[Nightmusic 01.0] Serenade

by Heather McKenzie

  I managed to stay in the zone for a good two hours, but soon I couldn’t ignore the ache in my calf or the burning in my lungs. It wasn’t so bad that I had to flop to the ground and admit defeat, but it was enough to know that my body needed a boost. Stephan had put little packets of orange-flavored gel in my pocket, so I sucked on a few, but my stomach revolted and acid crept up into my throat like a burp of fire.

  But I kept moving, jogging at a slower speed while fishing the antacids out of my pocket. As I unraveled the foil around the tube of chalky pills, my eyes left the ground for a second too long and I stumbled off the path. A sharp pain in my foot brought me to a grinding halt. I looked down to see a stick jammed into the side of my shoe, and, in a panic, I bent over and yanked it out. It came away red. I stifled a yelp.

  “What’s up?” Oliver asked. He’d stopped a few feet ahead.

  I couldn’t tell him. “Sorry, just dropped my water bottle,” I lied.

  I jogged up to him, trying not to limp. With each step, it throbbed, and I knew by the wet, sloppy feeling around my toes that it was bleeding a lot. This injury was a legitimate reason for him to take me out of the race. So I faked being more tired than I was, and I carefully stayed a half pace behind him, hoping he wouldn’t hear me cursing the increasing pain under my breath.

  We came to a fork in the trail, and Davis consulted his map. This was definitely one of many traps we were warned about: two neon markers pointed in opposite directions. If you blindly ran along without checking, you would go in a circle, leading right back to the very point from which you started, adding hours to your time.

  Davis led us to the left, and within minutes, we could see the roof of the first check-in hut—four hours down, twenty more to go.

  After signing in, I made my way over to Stephan, who had insisted on being shuttled up the old logging road to the checkpoint. This was the last hut he’d have access to; I wouldn’t see him again until the end. Collapsing onto a patch of grass next to him, I grinned when I saw the look in his eyes—teary with pride. “How’s it going, kiddo? Is everything all right?” he said, and shoved something pasty and sweet in my mouth.

  “Oh yeah, I’m tired but I am absolutely loving it! Kinda have a sore foot, though…”

  My pink runner had become a muddy brown. He pulled it off and let out a gasp so dramatic I had to laugh. “Something cut your foot right through your shoe!”

  “Yeah, I tripped, but it’s fine. Just don’t say anything to Oliver. He’ll freak out,” I begged.

  “Yeah, yeah. I can’t tell how deep it is, though. It could get infected,” Stephan said, fussing and rinsing and applying some paste.

  “Just please hurry up and cover it before he notices.”

  Oliver’s back was to me, and he was talking to a medic. I noticed that blonde from the starting line purposely changing her shirt as slowly as possible in an effort to get his attention. She was graceful, tanned, pretty… and, thank God, had put on some sort of undergarment. I couldn’t tell if he was watching her or not.

  “Don’t worry, he only has eyes for you,” said Stephan, as if reading my mind.

  “What? Oh, I’m not jealous. I’m just wondering why he’s talking to that medic.”

  I pulled my soaked T-shirt up over my own head and struggled when it became fused to my sweaty skin. My attempt to be graceful turned embarrassing when I got stuck. My arms were tangled in the shirt above my head, reaching for the sky. I certainly hadn’t made a show of it like the blonde, at least one worth watching, anyway.

  Stephan, trying not to laugh, came to my rescue. “Well, you’re on your own now,” he whispered as he freed me from the spandex. “Only volunteers are allowed at the next three check-ins. But our guys are running in relay teams, and there are at least four of them at each station, as well as the ones who have been following you from the start. You’ve got lots of eyes on ya.”

  I realized I hadn’t seen the ones from the starting line in a long while. They were probably winded and just couldn’t keep up. I kept that to myself.

