Tristan’s legs hurt.
He’s pretty sure that he lost one of his shoes a while back. It could have been an hour ago, it could have been ten minutes. He really, really, doesn’t know.
The sun hadn’t even been up when he’d started running. All he has on him is his watch, which he honestly might have broken when he’d fallen over that rock.
He can’t check it. Checking it would take precious seconds that he could be using to run, run, run as fast and as far as he can.
As soon as he thinks that, his foot catches on a tree root, and he tumbles several yards, rolling over himself in an almost comical way. He’s not even back on his feet properly before he’s scrabbling forward, dirty and scratched hands digging into the cold hard ground for purchase as he rights himself.
He needs to run, needs to leave, needs to get the ever-loving hell out of here before he ends up like his friends.
They’d all stopped by the side of the road, the sun setting in the distance. Raymond, one of his friends, had raised a disposable camera, to take a photo. Another, Bianca, stuck her thumb out, a gesture so practised she’d hardly even thought of it.
Tristan had been posing for the camera, jokingly pointing back at the setting sun, shocked face comically exaggerated. As he and Ray bowed their heads over the camera, giggling, Bianca groaned, thumb still out lazily. Tristan looks up at the last second, yellow headlights boring into his eyes. He’s frozen.
Thud. Bianca is gone. Tristan dives out of the way, rolling into a ditch. Thud. Ray, too.
And then Tristan started running mindlessly. He’s prepared to run forever if necessary.
That was god knows how long ago. There is, however, an unfortunate reality to face. No matter how long he’s been running, no matter how much distance he has covered, he will tire out. Humans cannot survive more than a week without food, realistically. Less, if they're running.
What's chasing him doesn't need to eat.
The situation he is in right now, with no water, no food, and no chance of reprieve, is about as far from ideal as one can get, without being dumped in the middle of the desert. And yet, he runs.
A wheeze chokes its way up through his chest and out of his throat. He can’t stop, he needs to leave, but he’s on the verge of collapse as it is. Something under his ribs hurts, muscles tightening more every step he takes.
His hand grabs onto the bark of a tree as he takes another wheezing breath, trying to check his watch in the forest's darkness. It’s too dark to see, he realises with a sinking feeling in his gut. Instead, he puts his hands on his knees and tries to catch his breath.
The forest falls silent, the only noise is a crowd of birds taking flight, running, running, running, just like Tristan. His ears prick up, fueled by paranoia, craning his neck every which way.
In the distance, a sputtering, wheezing, dying engine approaches.
No, no, no, no, no-
The forest is illuminated, horrid yellow lights beating down on his back again, the colour of jaundiced eyes and an omen of Tristan’s impending death.
He turns, slowly, as if his entire being is submerged in honey, as if he is in slow motion while the rest of the world is running at double speed.
When he finally turns around, Death stares upon him.
Death is a rusting white Toyota truck, hurtling towards him at a speed that should be physically, literally impossible in a forest.
Tristan dives out of the way, falling against a chopped-down tree trunk just in time to watch the no-longer-white door skim inches away from his face.
At this angle, without the lights boring down on him, he can see the driver’s face, if only for a second.
The manic grin of Death stares back at him from behind a handlebar moustache, neck contorted to stare at him from an almost impossible angle. He looks eerily similar to Tristan’s dad, but he’d died three years ago, voice giving out alongside his heart.
Death makes a frankly impressive U-Turn, which, considering the circle of trees he had driven into, should be actually, truly impossible.
Once more, all he can see is the lights of Death staring him down.
This is the end. Deep in his soul, he knows that as soon as he takes his eyes away from Death, it will be over.
And yet, as the engine revs with the voice of Tristan’s father, he turns and runs again.
–
There was nothing special about tonight, or the day before.
Fortunately, the driver of an aged white rusted and battered pickup truck, Donny, didn't mind. In fact, just like most times his mind didn't drag him down into a deep melancholic reflection, he was content.
In good spirits even!
Because there was nothing special about tonight, and the day before. Meaning that he hadn't been busy. Sure it hadn't been that quiet either, but he had to take the small victories here and there.
With the endless road ahead of him, the warm light of the evening sun on the vast horizon cradled a small group of cheery travellers at the side of the road, probably posing for a photo.
He sighed, but he had always found it was better to focus on optimism, helping the time pass gentler, and, he hoped, offering comfort to anyone he met.
So as usual, he listened to the hypnotic spluttering of the engine, the metallic rattle of whatever parts of the truck weren't on quite right, he watched the distant rustling trees to the left pass by, so far from the fields behind him now where farmers reap their crops late summer, he felt the cool breeze from the half open window, mingling with stale air in the cabin, and the weathered patterns in the road racing by below through the worn suspension.
He toyed with the rear view mirror and he grew a smile on his face, right under his beloved handlebar moustache.
He chuckled at the thought of the sight of himself.
Thud.
Must seem a mess, greasy bedraggled hair, overgrown stache, worn and stained vest barely concealing a beer belly, set in the shabby, battered cabin of his truck, below a pair of faded pink, fuzzy dice that weren't really that fuzzy anymore, and behind a long broken hula dancer figure, whose head was only just attached by an old wad of chewing tobacco.
Thud.
Outside the heat died as he careened off road. Off roading was always fun at least!
As he hit a rocky patch the driver's seat wobbled a bit and an empty plastic burger wrapper fell off the other seat in the cabin, the coffee stained one. It fell to the carpet which was almost non-existent and at times he could have sworn he could see the road beneath through a rust hole in the driver's side door.
Also the glove box wouldn’t shut, the gun in it was completely out of ammunition, the seatbelt was janky, the pedals were loose, the steering was all over the place, the mirrors were cracked, yes, all of them, the dashboard was falling apart, the dials only functioned sometimes and to top it all off, the radio didn't work.
But, as Donny would say, well slap my horse and call me Billy, the cd player does! The cd player did in fact work, despite the occasional skips and jitters. Although, he could barely hear the speakers that weren’t blown out over the rumble of tires.
As night crept in, he slipped into the forest, flipped on the headlights and absent mindedly slid the only cd he had into the player: the album Songs for the Deaf by Queens of the Stone Age. Well, it was a clearly self published cover of the album by someone on a banjo, but it was the best he had.
The struggling but homey orange seven segment display flickered to life, wrong time and all. For some reason, it always started on, and often got stuck on, track number four. He didn't really like the name of that one.
He grimaced for a second before giving the player a whack, which always set it back to track one. That was more like it! He grinned broadly as he drove past the last person. The one he hadn't yet…
It was best to let himself be distracted by the sick u-turn he just pulled. Yee haw!
But the man, or boy, caught in the soft, rustic yellow headlights ahead of him looked so tired.
Donny could empathise.
His tires screeched, his engine groaned, and his truck lurched.
Thud.
The boy flew over the windscreen, his face so young, his eyes so wide with shock, and into the flatbed. He could finally rest.
But Donny could not.
He nodded his head grimly for a moment, in acknowledgement.
Before he put his foot on the gas once more. Setting off into the vacuum of a night, leaving nothing but a lonely disposable camera by the side of the road, as a thin muggy fog descended.
Then he set a smile back on his face. Again, dwelling on these things never went well in his experience.
After all, he had a long drive ahead.
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