The Hades Throne

Chapter 32 - Running

Running is the natural progression of movement.

I don't mean to sound like a lecture, if the statement of underestimated fact can be called such. Yet, it is relevant, and relevance, in any field of studying, is always an important motivation.

See, from the time that we are young, we learn that the ultimate mode of self transportation is the art of running. It's the independent factor that, some might argue, elevates it above any other form. Besides that, it's extremely handy when needing to escape monsters from, literally, hell.

Despite being useful, and despite its primal aspects that make it the ultimate form of movement, running has another benefit; it also allows us to procrastinate our problems.

Which is what I'm doing now.

I've lost all track of time, of distance and of speed. My focus is narrowed to putting one foot in front of the other, and I leave my problems behind me with everything else I've run from. Breath comes in and out of my lungs, but it's a struggle to manage the movement. It's as if I've been reborn into a body that has forgotten its most basic functions. My legs are burning, each step jarring my bones and muscles, and they protest in the most furious fashion. The exertion wipes an eraser across the whiteboard of my brain, leaving just a dark smudge where thoughts used to be.

Escape is all that I can think of. I've never been one for plans, or rather, not elaborate ones, but escape is the best I can manage right now.

Nolan's footsteps are heavy behind me, and anxiety all but rolls off of him in waves. His breath holds just as much weight as his feet, the tiredness that affects him showing. I'm willing him on, hoping that his unique physical composition will provide the means to make it to our destination.

I'm trying not to think of where that destination might be.

Footfalls are almost nonexistent on my right, and the only telling sign that Rick is still there is his occasional grunt, followed by a breathless, "Now what?"

I don't answer, not that either of us expect me to. It's just a prompt, reminding me that our deadline, our limit, is fast approaching.

The Hell Hound lumbers behind us, its long legs making the pavement shake. It snarls and growls, teeth like small cars gnashing against themselves. It's a sound that rattles me right to the core, like nails slowly scratching down a chalkboard, but this is deeper, more penetrating. The sound reaches out to my spirit itself, and the response is the ingrained instinct to get away.

A silver lining, the golden ray of hope that leads one to the dangerous prospect of persevering, can still be found. The beast, though great and fierce, isn't a match in comparison for our speed and agility. Nor does it have the advantage of companions.

The terrain begins lending itself to our aid, becoming smaller and more winding as we move into downtown. Buildings that dwarf my age and height line the road and I cringe when I hear the distinct shambling of breaking glass. In windows ahead, I catch the dark gleaming of scales, poked between by tufts of singed fur.

Finally, the street diverges into multiple paths, no more than thin alleys that make up the lifeblood of the city. I make a decision that is more reckless than bold.

"Split up! Meet at the square." I shout, using the last of my energy and available air to call the command. There's no room for the boys to hesitate or ask questions, so I trust that they will obey.

I run.

My legs no longer exist. I'm made of adrenaline more than I am of blood and flesh. Where there was the pain of exercise is now a numbness that extends into both my thighs. And though I don't want to test my own theory, my legs most likely don't remember how to do anything but run.