Page 11 of Run Omega Run
Heather
The next morning, in the hour before dawn, the city was wrapped in a silence so complete it felt artificial. I sat on the edge of my narrow bed, lacing up sneakers that had seen better years, their soles worn thin from miles of punishment on broken sidewalks.
I pulled on my most comfortable t-shirt, soft from countless washings and thin enough that it would dry fast when the sweat started flowing. In the mirror above my dresser, my reflection looked back at me. I was too thin, too sharp around the edges, but my muscles spoke of dedication and my eyes hadn't given up yet.
The orphanage slept around me as I made my way to the front door, my footsteps silent on the cold stone floors. Not even Loubie Lou was stirring yet, and her internal clock usually woke her with the first hint of light. The building felt peaceful in its slumber, holding all of us safe within its cracked walls for a few more precious hours.
I slipped out into the pre-dawn air, pulling the door closed with careful quiet behind me. The street stretched empty in both directions, broken pavement gleaming with dew that would burn off as soon as the sun climbed high enough to touch it. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the low rumble of earlyconstruction crews beginning their work, but for now the city belonged to me and the few other souls desperate or dedicated enough to be awake at this hour.
My first steps were tentative, letting my body wake up gradually, joints loosening and muscles warming to the rhythm that would carry me through the next hour. But within minutes, the familiar fire began building in my chest and legs, and I settled into the steady pace that had become as natural as breathing.
Twisted metal and shattered stone cradled every block. Buildings leaned against each other at impossible angles, their foundations cracked and their façades peeling away like sunburned skin. Entire city blocks looked like broken teeth, gaps where structures had simply collapsed in on themselves, leaving nothing but piles of rubble that the cleanup crews hadn't yet reached.
I navigated the obstacle course with practiced ease, my feet finding purchase on surfaces that would have been treacherous for someone less familiar with the terrain. A chunk of concrete the size of a refrigerator blocked half the sidewalk ahead, and I vaulted over it without breaking my stride, the momentum carrying me forward into the next section of broken ground.
The old Miller Building had lost its entire front wall, exposing the interior like a dollhouse cut open for play. Desks and filing cabinets still sat in their orderly rows, covered with two years' worth of weather damage and slowly being reclaimed by whatever plant life could take root in the accumulated debris. I ducked under a section of scaffolding that had been erected to prevent more of the façade from falling into the street.
Here, someone had spray-painted mile markers on what remained of the walls. They were crude numbers that marked distance for the few runners who used the ruins as a training ground. The first mile marker appeared on the side of what hadbeen a pharmacy, its red cross sign still clinging stubbornly to a pole that bent at a forty-five-degree angle.
Mile one. My breathing was still steady, my legs loose and strong. I used this marker to check my pace, making sure I wasn't pushing too hard in the early stages. Marathon training was as much about patience as it was about speed. Building endurance required long, steady efforts that tested mental strength as much as physical capacity.
The route I'd mapped out over months of trial and error took me through the worst of the damage, partly because those areas had fewer people to dodge and partly because I needed to prove to myself that I could handle difficult terrain. If I could run through earthquake ruins, then a smooth race course would feel like flying.
Mile marker two appeared on a chunk of broken overpass that jutted up from the street like the rib of some massive buried beast. My legs were warming now, finding their rhythm, but I could already feel the familiar burn beginning to build in my calves and thighs. Good. The burn meant I was working hard enough to make a difference.
A construction crew was now at work three blocks ahead, their equipment creating a maze of barriers and warning signs that I navigated carefully. The workers waved as I approached, their faces recognizing me as one of the regular morning runners who shared their early schedule. I threaded between their orange cones and supply piles, grateful for their tolerance of civilians who insisted on using their work zones as training courses.
Mile three brought me past the skeletal remains of what had been the city's library, its distinctive dome collapsed, but its front steps still intact. Someone had set up a small memorial there. Flowers and photographs with handwritten notes remembering the people who had been trapped insidewhen the building came down. I slowed as I passed, offering a silent acknowledgment to the dead before picking up my pace again.
The sun was climbing now, painting the ruins in shades of gold and amber that made even the destruction look beautiful. My t-shirt was clinging to my back with sweat, and my breathing had deepened from the gentle rhythm of easy running to the more deliberate cadence of serious training. This was the point where lesser runners might slow down, where the body argued with the mind about the wisdom of continuing.
But I pushed through, because this was where the real training happened. Not in the easy miles when everything felt good, but in the hard miles when every step required a conscious decision to keep going. Each footfall was a promise to Mom that I wouldn't give up. Each mile was a vow to the children that I would keep us all together.
Mile marker four was painted on the side of a building that had somehow survived the earthquake intact, and since then been turned into a working restaurant, which was quite popular amongst the richer types who still liked to venture into the poor area of the city.
My legs were burning now, my lungs working hard to process the thin morning air, but I felt alive in a way that only came from pushing my body to its limits.
The route curved back toward home through neighborhoods that showed different stages of recovery. Some blocks had been completely cleared and rebuilt; their new structures clean, modern, and sterile compared to the character of what they'd replaced. Others remained frozen in time, abandoned lots growing wild with weeds and scattered with debris that would probably never be fully cleared.
By the time I could see the orphanage in the distance, my legs felt like water. But my mind was clear, focused, ready to face whatever challenges the day would bring.
I slowed to a walk for the last block, letting my heart rate return to normal and my breathing even out. Sweat dripped from my hair and stung my eyes, but I felt more centered than I had in days.
The city was waking up around me, windows beginning to glow with light, the first commuters appearing on the streets. But for an hour, it had been mine alone, my private arena where I could test myself against the ruins and emerge stronger.
Tomorrow I would run again. And the day after that. Until race day arrived, until I could transform all this training into prize money that would save us all.
As I entered the orphanage, a sound cut through me like a serrated blade, dragging me into a reality that felt catastrophically wrong. Not the gentle coughing that had become part of our daily soundtrack, but something violent and desperate, as if my mother's lungs were tearing themselves apart from the inside. The rasping, guttural sounds echoed through the thin walls of the orphanage with a wet, choking quality that made my blood turn to ice water.
I was running toward her room while my mind still struggled to process what I was hearing. The coughing came in waves, each bout more violent than the last, punctuated by gasping attempts to breathe that sounded like someone drowning on air.
"Mom!" I called out as I reached her door. I burst through it to find a scene that would haunt my nightmares for years to come. Mom was sitting bolt upright in bed, her body convulsing with each coughing fit, her face twisted in agony and desperation. The surrounding sheets were dark with sweat, clinging to her diminished frame like wet rags.
But it was her hands that made me freeze in the doorway. They were pressed against her mouth, trying to contain something, and when she pulled them away between coughing spells, they came away stained with crimson that looked black in the early sunrise.
Blood. More blood than I'd ever seen from her before, fresh and bright and terrifying in its abundance.
"I can't—" she gasped, the words barely audible between the violent spasms that wracked her chest. "Can't breathe—"
