That is when the trouble started.
Marathon
I decided around then that is was time to start running. The preacher and his men, if any had survived (and I believed they had at the time) would certainly blame me for the attack. In the state I was in at the time I was sure they would know it was me, that they would come find me. It never once occurred to me that there were no detectives to overview the crime scene, to pull the slug out of his chest and run gunpowder residue checks. No one was coming after me - I know that now. But at that time, I was running. No - sprinting. I ran in the opposite direction of town as fast as I could, the dead man's backpack thumping against my back and the preacher's gun uncomfortable in my pocket. There was a forgotten road, the pavement cracked and weeds reaching for the sky, and I ran down it. My thoughts turned toward Jane, as they often did, and she kept me company on that long road. I stopped hours later, ravenous, and tore the dead man's pack off of my back. My chest heaved and my sternum ached. My breathing was shallow, trying to breath deep made me cough. The dead man had beef jerky in an old looking plastic sandwich bag.
I tried to eat as much as I could, as quickly as possible, but you have to eat jerky slow, chew each piece a thousand times. In my madness, I felt like the dead man had tricked me, left a trap for me. He left a starving man with nothing but jerky out of malice. Eventually I finished the bag and forgave the dead man. Then I heard the dogs.
I heard a howl, then barking in the distance. I knew for sure they were tracking me. I started running again, trying to ignore the burning I felt all throughout my exhausted body. An hour or so later it was dark and I couldn't go any further. I collapsed off the side of the road, rolling down the slope and into the woods.
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