Primal Threat - Earl Emerson [126]
Even though Zak would have sworn neither of them had any more strength in their legs, he and Muldaur continued to speed up. It took a superhuman effort, but they caught Giancarlo and passed him. “Come on, Giancarlo,” Zak said. “Stick with us.”
“I can’t. I went too hard. I’m cramping.”
“You can make it.”
“When you guys get out, tell my wife I love her.”
“The fire’s right behind us,” Zak said. “You have to keep going.”
As they spoke with Giancarlo, Zak heard the flames behind them creeping through the trees. As near as he could tell, the fire was traveling slightly faster than they were. It would take down Giancarlo, and then it would take them down. They’d slowed after overtaking their friend, and now, if they didn’t speed up again, the fire would roll over all three of them in a minute. Zak knew exactly how it would happen. They’d wilt from the radiant heat before the flames even touched them.
“I know, I know,” Muldaur muttered when he saw Zak glancing back down the mountain. “We’ve gotta pick it up.”
“I’m not sure I can go any faster.”
“You can, and you will.”
The wind began blowing on their backs, hot and breezy, scouring the road until they could see the disabled Ford in the center of the track. For a split second Zak feared it was an ambush and that Scooter and Bloomquist would come running around the side of the vehicle with rocks to smash their skulls, but as they steered around the truck he saw that the occupants were gone.
As they rode into another bank of fast-moving smoke that had filtered up through the trees, Zak veered to the left. “Look out. Runners.”
The first struggling runner was Roger Bloomquist in shorts, sneakers, and a Hawaiian shirt flapping around his waist. Zak didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone breathing so hard. “Back off a bit. You keep going like this, you’re going to collapse.”
“Jesus Christ!” Bloomquist gasped. It took him several seconds to find enough air to finish the utterance. “I am trying to back off.”
“Try walking,” Muldaur said as he came past. “Walk and run. Get your breath back. It’s a long haul to the top.” It was an eerie feeling, Zak thought, to be giving encouragement to someone he was pretty sure would be dead in a few minutes.
Scooter was 150 yards in front of Bloomquist, scuffling along in a lopsided gait no doubt contrived to protect his broken collarbone. He looked as haggard as Bloomquist. As Zak recalled, they still had a long way to go, at least ten minutes on a bike, twenty or more on foot. As they closed in on him, Scooter began zigzagging in a deliberate effort to keep them from passing.
“On your left,” Zak said, but Scooter cut to the left, and then when Zak moved to the right, he swerved in that direction. After several attempts, Zak pulled alongside, and even then Scooter tried to match Zak’s speed.
“Fuckers,” Scooter hissed through clenched teeth.
“Slow down. Pace yourself,” Zak said. “You keep going this hard, you’re going to blow up. You need to maintain as even a pace as possible.”
“What I need is for you to…die…fucker.” Scooter’s words came out in gasps as he approached a steeper portion of the road. He’d taken all of his fear and anger out on Zak. Just for a moment, as they made their way up the steeper section, the wind died and everything grew quiet except for the sound of Scooter’s footfalls and Zak’s tires on the road, their breathing, and the flames crackling in the woods behind them.
“Fuck you, chump!” Scooter said, as he accelerated away from Zak.
“Slow him down,” Muldaur said, from behind. “He’s going to kill himself.”
“I’m trying.”
As the grade grew steeper, Scooter took more distance out of them until the wind