by Stephen King
The teens sped up, one passing Scott on either side, both breathing harder than ever.
“Seeya, wouldn’t want to be ya!” one of them puffed.
“Go with your bad selves,” Scott said, smiling.
He ran easily, eating up the road with long strides. Respiration still okay, ditto heart-rate, and why not? He was a hundred pounds lighter than he looked, and that was only half of what he had going for him. The other half was muscles still built for a man carrying 240.
Route 117 made a double curve, then ran straight beside Bowie Stream, babbling and chuckling along in its shallow, stony bed. Scott thought it had never sounded better, the misty air he was pulling deep into his lungs had never tasted better, the big pines crowding down on the other side of the road had never looked better. He could smell them, tangy and bright and somehow green. Every breath seemed deeper than the last, and he kept having to rein himself in.
I am so glad to be alive on this day, he thought.
Outside the covered bridge crossing the stream, one of those orange markers announced 6K. Beyond it was a sign reading HALFWAY HOME! The sound of feet thundering inside the bridge was—to Scott, at least—as beautiful as a Gene Krupa drumroll. Overhead, disturbed swallows raced back and forth under the roof. One actually flew into his face, its wing fluttering his brow, and he laughed aloud.
On the far side, one of the bike-shorts dudes was sitting on the guardrail, gasping for breath and massaging a cramp in his calf. He didn’t look up as Scott and the other runners passed. At the junction of Routes 117 and 119, runners were clustered around a refreshment table, gulping water, Gatorade, and cranberry juice from paper cups before going on. Eight or nine others, who had blown themselves out on the first six kilometers, were sprawled on the grass. He was delighted to see Trevor Yount—the bullnecked Public Works guy with whom Scott had had the confrontation in Patsy’s—was among them.
He passed the sign reading CASTLE ROCK MUNICIPAL TOWN LIMITS, where Route 119 became Bannerman Road, named after the town’s longest serving sheriff, an unlucky fellow who had come to a bad end on one of the town’s back roads. It was time to pick up the pace, and as Scott passed the orange 8K marker, he shifted from first gear to second. No problem. The air was cool and delicious on his blood-warmed skin, like being rubbed with silk, and he liked the feel of his own heart—that sturdy little engine—in his chest. There were houses on both sides of the road now, and people standing out on lawns, holding up signs and taking pictures.
Here was Milly Jacobs, still going but starting to slow down, her headband darkened to a deeper green with her sweat.
“How’s that following wind, Milly? Picking any up?”
She turned to look at him, frankly incredulous. “Good God, I can’t . . . believe it’s you,” she panted. “Thought I left you . . . in the dust.”
“I found a little extra,” Scott said. “Don’t quit now, Milly, this is the good part.” Then she was behind him.
The road began to rise in a series of low but ascending hills, and Scott began to pass more runners—both those who had given up and those who were still laboring along. Two of the latter were the teenagers who had blown by him earlier, offended to be passed, even for a few moments, by a middle-aged fatty in shitty sneakers and old tennis shorts. They glanced at him with identical expressions of surprise. Smiling pleasantly, Scott said, “Seeya, wouldn’t want to be ya.”
One of them gave him the finger. Scott blew him a kiss, then showed them the heels of his shitty sneakers.
* * *
As Scott entered the ninth kilometer, a long peal of thunder rolled across the sky, west to east.
That’s not good, he thought. November thunder might be okay in Louisiana, but not in Maine.
He came around a bend, jinking left to come even with a skinny old stork of a man who was running with his fists clenched before him and his head thrown back. His wifebeater shirt showed fishbelly white arms decorated with old tattoos. On his face he wore a daffy grin. “You hear that thunder?”
“Yes!”
“Gonna rain a bitch! Ain’t this a day?”
“You bet your ass,” Scott said, laughing. “Finest kind!” Then he was past, but not before the skinny old guy gave him a pretty good swat on the ass.
The road ran straight now, and Scott spotted the red shirt and blue shorts halfway up Hunter’s Hill, aka Runners’ Heartbreak. He could see only half a dozen runners ahead of McComb now. There might already be a couple beyond the crest of the hill, but Scott doubted it.