  “I’ve got my ears on ya too; Oliver and Davis are both linked to me as long as we have reception. Oh, and I put two extra shirts and some more protein bars in your backpack.” He was rambling, which was his usual approach when worrying about me. “Oh, and more antacids too… and Kaya, even if you don’t finish, you’ve already won, you know. Even making it to the end of this first leg is a victory. You don’t have to kill yourself trying to get to the very end.”

  He was so sweet. “Believe me, Dad, I’m having a blast. I’m happy about getting this far, but I know I can get to the end.”

  “You’re so stubborn,” he said and kissed my forehead, his beard making my whole face tickle. He rose to leave, and I dove for him.

  “Stephan, wait…” I grabbed him and hugged him tightly, wishing his heart was stronger so he could run with me. I knew that’s what he secretly wanted.

  “I am so proud of you, kiddo,” he whispered and hugged me back, and then, whispering softly in the most sincere and heartfelt tone, he said he loved me.

  The next leg of the race was twenty-seven kilometers. We had six hours to complete it and get to the next check in point. The path was narrow—we were running single file through trees as thick and dense as I imagined the jungle would be. The ‘fast pacers’ huffed in agitation behind the ‘turtles’, and when the path widened onto a patch of clover, it became chaos. We passed people gasping for breath while we tried to hang on to our own. I was grateful that I still felt strong and my energy level was good, until out of nowhere, my mouth filled with saliva. The orange gel I’d been cautiously consuming made its way up onto the back of my tongue and my stomach rolled. Only this time, it wasn’t teasing—I was going to be sick.

  I tried to push the feeling out of my mind, but that seemed to make it worse. Then it came up—everything in my stomach that is—and I had just enough time to take a few steps off the path to hurl orange puke onto a patch of grass in piles. A lady swore at me when she almost collided with my backside, and just as quick as the nausea came, it left. I instantly felt better.

  Oliver stopped, bent over and gasping for breath beside me with his hands on his knees. He held out his water bottle. “I think we better go back and get you checked out,” he said, still breathing heavily.

  “Uh, not in a million years. I’m fine,” I replied while I struggled to get control of my breath and straighten myself up.

  “But we need to make sure…”

  I shushed him. “Oliver, really. People throw up all the time—it’s no big deal. And I feel better now. Obviously I can’t eat that orange crap.”

  I forced my feet to get moving again, but I had a hard time getting my rhythm back. My legs had that shakiness one gets after hurling and the race was suddenly becoming just as much a test of will as it was of physical strength. It was getting hot, I had a horrible cramp in my thigh, and each and every muscle ached along with my still-throbbing foot. Positive thinking, pep talks, and bird counting did nothing to subdue my agony… until Davis reminded me that Henry was expecting me to fail.

  And that was just the kick in the pants I needed.

  At a hill covered in loose rocks, we descended downward as our feet slipped out from beneath us. Davis fell and rolled almost all the way to the bottom at one point, unable to stop, and took out a few people in his way. It was like he was tobogganing on rocks—but his rear end was the sled.

  At the bottom was a large bog of mud that looked like a river of melted chocolate. Everyone in it seemed to be struggling. Sounds of exhaustion, misery, and anger blended together into one collective voice while volunteers stood by with ropes to rescue those who had given up. I thought it couldn’t be that hard—after all, it was only mud.

  But as soon as my feet went in, it was as if a thousand pounds of cement clung to them. With every step, the mud got deeper, stickier, and even more determined to keep hold. I was instantly exhausted. Moving forward suddenly became the most difficult
thing I had ever done in my life. I lifted my foot, trying to drag it forward, but it barely budged. Each step required maximum effort to cross a minimal distance, and I became stuck—physically and mentally. I began wondering why I had wanted to do this in the first place. I even questioned my very existence. I couldn’t go on.

  Henry had won.

  “I can’t do this,” I said, even my voice sounded tired. The mud was now up to my thighs. An older woman moved past me, very slowly, but at least she was moving. She cursed and struggled but was not about to let the mud beat her.

  “You can do this too, Kaya,” Oliver said, and he offered me his hand.

