Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (33 page)

Mile nine is history.

Mile ten at 1:04:50. Another refreshment table. This time I force myself to approach. No more surprises. As I reach down for a glass, the table wavers, transforming to a gurney. Amelia Brown’s body appears, surrounded by glasses of water and sports drinks. I yelp.

It’s not real. I know it’s not real.

I force myself to grab a glass.

Amelia reaches up to grasp my arm.

I scream and flail.

Liam grips my shoulder and steadies me. “What’s wrong? Come on, let’s go.”

We drink and toss. I point, and away we go.

“I see we’re picking up the pace,” gasps Liam.

By mile eleven, we’re in the top five. My feet burn. There’s a crick in my neck. My right Achilles tendon feels tight. Just in time for the last 2.1 miles, all a gradual uphill.

I lean into the incline, my hamstrings on fire. Semimembranosus and semitendinosus muscles twang in unison. We’re almost there but still not in the lead.

At mile twelve, I see them along the sidelines—a red haired mother with two younger girls, all wearing black mourning scarves. I’m not sure if they’re real or my imagination. I tear my eyes away and surge ahead.

Liam grunts from behind me. “Are you crazy? You can’t flat-out sprint the last mile!”

“Just watch me.”

My feet falter, then I regroup. No. Mustn’t think of Dad. Mustn’t think of anyone. Not Franco. Not Linda. Only this race matters.

The wind swoops down and blows off my hat.

I leave it behind.

We’re nearing the end. Only a few blocks left.

I blaze past three other runners, no idea if Liam’s with me or not. I can’t see anything but the road. Can’t hear anything but my breath. Can’t feel anything but the wind.

The flags are in sight. The clock’s overhead. 1:21:08.

I’m almost there. I’ve got this.

“And our winner is…” the announcement comes over the loudspeaker.

Representative Waters-Royce steps forward, a medal in her hands. She’s all I can see. Her sharp suit gathers at her small waist.

Mom’s voice rings in my head:
How do famous people manage to look so good pregnant? No bloated faces. It’s not fair.

No woman could look that good right after having a baby. Maybe she had more plastic surgery? Or maybe—

No. Not that.

I stop. Right in the middle of the road.

My mind flashes to the pre-race speech, the red-haired baby, less than a month old.

It can’t be.

What if Representative Waters-Royce stole Amelia Brown’s baby because she couldn’t have one of her own?

I think she did it. In fact, I know she did. I want to pull out her hair, punch her in the nose, and demand to see her stretch marks.

“What are you doing, crazy girl?” grunts Liam, who grabs my arm and drags me across the finish line.

“Our winner is… Liam Harmon!”

epresentative Waters-Royce narrows her eyes. “She’s in shock. Take her to the medical tent, immediately.”

“Liam, will you go with me?” I ask, but he’s already gone, whisked away by Representative Waters-Royce herself. They climb up the stairs to a podium and wave to the crowd.

“Come with me, please.” A race attendant offers his hand. “You need to get out of the way of the other runners.”

I shake my head, stubborn. “But I don’t want to—”

“I’ve got her.” Franco swoops in, puts an arm around my stinky, sweaty back, and hauls me away.

“I’m fine,” I argue. “I don’t want to go to the medical tent.”

He raises his brows. “You don’t
look
fine.”

There it is again—his sympathy. He feels sorry for me, that’s all.

I pull away from his touch. “I can walk myself. I’m not an invalid.”

“Suit yourself.” Franco points. “There’s the aid tent, right over there.”

I shake my head. “I don’t see why I have to go in there.”

He stops walking and turns to me, his face grave. “Okay, then explain to me why you stopped running less than a hundred feet short of the finish line?”

“Well, I—”

He leans in close to whisper. “Your choices include: exhaustion, dehydration, and disorientation…
or
an open protest against the most popular Representative in the New Order party. Which is it going to be?”

I pause. “Disorientation sounds nice.”

“I knew you’d see reason.” Franco puts his arm around me again, guiding me into the medical tent. As soon as we step inside, he declares, “We’ve got a fainter.”

Everyone swarms me, pushing me down on the medical bed and touching me everywhere. Franco steps aside to watch my humiliation.

“Are you thirsty?” someone asks.

“Yes.” Of course. I just ran a half-marathon.

“Is your mouth dry? Does your tongue feel swollen?” someone asks from the other side.

I turn but can’t figure out who’s talking. “Yes. And no.”

“Do you feel weak or dizzy?” a third voice pesters me.

“Uh… yes, sort of. I’m kind of tired.” After all that running. Duh.

A freezing cold stethoscope slides up my shirt. I flinch.

“Does your heart feel like it’s pounding?” the med tech asks

I take a deep breath, trying to avoid telling her exactly
where
she can shove her frigid stethoscope. “Yeah, well, I recently raced a half-marathon, and I really think I should go stretch inside of lying here. I’m going to stiffen up.”

The stethoscope is removed. “She’s hyperthermic, her heart rate’s elevated, and she’s babbling. We need to cool her and perhaps start an IV.”

I try to stand but hands hold me down. “Are you kidding? I don’t need IV fluids. I just need lunch.”

“You called?” Gus, my savior, appears in the tent, one of his fabric food bags in hand. “I’ve got her.”

“Please, step aside,” an assistant puts a hand on Gus’s shoulder. “We’re medical professionals here.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Gus pushes through to sit by my side.

A pale-faced runner staggers into the tent, vomits all over the floor, and collapses.

Gus gestures at the prostrate man. “Looks to me like that fellow over there could use your assistance. Why don’t you help
him
instead and leave
us
alone?”

The crowd around me disperses.

“Sandwich?” Gus asks, handing over his lunch bag.

“You’re a total life-safer.” I eat a banana first then the sandwich. At the same time, I stand and stretch my super-tight quads.

“Franco…” Gus growls. “Why did you bring her in here?”

Franco cowers. “I’m sorry. I thought it was best.”

“Why don’t you act out of character and go do something useful—like finding Yoshe and bringing her here?”

Another vomiting runner enters the tent.

Gus cringes. “Scratch that. Bring Yoshe to that bench across the way. We’re out of here.”

Franco disappears as Gus helps me hobble over to the bench. I’m still eating. I can’t get enough food.

I drain his drink canister and nod toward the refreshment table. “I’m still thirsty. Do you mind?”

“Your wish is my command.” Gus strolls over to the stand and returns with two water canisters and two sports drinks.

“Oh,
thank you.”
In one hand, I hold up the drink. With the other, I lean against a pole to ease my tight IT bands.

Gus peers into the crowd, a hand over his eyes. “I see your mother approaching. Are you okay to walk home?”

I nod. “I better walk now, or else I’ll regret it later.”

Mom races toward me. “Why aren’t you in the med tent? Are you okay? Did you faint? I heard you stopped right before the finish. What happened?”

“Yeah, I got disorientated. You know, no food in my stomach and all that running. I just got confused. Thank goodness Liam was there to help me.”

“Yes. He’s off with Franco, Linda, and the girls now.” Yoshe cocks her head. “But you need rest; I can see that. Let’s go home.”

She slips an arm around me, Gus takes my other side, and we retreat slowly back to the apartment, one step at a time.

ours later, after a long soothing salt bath—Mom doesn’t even raise an eyebrow this time—and an even longer nap, I wander into our tiny living room to discover Gus and Mom having tea.

“Hey, Gus.” I rub my weary eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been sleeping. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

Gus stands, glancing at his watch. “Well, now, look at the time. I’m afraid I’ve kept you from your day, Yoshe.”