Pounding Hearts

It is almost unbearable to accept that my life-long activism fighting social injustice has failed. I’ve traveled the world only to watch human rights crushed, cities crumble and authoritarian dictators take control. I’ve lost everything except for a single duffle-bag of belongings, a small savings account and my own two feet. Now my passion for running is the only thing sustaining me in the new millennium. My life is spent going from race to race, couch surfing and doing the occasional odd job. I live on protein shakes to save my pennies for travel expenses.

I’d just completed the LA Marathon and was planning my trek to Chile when the entire world went sideways. A theoretically unexpected pandemic hit, and no one was spared. In the US, travel was suspended, and citizens were placed under mandatory quarantine. Soldiers patrolled the streets to ensure no one left their homes. Food, water, and medicines were delivered by drone or driverless vehicles. The government took control of all media, streaming only their programming into people’s homes. Fear kept the majority of Americans in check. Most never went past their front door.

In a matter of days, the military swept into every town and city, ostensibly to maintain order. It was no different than any other coercive occupation I’d witnessed during my days fighting the good fight. The US military was established to defend our interests against foreign aggression, not quash our own citizens. But now the troops’ utilitarian behaviors were so calculated, they could have been mistaken for automatons.

Almost immediately, the homeless were swept up and taken to vacant hotels and motels along the highways. I’ve heard their rooms were locked from the outside by a remote-controlled system. Their meals, toiletries and cleaning supplies dropped beneath their windows. Hoisted to their respective balconies by quickly installed pullies. I overheard a conversation about a homeless man who’d jumped from his second story room. A soldier shot him dead without warning.

Between races, I too was essentially homeless. The government would have housed me like the other unfortunates, but I’d rather die than be confined to a roadside prison. My only option was to use my childhood Outward Bound lessons and head for the woods. I certainly wasn’t a trained survivalist, but I knew how to forage for food and water. The rest I’d take day-by-day. I could get to the Angeles National Forest without being noticed. Once there, I found solace in what was once dense and beautiful woodland. Decimated by deforestation and wildfires, I had to search for a safe place to lay low. Each day I spent there I was reminded of how lovely it had once been. Even now, birds serenaded me, singing songs I’d never heard over the din of city traffic. I watched delicate blue, yellow, and purple butterflies swirl around vegetation for hours. It wasn’t a complete utopian experience. Mosquitoes and poison ivy feasted on my lean and sinewy body. I longed for the tools needed to shave away the itchy stubble on my cheeks.

It didn’t take long for me to hear the sounds of helicopters overhead. I knew if they spotted me, I’d be taken into custody. I assumed they’d made an example of me to keep the population in line. I needed to find a safer place—and fast. I’d been training in the Mojave for my next race in the Atacama Desert. I couldn’t run to Chile, but I knew I could get back there. I found it hard to believe the military would be patrolling the entire Mojave Desert.

I left my forest hiding place under cover of darkness. I kept telling myself that the pandemic couldn’t go on forever. A mandatory vaccine would be developed and disseminated to the populace. Being jaded by my past, I didn’t believe governments would allow the world to go back to a pre-pandemic existence. Power and control are too intoxicating.

I traveled only in darkness and hid during daylight. I ran like my life depended on it. The closer I got to the desert, the less signs of life. No people, only a few dwellings and some abandoned vehicles. Weren’t there others like me out here? Not willing to accept being caged in their own homes?

I was maybe an hour away from familiar territory when I ran into an encampment. It was a disturbing scene. Four bodies lying in the hot sun. Clothing ripped from their bodies by the buzzards circling above. Those scavengers had picked the flesh from each person’s dry, bleached bones.

I was about to move on when a glint of light caught my eye. I looked around and saw a flicker coming from one of the skeletons. Overall, the bones were smaller except for the hips. It appeared to be a woman. I leaned down and saw a think chain peeking out from under her breastbone. I poked it with my finger, and it moved easily. I pulled the chain gently away and discovered it held a heart-shaped locket. It was beautiful and sad. Would taking the locket make me just another scavenger or was it a way to pay tribute to this brave woman who tried to flee towards freedom? I lifted the delicate heart and rubbed the surface between my fingers. Whispering an apology, I unfastened and removed the necklace.

A caw from above broke into my thoughts. I looked up in time to see a buzzard swooping towards me. I scurried towards some scrub brush to avoid being divebombed again. The scavenger anxious to have me as its next meal. Catching my foot on something, I faceplanted in the hot sand. I rolled into the scrub and saw I’d tripped over a gym bag. I looked around the encampment; it was the only item other than the bodies. The pieces were starting to come together. Someone or something, must have killed this group and taken their belongings. A feeling of dread came over me and clutching the necklace, I grabbed the bag and ran.

I kept running until I found a reasonably hidden stand of trees. I picked my way through the brush until I spotted a rock large enough to rest on. Once I sat down, I unzipped the bag and explored its contents. It was definitely a gym bag. Men’s underwear, shorts, a t-shirt, socks, sneakers and a Dopp kit. The thought of shaving made me smile for the first time in weeks.

I grabbed up my bounty and headed for the sound of running water. It didn’t take long for me to find the little creek. I stripped off my threadbare clothes and bathed, lathering my body with a hotel-size bar of soap. I shaved my face from memory, no mirror to prevent knicks. My long hair now squeaky clean, I twisted the wet strands into a short ponytail and hacked it off with the razor. I dressed in the wonderfully clean shorts, t-shirt, and socks.

Now clean, I rooted in the bag for the locket. I strung the delicate chain around my neck and closed the tiny clasp. Looking down, I saw my newfound charm had stuck to my damp skin. I pulled it away from my chest and straightened the chain. The locket snapped back to the same spot, just above my breastbone. As odd as it was, I dismissed the movement as an act of static electricity. Who knows what the government’s been spewing into the atmosphere?

The locket was now my totem. A testament to the rebellious man I’d once been. I sat on the edge of the creek and with great care opened the heart shape. I was expecting to see a face or faces stare back at me. The locket was empty except for a tiny piece of folder paper. With precise movements, I unfolded the treasure. I was stunned to see the number 47 written in bold marker. Stunned because that was the number that I’d been assigned for the Atacama Desert race in Chile. This had to be a bizarre coincidence, but it was more motivation to make it to Santiago.

With 5,600 miles and the Pacific Ocean between me and Santiago, my only option was to travel by boat. There were marinas up and down the California coastline and with almost everyone under quarantine, I should be able to commander a vessel. I packed my meager belongings and once again ran. I wasn’t running towards an isolated desolate area now. I knew I’d have to be extremely cautious if I hoped to make it out of California alive.

It would take at least three days of almost continuous running to make it to Santa Barbara. It was tough traveling, having to keep constant watch for soldiers. When I made it to a small marina, I prayed I’d find an abandoned working craft. The place was completely deserted, and I snooped through several options before I found an O’Day. A 28-footer with a motor and sails. The galley was stocked, and the sleeping quarters called to my weary bones. I decided to sleep now and leave at dawn.

As the morning fog burned off, I was ready to motor into the ocean and then hoist the sails for my trek south. I barely noticed the two heartbeats against my chest, my own and the locket.

Hours later, as I was lifting the sails, I heard chopper blades. They cut through the silence like knives. It only took a moment for the metal bird to swing above me. Both heartbeats were pounding as a bullhorn announced my name and the number 47.