Jack Kilborn - Endurance

Revolving doors were tough to navigate in her cosmetic legs. So were stairs and ramps. Ladders were the worst of all, and the one time she tried to climb one, she fell and sprained her wrist.

There are no handicaps. Only challenges.

But why does every simple thing have to be a challenge?

Back when she was still doing the Internet dating thing, one of her prospects actually had the guts to ask what it felt like, trying to walk on prosthetics.

“Ever have your foot fall asleep then try to walk?” she’d responded.

It was a good analogy, but not perfect. It explained the lack of sensation, and how taking away that sensation made it very hard to judge where to place your feet. But it didn’t cover the balance difficulties. Deb spent over a year in thrice-daily physical therapy to get to where she could walk again, and another two years to be able to run, which required a whole new set of challenges.

She approached the revolving door warily, timed it right, then took some awkward little hops to get in, holding the door for support. When she made it through she let out a little sigh of relief—falling in a revolving door was the worst.

Her Vette was where she’d parked it, in the drop-off zone. Deb fished out the keys and hit the alarm, unlocking the doors. Then she maneuvered into the front seat, adjusted her fanny pack so she wasn’t sitting against it, and took the portable GPS out of the glove compartment.

The creepy manager was right. Her Garmin couldn’t find the name of the inn, or the road it was on. She programmed in the spot where it was supposed to be and stuck the unit up on the dashboard, then fought the urge to check herself in the mirror.

After ten seconds she gave in, flipping down the sun visor, meeting her own gaze.

No crud in the eyes. Her brown hair, with red and blond streaks, was a bit poofy and windblown from the ride up, but the layers looked natural and were hassle-free, just like a three hundred dollar haircut should be. The touch of blush and pink eye-shadow—applied at home in D.C. on the off-chance the reporter spotted her in the lobby—were still in place. Deb touched up her lip gloss with just a dab of wet red, and judged herself okay.

Deb knew she was pretty. She just wished she was whole.

She fidgeted, waiting for Mal. He looked to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. Only a few years older than her. Deb hadn’t seen a wedding ring on his finger, but that didn’t mean much. At their age, all the good-looking ones were either spoken for, or gay.

Not that it mattered. The only man Deb had been with since the accident was Scott, and it had been awful with him and not something she ever cared to repeat.

Another minute crawled by, and Deb began to wonder if Mal had changed his mind. She’d gone on a blind date last year, and the guy had gotten up to go to the bathroom at the restaurant and never came back. It was right after he’d gotten a little frisky with his flirting and had cupped her knee, feeling the prosthetic leg below it.

This isn’t a date. It’s an interview. And he already knows you have no legs.

She wondered if Mal, or Rudy, would want to see her bare stumps for the article. That would be a no way . The only one who had ever seen them was her doctor, and the only other person who would ever see them would be her undertaker.

Someone knocked on the hood, startling her. Mal leaned over the driver side door.

“Can you pop the trunk?”

Deb hit the button, then had a moment of panic realizing what he’d see.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll see your prosthetic legs during the competition anyway.

She braced herself for his comments when he sat down next to her, but all he said was, “Thanks again for the ride, and the interview. Please let me pay for gas.”

“If you insist. But this beast doesn’t get very good mileage.”

“I can imagine. I drive a Prius. But I always wanted a Corvette.”

“Me too.” She smiled. “Buckle up for safety.”

Deb started the car, engaging the hand clutch on the gear shift, and squeezed the gas lever on the steering wheel. The tires squealed, pinning Mal into his seat, and the car peeled away from the lobby entrance and onto the main road.

Almost immediately Deb squeezed the brakes, skidding to a stop as someone darted into the street ahead of her—

THWAK!

—the dark figure slapped the hood of her car, spun, then scurried away in a limping crouch. He disappeared into the bushes alongside the road, into the woods.

“Holy shit,” Mal said.

Deb blew out her cheeks, the adrenalin making her hands shake.

“Did I hit him?”

“I dunno. He was huge.”

“All I saw was long, white hair. But an old man couldn’t move that fast.”

“Did you see his eyes?”

Deb nodded, then shuddered.

“They were red,” Mal said. “I swear they were red.”

After taking a few more seconds to compose herself, Deb pulled onto the side of the road and parked the car.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mal said. “He jumped out of the bushes right in front of you.”

“If I hit him, it’s my fault. I have to check.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Deb undid her seatbelt and pulled herself out of the Vette. It was dusk, but looked even darker because the sun had dipped below the tree line. The town of Monk Creek wasn’t exactly a town, per se. It was more like a collection of a few motels, some scattered stores, and a loose group of homes interspersed along the mountainside and woods in a thirty-square-mile area. The hotel was packed, but once you stepped off the property you were smack dab in the middle of the wilderness.

Deb squinted into the brush just off the shoulder of the road, where the man had disappeared. If he’d been hurt, he couldn’t have gotten far.

“Hello?” she called.

No one answered. A strong breeze kicked up, blowing Deb’s hair into her eyes and making her widen her stance so she didn’t tip over.

“Anyone there? Are you okay?”

She watched the breeze make the bushes sway, back and forth, like they were waving at her.

Deb peered at the ground, at the slight slope leading into the woods. In her Cheetah-Flex sprinting legs she could bounce down there, no problem. In her cosmetic legs, chances were high she’d be on her ass after a few steps.

“I’ll go check,” Mal said, a penlight in his hand.

Deb frowned, began to protest, but he was already halfway down the embankment, pushing into the brush.

She waited, feeling her stomach go sour.

What if I hurt him? What if he’s badly hurt?

What if he’s dead?

The thought of killing another human being—it would be too much to live with. She cursed herself for showing off in the car, accelerating so fast. Since her accident, Deb prided herself in paying extra attention, avoiding mistakes and screw-ups, because she realized how precious, and precarious, life was.

Deb walked over to the front of the Vette, checking the fender for dings. Or blood.

All she found was a decent dent in the hood, from when the man slapped it.

Had he slapped it out of anger? Or to steady himself because I hit him?

Then she noticed the blood. Hard to discern against the red paint job, but it was there.

Quite a bit of it.

Deb felt herself getting ready to vomit, when someone yelled, “Uh!”

Mal?

She went back to the shoulder, squinting into the gathering darkness. No sign at all of Mal, or the man. The wind continued to blow the bushes to and fro, to and fro.

“Mal?” she called.

Mal didn’t answer.

Deb tried louder. “Mal!”

A faint sound caught on the breeze. Something high-pitched.