Ultra (17 page)

SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS:
What? What didn’t you tell your father?

QUINN:
I never told him … that I love him.

Ollie was still quiet. Fingernails of light glimmered behind the hills.

“He’s only been gone since November,” Ollie said finally. “But I’m already starting to forget what he was like.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “You remember his jokes. You’ve been telling them to me all through this race.”

Ollie clicked his tongue like a tree frog.

“You also remember his stories,” I said. “That one you told me last night, about Dad running the New York Marathon.”

I rubbed my feet. The duct tape was peeling at the edges. Somewhere above me, an airplane rumbled through the sky.

“I remember something else about him,” said Ollie.

“What’s that?”

“Sometimes at night, when Mom had her book club over, Dad came into my room and played his ukulele.”

“What songs did he play?” I asked.

“Songs he made up himself. He had this one about a whale who wishes he could fly.”

“Do you remember how it went?” I said.

“I think so.” And he sang:

I leaned back against the pile of rocks and listened to the water dripping from the trees. A burst of static hissed down the line, and I could hear Mom telling Ollie to hurry up and get dressed.

“How’s Mom?” I said.

“Not so great,” Ollie said. “I don’t think she slept very much last night.”

I could hear Ollie pulling open his dresser. Suddenly he said, “You should be nicer to her, you know.”

“You think?” I said.

“Yeah. She misses Daddy too.”

Snot was leaking out of my nose. I wiped it off on the back of my sleeve. I thought of Ollie, sitting in his bed, and the liquid light of his aquarium, and the sound of electric bubbles. Down the hall, in the fridge, cherry yogurt and cheese sticks. It all seemed a million miles away.

“I’m not really cheering you up, am I?” said Ollie.

“In some ways you are,” I said. “But my feet are toast. I can’t finish this race.”

“You only have three more miles,” said Ollie.

“In this mud,” I said, “that’s two hours of running.”

“You’ve still got an hour before the cut-off,” said Ollie.

“I don’t care about the cut-off,” I said.

“I know,” Ollie said sadly. And then he said, “I always knew you wouldn’t finish.”

“What?” I said.

“I always knew you wouldn’t finish.”

There are only six words in the entire English language that are guaranteed to get an exhausted runner up and moving again. And Ollie had just said those six little words.

“Everyone else knows it too,” Ollie said. “Grandma Sue, Auntie Lauren. Even Mom thinks you’ll quit.”

“You’re wrong,” I said.

“Want the GPS coordinates?” Ollie asked.

“Yes, go ahead.”

The GPS claimed I had 3 miles to go. But that was total crap.

Those 3 miles felt more like 30. They went on forever. They refused to end.

A purple glow blotted out the stars. Orange light nibbled at the edge of the horizon. It was 5:30 in the morning. I’d been running for 23½ hours.

Only 30 minutes left until the cut-off.

I shook myself awake and punched my quads to loosen them up.

“Let’s go, dammit!” I said.
“Move!”

Reluctantly, my legs obeyed.

Downed trees were everywhere, and the trail was scarred with oozing sinkholes and craters of brown water. From time to time I saw the glimmer of Hither Lake through the trees to my left. That was good. If the lake was on my left, I must be travelling south. The GPS confirmed that I was going the right way.

Still, it was slow going. The hills were greased with a shiny coat of mud. When I came to a deep ravine, I tried to get to the bottom without falling. What a joke! I wound up slaloming down the slope on two feet and then I did a face-plant
into an oil slick of muck.

Too bad Kneecap isn’t here to see this, I thought as I stood up and scooped the mud out of my ears.

Red-winged blackbirds began to sing. I took a step forward and sank into the earth. In a heartbeat, I’d sunk right up to my butt. I twisted my body sideways, yanking back my legs. When my feet popped into the air, both of my shoes were missing.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Give me back my shoes!”

I lay forward on my belly and reached my arm down into the oozing muck-hole. I had to get my shoulder right in there and press my cheek deep into the mud before I snagged the shoelaces with the tips of my fingers. When I finally got the shoes out, they were as black as tar. They looked like two enormous cow patties.

Eventually I got the shoes back on to my duct-taped feet. I ran on, slipping and sliding in the mud. Mosquitoes hummed all around me.

