The only way to be sure. 

            With each passing minute, she grew weaker and weaker. She would cough and hack for extra oxygen as her lungs constricted more and more making retention near impossible. Her lungs were between all four of her powerful piston legs and the harder they worked the tougher they made it on her respiratory system. 

            She was getting ready to suffocate—it was that or be caught. Both ended in her death, and we were all ready for that now. Her especially. 

            She slowed to a walk as she saw Meyer and a few others cut off her continued escape. She looked over her right shoulder at us in our slowing pursuit. It was time to put her down. Always look a dying animal in the eyes. She had nothing but pity and innocence in hers. As we closed to do the deed, she waited—knowing what was coming. As we stabbed, she fell to the ground. Though we were amateurs, we knew where to strike.

            Maybe she was just going to sleep. She was definitely free of us wherever she went, and that had to be a better place.

*  *  *  *  *

            We carried her back in silence.

            When we arrived back to Haven, we dressed her. We tried to be as delicate as our greenhorn hands could be using the tools we had to bury Pickens. We did not know how to be as respectful as the Native Seminoles who had hunted here centuries before. We grew up in a time when everything had been done for us; where there were “people for that.” Dressing an animal is a true trial.

            We did our best.

            We cooked and ate in silence.

            There was no seasoning, just cooked flesh for this first kill. We had no way of spicing it up at all. But we had figured out a way—a sustainable way—of hunting for survival. It had been six weeks since the bombs, four weeks since Pickens. We still had not discovered who had done that to him. We knew their methods though, and that meant our lives too were in danger.

            That said, it did not matter in those moments as we sat and ate our meat. She had put up a good fight, and we all knew that. We did not deserve her, and we all knew that, too. If all of this was the end of human dominance on the planet, then we all understood that was probably for the best. It could have ended any moment anyway, right?

            Especially in the wild. In the Red Oak Woods.

            We would perhaps have answers one day, but for right then, we were content—content with a fire-cooked meal and the presence of friends. For a moment, it felt like we had just gone camping. 

The Training Run, Part 4

           We were the second ones back to Haven. Our little clearing was as a good a spot as the Red Oak Woods could provide. It thickened for the perimeter of it giving us extra defense but also forming a nice canopy from the rain. When we got back, Meyer and the others told us their tale. The fires that followed Day One had mostly ceased. They found a few abandoned cars that had escaped miraculously any bombs; they searched the glove compartments and trunks finding mostly drivers’ registrations but a few snacks, too: days old French fries, mints, cereal bars, and leftovers that had not made it to the owner’s lunch hour. Some people had been well into their routines when this all happened, Meyer had shared aloud.

            The rain picked up.

            They had also watched a group of people loot a gas station between the Woods and Capital Circle. There could not have been much left but auto supplies so that did not explain why there were so many people in there. They kept their distance from the gas station—when everything goes back to zero, trust of those you no longer know did the same…especially when there were so few of us left. While we may have been neighbors a few days ago, we were now just inhabitants facing the same problems:

            Where was our next bit of food coming from? Did anywhere in town or beyond have electricity or running water?

            Meyer said that judging by the state of things on the Circle, the answer to the second question was certainly ‘No.’

            There is hardly anything left in there, he told us. A few buildings were still burning especially the larger ones in office parks and strip malls with corporate anchors like Publix and Home Depot.

            All their wealth and security counted for absolutely nothing now.

            Any sign of who did it all?

            None. No army has come to occupy us…not yet.

            No sign of the National Guard?

            That would have been the first thing I bombed.

            There was an armory about three miles due south of where we held safe in the Red Oak Woods. If the armed forces had not made it out of there then it was my belief that no one anywhere was doing any better than us. There was a murmur of agreement among the group.

             The rain came down now in anger and a shit-ton of lightning.

            Where is Pickens? Meyer asked.

            He stayed at the house, and wants us to come back there and set up shop… permanently. He is pretty convinced that no one is coming back to it—judging from what we saw there and what you are saying he is most likely right.

