That small town was ten klicks northeast of camp. Casey wheezed as he ran. Cut northwest, then due west. Maybe as far as the border. No not the border. He didn’t want to run into a patrol. The Perimeter Control Enforcement division was worse than the UTR, and he’d had enough of being beaten for his mistakes. Not west, then. North? He wasn’t sure which direction was best. South was out. That’s where Diador and Jenkins, the two other UTR goons would be coming from once they returned to camp and found Lanford and Stewart dead. But then again, maybe heading south was the right answer. The UTR wouldn’t expect him to do that…
Casey stopped running to think. His side screamed in protest. He’d grown accustomed to the constant ache during the initial burst of adrenaline needed to escape, but now that the buzz was wearing off, his ribs hurt.
Bad.
He cradled his side, trying to ease the pain that radiated from them. Keep going, he urged himself as he resumed his limping run across the uneven ground of the open field. He desperately wanted to stop but couldn’t. He needed every possible mile he could get.
Stumbling, he ran toward the dusk shrouded tree line ahead. “Trees are good,” he murmured, knowing he could disguise his trail in their depths.
Bursting past the first line of trees, Casey slowed. His labored breath shot spikes of pain through his chest. He wondered if Lanford or Stewart had broken his ribs when they kicked him. “Feels like it,” he gasped and slowed again, but they probably weren’t broken. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be running… He tripped. Sucking in a sharp breath, he pressed his hand to the injured spot and looked to the ground, confirming his misstep hadn’t left an indicator of his passage. He’d need to be more careful. Even the slightest broken branch could be a flag pointing the direction of his flight.
At least the ground is dry.
His feet carried him forward maybe two hundred feet when the woods abruptly thinned, opening once again to a large field. Wincing, Casey resumed his jog. Being out in the open made him uncomfortable. He imagined a giant bullseye on his back just aching to be targeted by either Diador or Jenkins. All right, maybe not my back, he thought with a grimace. They’d aim for his thigh, incapacitating him. Can’t bring a dead man to trial for murder. And now that he’d killed Lanford and Stewart…
Shaking off that thought, he spotted a decaying farmhouse across the field and ran toward it. This far out in the sticks a house didn’t mean much, but maybe there would be a paved driveway he could jog on besides the uneven ground. It wouldn’t help the pain much, but at least he’d lessen the chance of twisting his ankle in a hole disguised by the long shadows of twilight.
Is it a full moon? He tried to remember. Full moons, though great for seeing your surroundings in the darkest of night, brutally distorted the shadows and he’d have an easier time traversing the uneven ground once darkness fell if a full moon was absent. In the meantime, he’d try to stay on pavement, fewer chances of injury that way.
Ah ha! Sure enough, when he came within a few yards of the home, he spotted a winding path that surely led to a road. Within moments he’d run the remaining distance of the field, and now his feet pounded on coarse white gravel. A hundred feet down the line, Casey came to a fork in the driveway. The right side emptied onto a road that turned south, but the left headed west for some distance yet. Choosing the left, Casey pushed on, forcing himself to continue.
The gravel lane led him to another road running east to west. Casey’s feet left the gravel road and now pounded on the asphalt as he chased the setting sun. He stumble-ran along for a few more miles. Each step shot fresh fire up his spine, grit and sheer determination of will the only thing keeping him going.
You can make it to that tree. He nodded to it as he passed. Good. Now, that rock, he encouraged, that’s it. That bent sign. Excellent. Each small victory kept him going until he encountered a crossroad. North? South? He debated. In the end, he chose north, heading south didn’t feel right, and neither did continuing west.
He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.
Trudging forward, Casey kept up the internal monologue of reassurance. You can do this. You’ve run farther. Yeah… but not with busted ribs. Casey held his arm tighter against his torso. The ache was bordering on unbearable. He needed to walk, to rest. He couldn’t keep going like this. Time lost all meaning as he forced himself to take each step. Have to keep moving, Diador… Jenkins…
Surprise made his mouth go slack when he crested the small hill and found himself at the edge of an abandoned super-highway. Casey looked right then left. The six lanes of traffic less pavement and the waist-high cement median looked daunting. “You shouldn’t have stopped,” he chided. He knew the despair he felt was a natural reaction to fatigue, pain, and the collapsed runner’s high he’d ridden earlier.
