Marathon

They call mile twenty the heartbreaker for a reason. You're too far to turn back and too stubborn to stop after going so far, but it still feels like an eternity until you finish your race. Out at mile twenty it's just you, your determination, and a barren landscape filled with roving packs of hungry undead beasts that hunt you relentlessly.

It would be easy for the beasts to take a slow-moving caravan; their wagons are weighed down with supplies, they're forced to travel the unprotected roads between towns, and the people who make the trip couldn't jog a single mile, much less outrun apex pursuit predators, but they always go after the solo runners. There must be some lingering instinct that compels them to chase after the one bit of prey foolish enough to break from the pack.

So you run, twenty-six miles a stretch, passing the baton that promises humanity's continued survival. Runners don't look back for fear of catching sight of how lonely the path really is. The previous runner is out of sight by mile two and relief won't come for hours of running. The trick is to set your pace, keep track of your pulse, and think of anything other than the misshapen monsters that shadow your path at an uneasy distance. The monsters will never dare approach a moving target, you know this. They want to run their meals to exhaustion for an easy feast. It's up to you to deny them.

The best thing you can do it think about anything else. Think of the sun as it sets over the horizon, and how it will rise again tomorrow. Wonder about the water stations and who it is that risks their lives to leave caches of water and glucose tablets for you in the safe houses, and how those supplies are always there no matter what. Think of how goddamn good that water is going to taste once you can stop and enjoy it. Don't think of your family, though, that's a trap. Good runners have brought ruin to themselves and the caravan they were meant to protect when nostalgia drove them back to a doomed reunion.

Think about who figured out how to distract the undead beasts, and who the first person to run the first length ever was. Did they volunteer? They probably did. There must be a statue somewhere. Maybe you'll run to the town that has it one day. You've heard the theory that it's the lone heartbeat that makes runners an irresistible lure but at this point you're more certain it's just because they can pick up on your sweat. You can even think about how badly you want to look back and see if you can pick them out behind you, but you probably shouldn't. That one's also a trap.

And just like that, you're on mile twenty-one. Somewhere in the distance, the next runner jogs in place, limbers up, and watches for signs of your approach. They're waiting for you, so you can't stop now. Let the rhythm of your pace and your steady heartbeat carry you onward, because that's really all anyone has in the end.

Keep going.

Keep going.

Keep going.