2 cobra 7

 

Chapter 7

 

I have no idea how Lamborghini kept control of his car. He rode the crash, turning away from the impact. Boy,that New Yorker could drive! He went through the barrier of course, facing the opposite way to the way he had been going, as far as I could see, but intact. The guy who caused the crash also rolled off the course, and last I saw he was buried to the wazzoo in a bale of hay. Ichiro swerved and kept going. Elizabeth followed his line, and I followed Elizabeth. Behind us, two of the more nervous drivers braked and were rammed from behind. They would hopefully be cleared away by the time we came round again.

And the other rear runner just carried on chugging round. If he was doing more than forty miles an hour I’d be surprised, but he was doggedly carrying on. I hoped he’d complete the course at least; it would be a personal achievement if nothing else.

Anyway, we lapped him for a second time on his first lap, and he was still going; and Lamborghini was back in the race. He hadn’t a cat’s chance in hell of placing in the top three, but he wasn’t going to give up, and I expected him to come damn close.

Long story short, I did what I intended, and put the pedal to the metal in the final chicane, risky, but I’ve driven worse chicanes through burning vehicles on the road around The Rubble, with mini-gun happy loonies on my tail. Not that I could discourage my opposition here the way I dealt with those wannabe slavers, by throwing several frag grenades behind me. Yes, it was a hobby case, no, I haven’t mentioned it before; it was a straightforward business with no excitement to it.

So I went straight between Elizabeth and Ichiro as she was edging up on him; and she swerved enough to avoid me that she wasn’t going to be in pole position any time before the race ended. I caught a look of her face, and if words could kill, I’d probably be sizzling. Ichiro made the mistake of looking back, and panicked when I seemed to be driving straight at him.

I’ll be honest here; I seriously considered ploughing into him. Vehicular homicide is virtually impossible to prove, and all I had to say was that I’d clipped Elizabeth and been spun off course. But I couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t end in a fireball, and I have a strong ambition to remain uncooked. I shaved his paintwork as it was, and he wobbled like a whore on high heels after one too many cocktails. And then I was haring over the line with the chequered flag, letting the engine slow the car, and realising that Lamborghini had driven up beside me. Well, I was wrong; he was placed.

We rolled to a halt and I got out. My legs were shaking.

Lamborghini shook my hand like it was a pump and he was drowning.

“That was a peach of a drive, Mr. Silverheels, a peach! You should have seen that bastard, Ichiro’s, face!” he crowed.

“You should have been first; it was sheer bad luck,” I said. “You, sir, are one helluva driver.”

And then I recognised someone who had come to congratulate us.

“Raymond! Silverheels!” said Evans.

Evans is number two on the Black Board, and he is anonymous in his fame as a speed freak. Plainly he knew who I was; it was probably an open secret on the board.

“Evans!” I said.

“Kyle – what a race!” said Lamborghini. “I’m not sure I’d have had the nerve to go between Ichiro and the overgrown girl scout myself, you have to admire Silverheels.”

“I’ve known him some years and I had no idea he was that good,” said Kyle Evans. “He doesn’t drive professionally like we do.”

Not racing, anyway. And I’m just as happy to take the El or an airoplane.

“Her name’s Elizabeth,” I said. “Elizabeth – meet Kyle Evans. He’s an old friend of mine.”

I never thought I’d see Elizabeth blush.

“The Kyle Evans?” she said. “Can I have your autograph?”

“I tell  you what,” said Evans, “If I take you to dinner tonight, I’ll sign the menu for you.”

Elizabeth plainly forgave me for pipping her at the post.

Oh, and the guy sticking to – as it turned out – a sedate 60mph all the way round [yes, I underestimated; it seemed slower to those of us going hell bent for leather] managed to qualify for being sixteenth to finish.  Most of the also rans had come to grief one way or another. And I shook his hand too.

“Dogged as does it,” he said, with a shy grin. “They call me ‘Dogged Dave.’ Dave Franklin.”

He was also almost swooning to meet Kyle Evans. He had only entered in a fit of pique to irritate his ex wife.

“And now I’m guaranteed some prize money and the decree nisi went through before I signed up so I’m not liable to pay her any!” he crowed.

