Run for Your Life Read online

  Praise for Sports Stories novels:

  “Lorimer is obviously succeeding with this series of action-driven novels which encourage young readers to ‘Get in the Game!’”

  — Resource Links

  Run for Your Life

  Trevor Kew

  James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers

  Toronto

  For Tony, who began walking, and running, as this book found its feet.

  Prologue

  The path is never straight, never flat — never easy. The soft black dirt crumbles under the soles of my shoes. Thick roots stretch out like sneaky legs, trying to catch my toes. Wet green leaves reach out to slap me in the face.

  One big soggy fern gets me really good as I skid around a corner. Whap — right in the kisser. Eyes stinging, I wipe my face on my T-shirt. But I don’t stop running, not for a second.

  Faster, faster — you’ve got to go faster.

  If I slow down, they will catch me.

  The cedar trees here are like skyscrapers. They rise up until they vanish into the mist. A really big one blocks the path in front of me. There is no way around it, but I know the secrets of this trail. With the light of the evening sun fading fast, I run straight ahead, picking up speed.

  A gap appears at the base of the big tree, under its massive roots. The gap is round, like the entrance to an animal’s cave. As I squeeze my body through, I can smell the damp bark of the tree. And then I pop out the other side like a rabbit.

  Both feet land on a steep slope leading down, down —

  Splash! I am in the creek before I see it. But it is not deep enough this time of year to turn me from a runner into a swimmer. When I splash onto the opposite bank, my running shoes have transformed into a pair of soggy clogs.

  I can’t let that stop me. Feet scrabbling, hands grasping, I drag myself up to the crest of a long hill.

  It is me against the forest. I don’t mean slappy ferns and slippery roots and chilly creeks. Here, now, alone, I am running for my life. Beneath the thumping of my heart, I hear the pounding of feet. They are after me. With the shadows growing longer around me, I sense how close they are.

  Faster, faster — you’ve got to go faster.

  My shoes skid over a long, flat, greasy-wet stone. Arms waving like a toddler on skates, I catch myself right at the edge of the path. I look down. A steep rocky gorge slopes down to the creek. Falling would not have been pretty.

  But maybe the fear is just what I need to get my heavy feet moving again. Clenching my teeth, I duck under a row of low branches and surge forward.

  The skin on the back of my neck tingles. Is it just the chill of the forest air? No — it is the icy breath of my pursuers. They are right behind me now, closing in.

  Up ahead, through the dripping dark green of the forest, a light appears.

  For a traveller, the first sight of home is a relief. For a runner, nothing is more dangerous. This is where they catch you. You relax just when you should be going for broke, straining every muscle to the end.

  As the path becomes a dirt road, I break into a full sprint. My eyes are focused forward, my mind on what is right behind me.

  Faster, faster — you’ve got to go faster.

  Go, go.

  Run for your life.

  1

  Rocket Fuel

  At home, the beam of the backyard light greets me. I can see the short, chubby, familiar shape of a man standing behind the barbecue.

  “Hey, look who’s back. We were just going to send out a search party.”

  Dad is rotating skewers of meat on the grill with the concentration of a nuclear scientist. But the goofy grin on his face makes him look more like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

  Mom is sitting in a folding chair on the other side of the yard. The ice-blue light of the phone in her hand reflects off her face. Looking up in my direction, she puts the phone in her pocket.

  “Good run, Chris?”

  I gulp down some air, my chest heaving. “Pretty good. The creek slowed me down a bit. But I managed to get going again.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t even manage to go jogging more than once a week. And it’s barely a jog — more of a bouncy stroll. I don’t know how you do it. When you get tired — how do you keep going?”

  I shrug. I’ve never told anyone what I think about when I run, not even my parents. They might worry about me. Parents are so worried these days from the stories they hear on the news. Sure, there are kids out there who mix up fantasy and reality. But I’m just a boring thirteen-year-old guy. I don’t think video games are more important than life. I don’t believe in ghosts or demons or magic spells. And I know that when I run, those shadowy things aren’t really there. But I still need them. They keep me going. I know the only way to run faster is to run for your life.

