Read Online Shattered: A Shade novella by Jeri Smith-Ready - Free Book Online Page A

getting nowhere.
    step step gasp
step step gasp
    I
shake my head, and I’m here in the gym again. I look down at the treadmill’s
touchscreen to see how far I’ve travelled around the animated oval track.
    But
instead of a track, the screen shows a white-grey wall. The music in my ears
fades until there’s no sound but the ones I’m making.
    step step step gasp step step step gasp
    I can
fight this. I turn up the speed to a sprint and increase the incline. The
screen flickers, then displays a trail through dark woods. I turn my head to
look for Martin –
     
      – and see only a white door with no handle.
    ‘Logan?’ I whisper, slowing my jog.
‘Where’d you go?’
    ‘Exercise is boring, dude,’ his voice
says. ‘But don’t let me stop you. I can tell you’re gonna pork out in about ten years if you’re not careful. Aura won’t like that.’
    ‘Piss off.’ I was pudgy in primary
school, and I’m still a wee bit sensitive about my weight.
    ‘I’m just sayin ’,
keep up the running. And keep eating, for God’s sake. If you die, they win.’
     
    The
ground beneath me lurches. I crash into an unyielding object.
    Martin
takes his hand off the treadmill’s red emergency stop button. ‘Mate, ye trying
tae kill yersel ?’
    I
grip the railing I just collided with, then touch the monitor, which displays
the oval track again. Everything is as it should be: the window looking out on
Glasgow, the elliptical machines rocking behind us, the music pulsing in my
ears. And Martin beside me, as always.
    ‘I
don’t think so,’ I tell him.
    ‘Good.’
He hits the reset button, adjusts the speed to a leisurely five kilometres per hour, then returns to his own treadmill.
    Could
Martin tell I just had another flashback? It’s only the second one he’s
witnessed. Usually I’m alone when it happens, or at least not with anyone who’d
notice.
    Last
week shopping at the Tesco, as I reached for a box of shortbread, I fell back
into the day Logan and I had a tea party. It was my happiest moment from 3A, so
when I returned to reality there in the biscuit aisle, I wasn’t a quivering,
sickened mess. I might have even been smiling.
    But
only for a moment, before the fear hit me. Just like now. If I can’t control
these flashbacks, how can I ever go out in public? What if one strikes me while
I’m crossing the street? Must I hole up in my house like the hermit I long to
become?
    I
wrap my clammy palms around the cool metal section of the treadmill grip, the
part that measures heart rate.
    Two
hundred twenty beats per minute. I jerk my hands away and lean to the left so Martin
can’t see the readout before it disappears.
    I
keep walking – what else can I do? – and try to focus on the here
and now. Slowly my panic subsides. Ten minutes later, I recheck my heart rate:
a hundred fifteen beats per minute.
    The
song changes to a familiar tune from before we were born. I look at Martin.
‘Seriously? “500 Miles”?’
    ‘It’s
an iconic Scottish pop song.’
    ‘It’s
a stereotypical Scottish pop song.’
    ‘ Whitever . I fancy it.’
    ‘I’ll
make you a deal,’ I tell him. ‘If you run for the entire song, we keep it on
the playlist. If you start walking, it’s gone.’
    ‘You’re
a mad wee prick, but I’ll do it. For the Proclaimers!’ He raises a fist as he
speeds up. Then, when the chorus arrives, he starts singing along. At top
volume.
    ‘This
is what I get,’ I murmur, shaking my head.
    ‘Sing wi me, Zach. It’ll be like those chants soldiers do
when they run. It’ll give ye strength!’
    I
glance at the treadmill to my right, where a woman is looking askance at
Martin. ‘It’s embarrassing.’
    ‘Only
if ye do it half-heartedly.’ Martin pounds his chest, panting. ‘Give it yer all.’
    I
sing with what breath the running leaves me, trying in vain to match his
volume. In the window’s reflection I see weight machines, ellipticals ,
and stationary bikes slow to a halt as their operators