The motorcycle hummed along the dirt path slowly, puttered twice, and was silent.

Dan dismounted the Triumph, pushing the kickstand out with his foot.

“That a girl,” he said, patting the machine like a horse. She didn’t respond but was warm to the touch and that was enough for Dan.

He looked at the rock off to the side, caked in mud.

1307 Landisville Dr. it said in black spray paint. He was in the right place.

Dan fished around in his heavy leather jacket for some cigarettes. He’d quit years ago, but with the new bike, he’d also taken to the smoking aesthetic. At first it had been a joke, a way to appease his friend Tom who smoked far more than he, but slowly the craving had caught back up with him. His wife hated the smell, but it was masked well enough by the wind and fresh air that accompanied his motorcycle rides. He would probably blame Tom anyways, like a high schooler returning home with alcohol on his breath.

Finding the new pack, he pulled one out of the box along with a lighter out. He ignited and took a drag. He was only now mulling through the intelligence of this late-night meetup. His wife would’ve told him he was going to a murder house to be murdered. He would’ve laughed it off before, but now upon arrival, the barn with only one light did give off a murder-y vibe, and the distant house with shutters that seemed as if they’d been closed for years did nothing to help this.

And the flashlight making its way towards him from the house to the barn. That also didn’t help.

It bounced along a path towards him, in more of a rush then Dan would’ve liked. Dan took one last drag of his cigarette in the hopes of steadying his nerves. It didn’t do much. Disappointed, he flicked the butt into the wet underbrush and straightened his jacket, prepping himself for salesman duty.

“How are ya?” came a deep, rural voice, “you must be Dan?!”

He was an older man in what Dan would’ve guessed to be his late 50’s. He wore a tattered flannel, which went nicely with his paint stained jeans and battered boots. He had a faded Phillies baseball cap to help round out the rustic aesthetic.

“The one and only!” said Dan, rushing to grab the man’s outstretched hand, “And you’d have to be George.”

“In the flesh,” said George, squeezing Dan’s hand tightly. Dan did his best to match the intensity of the shake. George was stronger than he’d expected.

“Never been one for much chit-chat, Daniel. Shall we check her out and see if we can work ourselves a deal?”

“Of course,” said Dan.

George released Dan’s hand and they both began to walk along the muddy path towards the barn.

“So, if I may ask, why the rush? Your history shows you’re quite the car guy. I would assume you’d have no trouble getting an M1 off your hands.”

His business mind begged him not to ask it. What was it to him if this man wanted to give away a car at nearly half the expected value?

“You could ask,” said George, pulling the rotting barn doors open, “but I’m not sure it would be in your best interest.”

“Now come take a look at her,” said George, beckoning Dan in, clearly keen to change the subject, “she really is a beaut. Once you see her, you’ll have to take her.”

As promised, there was a car parked amid the straw, a tarp draped over it to protect from both eyes and the elements.

George ripped the tarp clean off, tossing it to the side. Even in the dim lighting, Dan could recognize the faded BMW insignia and the unmistakable slender build of an M1.

It didn’t look to be in bad condition at all, save a large dent on the right side of the front bumper. It had clearly hit something, and that something had damaged the bumper as well as destroyed the headlight.

Dan approached it, blown away at what a steal this might be. He would have to run it by Tom, make sure it was in running condition, but he already knew he had to have this.

He knelt to examine the damaged front of the car, wondering, even now, if he could bring the price down on an already ineffable steal.

“She is gorgeous.”

“I thought you’d like her,” said George, “so do we have ourselves a deal? I said I’d price it at what I posted but only if she was gone within the day.”

“I think we just might-” said Dan, but he paused for a moment.

He had noticed the red stain hidden within the dent. At first, he thought it might be paint, perhaps from hitting a curb or another red car, but, as he scratched his nail at the red, he was surprised to see that no flakes came off. Something more sinister began to surface in Dan’s mind, putting all this into a more digestible, albeit sickening, context.

“What happened here?” asked Dan.

There was a moment of silence.

“Hit a deer” whispered George.

“A deer?” repeated Dan.

“Yes,” said George, “now do we have ourselves a deal?”