  Fat sizzles on the barbecue. Dad turns the skewers once more. “I don’t know why you couldn’t take a couple of days off, my son. Go fishing. Go to the movies. Relax.”

  “Yeah, Chris,” says a squeaky little voice. “Relax.”

  A flood of giggles erupts from inside the house. A small girl with long dark hair sticks her head out through the doorway.

  “Hi, Sarah,” I say.

  “Re-lax,” she repeats, sticking her tongue out at me.

  An identical face appears beside her.

  “Lucy!” I shout.

  “Chris!” she cries, waving wildly.

  My sisters jostle their way through the doorway, grunting like bear cubs. Sarah heads straight for Dad, standing so close to the grill that he has to reach out and hold her back. Lucy trots over and punches me in the thigh.

  “Ow!” I yelp. “Jeez — someone’s getting stronger.”

  Lucy parks herself on the edge of Mom’s lawn chair. In an instant, she has Mom’s phone in her hands and is tapping away at the screen.

  “Not now, Lucy,” Mom says, taking the phone and putting it back in her pocket. “You know the rule. No phones at mealtimes.”

  Dad is always telling Mom to forget about work for five minutes and put her phone away. But right now, he just lifts the skewers from the grill and places them on a big platter. He carries them to the wooden picnic table in the centre of the yard and motions for us to come sit down.

  “Yum, yum,” says Sarah.

  “Pig’s bum,” says Lucy.

  “Actually,” says Dad, “it’s lamb and chicken.”

  Along with the skewers come a heap of vegetables and a big bowl of yogurt. In the middle of the table, as always, there is a plate of warm flatbread.

  “Dig in,” he says.

  Sometimes it annoys me that my dad has no passions apart from his belly. But this is not one of those times. Ripping off a piece of flatbread, I use it to pull two chunks of chicken from a skewer and ram the food into my mouth. I close my eyes. I’m pretty sure that nothing has ever tasted this good.

  A few minutes later, Dad stands up and walks back over to the grill.

  “Who wants seconds?”

  My hand shoots up in the air. “Me!”

  Dad takes my empty plate and returns it full.

  Mom points to the food. “Fuel for the big race next week, eh, Chris?”

  “Mhmm,” I mumble through a mouthful of meat and bread.

  She holds up a skewer of lamb from her plate. “Jet fuel.”

  I hold up one of mine. “Rocket fuel.”

  As he sits down, Dad shakes his head. “I don’t understand you two sometimes. How can you describe something as wonderful as food as nothing but fuel? Especially my beautiful kebabs.”
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  Sarah and Lucy have slipped away from the table. They are bouncing a big red ball back and forth. I snatch up a half-eaten chicken skewer off Sarah’s plate.

  “Relax,” I tell my dad. “It’s not every cook that can make rocket fuel taste this good.”

  2

  Distant Fires

  At Oak Bay Secondary School, a long outdoor staircase leads from the main building to the gym. From the top of those stairs, I can see the small forest behind the playing fields. Everyone calls it the Jungle. There are running trails that cut back and forth through the Jungle. That is where our cross-country team trains three times a week.

  “Hey — wait up!”

  I hear the slap of shoes on the concrete stairs behind me. Something slams against my elbow.

  “Hey.” I turn and see a small freckly kid wearing a massive backpack. “Watch it.”

  “What’s up, Big K?” he says.

  Big K? Where did he get that from? I guess I am tall, at least compared to him. And my last name is Khalili, though it doesn’t start with a K sound. The Kh is a sort of growling sound that you make in the back of your throat. Not one person at school has a clue how to pronounce it.

  “Give it up, Sparky,” I tell him.

