Brian Freeman - Marathon

You cross a line, and you can’t go back.

Travis climbed steps to the back door of the gallery. He tried the knob; it was locked. He peered through the window, but it was dark inside, and he couldn’t see anything. He checked his surroundings again and then peeled off his shirt and wrapped it around his fist and forearm. With one swift punch, he broke through the glass beside the door.

He reached through the window frame, undid the dead bolt, and let himself inside.

The floor shifted under his heavy feet as he followed the corridor. He listened, but no one moved. No one shouted. No one came running. The gallery was empty. He studied the odd artwork, which looked foreign, as if this were some desert kingdom, not Duluth, not America. Looking at it reminded him of why he was there. His fists clenched. He’d been angry in his life, but he’d never felt soul-sucking hatred before, thinking about what these people had done to Joni and Shelly.

Travis returned to the van and popped the back doors. He reached in and grabbed three of the red gasoline tanks and carried them into the gallery. He put one tank down and brought the other two to the front door that faced Woodland Avenue. There was no traffic outside; the night was quiet. He unscrewed the caps and walked back and forth between the walls, pouring down trails of gasoline. He coated everything. The floor. The art. The window ledges. Gasoline splashed onto his skin and clothes. Soon the shut-in space had a choking smell of gas that rose into his head and made him dizzy. His eyes teared.

When he emptied those two tanks, he retrieved the other and continued his work. He moved fast, and he moved silently, with no sound except his labored breathing.

Then he stopped.

Above him, he heard a sharp crack in the ceiling, as if someone had taken a step. He looked up, and he waited. The sound didn’t recur. He went to the wooden staircase and peered up into the dark shadows. He saw no one, and when he listened again, he heard nothing but the distant song of the frogs outside.

His mind was playing tricks on him. He was alone.

Travis saw a car pass on Woodland Avenue, and it reminded him how exposed he was. He poured gasoline on the steps, and it dripped onto his shoes. By now, the third tank was nearly empty, too. He backed toward the rear door, making a ribbon of gasoline that stretched along the hallway, down the outside steps, and through the dirt, grass, and leaves. Near the van, he stopped. He screwed the cap onto the tank, put it in the back, and shut the door. He was having trouble catching his breath, partly because of the fumes, partly because of his fear.

He could still drive away. He didn’t have to light the match.

But he owed it to Joni, to Shelly, to Wade, and to God to do what he’d come here for.

Travis went back to the van and started the engine. Once the fire started, all he had to do was speed forward onto the side street and disappear. From his pocket, he slid out a silver Zippo lighter. It had been a birthday gift from Joni. His skin smelled of gasoline, and his shoes were soaked in it, and he didn’t want to set himself on fire. He opened the driver’s door, with the engine still running, and climbed out. The wind was at his back, blowing toward the gallery. That was good. He reached inside and grabbed an empty Budweiser can that had been clanging around the van for weeks. He rolled up a take-out menu from a local Chinese restaurant and shoved it into the hole of the can, leaving six inches of paper sticking out at the top.

Travis popped the top of the lighter. All he needed to do was spin the wheel. He wondered what kind of fire he would get and how fast the flames would spread.

You cross a line.

You can’t go back.

The lighter spat up a tiny flame. With his arm extended, he held the flame to the take-out menu and let it curl into fire and ash. Like a softball pitcher, he made an underhanded toss, hurling the burning can toward the ribbon of gasoline.

It fell short. And then it rolled.

Fire touched gas, and the trail burst into a wall of flame that roared like a racecar across the parking lot, up the stairs, and into the gallery.

Travis waited.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The building exploded.

Khan and Malik waited until dark before they slipped out of the house. Malik went first. He crouched and dashed across the lawn into the empty street. With his body barely lit by the gleam of stars, he beckoned for Khan to follow. Side by side, they pushed through dandelion weeds and a fringe of dense trees onto the rolling fairway of the Ridgeview Country Club. The grass was lush like a fur rug under their feet. Individual pines dotted the slope. A breath of wind whispered in the branches.

“Stay close to the trees, and stay quiet,” Malik whispered. “There could be patrols out here.”

Malik led the way. They were both dressed in dark clothes. With the woods beside them, they were invisible. The golf course dipped and rose as they headed south. He saw the silhouette of the clubhouse and its flags on the hill above them, and then they dropped into a valley, following a cart path that took them past manicured greens and sand traps.

All Khan could think about with each footfall in the wet grass was Ahdia and Pak. His wife and son were not even two miles away — less than an hour’s walk through the golf course and the trails of Hartley Park. Then they would all be together again. In each other’s arms. Crying. Smiling. The past day of loneliness in the house on Redwing Street had been the longest of his life, but it would be over soon. Every nightmare ended at dawn.

He tried not to think about Malik and his suicide vest and his awful plan. It was impossible to reconcile the image of his best friend with that of a man who would do something like that. For now, Malik was leading him to his family, and that was all that mattered. Khan didn’t know what to do next, but soon he would be with Ahdia again, and she would make all the choices seem easy. His heart felt so full, he found it hard to breathe.

If he listened, he thought he could hear Ahdia, her voice like a musical instrument. “ Come to me .”

And Pak, too. “ Papa, where are you? It is time to pray. ”

I am here, my boy. I am on my way.

In front of him, Malik held up a hand. “Stop.”

“What is it?” Khan asked.

“Someone is out there,” Malik murmured. “Take cover.”

Together, they ducked into a stand of trees and squatted behind the thickest trunk. Khan squinted into the darkness. Malik was right. A dark shape moved on the fairway under the stars, no more than fifty yards away. It wasn’t human. It was a doe, putting its head down to feed on the grass.

“It’s just a deer,” Khan said. He was impatient.

He began to stand up, but Malik stopped him. “Wait.”

Much closer, almost close enough to reach out and touch, Khan heard a stealthy rustle in the brush, accompanied by a low, violent growl. The sound made him freeze. He could see an animal now, breaking cover. It was a wolf, its body low to the ground, slinking from the rough to the fairway. Heading for the doe.

“Another,” Malik whispered, pointing.

Khan followed Malik’s hand and saw the silhouette of a second wolf, approaching at an angle. The two hunted together.

“We should do something,” Khan said.

“Do what? It’s nature. Either the deer lives or the deer dies.”

“We can shout.”

“And bring the wolves to us? Or the police? Come on, quickly, let’s go. Silent running.”

Khan eyed the wolves, but they were focused on the deer, not on the scent of men. He followed Malik, and soon the animals became part of the night, indistinguishable behind them. He tried not to listen for the sound of the hunt and the capture. It might be nature, but he couldn’t abide the death of innocents. He hoped the doe was able to escape.