Dan felt vulnerable, as if he’d asked one too many questions. He got up slowly, his wife’s advice telling him to get out as soon as possible.

He spun with his hand outstretched.

“We do,” he said, “but I’ll have to come back tomorrow to pick her up. Does she run fine?”

“Better than fine,” said George with a smile, seemingly trying to crush the deal into Dan’s hand.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Dan.

And with that he let go of George’s hand and began to walk back down the path, towards his bike.

Hands shaking, he searched again for a cigarette, lighting it as quickly as possible. His wife would be upset enough if he went through with the purchase, so what was one more cigarette going to hurt?

He kicked his Triumph to life and took off down the abandoned road, winding his way home.

 

Rex stirred his whisky with a toothpick, the ice bobbing like a glacier in the Amazon. It was a worthwhile distraction for someone so uninterested in the hockey game that droned behind the bar, but this wasn’t what Rex was avoiding.

He took the toothpick out and rested it on a napkin.

“It’s got to be all water by now, Rex. I’ve never known you to drink so slow.”

John Jr. approached with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, refilling the glass to a reasonable amount.

“On me,” said the prematurely balding bartender, “from my old man.”

He smiled, weakly, his thick black beard unable to hide the hurt that came with this statement. Rex knew it had been nearly six years since John Sr. had passed from cancer. He’d been at the funeral. John Jr. had inherited the bar that day.

Rex took a sip. It was warmer than he’d have liked, but he drank it with only a twitch of the nose to reveal his distaste. He was a pro.

It went down hot, finally rousing him to consider a move; a move he’d been working towards all afternoon.

“What if she says she ain’t interested John?”

“Who?” said John, not looking up as he holstered the Jack.

Rex motioned down the bar a few times. Jack finally looked up and took notice. A true smile breached his beard.

“Ms. Mulaney? I thought you came here to chat with me. Don’t tell me you’ve just been wanting to get to know her all this time.”

Rex gave John Jr. a knowing look.

“You’re too much like your old man, John, you know that? There’s a reason I never played cards with him two days in a row.”

“Because he took all your money since you have a shit poker face?” said John Jr. with a laugh, wiping down the bar.

This made Rex laugh as well. He reached into his pocket to grab his wallet and pulled out a twenty.

“I’m all in” said Rex, sliding the twenty across the bar.

He then scraped his stool out slowly, reaching for his cane and hat.

“So, you’re really going for it?” said John Jr., scooping the twenty and putting it into the register.

“I don’t have the time to wait,” replied Rex.

Out from behind the stool, Rex straightened his bow tie, adjusted his bowler hat and was preparing to introduce himself to the beautiful woman in the Sunday dress at the end of the bar when he stopped.

“Ya never answered me John,” said Rex, suddenly feeling like he was in high school again, “what if she don’t like me?”

John Jr. smiled.

“What if she does?”

Rex laughed, as if this thought hadn’t occurred to him. He took one final deep breath and then turned away from John, his cane scraping along the sticky floor as he made his way across the bar.

She spun in a field. Six years old with a lilac Easter dress, and not a care for the multitude of bees and dragonflies that hovered ever close. Her laugh floated with the afternoon and carried all the way to the deck.

“You need another?”

Tyler didn’t look away from his niece but sloshed his nearly full Michelob Ultra at his father. That was the only answer his father needed, leaving the porch to reenter the party. As he opened the sliding door, the drone of discordant voices trickled out, only to be silenced a moment later as it closed again.

Tyler knew he should probably head back inside, but he felt no rush. He took a big sip of his beer, continuing to watch Lacey twirl in the field below, giggling as Reptar, the elderly family beagle, tried to keep up with her. It was strangely melancholic and tranquil. Tyler wasn’t sure how he could feel so sad and so at peace all at once.

The sliding of the back door brought with it the sounds of the family party inside, only to be drowned out again with another click.

Tyler looked over, expecting his father, but being greeted by the smile of his younger brother, Alex.

“Figured you could use another?” he said, the foresight to bring a Michelob out with him.

Tyler went to slosh the beer like he had with his father, only to realize he was closer to a refill then he’d thought.

