Story #81 - Roth's Runners

Roth's Runners

A peal of thunder sounded, and Rich turned his face to the sky.

Idiot.

“It won’t rain,” said Roth, “it never does, and you know it.”

“It might!” Rich protested. Roth found it tough sometimes to share the other man’s features – they were so physically alike as to be easily mistaken, but mentally they were worlds apart.

Rich wasn’t stupid; something Roth had to remind himself of on a regular basis – he was just enthusiastic. Trouble was, there was very little to be enthusiastic about any more, and Rich’s enthusiasm rubbed Roth the wrong way.

Drawing in a deep breath, he shot Rich a look that quieted the younger man. After a moment of trudging silence, he spoke, softly.

“I know you still like to be hopeful, Rich, but we have to face facts. The rain isn’t coming any more.”

The look in his brother’s eyes said his sandy-haired twin wanted to protest, but he was wise enough to heed the counsel of his older sibling. When they were younger, the fact that Roth had been born six minutes earlier than Rich hadn’t mattered. They chased girls, played sports and got along just fine, without caring which of them had come out of their mother first.

Now, the fact that he was three hundred and sixty seconds older than the man beside him was the only thing that put him in charge of their little band, “Roth’s Runners”, Rich had called them, and only then because Rich was willing to let him lead. The others followed Rich, and Rich followed him. It wasn’t an elegant arrangement, but it worked.

Rich had always been the clever one, and the charismatic one. He attracted followers like a garbage can attracted flies, but had no ability to lead them out of the filth they found themselves in. It wasn’t malicious; it was just that Rich loved the adoration but didn’t have the skills to plan and organize well enough to direct a large group of people. He’d been the king of social functions but had no skill at managing anything beyond a group of drunken college students.

Now, he’d follow where Roth led – the problem being that Roth had no idea where he was going, only the certainty that he had to keep the Runners moving to survive.

“Tell the others,” Roth said, and saw Rich’s expression brighten, “we keep moving until nightfall. Change the rear guard and make sure the little ones get as much water as we can spare.”

His brother’s face fell but he moved back to the group quickly. Rich knew the limits; Roth would only be pushed so far, and fighting over when they camped wasn’t a hill his younger brother was willing to die on – at least not yet.

The truth was, stopping or continuing held the same merit but walking gave the group of four dozen something to do while the sun was high and the light was out; stopping only when everyone was too tired to move on meant easy sleep and no questions.

They’d finally come far enough north that the landscape was no longer familiar to Roth – pine trees had taken the place of leafy greens, and the temperature had begun to edge back down into the realm of bearable.

A scream from the group pulled his attention from the road and he turned in time to see one of the men go down in a heap. It was one of the older ones – Brix or maybe Phil – but he couldn’t tell through the dust the group was kicking up.

“Roth!” Came the call, and he sighed, moving back toward the now-halted mass. Chances were that the one of the men had forgotten to take in as much liquid as he should, either out of pride or because he wanted one of the children to have more.

Fools – if one fell the whole group had to stop and every moment they stood around doing nothing was another moment in the pounding heat, one less moment they were actively seeking a source of water.

“It’s Brix,” Rich said as he approached the gawkers at the front of the caravan, “he just collapsed.”

Roth nodded and stepped into the mess, raising his arms in front of him, and the group stepped out of his way. “Back up, please,” he said, “give Brix some room to breathe.” Slowly, those closed in around the man in the dirt backed away, and Roth looked up at Rich. “Keep them back, alright? Give me a few minutes here.”

Brix had taken the dirty earth right in the face, and from the way his body was positioned it looked as though he had been mid-step when he fell. He was breathing, but the breaths were coming shallow and fast, and reaching out, Roth could feel that the man’s skin was cool to the touch.

This wasn't dehydration - the others had been right.

They were a smaller group than the one that Roth led, only half its number and mostly women. Their leader was a skinny blonde whose name he couldn’t recall, but her words were ringing in his head, now.

“They strike during the day, when you’re not paying attention. They come hard, and fast, and your people will never see them. The bodies are cold and hard, surging with an energy that doesn’t belong. Kill them. Kill them or you will lose more of your own.”

He’d assumed it was just water-madness, and most of her group had seemed on the breaking point, but now it looked to be more than just limp lips and a dull mind.

The knife at his belt was out in a heartbeat and he swept his other arm across the loose dirt in front of him, sending a cloud of swirling dust up between him and the group. One quick cut to the underside of Brix’s neck and his life blood started to seep out, soaking the sand underneath him. Jamming a rock between the wound and the ground, he raised his voice. “Rich!”

His brother was there in an instant, and he dropped his voice. “She was right, Rich. They’re here. Brix is dead,” he saw the surprise in Rich’s eyes, “took a rock to the neck when he came down. You know the drill – we have to leave him.”

Rich nodded and turned back toward the crowd. He would do what was necessary. They would believe him; they had no reason not to.

They had to press on.

- D