            Let’s go there now, Meyer suggested.

            I don’t know if we can find our way in this weather, I yelled over the thunder.

            We have to try. We can’t leave him alone there.

            Let’s wait until it clears up. Probably another hour or so.

            We waited. Then another hour. Then two. Finally three. The sun descended beyond the horizon. We had to wait for it to clear. Before we knew it, the night would not let us back to Pickens until morning. We knew these woods in the daytime; we feared they would know us at night.

            We stayed there in Haven until morning.

*  *  *  *  *

            Another reason we did not go back for Pickens immediately as we told him we would was because of Meyer’s report on the state of things. The gas station that had somehow missed the bombing was surprising, but because there were still a few groups of people around (and at least one place to loot), we figured there would be time before things turned desperate—people could still get a few items of food. We started toward the road just after daybreak, following along but not directly on the trail system for fear of encounters of the unknown.

            We wanted to stay under the radar.

            Once the trail popped out unto the dirt road, we hastened the final seven or eight minutes to the bungalow. It appeared mostly the way we left it, but the front door was partially open and another window had been broken in front.

            Pickens!

            No answer.

            The eight of us did a lap around the house. The covered fire-pit in the backyard was still smoking. Maybe he had caught a squirrel or raccoon.

            Pickens!

            We started up the stairs to the front porch to find a highball glass on its side underneath a new broken window. I was the first one to the front door and slowly pushed it open. I closed my eyes just for a moment before taking that first step.

            I pushed it open.

            Hello? Pick—

            The bottle of Basil Hayden’s remained on the mantel, but laid on its side. Below the mantel was a recliner where the body of David Pickens, Olympian had breathed its last breath. A few of us ran up to him immediately to see what had happened. Those who saw the carnage that had been laid onto the meat of his quadriceps, calves, and biceps stood back—aghast. Zephyr and Smith cried out in horror turning their faces away. His shirt had been stripped from his body. His neck had been punctured, and he sat in a pool of his own blood that had run down his chest to settle in the chair.

            His skinny frame was pale and cold.

            The most powerful muscles of his body had been carved away from the bone. These muscles, lean and taut had once propelled him to being one of the top American distance runners in history; had moved him along to a top-5 finish in the Games; had moved him over beach, hilltop, and mountain for most of his adult life had now been used as entree in the backyard of House Apocalypse.

            Who the fuck would do this! Cried Zephyr. Is this our world now—our existence?

            I looked around for a weapon of some sort, for something that had inflicted this damage to our brother.

            Nothing.

            Meyer went outside for air. The warm aroma of blood had made him nauseous. The fresh air overwhelmed him, and he vomited repeatedly. Those who were not standing with Pickens comforted each other.

            We were now eight. One of our leaders had been taken from us in a manner that not a month before would have sounded like something out of a horror film. Everything was normal then, as normal as things can be for people who spend most of their time running or thinking about running. There was no innocence anymore. It did not matter what our mile times were or what we had run our intervals in the week before. Our coach was missing. Our friend was dead. We had no home. We had no food. Others were turning to extreme measures for sustenance. We came to the realization that if we did not want to lose our soul, we needed to hunt and kill an animal… and soon.

            Things had turned desperate now, and we had to act quickly.

            We took Pickens’s body out to the edge of the property. Anderson and Slim found a few tools in the garage that would help. We took turns digging the shallow grave for our friend. Six feet would not work. Whoever had done this might check back to see if there were other human meals around. We had dug about three feet of earth, and gingerly placed Pickens and his bottle of Basil Hayden’s at his chest. We left the glass on the porch as a warning to whoever came by the solitary house next.

            Broken highball through a broken window.

            We did not dwell on ceremony. Tresser, who had been a Eucharistic minister in high school and was therefore deemed our spiritual leader, said a few words from his heart. He left the New Testament out of it—something I think we were all thankful for. God didn’t exist anymore, and if he did he certainly didn’t care about us. And with what was going on now in the world, I didn’t think any of us could blame him.