Alex sat next to him, placing the beer on the railing.

“When you’re ready,” he said with a sigh, as he plopped into the adjacent plastic chair.

Tyler was back to looking out at his niece, who had now fallen to the ground, wrestling and rolling with Reptar. Her mother, Tyler’s sister-in-law Anna, would not be happy about the state of the dress.

“When did we lose that?” said Tyler, turning to his brother.

“Lose what? That?” said Alex, pointing to his daughter with a laugh, “We never had that.”

“We had that,” said Tyler, slightly offended, “You know what I mean. Just free; not a real care in the world.”

“You and I had many things going for us as kids, but not a care in the world, that wasn’t one of them.”

Alex took a sip, snorted with the bottle to his lips, and pulled it away.

“We,” he added, pointing back and forth between the two of them, “Would’ve been playing a game and been at each other’s throats. That out there is an innocence you and I never had.”

“You’re probably right,” said Tyler, “I guess I’m just in a weird place.”

“So is everyone,” said Alex, “Although I will say, kids give you a second chance at some things. But you have to recognize it. And you’re half-way there my brother.”

“You’re right,” laughed Tyler, taking another drink, “Now, all I need is the kid.

He paused.

“And the wife I suppose.”

“In due time, hermano” said Alex.

They piled into the van one by one, most angry and, despite my most recent lecture on personal hygiene, very smelly.

I turned the keys in the van, immediately turning the radio down from what had been meant to energize us an hour prior. The heat fired loudly from the air vents. I left them on, even though they were blistering for me, I knew it would take time for that same warmth to reach the furthest seats in the back.

Finally, the last of the boys crawled in. Yasir, the tiniest 8^th grader you’d ever laid eyes on, struggled to get the door closed. KJ, the only member of the Lindley Boys’ Basketball Team that might give Yasir a run for tiniest, jumped in to assist his teammate.

The door slammed shut after extended effort and silence fell over the van.

The silence lingered for a moment, as I thought on whether to talk with the boys now or save it. I decided the silence might be a more effective teacher, and I clicked the van into gear.

As we hit the freeway, there were still no words, just the shuffling of bags as many dug around to find headphones to drown out the stifle of the frustration.

The sound of hand against metal thudded from the back, followed by a muttered curse. I heard it in the front, but it was only audible due to the severe quiet and only meant as a personal utterance, so I let it go without rebuke.

“Coach, can we still make play-offs?” said a meek voice from the back, my only 7^th grader named Tee choosing to speak up.

It was a fair question. Coaching a team of primarily eight graders, all with a singular goal to make the playoffs for the first time in their middle school careers, this was a constant rumination. It was an answer trickier than you might imagine, especially for a team such as ours that teetered on the bubble with every win and loss. This question after a loss like we’d just suffered was all the more delicate.

I chewed on it for a moment, knowing full-well this game we’d let slip through our fingers might well have spelled the end of these hopes. But that wasn’t the right answer now.

“Yo, shut up! Nobody should be talking about the playoffs now!” said KJ, angrily.

I resisted the urge to step in, reminding myself that I was not coach right now but playing the role of bus driver. A team needs time to grow. I, as bus driver, held my tongue for the moment.

“You hardly were off the bench!” chimed in another bench player, Saakhi.

“So!” said Tee, now defensive, “What’s that matter? Neither were you! And I’m just asking a question!”

“Yeah, a dumb question!” fired back Saakhi, “Coach is probably annoyed and doesn’t want to answer that stupid-ness. We didn’t run anything right at the end of the game, so just shut up!”

I was about to step in, the hostility making it harder and harder for me to hold my tongue.

“Bro chill out, will you?! Remember what coach said about if we lose, we don’t get to say anything mean about teammates. We family man!”

I held a smile back as I merged lanes. This was Namir, one of the captains on the teams, named as such due to his level head and ability to solve conflicts.

“That was one of our best games. If we had played like that against Tacony or Pan American, you know how good our record would be?”

Quiet was the only answer Namir got for a moment.

“Yo, it doesn’t matter,” said Mateo, “we still lost! Who cares what our record could’ve been? It’s not!”

