Run

by Blake Crouch

Approaching footsteps snap her out of her reverie. She wipes her face and looks up, sees Sam coming toward her, the bald and scrawny Australian team leader who always wears a tie, especially in the field, his rubber boots swishing through the grass. He plops down beside her, reeking of decomp. Rips off the pair of filthy, elbow-length gloves and tosses them in the grass.

“In most instances, it’s not a clean break, like a machete or ax strike. These bones are splintered.” “A chainsaw would do that.” “Clever girl.” “Jesus.”

“So I’m thinking they cut everyone down with AR-15s, and then went through with chainsaws. Making sure no one crawled out.”

The blond hairs on the back of her neck stand erect, a rod of ice descending her spine. The sun burns down out of the bright June sky, more intense for the elevation. Brushstrokes of ...

“No.” She stands, hoisting the duffle bag out of the grass and engaging that compartment in her brain that functions solely as a cold, indifferent scientist. “Let’s go to work.”

She looked over at Kiernan, said, “Even the anchors look scared.” Kiernan stubbed out his cigarette and blew a river of smoke at the television. “I got called up,” he said.

“I don’t understand.” “I barely do myself.” Through the cracked window of their hotel room—distant gunshots and sirens.

She climbed out of bed and walked over to her dress where she’d thrown it against the wall two hours ago. “You don’t feel it?” he asked. “Not at all?”

She was standing by the window. The air coming in was cool and it smelled of the city and the desert that surrounded it. A pair of gunshots drew her attention, and when she looked through the glass she saw grids of darkness overspreading the city.

He stopped inches from her. She smelled the tobacco on his breath, and when she palmed his chest, felt his body shaking.