The Training Run, Part 2

            What we had to be fearful of was the Dealers. They were the scary ones. When you were on the hunt, you had to have at least three men with you. Two would be in charge of the prey. The third man was perhaps the most important. He made sure the team did not become the prey. This worked for turkeys; for deer you needed more manpower.

            When you were on the hunt, something else probably was, too.

            The Dealers were the tribe that patrolled the edge of city that used to be the hospital. The group of six or seven (we were never sure of the exact numbers within other tribes) had exhausted their few rations of food much too quickly. We did not know how they survived the attack, but they had and because they had, and were not as resourceful as we were, made their way in this new world order as a hunter of anything they could find. They did not discriminate, and killed on sight.

            We decided long ago that would never be an option for us. We would live off what we could, hunt for anything we could run down, and never sacrifice our morality in the process. We did not know what the rest of the world was up to so when we met our end we wanted it to be with as clean a conscience as possible. We hunted; starvation had not been an issue for the last twenty-two months.

We were survivors.

            The first few hunts were disasters. We had no patience and were not desperate enough to realize that the reason people lived like this before technology was because they absolutely had to—they learned how to do everything the hard way. There were not controlled studies 30,000 years ago that fed one caveman and starved another. There was hunger in stomachs, and someone figured out that if things were put into one’s mouth and swallowed, the hunger went away. We had all been taught that food was important and had all been lucky enough to have it readily available… until the bombs started falling. After that, we were of the Red Oak Woods as much as the rest of God’s creatures. The hunger was there—the demand.

Our supply had vanished.

            We were alone, hungry, and clueless. We adapted. We made spears. We chased immediately. We sprang traps like children playing hide and go seek—no patience or skill. We were nervous children giggling in the closet because no one had ever thought to look there. However, these were no longer kids’ games. This was life, and as real as it could get. Find food or die.

*  *  *  *  *

            It took three days for one of us to break.

            Everyone you ever cared about was most likely dead. Most of us became accepting of this the moment we realized Novak had abandoned us. People sure can show their true colors when life became death. We were scared for our friends of course, and saddened at the apparent fate of our extended families. Yet none of us possessed the ability to love like our stud miler, Tresser. Pain is not the right word—maybe heartache. However, it never went away. Tresser had once upon a time been a good Catholic boy, and had been engaged to his high school sweetheart since he was twenty. While the reason and analytical skills he received in college corrected his monotheistic tendencies, his folks were still very much believers and therefore planning a big church wedding. Not that it mattered now. He had moved from Virginia to join the training group leaving behind his fiancée who was finishing a Bachelor’s Degree at William & Mary.

            On the night before Day Four, we found him in a field one half-mile from Haven screaming to Polaris. He knew he could not go to find her. He knew what he would find if he could. We each make our peace with things in our own way. This was Tresser’s. He had been betrayed more than the rest of us. He had enough faith left to have some choice words with his Creator. While the rest of us barely thought about the opposite sex other than the chase and occasional hook-up, Tresser had been giving the notion of sharing his life with someone for a long time. Unlike the rest of us, he knew what he was going to be doing after his running career was over. As we selfishly tried to silence his cries to keep ourselves hidden from others, I think each of us accepted our fate. Even though we were among the few survivors, we hoped there was someone out there who missed us as much as Tresser missed his most certainly gone Fiona.

The Training Run, Part 1

           Tallahassee was destroyed. We did not know who had done it. What we did know was our life in the North Florida Red Oak Woods. It was all we had left. Two years have passed since the bombs started falling during a weekly training run at the Greenway east of town. We would go there because it was just far enough out of town to make it really feel like you were leaving civilization.

            On the morning of the bombing that turned out to be true.