“Yeah, but Mateo,”

While the silence remained, I could hear a shift. Attention was going to a new speaker, one that didn’t speak often, and history said when he did, it often only brought more conflict.

It was Zeon, perhaps my most skilled player, but one that I had spent years teaching about resilience, sportsmanship, and harnessing emotions.

“at least now we know how to fix it! We just have to do it!

“Bro, we still lost though!” said Mateo.

I was about to speak, about to correct Mateo’s line of thinking but stopped once again. I was frustrated by how right and how wrong he was in this moment, something I myself had failed to grasp so many times as a kid, but Zeon was starting to see.

We were beginning to lose like winners, and that was a start.

We pulled into the parking lot of the school and began to disembark.

“Coach,” came KJ’s voice, “can we go into the gym and run through the end of game scenario a few times?”

“Who?” I asked

The entire team, bags at their sides, raised their hands.

“Alright,” I said with a smile, “I’ll watch. You guys run it.”

I followed behind them, into the school, running through all the scenarios and drills I could put them through but wouldn’t.

It had dawned on me, not for the first time, how the hardest part about coaching wasn’t knowing the plays, or having the right speech, or even putting out the correct line-up; the hardest part about coaching was knowing when not to.

So, the bus driver opened the door to the gymnasium and let the Lindley Boys’ Basketball Team in for practice.

Alice didn’t think the abduction happened in a flash, that’s just how it felt.

She’d been chasing her sister, DeDe, during a game of late-night manhunt. Her sister, who’s real name was Cecilia, was the last one to be captured. Living in a rural farming community outside of Spokane, there were only so many games to be played. Alice had played hide and seek with her sister too many times as a child so she knew her sister was hiding somewhere in the Coop. DeDe was still a child, only just going into middle school, but Alice, now in high school, was grown. If you asked her, she would’ve told you with impassioned fervor. So, to win the game, Alice had left her friends laughing, and sipping energy drinks in the front yard, to find her sister.

And then a splitting headache had emerged as if out of nowhere, the light of what she thought might be a tractor, burrowing deeper and deeper behind her eyes like an icepick.

She felt herself collapse onto the wet grass of the field and the next thing she knew, she was in an unfamiliar room sitting in a circular, egg-shaped chair.

The room was well lit, reminiscent of a greenhouse.

In fact, it might’ve been a greenhouse, the amount of foliage that was everywhere. What was so off-putting though was the unfamiliarity of it all. Each plant seemed vaguely plant-like, but as if they’d been dropped into an art-room and shaken up for a few hours. They were vividly blue, blooming gold, and some were even fluorescent.

A large red and pink flower bloomed and closed in front of Alice.

And she heard a voice.

“Don’t be afraid, testing, can you hear me?”

The voice was coming from inside her ear, where she realized there was some type of hearing aid.

“What the hell?”

A box in front of the flower-creature emitted a cloud of what looked unmistakably like pollen. The red-pink flower sucked it in.

“Oh good, it’s working!” Alice heard in her ear, “Marigold, it’s working!”

“Where am I?” asked Alice, distinctly scared now but unable to move.

“You won’t be here long. We will let you pursue your fellow seedling in a moment.”

“Who are you?” Alice asked.

“Just a potential neighbor. We are looking for a new plot of land, my mate and I, and we are just looking for some local reviews.”

Alice was shocked at the sincerity.

“So, what can I help you with?”

“Do you like living here?” said the flower.

“It’s kind of lonely sometimes. You’re far away from your friends most of the time,” said Alice, honestly, “but it can be peaceful.”

“Sounds encouraging,” puffed the flower, “now how about the sun? Is it always on?”

“Yes,” said Alice, “And it can be very hot during the summer.”

“Ideal,” said the flower, “And one final question: would you consider yourself a planter?”

“Well, my mom is the gardener of the family, but I consider myself to have gotten some of her green thumb. So yeah, I’d say so.”

“Gardener?” The word seemed unfamiliar to the flower.

“Yeah, someone who plants flowers and trees, and other things”

“That’s an occupation here?” said the flower.

“More of a hobby” said Alice, “but an important one.”

