Стивен Кинг - Elevation

Kick it, you son of a bitch, he thought, and picked up the pace.

The rain seemed to hesitate for a moment, time enough for Scott to think it was going to hold off until the race was over, and then it came in a full-force torrent, driving the spectators back under awnings and into doorways. Visibility dropped to twenty percent, then to ten, then to almost zero. Scott thought the cold rain felt more than delicious; closer to divine.

He got by one runner, then another. The second was the former leader, the one that Deirdre had passed. He had slowed down to a walk, splashing along the gushing street with his head down, his hands on his hips, and his sopping shirt plastered to his body.

Ahead, through a gray curtain of rain, Scott saw the red shirt. He thought he had just enough gas left in the tank to go by her, but the race might be over before he could. The traffic light at the end of Main Street had disappeared. So had the Tin Bridge, and the yellow tape across its near end. It was just him and McComb now, both of them running blind through the deluge, and Scott had never been happier in his life. Only happiness was too mild. Here, as he explored the farthest limits of his stamina, was a new world.

Everything leads to this, he thought. To this elevation. If it’s how dying feels, everyone should be glad to go.

He was close enough to see Deirdre McComb look back, her sodden ponytail doing a dead-fish flop onto her shoulder as she did it. Her eyes widened when she saw who was trying to take away her lead. She faced forward, lowered her head, and found more speed.

Scott first matched her, then overmatched her. Closing in, closing in, now almost close enough to touch the back of her soaked shirt, able to see clear rivulets of rain running down the back of her neck. Able—even over the roar of the storm—to hear her gasping air out of the rain. He could see her, but not the buildings they were passing on either side, or the last stoplight, or the bridge. He had lost all sense of where he was on Main, and had no landmarks to help him. His only landmark was the red shirt.

She looked back again, and that was a mistake. Her left foot caught her right ankle and she went down, arms out, surfing water up in front and splashing to either side like a kid bellyflopping into a swimming pool. He heard her grunt as the air went out of her.

Scott reached her, stopped, bent down. She twisted up on one arm to look at him. Her face was an agony of fury and hurt. “How did you cheat?” she gasped. “Goddam you, how did you ch—”

He grabbed her. Lightning flashed, a brief glare that made him wince. “Come on.” He put his other arm around her waist and hauled her up.

Her eyes went wide. There was another flash of lightning. “Oh my God, what are you doing? What’s happening to me? ”

He ignored this. Her feet moved, but not on the street, which was now an inch deep in running water; they pedaled in the air. He knew what was happening to her, and he was sure it was amazing, but it wasn’t happening to him. She was light to herself, maybe more than light, but heavy to him, a slim body that was all muscle and sinew. He let loose. He still couldn’t see the Tin Bridge, but he could see a faint yellow streak that had to be the tape.

“Go!” he shouted, and pointed at the finish line. “Run!”

She did. He ran after her. She broke the tape. Lightning flashed. He followed, raising his hands into the rain, slowing down as he ran onto the Tin Bridge. He found her halfway across on her hands and knees. He dropped down beside her, both of them gasping in air that seemed to be mostly liquid.

She looked at him, water running down her face like tears.

“What happened? My God, you put your arm around me and it was like I weighed nothing!”

Scott thought of the coins he had put in the pockets of his parka on the day he’d first gone to see Doctor Bob. He thought about standing on his bathroom scale while holding a pair of twenty-pound hand-weights.

“You did,” he said.

“DeeDee! DeeDee! ”

It was Missy, running toward them. She held out her arms. Deirdre splashed to her feet and embraced her wife. They staggered and almost went down. Scott put his arms out to catch them, but didn’t actually touch them. Lightning flashed.

Then the crowd found them, and they were surrounded by the people of Castle Rock, applauding in the rain.

That evening Scott was lying in a tub filled with water as hot as he could stand it, trying to soothe the ache out of his muscles. When his phone began to ring, he fumbled for it under the clean clothes folded on the chair by the tub. I’m tied to this damn thing, he thought.

“Hello?”

“Deirdre McComb, Mr. Carey. What night shall I set aside for our dinner? Next Monday would be good, because the restaurant is closed on Mondays.”

Scott smiled. “I think you misunderstood the wager, Ms. McComb. You won, and your dogs now have free rein on my lawn, in perpetuity.”

“We both know that isn’t exactly true,” she said. “In fact, you threw the race.”

“You deserved to win.”

She laughed. It was the first one he’d heard from her, and it was charming. “My high school running coach would tear his hair out if he heard such a sentiment. He used to say what you deserve has nothing to do with where you finish. I will take the win, however, if you invite us to dinner.”

“Then I’ll brush up on my vegetarian cooking. Next Monday works for me, but only if you bring your wife. Sevenish, say?”

“That’s fine, and she wouldn’t miss it. Also…” She hesitated. “I want to apologize for what I said. I know you didn’t cheat.”

“No apology necessary,” Scott said, and he meant it. Because, in a way he had cheated, involuntary as it might have been.

“If not for that, I need to apologize for how I’ve treated you. I could plead extenuating circumstances, but Missy tells me there are none, and she might be right about that. I have certain… attitudes… and changing them hasn’t been easy.”

He couldn’t think of what to say to that, so he changed the subject. “Are either of you gluten-free? Lactose-intolerant? Let me know, so I don’t make something you or Missy—Ms. Donaldson—can’t eat.”

She laughed again. “We don’t eat meat or fish, and that’s it. Everything else is on the table.”

“Even eggs?”

“Even eggs, Mr. Carey.”

“Scott. Call me Scott.”

“I will. And I’m Deirdre. Or DeeDee, to avoid confusion with Dee the dog.” She hesitated. “When we come to dinner, can you explain what happened when you pulled me up? I’ve had strange sensations while I’m running, strange perceptions, every runner will tell you the same—”

“I had a few myself,” Scott said. “From Hunter’s Hill on, things got very… weird.”

“But I’ve never felt anything like that. For a few seconds it was like I was on the space station, or something.”

“Yes, I can explain. But I’d like to invite my friend Dr. Ellis, who already knows. And his wife, if she’s available.” If she’ll come, was what Scott didn’t want to say.

“Fine. Until Monday, then. Oh, and be sure to look at the Press-Herald . The story won’t be in the newspaper until tomorrow, of course, but it’s online now.”

Sure it is, Scott thought. In the twenty-first century, print newspapers are also buggy-whip factories.

“I’ll do that.”

“Did you think it was lightning? There at the end?”