Spartan Run

PROLOGUE

“If one of their patrols spots us, we’re dead.”

“At least we’ll have died trying.”

The two men ran at a steady pace to the northwest, angling across a wild field, the landscape surrounding them brightly illuminated by the radiant full moon overhead. Both men were in superb physical condition due to their grueling daily toil, and both breathed easily as they silently ate up the distance to the next stretch of woods.

Off to the east an owl hooted.

“What if we don’t make it, Ansel?” asked the shorter of the pair. He cast repeated fearful glances to their rear, clearly far more nervous than his companion.

“How many times must I tell you, Merle?” responded the other. “We’ll escape if we keep our wits about us. You must calm yourself. We’ve gone fifteen miles already and there’s been no sign of them.”

“Their patrols cover a thirty-mile radius,” Merle noted apprehensively.

“Then only fifteen more miles and we’re free men,” Ansel stated. “Free for the first time in our lives.”

“Freedom,” Merle said softly, pronouncing the word with exquisite delicacy, as if the very term was too fragile to withstand its utterance.

For two minutes they jogged onward, until ahead loomed a dark wall of foliage typical of the lush vegetation found in the former state of Iowa.

“Can we rest when we reach the trees?” Merle inquired hopefully.

“If you must.”

“I’m sorry, Ansel. I know I’m slowing you down.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m glad you came along. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to try alone.”

“You would. You’re naturally brave. Even they knew that.”

“How do you figure?”

“They picked you to be an overseer.”

“They picked me because I followed their orders better than most. No other reason.”

Merle scrutinized the forest and licked his thick lips. “I hope we haven’t made a mistake we’ll live to regret.”

“Isn’t freedom worth the price?”

“Yes, but what if we’re wrong. What if there isn’t any place better?

What if the outside world is even worse? It’s been one hundred and six years since World War Three. Who knows what we’ll find?”

Ansel regarded his friend for a moment. “It’s too late to turn back now.

They’ve undoubtedly discovered we’re missing and have sent trackers after us.”

“Do you really think we have enough of a head start to outrun the dogs?”

“I hope so.”

Merle ran a little faster.

Soon the fleeing pair reached the treeline. Scarcely slowing, they plunged into the forest, swatting at branches that lashed their bodies and plowing through undergrowth that tried to snare their legs. The heavens were harder to discern, but every now and then they spotted the North Star and knew they were still on course. Twenty strenuous minutes elapsed, and at last they emerged from the oppressive gloom to find a seemingly limitless expanse of open plain ahead.

“I could use a break,” Merle commented, puffing from the exertion.

“I guess a rest can’t hurt,” Ansel said, and halted.

Expelling a breath in relief, Merle stopped and placed his hands on his knees. “I’m glad I didn’t eat much supper.”

Ansel glanced at his companion. “So am I.”

“Do you still think it was wise not to bring a food pouch along?”

“Yes. The less we carry, the better we run. That’s the reason I insisted on taking nothing except the clothes on our back.” Ansel looked down at his sweaty, torn T-shirt and his tattered jeans. “If I was one of them, I’d strip off all my clothes and run naked just as they do during the contests and processions.”

“If you were one of them, you wouldn’t need to run at all,” Merle said.

Ansel cocked his head, listening.

“Did you ever wish you were?” Merle inquired.

“Were what?” Ansel replied absently, still listening.

“One of them?”

The question distracted the taller man and he gazed at his companion.

“Did you?”

“Every damn day. I’d love to have someone grow all my food for me. I’d love to be able to lord it over Helots and have them do all my bidding.

Most of all, I’d love to wear one of those flowing red cloaks, bronze helmets, and short swords,” Merle said dreamily. “I’d love to have it easy like they do.”

“You really think they have it easy?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you think it’s easy for them to be taken from their parents at the age of seven and forced to live in a barracks? Do you think it’s easy for them to devote almost all of their time to perfecting the arts of war? Do you think not being permitted to marry or have children until the age of thirty is easy?” Ansel asked. “I don’t. I don’t envy them one bit.”

Merle uttered a light laugh. “You almost sound as if you pity them.”

“In a way, I do.”

“Amazing.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t hate them, if you sympathize with them, then why the hell are we out in the middle of nowhere running for our lives?”

Ansel cocked his head again. “I might sympathize with them, but that doesn’t mean I condone the status of the Helots. I’d rather be free. If I can’t be, then I might as well be dead.”

Merle opened his mouth to speak.

“Hush!” Ansel cautioned, motioning for silence with his right hand.

“What is it?” Merle blurted anyway.

“Listen.”

Merle did, and for several seconds he heard nothing out of the ordinary.

Then his ears registered the distant barking, and goose bumps broke out all over his skin. “Oh, God!”

“The dogs,” Ansel declared angrily.

“How far away?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a mile. Maybe less.”

“What should we do?”

“Keep going,” Ansel suggested, and suited action to words by racing to the northwest.

“Wait for me!” Merle bleated, and hastened to catch up, his short legs pumping furiously.

“Our only hope is to find a stream or a river,” Ansel said. “They can’t track our scent through water.”

“Are there any in this area?”

“Not according to the old-timer I talked to, the one who drew us the crude map.”

“We’re doomed!”

“Don’t give up yet. Where there’s hope, there’s life.”

Onward they sprinted, oblivious to everything except the barking of the canines to their rear. Both their forms became caked with sweat, their shirts drenched. The plain was unending.

“We’re doomed,” Merle repeated forlornly.

“Keep going.”

“Maybe we should give ourselves up.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Merle stated, breathing heavily. “If we stop now and let them capture us, they might decide to go easy on us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know the law. The Lawgivers stipulated that any Helot who tries to flee should be put to death.”

The reminder sparked Merle to increased effort. He looked over his shoulder every ten strides or so, dreading the moment when he would spot the lanterns. Three quarters of a mile later he finally did. “Look!”

Ansel glanced back and frowned. “Evidently I miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated? Damn, man, we’re about to die and you act like you made a mistake on a math problem.”

“We’re not dead yet.”

“I’m open to any bright ideas.”

“Let me think.”

“We’re doomed, doomed, doomed.”

Five minutes went by. The lanterns drew ever nearer, the barking ever louder and louder.

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.