What the hell, thought Michaelson. “I’ve run it before,” he said. “I just turn around and come back.” If he was arrested for that, so be it. He didn’t want to miss running the causeway.
The figure inside the police cruiser said nothing. Finally, the spotlight clicked off.
“Up to you,” said the voice.
Michaelson’s vision began to clear again. The figure inside the cruiser became a little clearer. He wore a cowboy hat, standard for county sheriffs, but Michaelson still could not make out his face.
“It’s all right?” said Michaelson.
“Sure, if you want to. Little early in the day, though, isn’t it?”
“Best time to run, Sheriff,” Michaelson said. “Thanks.”
He moved away from the driver’s window, still not quite believing it. He slipped between the stone seawall and the edge of the wooden barrier, not bothering to unlatch its wide gate. He inhaled deeply, once, and loped forward.
“The very best of luck to you today, son,” called the Sheriff.
Michaelson looked back. Inside the cruiser it looked like the Sheriff had raised a microphone, trailing a cord, to his lips.
“Thanks, Sheriff,” he called back. Curious thing to say. Probably some local variation on “Have a nice day.”
22:08.
Past the wooden barricades the causeway sloped upward for nearly half a mile, until it had risen on wooden stilts almost a hundred feet over the sea. The slope was gradual enough not to tire Michaelson, but he had to lean forward and pump his arms. Every step took him higher and higher over the sea, until the waves below were tiny lines of white froth, breaking over the boulders that anchored the causeway’s base. When he reached the top, the causeway ran in a perfectly straight line dead ahead for what Michaelson estimated was a little over six miles to the island.
One hundred feet over the surf, Michaelson straightened up and let his breathing stabilize. Straight ahead, the sun began to rise over the island. He looked down over the causeway’s waist-high wooden rail, to the sea’s motion far below until he was dizzy, then up to the dome of the sky which seemed so close he could touch it. The asphalt roadbed under his feet was noticeably softer than the concrete of the highway had been. A gull coasted on the morning wind—below him!—and Michaelson flew along the causeway halfway between sea and sky, and part of both, into the sunrise.
Michaelson had asked the bartender about the causeway two nights earlier as he sipped the last of the two beers he occasionally allowed himself. “They put it up during the war,” the bartender said, polishing a glass with his rag. “Navy used the island to store ammunition away from town, and the water out there’s too rough to take explosives out by boat.”
“Do they still use it?” Michaelson asked.
“The bartender shook his head. “Navy still owns the island, but they haven’t used it since Korea,” he said. “Nothing out there for almost thirty years.”
Michaelson sipped his beer. “Why did they build the causeway up so high?” he asked. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“Back then the fishermen were still working under sail. Best fishing ground in those days was right between the island and the mainland. No way they’d let the Navy run it at sea level, or down so low the masts couldn’t pass under it. And they had eighty, ninety foot masts on the fishing boats back then. Cost a lot, but no way they were going to let the Navy ruin the fishing. Would have put most of the town out of work. Funny thing, though, after the war the fish all moved out past the island. Never see a fishing boat out there now.”
“Anybody use it these days?” Michaelson asked. He had already run the causeway twice, and found nothing on the island except one abandoned barracks building with a tarpaper roof a few yards past the island end of the causeway. He had not explored the ocean side of the island which lay over a low hill cutting the island in half.
The bartender looked up from the glass he was polishing at Michaelson. “What for?” he said.
Michaelson shrugged. “I don’t know. Swimming? Fishing off the far side?”
The bartender shook his head. “Surf’s too rough for both,” he said.
“Be an interesting place to run,” Michaelson said tentatively. He felt reluctant to admit to the bartender that he had already violated the signs—“NO TRESPASSING. U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY”—on the barricade at the mainland end of the causeway.
“Run?” The bartender put the glass down. He wiped his hands on the rag. “You a runner?”
“Yes,” said Michaelson. “In fact, to tell you the truth, I’ve already run out there. Beautiful place.”
The bartender shook his head. “Crazy bastards,” he said. “Never understood how a man could get involved with such foolishness.” He moved his chin upward, in the direction of Michaelson’s glass. “Be a dollar forty,” he said.
Michaelson drained the last quarter of his glass and put two dollar bills on the bar. “Keep it,” he said.
The bartender nodded, rang the cash register and walked down the bar to serve two fishermen. Michaelson walked the two blocks back to his motel. The night insects drawn out of the darkness zoomed and smashed themselves into its fluorescent sign.
24:28. The sun was over the island now, and Michaelson found it easier to stride. The causeway stretched, high and level, straight before him to the island. Legs pumping, heart pumping, muscles warming up well. There was something about the height of the causeway over the sea that let him skim along without much effort. It felt more like running through the air than on a road. Occasionally he glanced down at the sea breaking below him or up at the sky. All the stars were gone now, blotted out by the dawn light. Directly over the island, the sun began to rise. A blinding sliver of sunlight forced him to look left and right—anywhere but straight ahead.
30:36.
Just running ...