  It was the first positive thing to come out of his mouth since we started, yet I refused his help. If I couldn’t do this on my own, then why was I even doing it? I didn’t budge, and he didn’t move from my side. It felt as if an eternity went by as we stood in the brown muck. Finally, staring up at him, I hoped to be greeted by a look that meant he had won and we could go home. “Oliver, I can’t do this. I’ll admit it. I am too tired, and this is too hard… even my soul hurts. I admit defeat. I quit.”

  I thought he’d be happy, but instead, he snapped at me like a drill sergeant. “Nope. No way are you quitting! You dragged me out here and into this, and if I’m doing it, then so are you. Now, move your ass!”

  I blinked at him in shock; he’d never talked to me like that before, and I didn’t know quite how to process it. Should I be angry, or grateful that he wasn’t giving up on me?

  He grabbed my hand and looked me square in the eye. “I may not have been supportive before, but we are in this together, and I don’t quit. We don’t quit. Understand? Now take my hand, and get moving.”

  I pulled up one foot, moved it forward about an inch, and then I plunked it back down. Spurred forward by anger and encouraging words from my guard and fiancé, my desire came back. I rallied every last speck of energy within my cells and made it through the mud, and then I hugged Oliver tightly at the end. We collapsed into a giant messy heap, and I felt like I was going to cry. I rubbed at my face, smearing thick mud from one ear to the next, which caused Davis to burst into laughter. His amusement spread like wildfire, and we rolled on the ground pointing and laughing at each other.

  I’d never felt so happy in my entire life.

  But soon after, being covered in mud wasn’t funny anymore. After a good solid hour of the sun drying it onto our skin, it felt like a thousand mosquito bites. We were so crazed with itch that when Old Man’s Creek came into view, we sprinted toward it like bees were chasing us. Black clouds of dirt lifted from our bodies and surrounded us in the water. I rubbed at my face and went completely under, soaking my hair and cooling my overheated body. Afterward, I felt practically brand new.

  The sun was now directly overhead, beating down relentlessly and drying our damp clothes as we jogged steadily up Mount Hazel. My lungs burned, and I had a horrible stitch in my side that kept trying to stop me from moving. Oliver’s cheeks glowed, and his breathing was loud. Davis however, marched ahead like a machine, barely even sweating—I couldn’t believe this former overweight, pack-a-day smoker was kicking our butts.

  When the trail ended at a large mound of rock that rose up ominously before us, Davis pulled out the map and confirmed what we all feared—we had to climb. “Once we get to the top, it’s about an hour to the next check-in point,” he informed us as he carefully re-folded his map.

  My legs felt like spaghetti. I waited for my second wind while staring at the rock, hoping there were lots of crevices for footholds and ledges to grasp on to. It didn’t seem too steep, but I was tired. I bent over at the waist, willing the stitch in my side to go away, and heard a pained cough and moan from someone on the ground beside me. I looked down to see an elderly man who was sitting cross-legged and looking completely defeated. His knees were bloody, and there was a fresh scrape across his forehead.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. My legs are strong, but my arms are weak, I wasn’t prepared for climbing. I mean, look at that darn rock! Ain’t no way around it, either. No ropes, or steps… nothing. I thought this was supposed to be a running race.”

  His voice was so dry and dusty I felt sorry for him. Had he been a bit chubbier, he would have been the spitting image of Old Carl. “There certainly is more to this race than just running, isn’t there? I personally wasn’t all that fond of the mud.”

  “Yep. That was bloody awful, too.” He nodded in agreement. “I’m Isaac,” he said and thrust out a filthy, skinny hand.

  I leaned over to shake it. “Nice to meet you, I’m Kaya-uh, Katy.”

  Oliver leapt to my side as I almost revealed my real name.

  “And you are?” Isaac asked, eyeing Oliver’s large hand wrapped protectively around mine.

  “This is my fiancé,” I answered.

  Isaac struggled to his feet. “Well, hey big guy, do you think you could you help an old timer like me out?” said Isaac, and he motioned toward the rock. “Maybe give a hand up or a push here and there?”