It was time to shift into a higher gear.
He did so, and was now among the serious runners, the greyhounds. But many of them were either beginning to flag or saving their energy for the steep grade. He caught unbelieving looks as the middle-aged man with his belly pushing out his sweaty tee-shirt first wove his way among them, then put them behind him.
Partway up Hunter’s Hill, Scott’s breath began to shallow up, and the air going in and out began to taste hot and coppery. His feet no longer felt so light, and his calves were burning. There was a dull ache on the left side of his groin, as if he had strained something there. The second half of the hill looked endless. He thought about what Milly had said: first fun, then heck, then hell. Was he in heck or hell now? On the border, he decided.
He had never really assumed he could beat Deirdre McComb (although he hadn’t discounted the possibility), but he had assumed he would finish the race somewhere near the front—that the muscles built to carry his earlier, heavier self would be enough to bring him through. Now, as he passed a couple of runners who had given up, one sitting with his head bent, the other lying on his back and gasping, he began to wonder about that.
Maybe I still weigh too much, he thought. Or maybe I just don’t have the sack for this.
There was another roll of thunder.
Because the top of Hunter’s didn’t seem to be getting any closer, he looked down at the road, watching the pebbles set in the macadam flying past like galaxies in a science fiction movie. He looked up just in time to keep from crashing into a redhead who was standing with one foot on either side of the yellow line, holding onto her knees and gasping. Scott barely avoided her and saw the crest of the hill sixty yards ahead. Also one of those orange markers: 10K. He fixed his eyes on it and ran, now not just gasping for breath but yanking for it, and feeling every one of his forty-two years. His left knee began to complain, pulsing in sync with the pain in his groin. Sweat ran down his cheeks like hot water.
You are going to do this. You will do this. Put it all on the line.
And why the fuck not? If Zero Day turned out to be today instead of in February or March, so be it.
He passed the marker and crested the hill. Purdy’s Lumberyard was on the right, Purdy’s Hardware on the left. Just two klicks to go. He could see downtown below him, twenty or so businesses on either side hung with bunting, the Catholic church and the Methodist one facing off like holy gunslingers, the slant parking (every space taken), the clogged sidewalks, and the town’s two stoplights. Beyond the second one was the Tin Bridge, where bright yellow finishing tape decorated with turkeys had been strung. Ahead of Scott he now saw only six or seven runners. The one in the red shirt was second, and closing the distance on the leader. Deirdre was making her move.
I’m never going to catch her, Scott thought. She’s got too much of a lead. That damn hill didn’t break me, but it bent me pretty good.
Then his lungs seemed to open up again, each breath going deeper than the one before. His sneakers (not blinding white Adidas, just ratty old Pumas) seemed to shed the lead coating they had gained. His previous lightness of body came rushing back. It was what Milly had called the following wind, and what pros like McComb no doubt called the runner’s high. Scott preferred that. He remembered that day in his yard, flexing his knees, leaping, and catching the branch of the tree. He remembered running up and down the bandstand steps. He remembered dancing across the kitchen floor as Stevie Wonder sa
ng “Superstition.” This was the same. Not a wind, not even a high, exactly, but an elevation. A sense that you had gone beyond yourself and could go farther still.
Heading down Hunter’s, past O’Leary Ford on one side and Zoney’s Go-Mart on the other, he passed one runner, then another. Four back now. He didn’t know or care if they were staring as he blew past them. All of his attention was focused on the red shirt and blue shorts.
Deirdre took the lead. As she did, more thunder banged overhead—God’s starter pistol—and Scott felt the first cold splat of rain on the back of his neck. Then another on his arm. He looked down and saw more hitting the road, darkening it in dime-sized drops. Now there were spectators on either side of Main, although they still had to be a mile from the finish and half a mile from where the downtown sidewalks started. Scott saw umbrellas popping open like flowers blooming. They were gorgeous. Everything was—the darkening sky, the pebbles in the road, the orange of the marker announcing the Turkey Trot’s last K. The world stood forth.