The box in front of the flower began to flash and Alice felt her migraine returning, starting from her ears now and crawling behind her eyes.

“Well, we must weigh our options, but perhaps we shall see you again, little gardener!”

 

 

 

 

Martin rolled the window down, partly to spit his dip and partly to keep himself from falling asleep at the wheel. The air was so cold it entered the window with force, hitting Martin like an icy slap. He misfired with the spit, leaving it dribbling along the door of the black mustang.

“Shit,” he murmured, hastily reaching for what he imagined was the last existing window crank in the world. He would have to wash and wax the car in the morning. It was annoying, but Black Beauty as he referred to his car, could use the love.

The window shut, instantly bringing the car back to the even blister of hell, scalding heat jumping from all vents. Looking for a bottle to dispose of his dip, he reached to the passenger seat floor, trying hard to keep the car steady. With a few swerves, he finally grabbed the empty Glacier Freeze Gatorade bottle he was looking for.

Returning his attention to the road, he cursed again as he had to veer slightly to avoid someone walking along the side of the road.

“Jesus Christ!”

He looked in his mirror to see the shadowy figure disappearing behind him, thumb out, head down.

Martin slammed on his brakes. As he screeched to a stop, he exposed the figure with the blinding red of his taillights.

It was a ragged looking man, with a long knotty beard and chewed upon flannel. He did not pick up his pace or lift his head, even though he must have noticed the car had stopped.

Martin waited as he approached, finally pulling up along the passenger-side window. Martin reached across, rolling down the window a crack in order to talk.

“Can I help you sir?” Martin said, turning the radio down.

“Perhaps” said the Man. His voice was gravely, his eyes hidden by his brown hair.

“You need a ride?”

The man nodded.

Martin was a big man, and despite the danger, felt he could reasonably subdue the man if necessary. He reached across and unlocked the door.

The man opened the door, hunched over, and entered the car, immediately bringing with him a stench of tuna and cedar. It was an unpleasant and unexpected combination. Black Beauty would really need a deep clean tomorrow thought Martin.

The man said nothing as Martin lurched back onto the road.

“Where are you headed?” said Martin

“Thank you” is all the man said, now staring out the window.

“No problem,” said Martin, continually glancing at the man to make sure he wasn’t doing anything more suspicious than his presence alone, “Where are you headed?”

“I could’ve had a gun” said the man suddenly.

Martin felt his heart quicken but he continued driving.

“You could’ve,” said Martin, “and I could’ve kept driving. But I didn’t.”

The man remained silent, staring.

“So where to?”  said Martin, a little more forceful this time.

“I never knew it all went by so fast” he said, still watching the trees.

“What went by so fast?” said Martin

“The world.”

They were quiet for what seemed miles.

“I’ll drop you at the next rest stop,” said Martin.

The man didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to.

The dingy ripped through the water like a skate on ice. It was surgical the way it moved, something Wally had always known but could now fully appreciate behind the wheel. His grandfather took great pleasure in cruising around in the boat at high speed, but only now, with wind streaming through his hair, did Wally realize he’d only scratched the surface.

Wally found himself a part of a crisp autumn morning; the crowning jewel of a small Upstate New York lake like this, the one he’d grown up on. The sun was rising lazily, its red-yellow glow cast upon the water like welder’s iron. A collage of leaves blew along the water and ducks scratched its surface as they took to the sky to avoid the noisy, old boat.

It was a perfect morning to skip middle school and a perfect morning to fish. But more than anything, thought Wally, it was a perfect day to reunite with an old friend.

It was a reunion that had taken immense planning, and even now, Wally marveled that he’d been able to pull it off so skillfully. He’d roused himself early this morning, earlier than the sun and earlier than his alarm. It was the only morning that would work, his grandmother out of the house with her friend Ella, getting an early start to beat the traffic to the outlet mall. They’d been discussing the logistics of the trip for months. It was excessive for a trip that would take little under an hour of car travel, but Wally wasn’t asked his opinion, so he hadn’t offered it. Wally hadn’t even needed to scheme to get specific details, the agenda of the siege had been laid bare at the old dining room table. All he needed to do was read, not one of his strengths, but with time he’d accomplished it.