And then something strange happened. As I ran, I heard another runner behind me. I could hear him splashing through puddles and snapping tree branches. I stopped and turned around and waited for him to catch up. I waited for 2 minutes, maybe longer. But the mystery runner never appeared.

Uh-oh, I thought. I’m hearing things again.

I kept going. When I came to a swollen creek, I washed the mud off my face and arms. I heard the noises behind me again, and this time I could clearly see a light in the forest.

Thank God! I thought. I’m not going crazy after all!

I stopped and waited for another couple of minutes, but again, the mystery runner failed to appear. The light in the
forest vanished between the trees as I watched. What the heck? I thought to myself.

In the end, I decided that it was probably my dad. He was watching out for me. He wanted to make sure that I was safe.

“Don’t worry, Dad!” I yelled. “I’ve only got two more miles to go! And I’m still not dead! Hooray for not being dead!”

At the top of the next hill I took a break. The pale outline of Hither Lake was visible in the valley, and the ribbon of orange was thickening on the horizon. Ahead of me, a spear of light stabbed into the sky. What the heck is that? I wondered.

I ran toward the light and then I saw the lump.

A fallen runner was slumped against a tree. He was lying on his back. He was moaning in pain.

Aha! I thought. The Dirt Eater! I’d caught him!

But then I heard the voice. It wasn’t a man.

“Where did I put my hair dryer?” she groaned.

Kara looked like a melted candle. Her eyes were scribbles. Her cheekbones had caved in.

I ran over to her. She looked like absolute crap.

“Quinn,” she croaked. “Lucky Number Thirteen. Did you see my hair dryer? I lost it on the trail.”

Her voice sounded crusty. She’d torn the flesh over one eye. Worse, she was shivering and her forehead felt hot.

“Are you okay?” I said, crouching down.

Kara closed her eyes. “Awesome possum,” she muttered.

Her lips were white and glowed in the dark, as if she were wearing chalk-coloured lipstick. I hugged her until the worst of her shivering had passed, and then I dug an extra T-shirt
out of my pack.

“Put this on,” I said. “It’s damp, but it’s better than nothing.”

I helped to pull it over her head. Her fingers weren’t moving very quickly.

“Come on,” I said. “We’re almost at the finish.” I tried pulling her to her feet.

Kara went into a coughing fit. “No thank you!” she choked. “I’m just taking a little nap.”

“No you’re not,” I said and I tried to stand her up. I pulled her halfway to her feet, but her knees crumpled like a paper cup. She fell sideways, smacking my chin with her arm. Stung, I fell back against a cedar bush, and the water from the branches sprinkled down on me like rain.

“Let me go!” she cried. And then she started to laugh. She squeezed a handful of mud between her fingers and giggled as it oozed down her arm.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do. I looked at my GPS. We only had 1 mile to go.

One mile. 1600 metres. 5280 feet. That was all.

The fastest humans can run a mile in less than 4 minutes. We’d be lucky if we did it in 20.

Twenty minutes, I thought. Kara could go hypothermic in that time. I
needed
to get her to the finish line.

“Stand up!” I yelled. “Or I’ll call 911! They’ll drag you out of here on a stretcher!”

Kara stopped laughing. Her eyes went wide. “You wouldn’t,” she said.

“I absolutely would,” I said. “And you’d get a DNF. Just think how embarrassing
that
would be.”

She blinked twice, and this time her eyes seemed to focus.

“They have hair dryers at the finish line,” I added.

Kara thought about this for precisely one second and then she abruptly held out her hand. I took it and somehow managed to pull her to her feet.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she muttered.

“Yes you can,” I said. “You absolutely can.”

The final mile of the Shin-Kicker is a long, downhill straightaway that runs along a narrow dirt road. We staggered along it, arm in arm. It took all of my strength just to keep Kara upright.

“What happened to your shoes?” I asked.

Kara looked down. Her feet were bare. “I guess I lost them in the mud,” she said.

We weren’t really running. We were barely even walking. If you’d seen us, you’d have thought we were escapees from an asylum.

Suddenly Kara stopped.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Don’t you hear it?” she said.