Ahead of him, a runner abruptly swerved off the road, went to his knees, and rolled over on his back, looking up into the rain with his mouth drawn down in a bow of agony. Only two runners between him and Deirdre.
Scott blew past the final orange marker. Just a kilometer to go now, less than a mile. He had gone from first gear to second. Now, as the sidewalks began—cheering crowds on either side, some waving Turkey Trot pennants—it was time to see if he had not just third gear but an overdrive.
Kick it, you son of a bitch, he thought, and picked up the pace.
The rain seemed to hesitate for a moment, time enough for Scott to think it was going to hold off until the race was over, and then it came in a full-force torrent, driving the spectators back under awnings and into doorways. Visibility dropped to twenty percent, then to ten, then to almost zero. Scott thought the cold rain felt more than delicious; closer to divine.
He got by one runner, then another. The second was the former leader, the one that Deirdre had passed. He had slowed down to a walk, splashing along the gushing street with his head down, his hands on his hips, and his sopping shirt plastered to his body.
Ahead, through a gray curtain of rain, Scott saw the red shirt. He thought he had just enough gas left in the tank to go by her, but the race might be over before he could. The traffic light at the end of Main Street had disappeared. So had the Tin Bridge, and the yellow tape across its near end. It was just him and McComb now, both of them running blind through the deluge, and Scott had never been happier in his life. Only happiness was too mild. Here, as he explored the farthest limits of his stamina, was a new world.
Everything leads to this, he thought. To this elevation. If it’s how dying feels, everyone should be glad to go.
He was close enough to see Deirdre McComb look back, her sodden ponytail doing a dead-fish flop onto her shoulder as she did it. Her eyes widened when she saw who was trying to take away her lead. She faced forward, lowered her head, and found more speed.
Scott first matched her, then overmatched her. Closing in, closing in, now almost close enough to touch the back of her soaked shirt, able to see clear rivulets of rain running down the back of her neck. Able—even over the roar of the storm—to hear her gasping air out of the rain. He could see her, but not the buildings they were passing on either side, or the last stoplight, or the bridge. He had lost all sense of where he was on Main, and had no landmarks to help him. His only landmark was the red shirt.
She looked back again, and that was a mistake. Her left foot caught her right ankle and she went down, arms out, surfing water up in front and splashing to either side like a kid bellyflopping into a swimming pool. He heard her grunt as the air went out of her.
Scott reached her, stopped, bent down. She twisted up on one arm to look at him. Her face was an agony of fury and hurt. “How did you cheat?” she gasped. “Goddam you, how did you ch—”
He grabbed her. Lightning flashed, a brief glare that made him wince. “Come on.” He put his other arm around her waist and hauled her up.
Her eyes went wide. There was another flash of lightning. “Oh my God, what are you doing? What’s happening to me?”
He ignored this. Her feet moved, but not on the street, which was now an inch deep in running water; they pedaled in the air. He knew what was happening to her, and he was sure it was amazing, but it wasn’t happening to him. She was light to herself, maybe more than light, but heavy to him, a slim body that was all muscle and sinew. He let loose. He still couldn’t see the Tin Bridge, but he could see a faint yellow streak that had to be the tape.
“Go!” he shouted, and pointed at the finish line. “Run!”
She did. He ran after her. She broke the tape. Lightning flashed. He followed, raising his hands into the rain, slowing down as he ran onto the Tin Bridge. He found her halfway across on her hands and knees. He dropped down beside her, both of them gasping in air that seemed to be mostly liquid.
She looked at him, water running down her face like tears.
“What happened? My God, you put your arm around me and it was like I weighed nothing!”
Scott thought of the coins he had put in the pockets of his parka on the day he’d first gone to see Doctor Bob. He thought about standing on his bathroom scale while holding a pair of twenty-pound hand-weights.
“You did,” he said.
“DeeDee! DeeDee!”
It was Missy, running toward them. She held out her arms. Deirdre splashed to her feet and embraced her wife. They staggered and almost went down. Scott put his arms out to catch them, but didn’t actually touch them. Lightning flashed.