  Greg Sparks has been trying to lose his nickname for years. It hasn’t worked. Even the teachers call him Sparky. It’s not that he is a bad guy or anything. He’s all right. He’s just a bit too sparky sometimes, on and off the race track.

  Together, we walk down the steps to the gym. The boys’ locker room is so full that it is hard to find a place to sit down. Half the soccer team is in there, and the whole basketball team, including my buddy Yongwon.

  “Hey, what’s up, Chris?” says Yongwon, tugging a practice jersey on over his head.

  “We’re calling him Big K now,” says Sparky.

  Yongwon shakes his head. “No, we’re not, Sparky.”

  I sit down and start to get changed.

  “Coach says we’re running wind-sprints today,” says a guy next to Yongwon. “Double for anyone who’s late.”

  Yongwon groans. “Man, that guy loves to make us run. We hardly touched the basketballs at all last week. I might as well quit the team and join cross-country.”

  “You wouldn’t last five minutes,” I tell him, bending down to tie my laces.

  “Not even one minute,” says Sparky.

  “Chill out, Sparky.”

  Yongwon shrugs. “Guess I’d better get to practice. No double wind-sprints for me, thanks. Later, guys.”

  “Later,” I say.

  “Peace out,” says Sparky, which makes me cringe a little.

  Once we have both changed into our running stuff, Sparky and I leave together. Out on the playing fields, the boys and girls soccer teams are warming up. We make sure to jog around the side where the girls are. Girls don’t go crazy for the guys on the cross-country team like they do for soccer or basketball players. But I think I see one or two girls glancing in my direction. Or is that just wishful thinking?

  Forget it. I need to focus. The qualifying race for the Victoria city finals is this Saturday. I have to be ready. This is no time to slack off.

  On the far side of the fields, a group of girls and boys in running shorts have gathered. A tall blonde woman with a clipboard stands in front of them with her back to the Jungle.

  “Greg Sparks, Christopher Khalili — you’re late,” she says. In her Australian accent, my name sounds like Christopher Carlyle, or Christopher Kiley, or something like that.

  “Sorry, Coach Clark,” I say, thinking fast. “We had a math test —”

  “— French quiz,” Sparky blurts out.

  “Uh huh,” she says. She jots something down on the clipboard.

  Sparky is already huffing and puffing from the jog around the field. It’s not that he’s slow, but he tends to get tired out. This is hardly surprising, given the way that he runs. It’s sort of halfway between a runaway train and a baby giraffe. Someone should tell him to bend his knees.

  “What I was saying,” begins Coach Clark, “is that today we are going to run in pairs, to work on pacing.”

  Something in my throat lurches and I cough awkwardly. Coach Clark glares in my direction.

  It is nice, I guess, to have a real cross-country coach. Up until now, our coaches have just been teachers who couldn’t coach anything else. Coach Clark is different. She ran a marathon last year, I heard, and did a triathlon the year before. I am just not into all this team stuff she wants to do. I don’t run for anyone else. I run to win. If I wanted to be on a team, I would play basketball with Yongwon.

  “Remember,” continues Coach Clark, “the point today is not to run as fast as you can. The point is to stick together. Right — let’s get going. Phones out. You’ve all downloaded the new pacing app, right?”

  Oh, and that is another thing. She is into all this running technology. I don’t use it. I am old school. I don’t run to beat the clock. I run to be first to the finish line.

  All around us, kids are pairing off.

  “Looks like you two slowpokes are running buddies today,” says Coach Clark.

  I turn toward Sparky. “All right. Come on, Sparks. But you’d better keep up with me.”

  There are about twenty students on the cross-country team. We are near the back of the pack when we start. Side by side, Sparky and I run toward the Jungle. For the first time, I notice how strange the sky is today. There is hardly a cloud up above, but a strange white haze hangs low on the horizon.

  “That’s weird,” I say to Sparky. “Is that fog or something?”

