CHAPTER 8
We have obtained permission for you to run through Camp Pendleton on the beach. This is an isolated but beautiful area, and you should enjoy having the beach to yourselves much of the time. Near the north end of Camp Pendleton there is a bathing suit optional beach, but you should be used to this by now. You will have to go up to the road to detour around the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant. We will post a race official on the beach at the path you should use to exit at the power plant. After passing San Onofre go back to the beach and continue to San Clemente State Beach. You will be leaving San Diego County and entering Orange County at this point.
Drake was up before the wakeup call at six, stretching his sore back muscles. Stretching through the lingering pain. If he were going to stay in this race, he wanted to do more than cover the distance; he wanted to compete. Even if they could narrow the time differential that the other teams were beating them by each day, that would make him feel he was accomplishing something.
His body felt a little looser. The good news was that after three days of running he hadn’t suffered any new problems. Actually, to say that they were running was wishful thinking-their average pace hadn’t been more than that of a brisk walk.
He put on his running clothes and then a sweat suit to ward off the morning chill. As he was about to leave the room, he noticed the note he had scribbled to himself in the middle of the night. Nighttime ideas disappeared like the stars when the sun rose. Now if he could only read it. He finally decided it was the letters BB. For “bulletin board.”
He took the threatening note from the envelope in the suitcase Giganticorp had purchased to replace the one burned in the accident and went out to the lobby. He handled the paper with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, belatedly being careful to not leave more fingerprints.
Drake held the note beside the notice on the board that showed the elapsed time of each team. The names of the runners were typed with the times handwritten beside the names. He compared the typed letters of the two documents and noticed immediate problems. The sheet on the board was a Xerox copy, not an original. It had probably been typed in San Jose; copies had been made there. In addition, it had a different typeface than the threatening note. IBM Selectric typewriters had removable type balls. Each ball could have a different typeface. If the note he held had been typed on a Selectric, as he suspected, it might be almost impossible to find the actual typewriter that had done the job.
Melody appeared, also in sweats, looking unkempt, which was unusual for her. She had no makeup on, and her sandy hair had been hastily cinched in a ponytail, but loose strands stuck out of her head in several directions.
Drake tried to make a joke. “You look as bad as I did when you first saw me at Coronado.”
“I couldn’t sleep, worrying about my mum. Fred just helped me call her, but she still didn’t answer the phone.”
“Blade has an agent checking on her. I’ll call him tonight to see if he’s learned anything. The note said she’d be all right as long-”
“I know what the note said. Since we don’t know who wrote it, how can we trust it?”
Good question. Melody was understandably upset. If they didn’t receive any information by this evening, Drake was ready to call in the heavy artillery.
“Some researchers invented Gatorade for the University of Florida football team. It replaces carbohydrates and what they call electrolytes-stuff that you lose during vigorous physical exercise. Try it.”
Drake took a swig of Gatorade, finished his banana, and watched Melody shove a mixture consisting of peanuts, raisins, and M amp;M’s into her mouth.
“I have no problem trying Gatorade, but just be thankful that I suggested we carry the bananas and gorp in our pouches, along with drinks. You whined that it would add too much weight. Aren’t you glad now that we’re all alone away from civilization that we’ve got the food?”
The pouches were held in place by straps around their waists and weren’t really that inconvenient. Some people called them fanny packs, but because “fanny” was a dirty word in England, referring to the female genitals, Drake was careful not to. Liquid was the heaviest thing in a pouch, at a pound for every pint they carried. The food didn’t add that much weight, and Drake was thankful that Melody had insisted they carry it, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He had struggled through marathons before without eating anything and drinking only water. This race was teaching him that it was smart to refuel along the way.
He was also glad that Melody’s mood had improved after they started running, as it almost always did. He was worried about her mother just as she was, but there wasn’t much they could do about it at the moment.
They had picked up their pace today, and the stop to eat and drink was momentary, although Drake did a few bends from the waist to try to keep his back loose. If it weren’t for the pain that still radiated down his legs from his back, on occasion, his legs would be in good shape. His feet hadn’t suffered at all, aided by the fact that much of their running had been on the beach. Melody didn’t seem to have any physical problems. Drake couldn’t recall that she had ever complained about ailments when they ran together in England.
They finished their snack and set off again, upping their pace a little more. The lapping of the waves on the beach and the squawking of sea birds provided background noise, so they didn’t feel completely alone. Drake enjoyed the isolation, however. After some of the things he’d seen human beings do, he appreciated having breaks from most of them. Memories flitted through his brain, but softly, not having the power to stir his emotions at the moment.
Melody broke into his train of thought. “It looks like there are a couple of blokes on the beach ahead.”
“Maybe marines on their day off.”
As they drew closer, they saw that the two people were indeed men. They appeared to be wearing shorts, unremarkable on the beach. Melody, whose eyes were sharper than Drake’s, gave an exclamation.
“They’re two of our runners. One of them has a problem.”
Drake could see that one of the men had his shoe off, and both of them were examining his foot. Melody spoke again.
“That’s Aki, the Japanese lad. The other one must be Mike, his partner.”
Drake and Melody came up to them and stopped.
Drake asked, “What’s the matter?”
Aki looked up from his sitting position on the sand. “I cut my foot.”
Drake could see blood on the bottom of the foot. Aki’s sock, which was lying on the sand, was soaked with blood. He had twisted his leg to get a good look at the foot, as if he were a contortionist. He was in a position Drake could never hope to emulate.
Melody dropped to her knees to inspect the wound. “What happened?”
“I stepped on a sharp rock. It came right through my shoe. I kept running, hoping the pain would go away.”
“He slowed way down,” Mike said. “He was favoring that leg. I knew he’d never last, running like that. Finally, I told him he had to stop.”
Melody pulled a small first aid kit from her pouch, another weight addition that Drake had opposed. She cut a piece of gauze from a roll with a miniature pair of scissors, poured a little water on it from her canteen, and wiped the blood off the cut. Then she took another look at it.
“It probably needs stitches.”
“Shit.” Aki sucked in his breath. “Sorry. But if I take the time to go to a doctor, it’ll take hours, especially in this God-forsaken place. I’ll never finish today’s run. We’ll be eliminated.”
