David Robbins: Spartan Run

Merle wheezed air out and gasped akin, his entire body strained to limits he never imagined he could withstand. But he refused to slack off.

Surrendering was a stupid idea, a desperate step of last resort. He imagined how it would feel to have a pack of dogs tear into his flesh, and his terror of such a gruesome death eclipsed his fear of their pursuers.

“Trees!” Ansel suddenly stated.

Hope welling within him, Merle stared ahead and saw sprawling woodland. “If we can make it…” he began, and wasn’t able to complete the sentence for want of breath.

“We’ll make it.”

Their feet pounding on the ground, their limbs constantly in motion, they covered the thousand yards to the forest, and paused before entering to ascertain the exact location of the patrol after them.

“Look!” Merle cried.

The lanterns were now less than five hundred yards away, and the dogs were yapping excitedly.

“Come on,” Ansel urged, and dashed into the woods.

Panic stricken, Merle followed, parting the brush with his forearms and ignoring the branches that tore at his skin. He focused on his friend’s back and nothing else, because to dwell on anything else might inadvertently cause him to slow down and he couldn’t afford to slacken the pace for an instant, not if he wanted to live, which he most definitely did. At that moment life was the sweetest, headiest nectar he’d ever known, a priceless treasure he would never relinquish. If he could help it.

How soon would the dogs be released?

Merle knew the routine. The patrol would close to within a hundred yards or so, then the officer in charge would give the command and the four dogs would leap clear of their leashes to chase down the targets with unerring, instinctual precision. He knew there were four dogs because there were always four dogs. Four big black dogs, any one of which could hold its own against a bear or a cougar or even a mutation.

The thought almost made Merle stumble.

Mutations!

What if they stumbled on a mutant the darkness? They wouldn’t stand a prayer without weapons. Mutations were not only extremely aggressive, they were hard to kill, as if the radiation or chemical warfare toxins responsible for the genetic deviates conferred a feral hatred of life and an astonishing capacity for brute endurance.

Please, God!

Don’t let there be mutations abroad tonight!

More minutes went by. Not a creature stirred in the woods. Every living thing seemed to be aware of the tableau unfolding under the starry canopy and none made the slightest sound.

Merle glanced behind them and saw the flickering lanterns moving through the trees, the lights appearing to blink on and off as the men carrying them were briefly obscured by tree trunks or dense thickets.

The dogs were in a frenzy.

With his eyes rearward, Merle didn’t realize his fellow Helot had halted until he accidently collided with Ansel, ramming the taller man in the back.

“Watch it!” Ansel snapped, almost falling.

“Sorry.”

“Do you hear it too?”

“Hear what?”

“Listen, damn it.”

Merle did, and almost shouted in delight when he heard the distinct gurgling of rushing water. “A stream?” he queried hopefully.

“Let’s find out.”

They moved forward, the sound increasing in volume, and covered only 15 yards before they came to the bank of a shallow creek. It was only three feet wide, the water five or six inches deep at most, and then only in the periodic pools.

Merle stood above one such pool and surveyed the flow in both directions. “Which way?”

“You go right. I’ll go left.”

“I don’t want to split up,” Merle said, horrified at the very notion.

“We have a better chance if we do.”

“Please, Ansel. Don’t make me do it.”

The former overseer took but a second to decide. “All right. We’ll go to the right. Stick close.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Merle stated, smiling, starting to turn. Out of the corner of his eye he detected movement, something coming from their rear, and his mind belatedly perceived the reason a second after the charging Doberman pincher hurtled into Ansel and bowled him over.

A throaty snarl rent the night, becoming a sustained bestial snapping and growling as the canine sank its white teeth into its prey again and again and again.

Merle took a step toward his friend, his terror rendering his movements sluggish.

“Run!” Ansel yelled, fighting the Doberman, rolling and punching.

Unwilling to desert the man he considered his best friend, Merle took another stride, his eyes casting about for a potential weapon.

“Run, Merle!” Ansel shouted. “Please!”

Loud barking came from 20 yards away.

The other dogs! Merle realized, and suddenly there was no question of staying, of sacrificing himself needlessly. Ansel was as good as dead. Why should he die too? He pivoted and stepped into the creek, then ran to the right, splashing noisily. What if the dogs came after him? He had to pray they concentrated on Ansel and failed to pick up his scent in the water.

The creek abruptly curved to the left. He stayed right in the middle, terror lending him speed, and ran, ran, ran.

The giant clasped the steering wheel loosely, his seven-foot tall frame relaxed as he skillfully threaded the huge van he was driving through a gauntlet of gaping potholes and wide cracks that marred the crumbling surface of the aged highway. A comma of dark hair hung above his penetrating gray eyes. His bulging muscles threatened to burst the seams of his black leather vest and his green fatigue pants. Combat boots covered his feet. Strapped around his lean waist were two big Bowie knives, a matched set, snug in sheaths on either hip.

“We should be there within a few hours,” commented the small, wiry man in the front passenger seat. He was dressed all in black, his features revealing an Oriental heritage. He rested his right hand on the hilt of the sword propped between his legs and draped his left arm on the console between his seat and the giant’s. His eyes and hair were both dark.

“At least we’ll be in the general vicinity, Rikki,” responded the driver.

“If the man spoke the truth.”

“Why would he have lied?”

“Who knows, Blade?” answered the man in black.

“Maybe he concocted the whole story for the benefit of the Cavalry, to make them feel sorry for him so they’d permit him to stay in their territory.”

Blade smiled and studied the small man’s features. “Becoming cynical in your young age, huh?”

“Realistic. Honor and truth are dying ideals in the Outlands. Out here people live by their wits or their brawn. The survival of the fittest is the unwritten law of the land.”

A chuckle came from behind them. “Don’t let him fool you, Blade. He’s a grump because Lexine got on his case about doing this.”

Hie giant glanced over his right shoulder at the man occupying the seat running the width of the vehicle. Six feet in height, the speaker wore forest-green apparel. His hair and beard were both blond. The former was tied into a ponytail with a thin strip of leather. The latter had been neatly trimmed and jutted forward on his pointed chin. His green eyes perpetually danced with an inner mirth, an unrestrained zest for life.

Propped on the seat to his right was a Ben Pearson compound bow. Lying next to his left leg was a quiver filled with arrows. “How do you know, Teucer?” Blade inquired.

“I overheard part of their conversation when I was waiting at the SEAL for you to arrive,” the bowman said. “Lexine told him he’s going on a wild-goose chase.”

“Your ears are quite keen,” Rikki remarked. “It would be a pity if you were to lose them.”