I hadn’t considered that; those of us who remained were liable for some level of cash prize and the probability of being approached by advertising agents in our own home towns.

Good luck to them finding Jay Silverheels.

 

Lamborghini and I took Dave out to dinner, with Lamborghini’s wife, who was a model in her professional life and, she confided, made teddy bears for a hobby. My own wife managed to look enough like anyone would expect Mrs. Silverheels to look, and we took the Valkyrie to make up numbers. Her name should have been something like Freya Bjornsson, but it was really Julia Smith.

She and Dave were getting quite chummy by the time we returned to our caravan, having collected Evans and Elizabeth on our way back.

Sebastian had been replaced by a martinet known as call-me-Mr. Oppenheimer and with a single accord we grabbed him by a limb each and threw him in the sump pit in the pit stop.

Then we men peed on him.

In our defence, we were not entirely sober. Dave and Julia headed for a caravan together and we all whistled the theme of last year’s Trideo hit, ‘Thor the Thunderer’. He saluted us in time honoured fashion with one finger, and we raided the canteen.

We passed out there, having held a wiener roast in the middle of one of the tables.

 

We were Spoken To severely the next day.

“Aw, go boil yer arse, Oppenheimer,” said Dave. Dave! The mild-mannered, if dogged. He had plainly scored.

“What he said,” I drawled.

“We are officially on leave until the next event,” said Ray – Lamborghini had become Ray at some point during the evening – “And so you can go fish up a tree.”

“Unless you’ve been paid to try to kill us like Sebastian was,” I said.

“That’s a very serious charge to make against an employee of PETV, Mr. Silverheels, can you substantiate it?” said Oppenheimer, coldly.

I shrugged.

“He admitted it, and decided to flee from whoever was paying him,” I said. “You recall, I took a real bullet and so did Grieves, third seed.”

He humphed and seethed, and let us go. We went singing the gospel song ‘Pour your oil.’

 

I might be on vacation, but I wasn’t about to let my training slip. I invited Elizabeth back to Seattle to stay in the dojo – Mr. Jay Silverheels was a member, of course – but she murmured something about having another invitation.

I hoped Evans would not treat her too badly; I sort of felt responsible as I’d introduced them. Well, she was a grown up, and life’s about choices.

 

There were three events left, and we had been given details about them. I wanted to discuss them with Tarquin and Willow.

“So, the first two are essentially back to back races,” I said. “And one of the essentials is picking the items of equipment permitted that will work for both; or which might be vital for one and of no use at all for the other.”

“A lot of it is more about extreme terrain than anything else,” said Willow, examining the brochure. “First one, you are tied up and left in a cave, and you have to escape and find your way out. Rope might be useful.”

“A knife is always useful,” I said. “Three items again, and the medkit a given, and a canteen of water. I’m not fond of underground things.”

“Look on it as a big building,” said Tarquin.

I considered.

“Yes, I think that would help,” I said. “They’ll have drones on us at all times. We can pick our clothing.  There must be some way of guiding us out; even experienced spelunkers can get lost.”

“Gesundheit,” said Willow.

“Spelunking. The proper name for cave exploring,” I explained.

“Not something I’ve ever craved,” said Willow.

“I don’t rave or crave a cave,” I said, facetiously.

Willow slid a hand in mine. She knew the whole concept made me nervous.

“There’s a small print here, there are markers to the way out, but as you’ll be in the dark, you have to find them,” said Tarquin.

“A waterproof torch might not be a bad idea,” I said. “I can just see the bastards thinking it a really good idea to let you have a torch and then it fails because you have to swim through an underground lake.”

It went on the list of possible things.

“You can always use a crepe bandage as a guide line,” said Willow. “Pitons might be handy.”

“A shaped charge to cut my way out,” I suggested.

Willow gently shushed this idea.

“What’s the second race, once out?” I asked. “I have to pick for both.”

“Cross down town New York with what you leave the cave holding,” said Willow.

“So, I can take a rock, and pull a smash and grab job to finance myself,” I said.

“Somehow, dear, I think they’d frown on that,” said Willow.

“It’s about compromises,” said Tarquin. “And it’s an exercise in being clever. You’re likely to emerge from the cave wet and dirty. Not someone to inspire confidence in a New Yorker. Nor do you want to carry a lot of coin money to weigh you down, but paper money will likely get wet.”