So, Wally had gotten up this morning, snagged the old thermometer, and ran it under some hot water, doing his best to be quiet. The old pipes did him no favors, and several times he had to stop, worried he’d awoken his grandfather. Hot water on Canada Lake was a luxury, and certainly not one used to skip school, but Wally needed this to work. His friend needed him, and it was worth risking a beating from his grandfather to accomplish this. As both he and his grandfather had grown older, these beatings had become more ceremonial than anything. He didn’t fear them like he once had, and they left little to no marks when done.

With the thermometer prepared, he’d climbed back into bed and called for his grandmother, who was already up, applying makeup for her journey. The ballad of a sick child had begun, her feeling his forehead (which he’d also run under hot water), him complaining, and her getting the thermometer. When it read 99.7, Wally had known he was clear. His grandma had half-heartedly suggested she stay home, but Wally had waved her off, saying he would be fine and just needed to rest. His grandfather had stopped in before heading off to work, and when Wally finally heard Ella’s station wagon putter off, he knew he was alone.

He’d thrown on a hoodie and two flannels of differing colors over it, knowing as the sun came up, he’d only want one. He put his fishing pants on and wrestled on his boots over the pant legs. Running out of the house, the screen door slamming behind him, he scooped up his tackle box and rod and set off in the Ding-Ay, not only what his grandfather called the boat, but what was also scrawled on the side of it.

Wally cast a line, now at the far edge of the lake at his favorite fishing spot. It wasn’t as fruitful as under the Tacoma Bridge, the area notorious for large pickerels and bass who gathered in the depths amidst the rushing currents, but it also wasn’t as frequented. Wally’s spot had lily pads, at the edge of which you could catch constant yellow perch and the occasional small mouth bass. It was always peaceful though and because he’d introduced his friend here, that’s where they often met.

Wally caught a few perch to start the morning, but not what he’d been hoping for. He kept them in a bucket on the boat but continued to cast. As the full light of the sun began to touch the lake, Wally finally had a big hit on the line. Exhilarated, he did his best to let it drag before giving a pull and setting the hook. The line zigzagged and Wally began to reel, drinking in the mystery of the catch that the mirror-still water refused to reveal. When alongside the boat, he saw that it was a small mouth bass, as he’d expected based on the fight. It was large and it was perfect for his friend.

It took several minutes for the fish to die, gasping for breath on the deck of the boat. Wally, who was normally used to his catch and release method, looked away. It was nature, and Wally was a hunter, and he’d even seen his grandfather put-down a horse who’d broken its leg in a barbwire fence once, but he didn’t want to watch if he didn’t have to. Fish had a questioning look in their eyes always, and he couldn’t stand to listen to its final gasps.

When it stopped flopping and its gills stopped fluttering, Wally scooped the fish, tied it up with a rope he’d brought, and drove Ding-Ay slowly toward shore. A tree branch stretched out over the lake, and he only stopped once he was able to grab hold of it, stopping the boat. There was a frayed rope already hanging from it, the remnants of a swing that once was but was no longer. In his childhood, he’d thought of resurrecting it once or twice but never gotten past the dreamed concoction of the plan.

He threw the rope with the fish over the bough, tied it twice so it would hold, and dropped the dead bass deep into the water. It plunked quietly before sinking out of view.

And then all Wally could do was wait.

He sat back in his chair, whistling and casting a new line. But his attention never left the string that hung before him.

He waited and waited for his friend, at one point becoming fearful he may not show.

And then with a resounding thwack, he was there.

The full force of the impact shook the whole tree, once, twice, and then was done. The rope was still once more. Wally smiled, watching the shoreline.

Finally, two eyes emerged from the water, then a snout, and then his friend flopped unto the shore, the bass’ tail hanging from his mouth.

“Hey Levi” said Wally.

His former pet didn’t respond, just nibbled on the fish, oblivious.

Leviathan, Levi for short, had grown into a majestic animal, just as Wally had hoped he would when he’d released him as a hatchling.

Wally hadn’t been sure Levi would survive then, but he’d known he wouldn’t in the small hole in the woods behind the house.

