Page 3 of Mountain Void

Lorenz exhaled through his nose. Not good. Not good at all.

“Can you tell me the last time you drank?”

Karim stared past him, eyes drifting toward the dunes again. “The music is louder now,” he murmured. “Can you hear it?”

Lorenz didn’t answer. He reached for Karim’s wrist instead, fingers pressing into the pulse point. It was fast and thready beneath his skin.

“Karim,” he said, sharper now. “Count backwards from twenty for me.”

The long pause told Lorenz all he needed to know.

He pulled his own pack free and unwrapped a reflective thermal blanket, the crinkle competing against the wind for an instant. He wrapped it around Karim’s shoulders, glad for once for his over-preparedness. Then he pulled out his soft water flask. “Here. Drink this. Small sips.”

Karim shook his head weakly. “I have to finish.”

“I know,” Lorenz said. He guided the spout to the man’s lips. “But you won’t finish if you walk off into those dunes.”

Karim hesitated, then drank—slowly, then greedily, coughing until Lorenz took the flask from him.

They sat like that, the desert stretching around them. Lorenz talked about nothing, grateful that Karim wasn’t trying to walk off anymore. He would knock the man out if he had to, but he’d rather not.

When the approaching headlights crested a distant dune, Lorenz felt the tight knot in his chest loosen. He stayed with Karim until the medics arrived and wrapped the man in blankets, guiding him gently but firmly onto a quad.

Only then did Lorenz stand, legs stiff, heart still racing.

“Are you coming with us?”

Lorenz shook his head and adjusted his headlamp. “No. I’m good,” he said, not quite sure he was telling the truth. “Thank you.”

Soon, the night was quiet again. Taking one last look at the empty stretch of dunes, Lorenz eased back into a jog. The stiffness in his legs flared hot. Fuck, but that hurt. The brief stillness had let the pain catch up.

He shortened his stride and concentrated on his breathing, giving himself time to find his rhythm again. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. One. Two. Three. Distance crawled forward. Still only 32 kilometers.

Several runners passed him by. Tonight, it was all he could do to keep moving, one step at a time.

35 kilometers.

At the next aid station, a cluster of lanterns glowed warm against the blackness. Volunteers watched him approach, eyes searching his face. They must have been told to keep an eye out for him.

“Everything okay?” one of them asked, a cup in his outstretched hand.

Lorenz didn’t have the breath left to speak, but nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring way and kept going.

The wind beat harder against his legs. He hunched into it instinctively. His quads protested with every step, the burn creeping upwards into his hips. His calves twitched. He adjusted his pace again, conservative now. Winning wasn’t an option anymore, but finishing was.

The neon marker appeared again, reassuring and distant. Km 37.

Just over 5 kilometers left.

Doable.

Hell, back in Chamonix, he often ran longer than that over his lunch break.

Just when he thought they’d taken it away, another neon marker appeared. And each time he made a deal with himself. Get to that one. Then the next. Because the finish was there, so close he could feel it in the darkness.

Lorenz

“To Lorenz,” Alistair began, raising his glass of thick, beige protein smoothie. “Who just completed his slowest marathon of the decade.”