“Waterproof money belt,” I said. “For the first aid kit, too.” I considered. “I need to memorise the underground there, so I can take the metro.”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade,” said Tarquin, “But the small print on the second says that you will be a fugitive.”

“Oh, joy,” I said. “And I can’t use my usual escape-evade methods as it gives me away.”

“Ambush your pursuer and take his clothes,” said Willow.

“It has a certain charm,” I said. “Well, my watch is clothes. I’m going to get a waterproof watch with a compass and a torch.”

“Good idea,” said Tarquin.

“If you aren’t cheating, you aren’t trying,” I said. “Money belt, waterproof, strong webbing, can be used for short rope lengths at a pinch.”

“Don’t despise keeping what they tie you up with,” said Willow.

I nodded.

“Scarf. Handkerchief.  Climbing gloves,” I said. “In a way, escaping from the cave, so long as I have light, is about my body; escaping pursuit in a city is about my brain. I want reversable clothing. I need, after all, to get somewhere I can deal with my pursuer.”

Willow sniggered.

“Maybe one of your items should be a hijab,” she said.

“Write it down,” I said. “I won’t discard the idea just because you find it funny.”

“One of your items should be a locker key,” said Tarquin. “And set up a left luggage locker with quick change items in it. Including a hijab to at least get you out of the way.”

“It’s a thought,” I said. “Just one small problem; I don’t know where I’ll be dropped in New York, and there are a lot of left luggage lockers.”

“Sorry,” said Tarquin.

“It was almost a good thought,” I said. “Chalks. I can use them to mark up where I’m going, if I have any time I can do street art, and I can chalk my hair to make myself old.”

“Knife, a given. Chalks. Anything else?”

“Season ticket on the Metro,” I said.

“Brilliant,” said Tarquin.

I was willing to bet Raymond already had one.

 

2 cobra 6

 

Chapter 6

 

The storm really put the kybosh on most of the rest of the contestants.

It turned out that most of the front runners I had seen go off, herded back to the marked path by stewards over the first few miles as there got to be a distance between them, had rather lost momentum and had been overtaken by the steadier goers. Those who lasted more than ten miles, at all.

Elizabeth had kept going grimly; and the guy who threw himself into the river. There were four more who finished. Sam was put into the top twelve by default. Many of them threw in the towel. They had to go through how far people had gone, and made do with the twenty who had done the least worst as the newly seeded, 21 to 40. 

“Well, that certainly sorted the sheep from the goats,” said Sebastian, rubbing his hands gleefully. “Couldn’t have happened at a better time.  Of course, we lost a few people, and despite the insurance waivers I expect  PETV will pay out some exgratia condolence money, but honestly, if people will go down an arroyo when the skies open, what can they expect?  The sensible ones got up on the banks of the river and sat tight and bleeped to be rescued. Still, improves the gene pool, eh?” he giggled.

People like Sebastian give ordinary gay blokes a bad name. I put it down to being in trideo, myself; it brings out the worst in people. He was positively loathsome, but then, I’ve not met many people in trideo who could be described as normal, sane people. It attracts low life as reporters and weirdos as front men and their sidekicks. I could just feel this collective shuffle amongst the twenty of us in acute embarrassment.

Apart from the dick with blond hair who spoke up.

“Improving the genepool is very important. I’m here to show inadequates like that Japanese fellow who thinks he’s so hot what a real man is.”

“What, do you think you’ve ever met any?” I asked, amused.

“Laugh it up, redskin,” he spat. “You know this territory because it’s your homeland, so you can cheat, but you won’t show so good in the other tests.”

I laughed.

“My homeland is Seattle,” I said. “You’re two hundred years behind the times, Omae.”

He flushed.

He might not like Ichiro Fukuhama, but everyone knows the rude Japanese version of the word for ‘you’ used as an insult.

“I, Carl Smith, will be showing you what it is to be a man,” he said.

I swear Sebastian purred.

I gave Carl the slow hand clap. Several other people joined in. He gave me the sort of look which I have often seen; it promised me a short life and a long death.

I disremember how many people have given me that sort of look.

I’m still alive. Most of them are dead.