Grabbing one of the perch, Wally lobbed it onto the shore next to Levi.

He sat and watching his friend for a while as he finished his meals and then opened his mouth, preparing to soak in the sun, like a cat at noon.

Wally hoped Levi remained unseen, and he continued to grow with the plethora of fish available in Canada Lake.

But more than anything, Wally hoped Levi was happy.

“It’s good to see you, pal” he said with a smile, before revving the dingy engine and setting off back to the house.

 

The ring pierced the veil of dreams.

Devan emerged as if out of water in a panic, scrambling to find the abrasive nighttime intruder. When he finally found his cellphone, face-down on his bedside table, he took a few moments to adjust to the light. His initial reaction was that it was one of the 8 alarms he set for himself each night. This one, he imagined, had gone rogue, an unfortunate brush of the thumb on his cracked screen.

This wasn’t an alarm though, and if he hadn’t been yanked from a deep sleep, he probably would’ve recognized the difference in the noise.

This was a call.

Vivian Alston.

The name of his ex-girlfriend, the one he hadn’t spoken to in nearly a decade was strange. The timing only amplified it; 3:07 floated just below her name.

What on earth could she possibly want? It didn’t make sense.

The possibility of her being in trouble crossed his mind, and he slid his finger along the screen, answering the call.

“Hello?”

There was silence on the other end. Had she perhaps butt-dialed him?

“Viv?” he said, this time with a bit more force.

“I couldn’t sleep”

It was a whisper, like a child settling down for a nap.

“Are you okay?” replied Devan, “Are you drunk?”

“I’m okay,” said Vivian, half-yawning, “and I’m sober.”

“Why’d you call?” said Devan.

“I told you,” she said, “I can’t sleep.”

“Viv, it’s 3 in the morning and we haven’t spoken in years. I’m not sure what—”

“Just tell me a story, one story, and I’ll hang up.”

With this one sentence, Devan felt himself a child again, Vivian and him laying under a cherry blossom tree, lost in hushed conversation as the flowers spiraled around them like dancers. They would dream all the time back then; living, waking dreams. They had shared a collective web of fantasies then; Devan the weaver and Vivian the muse.

“I stopped telling stories,” said Devan, joining her in a whisper.

There was a pause.

“And I stopped calling” said Vivian.

Devan sighed, rolling over and putting the phone on speaker.

“What story would you like to hear?” he said with a yawn.

“Any will do.”

From the window, she saw the body.

It was dead, she was pretty sure, judging by the angle of the arm and the splay of the one leg. The blood also was a give-away too but one she preferred not to ponder on for long. Judging by how much blood was already creeping down the pavement, she knew they must’ve died overnight. Why someone would choose a night run was puzzling to her at first. Not that anyone deserved such a demise, because truly no-one did, but she couldn’t help thinking, if someone did, it would be a night-runner.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, and she was unable to keep herself from expelling a startled whimper. She’d been too focused on the body to notice her husband had come to look out the window with her.

He was startled by her utterance and withdrew momentarily before pulling her in closer. She could smell the cigarette on his clothes. Not that he smoked anymore, they couldn’t afford to, but they also couldn’t afford soap. He wasn’t fast enough for soap.

She didn’t mind the smell though, the fume of what once was considered so dangerous, so toxic that it demanded commercials, was oddly comforting. This tangible stick of danger, the worst the world had to offer, was amusing to her. It settled her heart. She’d tried to explain this concept to her husband once, but he hadn’t been able to grasp it.

“You okay, Di?”

“You just startled me, Li, that’s all.”

It was only partly true. Lionel had known her long enough to see through partly.

He didn’t say anything further, but she could feel him studying her face. He was taller than her, allowing him to inspect from afar like the sun of her world. He had always inhabited this space above her. His questioning concern radiated down on her now.

Diamond shrugged, pulling at her husband’s now-thin frame. She could never have done this when they’d first met; before it all happened.

“Over there,” she said, pointing down the alley, “behind the trashcan. I think it was a night-runner.”

“You’d think they’d know by now. I mean, why risk it?” Lionel said.

“Food, maybe?” offered Diamond.