Then the crowd found them, and they were surrounded by the people of Castle Rock, applauding in the rain.
CHAPTER 5
After the Race
That evening Scott was lying in a tub filled with water as hot as he could stand it, trying to soothe the ache out of his muscles. When his phone began to ring, he fumbled for it under the clean clothes folded on the chair by the tub. I’m tied to this damn thing, he thought.
“Hello?”
“Deirdre McComb, Mr. Carey. What night shall I set aside for our dinner? Next Monday would be good, because the restaurant is closed on Mondays.”
Scott smiled. “I think you misunderstood the wager, Ms. McComb. You won, and your dogs now have free rein on my lawn, in perpetuity.”
“We both know that isn’t exactly true,” she said. “In fact, you threw the race.”
“You deserved to win.”
She laughed. It was the first one he’d heard from her, and it was charming. “My high school running coach would tear his hair out if he heard such a sentiment. He used to say what you deserve has nothing to do with where you finish. I will take the win, however, if you invite us to dinner.”
“Then I’ll brush up on my vegetarian cooking. Next Monday works for me, but only if you bring your wife. Sevenish, say?”
“That’s fine, and she wouldn’t miss it. Also . . .” She hesitated. “I want to apologize for what I said. I know you didn’t cheat.”
“No apology necessary,” Scott said, and he meant it. Because, in a way he had cheated, involuntary as it might have been.
“If not for that, I need to apologize for how I’ve treated you. I could plead extenuating circumstances, but Missy tells me there are none, and she might be right about that. I have certain . . . attitudes . . . and changing them hasn’t been easy.”
He couldn’t think of what to say to that, so he changed the subject. “Are either of you gluten-free? Lactose-intolerant? Let me know, so I don’t make something you or Missy—Ms. Donaldson—can’t eat.”
She laughed again. “We don’t eat meat or fish, and that’s it. Everything else is on the table.”
“Even eggs?”
“Even eggs, Mr. Carey.”
“Scott. Call me Scott.”
“I will. And I’m Deirdre. Or DeeDee, to avoid confusion with Dee the dog.” She hesitated. “When
we come to dinner, can you explain what happened when you pulled me up? I’ve had strange sensations while I’m running, strange perceptions, every runner will tell you the same—”
“I had a few myself,” Scott said. “From Hunter’s Hill on, things got very . . . weird.”
“But I’ve never felt anything like that. For a few seconds it was like I was on the space station, or something.”
“Yes, I can explain. But I’d like to invite my friend Dr. Ellis, who already knows. And his wife, if she’s available.” If she’ll come, was what Scott didn’t want to say.
“Fine. Until Monday, then. Oh, and be sure to look at the Press-Herald. The story won’t be in the newspaper until tomorrow, of course, but it’s online now.”
Sure it is, Scott thought. In the twenty-first century, print newspapers are also buggy-whip factories.
“I’ll do that.”
“Did you think it was lightning? There at the end?”
“Yes,” Scott said. What else would it have been? Lightning went with thunder like peanut butter went with jelly.
“So did I,” DeeDee McComb said.
* * *
He dressed and fired up his computer. The story was on the Press-Herald ’s homepage, and he was sure it would be on the front page of Saturday’s paper, maybe above the fold, barring any new world crisis. The headline read: LOCAL RESTAURANT OWNER WINS CASTLE ROCK TURKEY TROT. According to the paper, it was the first time a town resident had won the race since 1989. There were only two photographs in the online edition, but Scott guessed there would be more in Saturday’s print version. It hadn’t been lightning at the end; it had been the newspaper photographer, and he’d gotten class-A pix despite the rain.
The first one showed Deirdre and Scott together, with the Tin Bridge stoplight a smeary red in the background, which meant she must have fallen not even seventy yards from the finish. He had his arm around her waist. Hair that had come loose from her ponytail was plastered to her cheeks. She was looking up at him with exhausted wonder. He was looking down at her . . . and smiling.