I don’t lose any sleep over them, either.

 

Elizabeth came up to me.

“I’m sorry I was foolish,” she said. “I... I thought you were going to eat the rabbit raw, and I... when I had refused, I was too proud to apologise then, and change my mind. I won’t refuse your advice another time.”

I considered saying, ‘lady, what makes you think I’ll offer it another time?’ but that would have been churlish.

I gave my enigmatic Tonto smile.

I probably would help out again. She was the only woman amongst us newbies; the seeded twenty included two. One of them looked as if she was a byproduct of the old Soviet athletics system, the sort of woman whose face could launch a thousand ships, because it was hammered out of tungsten. The other could pass for a Norse goddess or Valkyrie and was attractive enough if you like the look bodybuilding gives. I think it makes bodies ugly, myself, male or female. Her face was pleasant, though. Elizabeth was no oil painting, but she had a nice smile and pretty eyes, and that goes a long way.

 

They weren’t joking about this being dangerous, though.

The next task was a time trial across a military-style obstacle course, under fire.

Ok, the bullets were filled with dye, but they would hurt if they hit. There were time penalties for the number of times you got hit, and as they had set the fire up as automated sentry guns, avoiding being hit was going to be quite a feat. A rumour went around that every 100^th bullet was a live round; which might well have been true, or it may be someone was reading too much Heinlein. I wouldn’t put it past the bastards, just to make things more exciting. I might have been sceptical about this until I met Sebastian, who would probably think it a good giggle. My imagination worked overtime over killing the little prick in a compromising position with Ichiro. Alas, just because he was a little turd was not really excuse enough to kill him. Giggling over people dying is not the same as having set things up to make sure people died.

I noted, however, that the guns fired at just about exactly four feet above the ground. And only from one side of the course.  However, I had Willow standing by, in case someone had the bright idea of spraying the ground and accidentally included live rounds.

The inference was obvious; stay below or above the level of fire. Which would spread out somewhat, but not much.

We went off in fours, two seeded and two newbies. This was where they started televising it. There would be four tasks, and after that, the top 16 would go forward, and it would move into prime time.

What can I say? One assault course is much like another. A lot of crawling under nets, staying below the fire, and the hell with running on rubber tyres. Under fire, I rolled over them. We were supposed to get over them as soon as possible, not dance a ruddy spandau ballet. Next there was a ten-foot wall to negotiate. We each had our own wall which at least gave room for some tactical movement. I found the rope’s end, and moved on my elbows to the side of the wall away from the fire, got into a bending crouch, and uncoiled to leap as high as possible to lift me over the arc of fire.

I felt a burning sensation across my flank as I leaped, and cursed. I squatted on top of the wall and glanced down at the gory looking red paint... No it wasn’t red paint, it was blood. I could smell it. Just my luck; I had copped a live round.

Unless Ichiro suspected me of making away with his still unaccounted-for henchman and had had someone swap out the paint pellets for live rounds. Why he would suspect me when I wasn’t first past the spring I don’t know, but I’m paranoid enough to still be alive.

I dropped down the other side of the wall, taking the momentum of the drop in a roll, which shot more fire through the bullet score. If I hadn’t gone sideways up the wall, I’d have been dead, however, and that meant that if Ichiro was trying to kill me, it was personal.

I won my heat by a comfortable margin, of course; not just speed but only one penalty, and Sebastian fluttering at me and exclaiming that there had been a live round in the feed.

“Did you arrange the explosives for that Kano fellow to try to blow up the waterhole as well?” I asked.

I read the truth in his eyes.

“Sebastian,” I said, “Do you know who Troy is?” Knowing another Native American would not, I thought, be unreasonable from Sebastian’s point of view.

There was a flutter of recognition in his eyes. He had heard of the Black Board, and he had heard of its top assassin.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, primly.

“Tell Mr. Fukuhama that I don’t appreciate cheats,” I said. “Troy is a friend of mine. If I die of a tragic oversight, so will you. Capiche?”

He went a grey colour and nodded vigorously, swallowing hard.

“Did... Was Kano....”

“He died. Most unfortunate,” I said, in a flat voice.