“Still doesn’t explain the night run..” he muttered, leaving the rest in the air.

“I know,” said Diamond, her gaze still fixed on the arm behind the blue trashcan, palm facing upward, stretching but never reaching.

There was a silence between the two. Comfort in silence was inevitable in these days, but not today, with so much looming.

She turned to Lionel, hoping a change of scenery would bring a change of headspace. It did well enough, her looking into her husband’s calm blue eyes and gray-flecked beard. He’d once been a boisterous bear. The first thing she’d loved about him on their first date was his bombastic laugh that rolled deep within him; a contagious laugh that pulled a smile from all surrounding faces.

Now though, he was angled and chiseled, in body and face. No longer a bear, he was a leopard. He was toned and muscled, but a protective wildness still flashed behind his blues.

She worried though, always worried, but she knew it was fair. She could not afford to lose her sun leopard. It was practical and logical, but also a truth she knew in her soul. The two of them together had a thirst to live through any hardship, but she didn’t know how much of this thirst lingered were they to ever be separated. She couldn’t afford to find out.

This seemed to travel between them without a word.

“I have to go today,” said Lionel.

“No,” said Diamond, followed by a hush, “you need to stay here.”

“We need water. We need food.”

Diamond shook her head, trying to ward of the reality of his words.

“We’re going to need diapers and formula.”

He said this as a whisper, as if this might shield her from the impact.

The teeth were still there.

Diamond’s hands instinctively dropped to her stomach, feeling her warm bulge. Lionel did the same.

“We need you here,” said Diamond, her voice cracking slightly.

“I’ve been running at 10 on the treadmill for a month’s now,” Lionel whispered, pulling her head into his chest.

The pulse of his heart against her cheek steadied her just a little.

“Can you make it?”

“I have to.”

Diamond wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him with all her heart, but she also knew that Virus-451 didn’t care if you needed food, or water, and it certainly didn’t give a shit if you had a baby on the way. It only cared about the race and about speed.

What had started as a pandemic had grown into something far worse over the years. It had started somewhere in the rainforest and had spread and spread and continued to spread. By the time the global consciousness had identified it, it was too late.

Diamond still remembered the initial reports. An airborne virus, its particulates resting in water vapor, that entered the body, boiling the blood of its temporary host until it was back in the air to infect the next living thing in its path.

There may have been a cure, but Diamond was sure that anyone capable of such a cure had died long ago. All that was left were survivalists; those select few who had quarantined and never stopped.

And the runners.

The one thing that was true was that you could outrun the virus. Diamond was no pathologist and since communication with anyone who might help her understand the phenomenon had ceased a long time ago, she’d stopped trying to understand it. Just as gravity kept her earthbound, she knew this to be a fact of nature. If you ran, and didn’t stop running, you could avoid infection. If you stopped, you died.

Here she was, held by the man about to risk his life for her and the baby she carried.

Lionel laced up both his running shoes, his backpack unzipped around his chest. He had a beanie tight upon his head, enhancing his sharpie-like appearance.

“Don’t stop,” she said, pulling him as tighter than she’d ever held anything in her life, “come back for me.”

“For us,” he said, with another kiss of her forehead.

She was crying now and didn’t try to conceal it. Lionel wiped a few tears from her cheek, kissed her, and then opened the apartment door.

They both affirmed their love for each other, and then the door shut, and he was gone.

Diamond raced to the window, her attention so far from the body at the end of the alley. She waited to hear the garage door open. Lionel would be hitting the exit in a full sprint.

She heard the metallic whir and then her husband burst from below, out into the alley. His training was present in his lengthy strides, making it beyond clear that he ran nearly 15 miles a day. Peak shape was an understatement. He was fluid, his long legs leaping across the pavement.

He was meant for this run.

But as he was about to round the corner, his right foot came upon a rock. His powerful stride jarred it lose from the rest of the asphalt and it went scuttling along the alley.

He stumbled, legs desperately clawing to keep balance; to stay afloat.

Diamond turned away as he lurched out of view, behind a black trashcan.

She didn’t know whether Lionel would win the race with Virus-451, but she did know she’d seen enough bodies today.