Less than a second before it hit him, Michaelson heard the van’s engine behind him. In disbelief, he turned his head to look behind him and saw the black van already at his left shoulder. The van swung toward him, catching his hip and left arm. The blow slammed him into the wooden guardrail. He fell forward. A sharp pain stabbed his ribcage.
The van did not even slow down. It raced down the causeway toward the island, diminishing to a black speck.
Michaelson grasped the lower rung of the guardrail with both hands and pulled himself slowly to his feet. He felt his ribs with both hands and tried to get his breath back. Nothing seemed to be broken, but he was winded and his ribcage ached from the two blows it had received from the van and the guardrail.
He ran, slowly, toward the island for several minutes, his mind too dazed by the accident to think about turning back. He could remember the van striking him. He mentally reviewed it over and over again, but it made no sense to him. He ran automatically, close to a state of shock.
The van was coming back from the island.
Michaelson stepped into the middle of the causeway and put his hands on his hips. When the van got closer he would wave his arms and stop it. At least the son of a bitch had come back to see if he was all right.
The van was not slowing down.
Michaelson hesitated. He raised his arms over his head and waved them awkwardly up and down, trying to catch the driver’s eye. When the van still did not slow down he moved uneasily to his right.
The black van turned slightly to aim straight at him. Two rearview mirrors in silver metal cases bulged from each side of the van.
Michaelson scrambled to the guardrail and clung to it. The roadbed of the causeway extended all the way to the rail. The black van was bearing down on him less than twenty feet away. He hugged the guardrail, turning sideways and facing out to sea to present the smallest possible target.
The van went by without slowing. He was not sure if it had touched him or if he had only felt the wind from its passage across his back, but it had been close. It sped down the causeway toward the mainland.
Michaelson’s arms felt weak. He h
ad not realized how tightly he had gripped the guardrail.
Get off the causeway and hide.
A quick glance in both directions told him he was closer to the island than to the mainland, maybe two miles away. Ten or twelve minutes if he pushed it, and if his ribs weren’t badly injured. There were areas on the island where the van could not follow him.
He turned and sprinted for the island. His ribs ached, but nothing seemed to be broken. There was a dull ache when he inhaled, but nothing which seemed to slow him down. He had run through worse pain in races.
He glanced back over his shoulder every fourth or fifth stride. It made his rhythm jerky, but he could not stop himself from looking. And there it was, an evil little black speck, growing larger behind him.
He could not make the island before it reached him. But he had to gain as much ground as possible between each pass it made at him. The causeway was too narrow for the van to turn around; it would have to go to the island or the mainland to turn around between each pass. At least that gave him a sporting chance.
The rising sun reflected off the van’s flat front windshield, momentarily blinding Michaelson. It was less than a half mile away.
There was no cover on the causeway, nowhere to hide. The paving ran flat from guardrail to guardrail, without even a curb to slow the van down.
He would have to go over the guardrail.
He would have to go over the guardrail and cling to its far side until the van had passed.
Another quick glance over his shoulder. It was closing on him rapidly.
Michaelson ran, glancing backward with every other step now, until he could stand it no longer. Then he stopped and scrambled over the guardrail.
There was no place below the roadbed to rest his feet. He tucked them under the bottom rung of the guardrail and clung to the top rail. It was an awkward position since it forced him to lean out backward over the ocean. The top rail was only waist-high and his arms strained to hold him in. He looked down at the ocean breaking below him, then looked quickly away. The top guardrail creaked in his hands, and he felt it pull loose from its nails by a fraction of an inch.
The van slowed and went past him. The brakelights glowed briefly and it stopped.
It began to back up.
Michaelson scrambled awkwardly to his left, back toward the mainland, retreating from the van. He moved sideways like a crab. He had to step around one of the uprights and his body dangled out over the sea.
The van smashed into the guardrail a foot in front of him. The brakelights glowed again. Michaelson jerked his right hand off the rail and desperately continued to scramble away. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps.
The van ran forward a few feet and stopped. It idled there for a moment as if the driver were deciding what to do, then shot forward toward the island.
Michaelson’s arms began to shake. He pulled himself tighter against the rail and slowly climbed over it. Ahead, one of the top guardrails hung loosely by one end where the van had smashed it. He tried to catch his breath.
He had no time for rest, he told himself. He ran for the island. Every minute the van was away was another minute of ground he could gain, and he couldn’t afford to waste even one of those minutes. He had to run now, and hide over the guardrail when it came back.
Or he could fight.
He stopped short and stood still for a few seconds. Then he turned and ran back to the broken guardrail. Hauling and tugging on the free end, he worked a short section of the rail loose. It was about three feet long and it felt like it would be heavy enough. He held it by the middle in his right hand and ran as fast as he could for the island. The guardrail’s weight threw his stride awkwardly off balance.
He guessed that he was about a mile from the island when he saw the black van again. It was turning around at the end of the causeway and it started toward him. It seemed to be moving faster than it had before.
Michaelson stopped and laid his loose piece of wood carefully along the top of another section of guardrail, trying to make it as invisible as possible. He placed both hands on it, as though he were getting ready to scramble over the guardrail and cling to the outside as he had on the van’s last pass at him.