Sebastian, despite liking real men, steered clear of me after that; but I had a feeling that the nasty tricks aimed at anyone who was a real threat to Ichiro’s position would either become more subtle or cease, at least for the time being.

I was pleased to note that my time was up there with the best; I had come fourth over all. The crease to my thigh had slowed me.

Fortunately, I had brought along my own doc... though he had left his wife in Seattle.  My fans in The Rubble were cheering me on, of course. My Little Vetty, as doc was known, was good, I was soon as good as new.

I wasn’t about to complain if he used products normally used on dogs; if it worked, it was good. He said he could almost guarantee that I would not grow fur on the repaired crease.

 

The second of the four qualifying rounds was a classic strong man event; lifting increasingly heavy rocks onto decreasingly high walls. My height was an advantage here.  Short guys have difficulty with the high walls but very tall guys have trouble with the back strain.  I’m tall but not unduly so, and it wasn’t a breeze, but I managed and came in twelfth overall.  It moved my rating down but unless anything went drastically wrong, I would at least go through to the head to head.

It was a tedious sort of competition round, and I’ll be honest; I was not about to go all out on something that could give me a serious injury of the sort that would remain with me for the rest of my life. I could pay to have the muscle regrown and replaced, I suppose, but I have heard that even so, it’s never 100% satisfactory.

 

The next one was right of the old ‘Endurance.’ Sitting in a glass cage having been liberally smothered with honey, and then they let the wasps in.

Wasps don’t usually trouble me if I don’t trouble them. It was damned horrible, sitting there feeling their scratchy little feet all over my naked flesh, but I went through my pre kata meditation in my head waiting for the little perishers to be let in and then subsequently, to be let out. If not frightened, wasps are usually harmless. Not like hornets, which are every gram weight of them psychopathic little attack critters. Wasps I can handle. I let myself consider the home improvements Willow and I were undertaking. We were installing a conservatory to sit outside inside in winter, and to grow sundry salad and herb things out of season- that was Willow’s province, and I left her to it – and a castor oil plant. You never know when ricin might come in handy.

I was so carried away considering the colour scheme of the dining room that I came to with a jerk when the bell went. Apparently, I won that one.

Ichiro was not pleased. I didn’t have a sting to my name. He had sat out the whole time but had one sting.

Ichiro’s biggest rival, however, a bloke named Luke Santorini, was in hospital with anaphylactic shock; seems he had developed an allergy.

I sent My Little Vetty – I think his name was Mike – over to the hospital to look suitably medical and have them run a full toxin screen on Santorini.

Knowing Ichiro’s predilections for making things certain, I wanted to know if poison had been involved.

It had.

Or rather, Mike inferred from the levels of whatever it is wasps sting with, that Santorini had too much of it in his body to be accounted for by a couple of stings.

I grabbed Sebastian by the arm.

“You’re going to have to stop poisoning people,” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, sulkily.

“I don’t know how you introduced a high level dose of wasp venom to Santorini, but he has a good case against you for what’s now a lifelong condition,” I said. “I know you take bribes from Ichiro. And you have the sense to leave me alone. Let it be a straight competition, omae, or I’ll bust this whole thing open on every rival channel there is, and every death will be investigated, and you will be answering questions to the feds until your hair is grey and your dick has died of old age.”

“But if I don’t do what Mr. Fukuhama says, he’ll kill me!” he squealed.

“And if you do, I’ll kill you,” I said, pleasantly.

He believed me.

The next morning he had vanished from the film lot and disappeared for pastures new.

Can’t say I missed him.

 

The fourth ‘game’ of the seeding rounds was a bit different.

We had to drive racing cars, five laps of a speedway track. All the cars were identical; we weren’t racing for the glory of a particular make. None of them had any rigwires, which was a relief; no happy gurfer could get inside any one of them to cause trouble any more than they could be souped up and ridden by the bare mind. This was pure driving skill.

Not everyone knows how to drive, of course; enough people just rely on public transport or on just enough ability to get their vehicle out of their quiet back street and onto the carcarts on the Grid.

Well, we all knew that Extreme tests a lot of skills. I’ve seen parascending races and increasing heights of bungee jumps before now.  And I was glad we did not have the latter. You can’t test a bungee beforehand.

I can drive.

I can drive damn well.

