Once a Runner Read Online Free PDF Page A

going and it ends and you don't get him ever!

Cassidy adjusted his lean a little forward; that seemed to help some, but the neck was getting tighter and he felt his arms beginning to stiffen. By the time they got out of the turn and into the last straight, he knew they would be really bad. All down the back straight Cassidy tried to reel him in, but it was no good. Eight yards. Eight yards, Eight yards! The strain was apparent to those close to the track, on the exhale breath he made little gasps: gahh!gahh! gahh! His eyes were starting to squeeze up shut but he could hardly see through the white haze anyway.

The chant roared across the field, beseeching, hopeful, frenzied.

CASS-A-DAY! CASS-A-DAY! CASS-A-DAY!

Shut up! Shut up! I'm not your godamned hero! All down the back straight he stared at the fleeing black suit through the wrinkled slits he had left for eyes, stared at the black suit and wished they would all leave him alone. Just leave him the hell alone with his misery and defeat.

That's when he saw it.

Almost imperceptible, but there it was just the same: the left shoulder dipped suddenly, then the right leg shot out a little further than usual, and that was it: back to normal stride.

Walton was tying up too.

So that's the way it is. Not so casual after all.

Cassidy bore down, bore down, and finally began reeling him in, all during the final turn, all the way around he pulled him in, inch by inch, as his mouth was drawn more and more into the ugly grimace by the spastic neck muscles. Inch by inch the black suit came back until finally they broke clear of the turn and there it was: John Walton was three feet ahead of him with a hundred and ten yards of Tartan stretching out in front of them to the finish line. There was utter pandemonium in the stands as the chant degenerated into a howling, shrieking din.

Quenton Cassidy moved out to the second lane, the Lane of High Hopes, and ran out the rest of the life in him.

37. A Stiller Town

All through the last 50 yards he had looked through the two fogged slits of windows at the howling slow motion nightmare going on around him as he rigged up in true fashion, getting the jaw-shoulder lock and the sideways final straight fade as he began to lose all semblance of control; he peered out at all this as the orb was about to burst letting all the poison flood out, peered at it and quite calmly wondered: when will it all end?

He felt more than saw Walton come back up to his shoulder, entertained an idle curiosity about who would get it, but then went back to wistfully concentrating on those green inches of Tartan passing slowly, slowly beneath his feet.

The last 10 yards his body was a solid block of lactic acid, with those straining neck muscles pulling his lip down and his back arched, trapezia trying to pull him over backwards. And all the way Quenton Cassidy is telling himself:

Not now ...it hurts but go all the way through do not stop until you are past it you cannot afford to give the son of a bitch anything ... so holdit holdit holdit jesus christ hold it hold-itholditHOLDITHOLDIT HOLD IT...

Finally with a scream and a violent wrenching motion he shook himself loose from this terrible force that gripped him, forced himself into a semblance of a lean and it was over...

...or at least he thought it was over if it ivas not all some bad dream and he is gasping simply wrenching air from around him feeling death surely imminent here beside him crying and going hands-to-knees, stumbling please leave me, please I don't want, please I need to breathe...

And then Denton has him around the waist and is lifting him up off the ground, please Bruce put me down I can't breathe but Denton is taking him off, away from them, dragging the tall brown limp doll zohich apparently cannot stand on its own, holding him up painfully and saying: Remember it Quenton, godamn you better remember it because it doesn't ever quite get any better are you listening to me godamn you? and