  He is already breathing hard, but he tries not to show it. “You haven’t heard about the fires?”

  “Fires?”

  “The — forest — fires,” he huffs. “They’re up on the — north of the Island. It’s been — all over the news. Don’t — you know — how to use the Internet?”

  Forest fires? Really? Surely the smoke wouldn’t travel all the way here to Victoria. It sounds too much like a movie to be true. And it wouldn’t be the first time Sparky has got something wrong off the Internet.

  The two of us are dead last when we hit the entrance to the trail that cuts through the Jungle. Three girls from lower grades are a few paces ahead of us. Something inside me snaps. This is ridiculous. I need to be running. Really running. On Saturday, I have to qualify for city finals. And here I am babysitting Sparky and thinking about forest fires.

  “Come on,” I say. I kick down against the dirt. “Let’s go.”

  I push, cut, and zip past the rest of the runners. To his credit, Sparky keeps up. But by the time we reach the front of the pack, his face is flushed. I can see his chest expanding and contracting like an accordion.

  “See ya, Sparky,” I say.

  I make for a gap between two trees. My feet pound hard against the trail. Following me, Sparky and the rest of the runners fade into nothing. Soon I am far ahead. The only things behind me are the long, dark shadows of the trees.

  3

  A Thin Piece of Yellow Tape

  The barrier is just a thin piece of yellow tape.

  On my side of the tape is the world of the qualifying race. I don’t notice faces, just uniforms: black, blue, and red — and our own Oak Bay green-and-gold. No one is standing still. There are too many jangling nerves. My own running shoes are dancing up and down. Bending at the waist, I reach for my toes. I pull my face toward my knees. From here, through my legs, I can see the starting line. Somehow it seems to be inching closer and closer.

  On the other side of the tape is the real world. Small groups of people, mostly families of the runners, sit on chairs and benches. I see a few familiar faces, but most of them are here for students from other schools. Mom is sitting on a long wooden bench, checking her phone. One of her arms is around Sarah, whose nose is burie
d in a big fat book. It is loud here. Music is playing. People are cheering and calling out runners’ names. But Sarah might as well be in the middle of a library. And then I see Lucy on the bench next to Mom and Sarah. Lucy stares at me with a crazy intensity. She wants me to win. I can’t let her down.

  It’s just a thin piece of yellow tape. But the world on the other side feels far away. On this side, everything is focused on the race. The top eight runners move on to the city finals in October. But I don’t want to finish eighth, or third, or second. I am not thinking about the next race. I want to win right here, right now.

  “Runners — to your marks!” booms a deep male voice.

  All around me, uniforms move toward the starting line. A sharp elbow bumps my left arm.

  “Watch it, kid,” sneers a runner in a black shirt and shorts. He is muscular for someone so thin. Still, I bet I could take him in a fight.

  Focus, Chris, I tell myself. Forget about it. Save it for the race.

  I kneel down to re-tie my shoes. I make sure the laces are as tight as possible, but not so tight that they hurt my feet. Sparky kneels down next to me and does exactly the same thing.

  I look up. Coach Clark is standing on the other side of the yellow tape. She is wearing a green-and-gold track suit with white running shoes. She looks fast. I’m glad I don’t have to race her today. I bet every guy in this race would be eating her dust by the end of the first lap.

  “Don’t go out too fast today, guys,” she calls out. “Pace yourselves.”

  Next to Sparky is a guy with a frizzy mop of red hair. His shoes are red, too, and look like they should be attached to a rocket ship. Everything about him looks fiery and quick.

  We all go quiet when we hear the announcer. “Runners — get set.”

  There is the sound of shoes digging into the dirt, then silence that seems to last forever.

  Crack — the starter’s pistol fires. We jump up like spooked deer. We stumble downhill, a pack of moving bodies. Guys bump and jostle one another for position. Every race starts like this. It’s like a traffic jam at rush hour, until someone breaks free.