DISTANCE IN CATATONIA

Written by J. Kievsky

Barren. Blank. A desolate track of land lay before him, free from trees or animals. Only a tiny whirlwind of pale dust obscured the horizon from his eyes.

Ready when you are, he thought, exhaling deeply. The wind howled and whipped across the track, and the words he'd just thought were repeated to him in a rumbling echo. As the tornado drew closer, the dust entrails grew darker, and a pair of inhuman red eyes glowed from the epicenter.

Their unwavering, silent command pierced his mind.

"Go."

"I really appreciate that you could come," the young man said to the lab-coated doctor. They shook hands, and the man led the professional to the expensive house's marble staircase. "I didn't know whether or not to call an ambulance, but I decided against it. He's terminal, with cancer, and he's got a DNR--but I don't think this has anything to do with it."

"It's certainly odd," the doctor remarked. The two approached the only door on the top floor, where two women, a middle-aged man, and a young girl were standing.

"Hey, hon. Any change?" the young man asked, kissing one of the women on the cheek.

"No," she answered sadly.

"So, what happened?" the doctor inquired, pushing a person or two out of his way to stand next to the bedside. An elderly man lay under a quilted blanket, his eyes open and unblinking, his hands clutching the fabric tightly. As the doctor leaned over him, the man's eyes blankly followed his motions.

The doctor recoiled with a gasp, but then began trailing his finger in the air, watching the old man's vision with morbid curiosity.

"I don't know," the young man fussed. "He was working outside and he just collapsed."

"Collapsed," the medic replied with a hint of sarcasm.

"He was muttering. I couldn't understand. Then he stopped talking and simply stared.

"Perhaps it's a stroke? Does he have a history of mental illness?"

"I really don't think so," one of the women interrupted. "Look at his eyes. It just doesn't look like he's in there."

His tennis shoes pounded against asphalt, the pavement hot enough that he could feel it burning through the soles. Breath came easily to him for the first time in decades, and he felt as though his youth had been returned to him. The adrenaline pulsing in his blood led him down the narrow road in the bright sunlight without so much as a second thought--even as to what he was fleeing.

After a few moments, as his heels began to ache from the strain of running, his breath began to become painstaking. In a sudden act of desperation, he turned his head to see behind him.

Only a short distance behind him was a wiry man whose dark eyes seemed to sink into his pale, tightly-drawn face. His white flesh was nearly transparent, stretched across his body just enough to fully conceal thin bones. Jet-black hair flopped in front of his eyes as he ran, and he gave the man a smile with a thin-lipped mouth bearing bone-white teeth.

The first runner turned his head back to the road. He could feel his power and his will quickly draining from his soul, and his feet became heavier and harder to keep in motion. Meanwhile, his spry pursuer only gained speed. Feeling a breeze behind him, the old man turned slightly, only to see the other man's black shirt and shorts pass him. He was seemingly invisible; the dark clothes, however, stood out starkly against the yellow sands and sun-bleached asphalt.

"I know you," the old man gasped. Although he didn't recall exactly where he'd seen the face before, he recognized his high cheekbones and Roman nose; even the eyes, set like onyx gems in his eye sockets, and just as lifeless.

The man in black only turned his head and smiled.

A sudden burst of energy filling his veins, the old man inhaled sharply and began to recapture his lost ground. The sun was becoming intolerable, but he pressed forth. His eyes narrowed in a competitive rage as the younger man came into range again. Initial exultation at this development was quickly replaced by pure fear and regret as a bright red line came into focus against the sky.

The old man ran with his best effort, and his breath came in a hard rhythm punctuated by the slap of his rubber soles against the road. He felt the pressure, the heat of a duel, as he managed to meet the pace and stride of his rival perfectly.

As the red ribbon grew broader on he flat horizon, the old man struggled to keep up with the younger runner. He seemed to glide alone, the marathon as easy to him as it was difficult for the old man. It dawned on him that these were the final few yards, and he quickened his pace. The old man pulled ahead of his rival, who cried out in frustration. As he leaned forward into his last steps, he felt his legs fail him, and he collapsed.

He lunged for the finish line as he lay on the searing asphalt, but his hand fell back to the road only after the other man swept through the red ribbon. He turned away as tears filled his eyes.

"Well," a soft, though forceful, voice intoned.

The old man wiped his eyes and looked back toward the finish line. The ribbon lay across the ground, with the material rippling in the light breeze. His eyes quickly moved from the destroyed ribbon upward, to where his competitor was shadowed against the cloudless sky. The man, however, now wore a white robe tied at the waist with an emerald sash, and his posture was one of an ancient Druid rather than a young athlete. His sleeves fell away from small fingers of bare bone, shaped as perfectly as ivory, and instead of a pale face with black eye, only two glowing red ovals returned the old man's stare.

"I knew it was you, Death," he whispered.

"Yes," the same quiet voice answered. "This time, you've lost."

The old man's brittle lips cracked into a faint grin.

"It's about time."