Well, my tactic here was to manoeuvre to about fourth position, hold it until the last lap, and then floor the pedal. We had lost four people to the wasps – in hospital, not the morgue, I am glad to say. Three people had quit over the heavy lifting, one more person had been shot with a live round in the assault course and was waiting to have a new liver grown -  the show does at least give top class care for those who are badly hurt – and another five who had dropped out due to injuries from the paint rounds. The Soviet Shotputter lady had lost an eye, poor woman, two had broken ankles, and the rest felt unequal to going on. That had brought the forty down to twenty seven.

And my only reason for wanting to stay as high up the board as fourth was to avoid the shenanigans the also-rans might get up to.

You’ve seen car races.

Silly buggers go round and round a track which includes uphill, downhill, sharp bend and chicane elements, and that’s all they do. At least, they do if they are doing it right.

Ichiro had a similar idea to me except that he was going to sit second throughout.

We went off in a scream of overtuned engines in a stench of ridiculous amounts of gasoline and squeals of tyres. Two of the also rans managed to crash into each other within a hundred yards.

And those of us who knew what we were doing sped away. First, a man named Lamborghini, who deserved it, he drove like a demon; then Ichiro; then Elizabeth; and then me. Most of the other seeded sat on my tail with similar ideas to mine.

And we were about to lap one of the two slowest when the silly bugger lost control for having panicked in seeing us all roar up behind him, and his car slewed across the track, headed directly for Lamborghini.

 

2 cobra 5 I think now to be known as 'Extreme Cobra'

 

Chapter 5

 

I dozed through the midday heat, sheltered in the arroyo we came down, under sage brush. I came awake at the sound of movement.

I opened my eyes enough to see, and noted that there was a rabbit in the brush not far away.

I might as well test my idea for if there was a cold weather test.

I eased out my bootlaces, using one to make a complex knot as a kind of cradle in the middle of the other. There were plenty of smooth river stones here, from when the arroyo was a raging stream. I slipped one which felt pleasing into the cradle of my makeshift sling.

Bunny twitched his ears nervously. I would not have long.

The sling made a whop-whop-whop noise circling my head and bunny considered moving, peeking out of the brush.

I let fly, and the stone impacted.

Elizabeth sat up with a cry.

“What are you thinking?” she hissed.

“I’m thinking of food,” I said. “But the last thing that went through that rabbit’s mind was a piece of sandstone.”

“You’re gross!” she said, in horror.

And there was I thinking that she was sensible.

Willow cooks all the rabbits I’ve brought down with a more conventional sling. She makes me skin and draw them though; she does the same with fish. A man pays for his fun, she says, and as what she does with the result is sublime, I don’t complain.

I shrugged.

“I won’t give any to you, then, if you don’t want it,” I said.

“I don’t want any,” she shuddered.

I wonder if she thought I was going to eat it raw?

There was plenty of driftwood, and I soon built a hearth and got a fire going. I gutted the rabbit and put the guts in the river for any fish.  If I was spending any time here, I could then spear those that turned up, to dry, but I don’t need them. I used a trick one of my friends amongst The Forgotten had told me, and wrapped the bunny in river mud to roast in the fire, covering it with glowing wood. I drank my fill, washed, and refilled my canteens. Yes, upstream of the guts. I had thrown them well downstream of the trail.

Meanwhile another contestant stumbled through the arroyo, and almost threw himself in the river, drinking as he floundered.

Someone didn’t carry enough canteens, and was fool enough to travel through the heat of the day when he did not have to. Elizabeth had copied me in washing and filling her canteens, and hovered. I put back my bootlaces, and adjusted my boots. I had not taken them off; I could not afford for my feet to swell.

“I... I’ll be going on then,” she said.

“Suit yourself,” I said.

I broke open some of the cooked mud and a heavenly scent arose. Elizabeth hesitated, but firmly turned her nose in the air, and her back to me. I didn’t care.

My meal appeared to be cooked.

Let me make one thing clear.

Roast bunny is nothing like as pleasant as stewed bunny. These desert jackrabbits are wiry, skinny, tough critters, and the meat is... chewy. It was edible, though, and tasty.  Another time I should have to smuggle some salt in my medicine kit.  I could have spent time searching for herbs to stuff it with, but this was a race, after all.

