Man On The Run
by
Charles Williams
1958
One
Couplings banged together up ahead. We were slowing. I stood up in the swaying gondola and looked forward along the right side of the train. Pinpoints of light showed wetly in the distance. We continued to lose speed.
Then just before we reached the station, the block changed from red to green, the drawbars jerked, and the beat of the wheels began to climb. I cursed. I had to get off and it had to be now; daybreak couldn’t be far away. I went over the right side, groping for the ladder. When I had a foot on the last rung I leaned out and jumped, pumping my legs. I landed awkwardly, fell, and rolled.
When I stopped I was lying face down in the mud. I raised my head and turned a little so I could breathe, and rested, wondering if I had broken anything. Wheels and trucks roared past, and then the train was gone. I sat up. My legs and arms seemed to be all right. Less than a hundred yards away, on the other side of the track, was the station, a darker shadow in the night with a single cone of light at this end illuminating the sign. CARLISLE, EL. 8 FT. SANPORT 51 MI. I hadn’t got very far. But nowhere would have been far enough. Not this side of the moon.
I was drowned, chilled to the marrow of my bones, and plastered with mud. Cold rain drummed on my head. I swore bitterly and put up a hand. My hat was gone. I began sweeping my hands around in the darkness, slapping at mud and water. It was useless. It had blown off when I jumped and could be two hundred yards away. I’d never find it, and I was wasting precious time. I had to find some place to get out of sight.
I stood up quickly, trying to orient myself. The beach should be across the tracks and beyond the town. I could see the highway paralleling the tracks and two principal streets at right angles to it. I was almost in line with the near one and could see down three or four blocks of it, shiny, deserted, and rainswept in the pools of light under street lamps and in front of store windows. If the beach weren’t any further than I remembered, I should be able to reach it before daybreak and find a summer cottage, but I’d have to circle to avoid those lights.
I turned and started along the tracks, going as fast as I could in the darkness. Then, without warning, a car came out of the street at my back, swinging the corner. I dived and hit the mud just before its headlights swept over me. It was a police cruiser, shooting its spotlight into doorways facing the highway. It turned at the next corner, going back toward the beach.
Two hundred yards ahead I crossed the tracks and the highway and plunged into a dark side street overhung with trees. My teeth chattered with cold. Water sloshed in my shoes. The rain was slowly washing mud out of my hair down across my face. Beyond darkened windows men and women slept in warm beds, touching each other.
The trees and houses began to thin out. Sidewalks gave way to mud, and I was in an area of vacant lots grown up with scrub palmetto. I could hear the fronds clashing and scraping in the cold north wind. In a few minutes I came out on the beach. There was no surf because the wind was blowing offshore. Off to my left were some darker masses of shadow that appeared to be sheds and piers, probably for shrimp boats. It seemed to be growing lighter.
I was past the pier and down on the beach again, on sand. There was no doubt now that time was running out on me; pitch blackness was giving way to a murky and rainswept gray. Then in another few minutes I saw the dark silhouettes of houses on the higher ground above the beach. There were two about fifty yards apart, and then three more farther ahead. There were no lights showing.
I left the water’s edge and came up behind the first one. There was a window, but no door, except in the shed that was attached to it on the right. That would be the garage, I thought. The window was dark, but not boarded up. I put my ear against it and listened. There was no sound except the drumming of rain on the roof. Well, what the hell did I expect to hear? If there were people inside they’d be asleep. I circled it warily. In front there was a road surfaced with crushed oyster shells, faintly luminous in the predawn gloom, and two or three anemic transplanted palms clashing in the storm. But there was no car. I stepped softly onto the front porch. There were two windows and a door. The door was locked.
I slipped over and felt the doors of the attached garage. They were secured with a hasp and padlock. But that still wasn’t proof there was no car inside. I slipped around in back again, sticking close to the wall to stay married to the dark bulk of the house. In addition to the door, there was a small window in the rear of the garage. It was latched on the inside.
I bumped into something. It was a bamboo pole, leaning against the roof. Using the butt of it, I knocked out one of the small panes of the window. Shards of glass tinkled, not too loudly, on the concrete floor inside. Reversing the pole, I shoved it full length in through the opening and swung it from side to side. It encountered nothing. I groped around inside for the latch, released it, and slid the window open. It took only a moment to wiggle through and fall on the floor inside. I could have cut myself on the glass under me, but I was too numb with exposure to tell or care.
It was growing lighter. After a while I could see the outline of a door going into the house. I stood up and tried it. It was locked. I looked around the garage for something with which to jimmy it open. It was going to turn colder, with this north wind blowing, and another twelve to twenty-four hours in wet clothing might be more exposure than I could stand. There could be blankets inside, or I might even be lucky enough to find dry clothes.
The only tool I could see was an old claw-hammer hanging from two nails on the rear wall beside the window. Maybe I could use it to beat in one of the panels of the door, but it would make enough noise to rouse everybody in this end of the county. Then I noticed it was hinged to swing outward. I pulled one of the nails on which the hammer had been hanging, straightened it, and drove the pins out of the hinges. It took only a minute to pry the door out and set it aside. I released the locking plunger on the inside knob, and rehung the door, driving the pins back in place.
It opened into the kitchen. In the growing light I could make out a small gas stove and refrigerator, then the counter and sink at the rear wall to the left. On the right there was a small dining area with a table and two chairs, and a heavily curtained window. I went through the connecting doorway, trailing water on the floor. It was a large living room. Curtains were drawn over the windows at front and rear, permitting very little light to seep through, but I could see the stone fireplace against the opposite wall and just to the left of it another doorway. I stepped across and peered in. It was the bedroom. The curtains here were of lighter material, and I could see fairly well. At the right there was a bed with a wine-colored corduroy spread, and a dresser and chest. An open doorway at the left led into the bathroom. This was all of it. The whole place was cold and damp.
Water was still oozing from the ruin of my clothing. I stepped inside the bathroom and stripped, throwing suit, shirt, tie, shoes, underwear, and socks into the tub in one soggy mass. I caught sight of my face in the mirror. One eye was swollen almost shut, and there was a big puffy area on my jaw. I felt the back of my head and winced. As far as I could tell, however, the skin wasn’t broken. My right hand was swollen and stiff. Rubbing myself harshly with a towel, I located a blanket in a linen closet in the bedroom, gathered it around me, and lay down on the bed. It was a long time before I began to feel warm. I thought about the hat. It had my initials in it.
I rolled off the bed, feeling lightheaded with the craving for a cigarette. There was a clothes closet beside the dresser; maybe I could find something to put on. There were several things on padded hangers in an atmosphere of sachet, but they were all feminine—two or three cotton dresses, a pair of shorts, some blouses, and a nylon slip. That seemed strange. I located a safety pin on the dresser. Fastening the blanket about my shoulders, I went back to the kitchen.