  Oliver’s grip on me relaxed. “Yeah, for sure,” he said kindly.

  “Ah, the strength of youth. What I wouldn’t do to have that again,” Isaac said as stretched his ancient legs, and I wondered how anyone so old and frail looking could walk let alone run a race.

  Isaac started making the climb, his fingers grabbing hold of tree roots, while Oliver followed behind and offered his hand as a foothold. Davis followed, giving me a push once in a while, teasing Oliver by saying he got to feel my butt. I laughed. Of course, Oliver didn’t find it funny.

  Lush, green moss clinging in sparse patches made some spots slippery. A few times, Isaac lost his footing, and Oliver steadied him. We all waited until he got moving again, ducking from a few stray rocks here as the other racers scurried past. When we were a few feet from the top, Isaac slipped, but this time Oliver didn’t have a chance to react. The old man’s foot slammed heavily into Oliver’s chest with a sickening thud. Oliver lost his footing for a moment, sliding down the rock about a foot and gasping for breath, and I watched helplessly as the old man quickly scrambled the rest of the way up and disappeared over the top.

  Davis bolted to Oliver’s side and put an arm out to steady him. “Ollie, you okay buddy?” he asked, waiting patiently for Oliver to catch his breath. “Can you climb?”

  “Yeah,” Oliver choked out. “Man, that—guy got me good—and he was—wearing metal cleats.”

  “Cleats? What the hell? And the bastard is gone without even thanking you?”

  “It’s okay… I’ll be all right,” Oliver said, but he was obviously in pain by the way his right arm was firmly crossed over his chest.

  Davis and another racer helped Oliver the rest of the way up, and I was left on my own, or so I thought; I lost my balance and was shocked when a large hand was suddenly steadying me by firmly pushing on my lower back. I knew it had to be one of them…

  “Careful miss,” said a man with steel-grey eyes.

  They were eyes I’d never forget. Not because of the squinty shape and odd color, but because they were the eyes of the man that held a gun to Oliver’s head the day we tested the tracking device—the day we found the little sanctuary off the trail and got engaged. This man, Mark Reicht, would have had no problem pulling the trigger if he’d been ordered to. No amount of pleading, crying, or screaming would have changed his mind. Only on Sindra’s command did he put his gun away and order his men to retreat.

  I had the most intense urge to push him backward.

  He stuck to me like glue until I was safely at the top, and then he gave me a discreet nod before disappearing. I was glad to be rid of him. Blondie, however, was sprawled out on the grass like a model posing for a beer commercial. It looked like a lightning bolt hit her by the way she sprung to her feet when she saw Oliver.

  “What happened?” she asked while Davis eased him to the ground.

  “A swift kick to the ribs, and the perp ran
off.”

  “I’m a nurse; let me look at him,” she said, her blonde hair falling over her concerned face as she practically shoved Davis and me out of the way.

  Oliver glared, his eyes narrowing on her angrily. I knew a wounded Oliver behaved like a wounded dog… you had to approach very, very carefully. “I’m fine. Leave me the hell alone,” he growled.

  But Blondie didn’t flinch. Instead, she boldly got up in his face. “Listen sweetheart, even big guys need help once in a while,” she said. “Let me at least check the wound.”

  She called him sweetheart. I decided then and there that I hated her with every fiber of my non-blonde female existence. Then, when Oliver actually let her lift his shirt to inspect the damage, it was all I could do to not rip her face off.

  “It’s a good scratch; it’s not too deep, though,” she informed us as she pulled a small plastic box from her pack. “I’ll dress it, and he’ll be good to go.” She pressed a bandage to his ribs, and I noticed him wince, then a horrible cough burst from his lungs. “Drink,” she said and put her water bottle to his mouth. He shook his head defiantly. Then another hacking cough erupted, and he lunged for and downed the entire bottle.

  Blondie looked a little too pleased.

  “Are you all right, Oliver?” I asked, feeling useless beside Davis. “Should we get back to it?”

  Oliver looked at me through half-closed eyelids, but didn’t reply.