He tried to slow his breathing down. He looked steadily at the van, trying to judge his timing as carefully as possible.
The license plate! If he ever made it off the causeway alive, he would need it to report the madman who was trying to kill him. And he would need a description of the driver to give the Sheriff. Why hadn’t the Sheriff come by the entrance to the causeway just a few minutes later, in time to stop the van?
He had to squint into the sun. They were local license plates. RVH 927. All he could see of the driver was a young face, probably black or dark hair, and a green shirt.
RVH 927. RVH 927. Then it was on him.
When he had held his body perfectly still until his nerves were screaming, Michaelson jerked the wooden rail over his head and threw it directly at the driver. He leaped to his left, sprinting for the other side of the causeway.
The van swung sharply toward him. The piece of wood missed the windshield entirely and clattered along the side of the van, knocking a side mirror off, before it sailed over the guardrail and tumbled lazily into the sea. Michaelson pressed himself against the guardrail on the other side of the causeway. No time to scramble over it.
The van wobbled slightly and came directly at him. He was crying. He slid along the guardrail toward the island and got just out of the way of the van’s front fender before it hit the rail. This time it didn’t stop. It hit the rail a glancing blow and accelerated toward the mainland.
Michaelson watched it grow smaller. He leaned against the rail to catch his breath. Less than a mile to go. Move, he told himself.
He tried the guardrail the van had hit on this pass at him, but he couldn’t work it loose. There was nothing on the causeway he could use as a weapon except the van’s side mirror. He picked it up from the roadbed and ran.
The mirror was too light to do any damage even if he made a direct hit on the windshield. The van was behind him now, and the constant glances over his shoulder threw off his stride. He wished the van were coming from the island. At least then he wouldn’t feel compelled to keep glancing backward and could run faster.
RVH 927. Remember that. He could see the driver convicted of attempted murder if he got off the causeway. When he got off the causeway. Or kill the bastard with his bare hands.
He was tiring rapidly. Each pass the van made at him pumped him full of adrenaline, but as each spurt wore off it left him progressively more washed out and exhausted, the same feeling he knew from the final sprint across the finish line in his races. But he wasn’t across the finish line yet. Half a mile, or a little more. He glanced over his shoulder. The van was much nearer.
Michaelson ran straight down the middle of the causeway, weaving from side to side. He glanced back over his shoulder with every other step. It slowed him down, but the van was too close to let it out of his sight for long. As it drew closer he widened the arcs of his running, swinging further to the right and left each time. The black van had to slow down as it drew closer in order to keep aiming straight at him. Michaelson knew he had to time his last swing perfectly.
He was far over to the left, almost at the guardrail. He was closest to the driver’s side of the van, deliberately making it easier for him to steer accurately.
At the last possible moment Michaelson stopped and spun on his heels. He sprinted as hard as he could straight at the van, then jumped left.
The van swung back toward him, but not fast enough. It grazed him and he fell.
Michaelson rolled across the causeway. He must have pulled a muscle in his right calf when he fell. The van loomed over him, a black giant blotting out the sun, and then he had rolled under the guardrail. He squeezed as close to the edge as he could, clinging to the bottom guardrail to keep from falling into the sea.
The van rema
ined still, its engine idling loudly, the driver motionless inside. Suddenly, it shot off toward the island.
Michaelson got up. Somehow he was still holding the rearview mirror. He tried to run, but something had been torn, and torn badly, in his right calf, and the best he could achieve was a slow hobble.
The sun was well up over the island now, and it was almost impossible to see the van in its glare. The causeway stretched directly into the sun. Michaelson squinted. The van reached the island and turned quickly in the sand. It was coming back, faster with each pass at him, or did it just seem that way?
You bastard, thought Michaelson. You know you’ve only got one more chance. A few hundred yards and I’m safe, off the causeway. You get one more chance.
He couldn’t dodge it this time, not with his crippled right leg. The causeway was still too high for him to hang over the edge and let himself fall safely into the sea. If he tried to cling to the outside of the guardrail, he had a feeling the van would butt him off, over the edge. He stopped, panting, in the middle of the road. The van was coming faster.
The mirror.
He brought the mirror up in his right hand and aimed it at the sun, then down. He saw the spot of brilliant reflected sunlight on the asphalt in front of him, then tilted the mirror slowly until the sunbeam hit the flat black front of the van. He angled it carefully upward until, as well as he could judge at this distance, it was right on the spot on the windshield in front of the driver’s eyes. There. He jiggled the mirror microscopically to keep it in the driver’s eyes as the van drew nearer. As cautiously as he could, keeping the mirror steady in his right hand, he moved to the left, until his right arm was stretched straight out to his side. His right arm began to tremble, but he forced it to be still.
Was it his imagination, or was the black van wobbling slightly in its course? Steady, he whispered to himself.
It was wobbling, and it was slowing down. As the van crept blindly toward him, Michaelson tracked it with the reflected beam of sunlight. It slowed down, nearly stopping. Get ready to jump, he thought.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 10 Page 19