            In another time, we would be considered hunters and gatherers. In this time, we were merely survivors. None of us ever planned on living like this. We were a group of the best distance runners in North America. We were paid professionals; taken care of by shoe and apparel companies for the sheer purpose of covering ground quickly in footraces.

            When the bombs started falling that changed forever. Our homes were destroyed. Our friends gone. Was our country still a country? Were we at war? Were we soldiers? We did not lead the lives of professional distance runners anymore. We were dealt a new hand on the morning we had run just out of reach of the bombardier’s scope. We only had each other then, and that was all we would ever need again.

*  *  *  *  *

            We heard the planes before we felt the bombs shake the ground under our feet. An armada had arrived. Thunderous engines roared. We had been in the midst of a standard 12-mile progression run when their bombs started falling. We were already on our way back to the team van when we started running faster and faster. This was no longer training. This was a race to see what the hell was happening. Explosions. Planes coming and going. We had to get back to Coach Novak who had already driven back from our turnaround point to give us fluids. He was to return to our starting point at the edge of the trails to call our splits as we crossed the finish line.

            Today, our times were going to be the best they ever were. We did not think of stopping. We agreed on that; Novak had the van, which was our best way to safety from whatever was happening in the heart of town. We ran faster.

            We had to.

            There were a few murmurs about what might have been going on? A world war? The War? It did not matter at the moment—we could not control the rest of the world. We could only control getting back to Novak. Back to the van. We had to move quicker.

            We had to.

            The ground continued to shake underneath our steps. I rolled an ankle during the last mile as the trail moved under my foot shifting a root and with it my foot to the outside. I pulled up lame for about 30 seconds—the others continued on. Walking was worst. It felt like the explosions in the distance were meant for me, and me alone. The running—even though it was toward the noises—seemed safer.

            Was this the end of the world?

            Most elite running groups from college teams to the professional ranks had a team van. Usually it was a nondescript white van for getting to and from workouts. Slim called vans like ours a “slapper knapper” because the darkened windows in the back made it good for hiding anything you were keeping back there—like kidnapped children. Dark? Yes. However, we were runners, and one of the things we were all really good at was coming up with new names for tired clichés. Slim called them slapper knappers because of the variation he created on the “punch-buggie no punch back” game whenever one would see an old Volkswagon Beetle. If you saw a van with the windows painted out: “Slapper Knapper!” and then you would slap the person next to you.

            Oh the things we used to care about.

            The last half-mile back to the start seemed an eternity even though we were running at just over five-flat per mile pace, the two minutes and thirty seconds we had left were daunting, because we knew we were going to get answers when we got back to camp.

            We had to.

            Coach Novak was nowhere to be seen. The slapper knapper was gone. Our sweats, our Gatorade bottles, our towels, and our protein bars had been purposefully thrown from the back of the van. They hadn’t been stolen, what with their deliberate placement on the ground. We spoke quickly and exchanged ideas. We decided that Novak had abandoned us, taken the van to save himself, but with what little Catholic guilt he had left, he decided to leave our stuff behind. Maybe he wanted to give us a fighting chance. It turned out to be a good decision, but at the time, it felt like we had about as much chance as a marathoner in an 800 meter race…

            None.

            What the hell happened in there? We were east of town. And, all that came from the horizon was smoke. It blanketed the sky. Had all major cities been destroyed? There was no one driving on the two-lane road that ran along the Greenway. Not a single car. Meyer ran down the street to a series of townhomes to see if he could discover what was going on. No one answered their door. It was as if during the 70 minutes we were working out we missed an evacuation notice, an air raid signal, and the raid itself. Meyer snagged a handheld radio from one of the houses to see what was going on. Every station was static. Even the one used for emergency broadcasts.

            The planes were gone now, too.

            We need to find a transistor radio. See if there are others out there, Pickens suggested.

            Not sure what good it would do, I had said. If everywhere else is as bad as us, the next people could be a hundred miles away. At least.

            There could be people on the other side of town.

