Running Empty in a Land of Decay
The first few miles of any run are the hardest. Your muscles protest and your lungs scream, but once you push past all the hurt, you get to the good part, the part where the world zips by in bright flashes of color and your conscious thoughts fade away. In that zone, you hear, but don’t hear; see, but don’t see. You breathe in and out, moving forward. Moving on. You might even try to catch that elusive four-minute mile. You don’t look back or pause to gaze at the scenery. You just head for that finish line, whether it’s an actual line, a mile marker, or the end of a street.
When I run now, with the pedometer clicking away the steps and the miles, I pretend everything is normal. I pretend I’m not running away, even though there’s nothing left to run away from.
But I can’t turn off my thoughts anymore.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of the dead. Months, maybe a year, maybe longer than that. Hard to tell; time is funny now. They’re nothing more than a few scraps of putrescent flesh lingering here and there. They came with limited mileage, like running shoes.
It’s been even longer since I’ve seen anyone alive.
“Caught by the laces, the shoes are hanging from a dead power line, swaying back and forth.
I was here, they say.”
Love that part so much and the shoes dotted across the land. Beautiful writing, Damien.
Beautiful, horrifying, wrenching. The vivid details make it seem so real. I hope you keep writing, Damien. There could be fame in your future.