Now that she mentioned it, I did. It was the sound of wet running shoes slapping on mud. Someone was running on the road behind us! So I hadn’t been going crazy, after all!

Slap! Slap! Slap!

The sound was far away — but getting closer every second.

I turned to look, but it was too dark to see anything. Whoever it was, he wasn’t wearing a headlamp. But we could sure hear those shoes.

“He’s trying to sneak up on us,” Kara said. “That’s why
he’s got his headlamp turned off.”

Slap! Slap! Slap!

The sound was getting louder. The runner couldn’t be more than a couple hundred metres back.

“Come on!” said Kara. “Let’s do this thing!”

Do what thing? I thought.

And then I realized. She wanted to RUN.

She started sprinting and pulled me behind her. “Yow! Yow! Yowch!” I cried.

It felt like my legs were being pressed through a cheese grater. And yet, somehow, we continued to stagger forward.

“What’s the time?” Kara asked.

I looked at my watch. “Five fifty-five,” I said.

She scowled. “And how far to the finish?”

I checked the phone’s GPS. “Half a mile,” I said.

“We still have a shot at those buckles!” Kara said.

We kept moving. But for every metre we travelled, whoever was behind us must have travelled two. His footsteps grew louder, and when I looked back, I could see splashes of dull light close to the ground.

But it was a strange thing. It wasn’t light from a flashlight. It was something else. Something green.

Then, suddenly, I knew. I knew who it was. He could turn off his headlamp, but he couldn’t turn off his socks. “It’s the Dirt Eater!” I said.

“No!” said Kara. “How’d he get behind us?”

I pointed out the sock light. Kara groaned. “The storm must have thrown him off course,” she said.

“Come on,” I said. “We can’t let him beat us.”

Kara nodded, but our little sprint had sapped all her energy.
She was slowing down again. At least her lips weren’t white anymore.

Suddenly, I heard clapping.

“You guys look great!” someone barked. “You’ve run ninety-nine and three-quarter miles and you’ve still got a spring in your step!”

It was Bruce — wearing a yellow raincoat and rubber boots. The little kid at his side looked strangely familiar.

“How much farther?” Kara gasped.

“Only four hundred metres!” Bruce shouted.

“But someone’s right behind you!” said the boy. “Pick it up! You’re in first place!”

First place? Kara and I glanced at each other.

“It’s true,” Bruce said. “This race is yours to lose. Keep those legs moving! You’re almost there!”

The little kid, I noticed, was wearing Star Wars jammies. He was holding a bowl of breakfast cereal. I suddenly realized who he was.

“Hey, Ollie,” I said.

“Go, Quinn, GO!” he shouted.

Down the road I could see a long white banner. The banner had one word on it. The most beautiful word in the world:

FINISH

I could see people streaming out of the gatehouse. “Go for it, Ultra Boy!” a familiar voice shouted. That could only be Kneecap, I knew.

For the last time, I checked the GPS. It said:
Miles Remaining: 0.1.

“How much farther?” Kara asked.

“About sixty seconds,” I said.

And that was when the Dirt Eater passed us.

I’d heard his footsteps getting closer, but now he slipped past us like the easiest of ground balls. All I could do was watch him go. I knew I didn’t have the strength to chase him.

“Nice pace, Monkey Boy,” he sneered as he flew past.

“What was that?” Kara said. “What did you say?”

The Dirt Eater didn’t answer; he just kept on running. His running shoes weren’t even very muddy, I noticed.

“What did he say?” Kara asked.

“He was talking to me,” I said. “He said, ‘Nice pace, Monkey Boy.’”

Kara suddenly stopped running and sat down on the wet grass. Her hair and face were mapped with sweat.

“What are you doing?” I said. “You’re almost there!”

She glared after the Dirt Eater, who was vanishing down the road. Her face was bright red. “You have to crush him,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You and I are finishing this together.”

“No,” she said. “There’s no way I’ll catch him. But you’ve got to beat that no-good cheater!”

I stared at her and then back at the Dirt Eater, who was charging up the road in front of us.

“GO!” shouted Kara. “Do it for me! Better yet, do it for your dad!”

Her eyes were rust-coloured and determined and tears were streaming down her face.