            Could be.

            Maybe they know what happened.

            Maybe.

            We decided to take an easy run down to the Publix that was a mile and a half away. We needed to shakeout our legs anyway from the progression run, and Zephyr and Diesel had left their wallets in their sweats. We had a little money in our pockets. If the grocery store was still there, maybe they would take our money.

            It took us ten minutes on the deserted roads to get to the Publix on Mahan Drive. We ran up behind it to keep a low profile. None of us wanted attention—we did not know who was out there: friend, foe, or otherwise. We figured if this was the end, we should not tempt fate by being conspicuous.

            The trip seemed a lost cause. Burning was all there was. What had once been a Mecca for people’s hunger was now a smoldering concrete building. But, the closer we got we saw there was still a delivery truck out back. It was no longer connected to the loading dock, and looked to be in decent condition.

            We risked it and ran toward it. The sliding back door to the container was half-open. Pickens found a backpack in the driver’s cabin and brought it around back. We grabbed what it could carry. Fruit, some bottled water, and granola bars. It was as if this delivery was for a bunch of stranded runners. Turned out it was.

            We ran back into the woods behind the burning store to eat our snacks.

            Should we try and get back to the houses?

            They’re not there anymore.

            What about the highway?

            If anyone survived? Probably jammed.

            Do we want to get out of here?

            I don’t think that is a good idea. We don’t even know what happened here.

            All those people. Hundreds of thousands bombed and burned. Gone. Dead.

            Whoever did this, I am not giving them the satisfaction of defeat. This is my town, and I am not leaving it.

            We thought of our families around the country. Asked aloud what we thought was happening? World war? Had our government gotten tired of us? Bored with us?

            We didn’t know—couldn’t know. We just decided to stay together to look for a place to call home. Surely there was a safe structure or two not in flames or blown to bits.

            That was two years ago.

            We’re still in the Red Oak Woods today. 

A short story...

I submitted a short story to a fiction contest in February. I got word in September that it was not accepted which is all well and good. My next thought was to submit it to "Running Times" as they sometimes select short fiction for publication. Alas, my short story is about two times too long for them. Which brings me to this outlet. Over the next few weeks I will be releasing parts of the short story for all three of my readers to enjoy. ;-)

Be warned it is a completely over the top scenario for a short story, but it was immensely fun to write. My ego tells me it is part Lord of the Flies with elements of Palahniuk and John L. Parker, Jr.

Please let me know what you think as I release each section.

The Red Oak Woods

The following is an excerpt of the short story I recently submitted to the Ledge Magazine's annual fiction competition.  

We heard the planes before we felt the bombs shake the ground under our feet. An armada had arrived. Thunderous engines roared. We had been in the midst of a standard 12-mile progression run when their bombs started falling. We were already on our way back to the team van when we started running faster and faster. This was no longer training. This was a race to see what the hell was happening. Explosions. Planes coming and going. We had to get back to Coach Novak who had already driven back from our turnaround point to give us fluids. He was to return to our starting point at the edge of the trails to call our splits as we crossed the finish line.

            Today, our times were going to be the best they ever were. We did not think of stopping. We agreed on that; Novak had the van, which was our best way to safety from whatever was happening in the heart of town. We ran faster.

            We had to.

            There were a few murmurs about what might have been going on? A world war? The War? It did not matter at the moment—we could not control the rest of the world. We could only control getting back to Novak. Back to the van. We had to move quicker.

            We had to.

            The ground continued to shake underneath our steps. I rolled an ankle during the last mile as the trail moved under my foot shifting a root and with it my foot to the outside. I pulled up lame for about 30 seconds—the others continued on. Walking was worst. It felt like the explosions in the distance were meant for me, and me alone. The running—even though it was toward the noises—seemed safer.

            Was this the end of the world?