So, I ate enough to fill my belly, drank deeply at the riverside, and splashed through its shallow course to the other side, where the laconic fellow who lapped like a dog had already gone.

Refreshed, I overtook him within ten minutes, and carried on running. I could go all night, now, chewing on bits of bunny as I went.

I overtook Elizabeth inside half an hour.

“How do you look so damnably fresh?” she demanded.

“Plenty of sleep, good food, plenty to drink and a clean conscience,” I said.

She spluttered, unable to think of a good comeback.

 

This, in a way, was the toughest part of the race; it was the sort of stony desert they call ‘sabkha’ though I don’t know if it was salt flats, which is the purest definition of the term. It’s hard on the feet, and has no features to speak of, unlike the broken terrain of the inselberg, pediment, and plain scenery we had traversed since the first, mountainous scramble. They believed in giving us good geology lessons, anyway.  But anyone trying to cross this during the daytime was going to suffer the inexorable hammering of the pitiless sun on their heads, the flat plain reflecting its light and heat back in their faces as a cruel counterpoint of the percussive effect to their heads.  I picked up the pace. There was supposed to be a place where water had been provided.  I understood the game organisers had brought in water bowser, as there was no convenient waterhole; depending what time I reached it would determine whether I just pushed on.

My body was beginning to complain as the moon set; an hour or so later than the previous night, as is the way with the moon. When it rises and sets is dependent on the phase, a thought which took me in a roundabout way, as thoughts on a lone run tend to do, to the late Werewolf, and of fiction about werewolves, most of which is such sad tripe because of writers who will have a full moon in daylight. Well, in high summer, in high latitudes, it can still be daylight, but the full moon rises in the early evening and sets in the early morning, having its zenith around midnight.  And if anyone tries to tell you different, they don’t know what they are talking about.

But of course, too many writers of fantasy or science fiction for that matter don’t know what they are talking about, because the genres are the easy options – they think – not requiring reference to real events or people.  The good fantasy and science fiction writers put time and effort into world building, and it’s easy to see if their world holds up to scrutiny or falls apart if you step off the plotline. The trick is to see if you can imagine the life of some unimportant chummer the main character meets along the way. Is he credible? Can you see him making a living? Is there room in the world for his aspirations? Or is it merely a case of asking the girl if she would offer her throat to the wolf with the red roses?

I think too much in music references when running.

I stopped to relieve myself, take a drink from my canteen, rest a moment, just shaking my legs to keep the muscles warm, and set off again.

There was something on the horizon, and unless they started making square trees, it was the bowser.

 

It was the bowser. They’d flown it in with a copter, which was hunkered down behind it. It was the sort they use for dumping on forest fires, so there was plenty of water to be had.

The woman and man in charge of issuing water were asleep on bunk beds in a tent. Both at once, and the keys in the copter.  The rules did not specify not stealing any vehicles left lying around, and for a moment, I was tempted, just out of a sheer perverse sense of mischief.

I was also tempted to haul the butt of one or other of them out of that tempting looking camp bed and hit the sack for the next three days. Instead, I signed myself off on the list that they had, checking my watch for the time, filled my gut and canteens with water, wondered where the first page of contestants who were before me had disappeared to, and thought I had better press on. There were ten slots to a page, to fill in name and contestant number, and two names ahead of mine. That meant I must be number thirteen, and that would not be good.

No, of course I’m not superstitious.

The top twelve have no more seeding heats to do, the next forty-eight have another competition to find the top eight out of them, to add twenty newcomers to the twenty seeded.

Perhaps I would overtake one or more.

There had, after all, been a good fifty or so who went ahead of me. And though I had noticed some had dropped back or dropped out, the rest must have just kept right on, beating out the Yakuza to the first water hole.

I came upon one poor sod.

He had passed out beside the trail. I should perhaps have said before that the trail was marked with little stakes which had a dab of luminescent paint on them to show up at night. They didn’t want people wandering off and getting lost.

I gave him some water. He groaned.

Not likely to peg out, then.

I found his squealer and activated it, left him a canteen, and ran on.

Yes, I’m probably getting soft in my old age.