After a fortifying breath that made him wince, Casey forced himself to jog alongside the median.
He’d run another mile when his ribs finally said “no more”, and he had to come to a stop. Bracing his hands on his knees, Casey took shallow gulps of air. Each panting breath made him whimper. Once his breathing slowed enough for him to stand upright, he put his hands on the cement barrier and hoisted his leg over the edge. His toe touched the ground, and he pivoted, allowing his other leg to join the first. Once free of the median, Casey headed straight for the trees and disappeared into their depths.
One foot. The next. Keep going, Casey chanted. His vision felt hazy and the landscape seemed darker around the edges than the time of night would indicate. Climbing a hill, Casey crested it and stopped abruptly. He looked down at the creek burbling six feet below and wondered how he’d get across.
Checking over his shoulder, he confirmed no one followed, then lowered himself to the lip of the dirt embankment. Once his butt cheeks were firmly planted on the ground, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, breathing heavily.
He studied the water. It looked like a shallow feeder. As he contemplated the creek, his pain riddled mind wandered, easily recollecting Lottie and Greysen’s faces. He wondered what they were doing right now. Dinner? Sleeping? At least when he saw them next, he’d be able to stay with them for good.
His hand gripped his dogtags, and his fingers gravitated to the braided ring that rested there. Twirling it, he thought about all it stood for. Love. Life. Partnership. He couldn’t wait to join her. He was eager to be a proper husband and father. The thought cheered him, gave him strength. The ability to be with her forever was one of the benefits to his discharge. No more work to keep him from their side.
Sighing, he focused on the water below. He didn’t see any big rocks sticking out of the water that would impede his progress, but he didn’t want to take that chance. Rolling to his stomach, he eased himself down until his boots touched the surface then let go.
“Ow,” he growled as he landed with a small splash. His arm wrapped around his side. “Not deep at all,” he muttered.
The cold water barely covered the top of his boot. Gingerly he turned and made his way across the inches deep creek. He stepped out and shook one foot then the other. The water hadn’t been deep, but he still managed to get it in his shoes. At least you didn’t fall. That would have sucked.
He walked up the hill away from the creek. At the top of the watershed’s rise, he was greeted by thick woods. He sighed and hoped there wasn’t any poison ivy. That would just be adding insult to injury.
Pushing the brambles to the side, he ducked and entered, letting the underbrush swing back to conceal his trail. He walked slowly. The near pitch black of the woods his way more difficult, and he hoped the thick underbrush would thin soon. As he expected, the honeysuckle and other water-thriving scrub brush died away as he left the creek behind.
Stopping, he put his hands on his back. His rest at the creek hadn’t done a thing for the aches of his body. Can’t stop yet, he reprimanded, and as he took his next step, he slipped, landing hard on his rear.
He moaned. Roots and rocks dug into his back, and hot tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. “Fuck!” he growled. Casey couldn’t move. His ribs were on fire. His back screamed. His tailbone ached, and he could hardly breathe from having the wind knocked out of him. Tears burned a trail from the corner of his eye to his hairline. He wondered if he should give up, but Lottie’s voice came to him then, “If it happens, I wouldn’t mind,” she’d said. He groaned and rolled to his side. The image of her belly, large with his child, gave him strength. He had to get back to her. What if she was pregnant?
Casey pushed to his knees, and he bit his tongue to hold back a scream. What the hell happened to my ankle? Casey thought as he stopped trying to stand and instead fell back on his ass. Running his fingers across the focal point of his pain, it was clear he’d injured it when he fell. I was hot and already swelling. “Shit. I do not need this.”
It took all of his willpower to force himself to stand, and he tasted blood on his tongue from where he bit it to keep from crying out. His wish of distance between himself and the UTR evaporated as he took a step.
His stomach roiled.
Do not vomit! he commanded. It didn’t take a strong imagination to picture how bad heaving would feel with his busted-up ribs and sore back.
Using the trees, he hobbled his way forward. He needed shelter. Now. Or he’d fail.
“Move it, soldier,” he said to himself.
Each step brought fresh tears he could no longer keep inside, and he felt his cheeks grow hot in embarrassment.
Casey didn’t know how long he stood there, leaning up against a small tree and staring at the dark, uniformly shaped hole in the hillside but eventually his brain caught up with his eyes were seeing and he nearly whooped in excitement.
Shelter.
Now all he had to do was get inside.
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