            Most elite running groups from college teams to the professional ranks had a team van. Usually it was a nondescript white van for getting to and from workouts. Slim called vans like ours a “slapper knapper” because the darkened windows in the back made it good for hiding anything you were keeping back there—like kidnapped children. Dark? Yes. However, we were runners, and one of the things we were all really good at was coming up with new names for tired clichés. Slim called them slapper knappers because of the variation he created on the “punch-buggie no punch back” game whenever one would see an old Volkswagon Beetle. If you saw a van with the windows painted out: “Slapper Knapper!” and then you would slap the person next to you.

            Oh the things we used to care about.

            The last half-mile back to the start seemed an eternity even though we were running at just over five-flat per mile pace, the two minutes and thirty seconds we had left were daunting, because we knew we were going to get answers when we got back to camp.

            We had to.

            Coach Novak was nowhere to be seen. The slapper knapper was gone. Our sweats, our Gatorade bottles, our towels, and our protein bars had been purposefully thrown from the back of the van. They hadn’t been stolen, what with their deliberate placement on the ground. We spoke quickly and exchanged ideas. We decided that Novak had abandoned us, taken the van to save himself, but with what little Catholic guilt he had left, he decided to leave our stuff behind. Maybe he wanted to give us a fighting chance. It turned out to be a good decision, but at the time, it felt like we had about as much chance as a marathoner in an 800 meter race…

            None.

            What the hell happened in there? We were east of town. And, all that came from the horizon was smoke. It blanketed the sky. Had all major cities been destroyed? There was no one driving on the two-lane road that ran along the Greenway. Not a single car. Meyer ran down the street to a series of townhomes to see if he could discover what was going on. No one answered their door. It was as if during the 70 minutes we were working out we missed an evacuation notice, an air raid signal, and the raid itself. Meyer snagged a handheld radio from one of the houses to see what was going on. Every station was static. Even the one used for emergency broadcasts.

            The planes were gone now, too.

            We need to find a transistor radio. See if there are others out there, Pickens suggested.

            Not sure what good it would do, I had said. If everywhere else is as bad as us, the next people could be a hundred miles away. At least.

            There could be people on the other side of town.

            Could be.

            Maybe they know what happened.

            Maybe.

            We decided to take an easy run down to the Publix that was a mile and a half away. We needed to shakeout our legs anyway from the progression run, and Zephyr and Diesel had left their wallets in their sweats. We had a little money in our pockets. If the grocery store was still there, maybe they would take our money.

            It took us ten minutes on the deserted roads to get to the Publix on Mahan Drive. We ran up behind it to keep a low profile. None of us wanted attention—we did not know who was out there: friend, foe, or otherwise. We figured if this was the end, we should not tempt fate by being conspicuous.

            The trip seemed a lost cause. Burning was all there was. What had once been a Mecca for people’s hunger was now a smoldering concrete building. But, the closer we got we saw there was still a delivery truck out back. It was no longer connected to the loading dock, and looked to be in decent condition.

            We risked it and ran toward it. The sliding back door to the container was half-open. Pickens found a backpack in the driver’s cabin and brought it around back. We grabbed what it could carry. Fruit, some bottled water, and granola bars. It was as if this delivery was for a bunch of stranded runners. Turned out it was.

            We ran back into the woods behind the burning store to eat our snacks.

            Should we try and get back to the houses?

            They’re not there anymore.

            What about the highway?

            If anyone survived? Probably jammed.

            Do we want to get out of here?

            I don’t think that is a good idea. We don’t even know what happened here.

            All those people. Hundreds of thousands bombed and burned. Gone. Dead.

            Whoever did this, I am not giving them the satisfaction of defeat. This is my town, and I am not leaving it.

            We thought of our families around the country. Asked aloud what we thought was happening? World war? Had our government gotten tired of us? Bored with us?

            We didn’t know—couldn’t know. We just decided to stay together to look for a place to call home. Surely there was a safe structure or two not in flames or blown to bits.

            That was two years ago.

            We’re still in the Red Oak Woods today.