 

A copter went over me as false dawn was giving way to the real thing, silhouetted like some crazy dragonfly against the mist on the ground that shimmered in the early morning light like a lake of fire. Presumably going for the chummer I had found. The desert sunrise was just as spectacular as the day before, the sun came up like thunder...what song was that from?  I didn’t care that much. I was tired, pushing through pain, my ears were ringing, and the sky was covered in those puffy little clouds that form in the shape of a filleted fish in colours no self-respecting filleted fish comes in unless it’s three days too old. We were in for a storm of wind, possibly with other weather phenomena too.

Oh joy.

At least the gathering thunderheads soon blocked out that pretty sunshine, and the temperature dropped away so that I was glad to keep running.

And the heavens opened.

Not just rain. Rain would have been relatively pleasant. Hailstones, and hailstones the size of quail eggs at that.

I cursed a lot and tried to run fast enough to dodge them.

I acquired a few bruises. I used the strap of one canteen to tie it to my head, to protect my skull at least. If it was pierced, I’d be down to two, and I almost regretted leaving one with my fellow contestant.

Well, it could not be far now. 

The helicopter went back over. They landed just in front of me.

“Are you A-okay?” asked the medic with them.

“Sure, but if you picked up the guy whose squealer I set off, can I have my other canteen back, please?” I asked.

He went and got it.

“And you are?”

“Jay Silverheels.” I remembered my fictitious name.

What a good job I had stuck to walnut juice to colour my skin. It doesn’t wash off. I’d have been streaky if I’d used conventional makeups.

He made a note, jumped back in the copter and they headed off.

I recalled, belatedly, that there were credits given for acts of kindness during the tests; not that I had done it for that.

As he must know, because I had no way of knowing if I’d ever see that canteen again.

I pushed on doggedly.

I almost missed seeing the finishing line as I jogged wearily over it; whereupon I was wrapped in a warm towelling bath robe, and born tenderly off to a film caravan, offered a choice of drinks, alcoholic and othewise.

I picked tea with a generous measure of whisky in the bottom.

“Where did I come in?” I asked the gopher in charge of me. He kept trying to help me get out of my wet clothes, and I resented help when I could do it for myself. I stripped firmly, and put on the fresh bath robe.

“You’re the first back,” he said, patting my collar into place.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “My name’s Sebastian. You can call me Seb.”

“My name’s Jay Silverheels; you can call me Mr. Silverheels,” I said. “But I only overtook one lad, and he was picked up by the copter, when I set off his squealer.  There was another name on the sheet I saw at the bowser, who had got there ahead of me, and I assumed there was another page.”

“No, you’re the first, J... Mr. Silverheels,” he said. “Two signed in before you? I’ll send the copter out to look. Maybe they took shelter from the storm.”

“What in?” I said. “It’s flat as a sodding lake. And it wasn’t stormy when I left the bowser.”

 

Seb bustled off, and I heard the copter take off again.

I noticed a bunk in the caravan, and it looked as if it ought to have my name on it. Actually, there were several bunks, but the nearest one whispered seductively.

I kicked off my boots, fell into it, and kept falling.

 

oOoOo

 

When I came to, there were several other people in the other bunks. One of them was the lad to whom I had given water. He was sitting up.

“Hello, Mr. Silverheels; I owe you my life,” he said.

“Anyone would have done the same,” I said.

Actually, that’s a moronic thing to say; a lot of people would have seen him lying there and kept on going.

“I doubt it,” he said, dryly. “I’m in with a shout, depending on how many people finish, as I have the credit for being first to the bowser. But whatever, it’s a privilege to know you. I’m Sam Farman.”

“Sam. I’m Jay,” I said, shaking hands.

“That poncy little front man said you were touchy,” he said.

“I’m only touchy when another bloke is feely,” I told him.

He nodded. He got it.

“What about the guy who was after you and ahead of me?” I asked.

He looked sober.

“I heard a whisper that he died,” he said. “Apparently, he took his boots off at the bowser, had trouble getting them back on, and somehow wandered off the path and had an embolism or something.”

I winced.

“Poor blighter,” I said. “So near and yet so far.”

“They offered to let him stay at the bowser, but he would go on,” said Sam. “There are supposed to be bacon sandwiches in the canteen.”

“I could murder several,” I said.

We did.