miracle mile #3
swaying. No escape. This body feels like it’s filled with cement. Everything is just so weighed down.
I wanted to feel alive again. I’ve tried dragging this piece of myself back into the land of the living for months now, but
I just can’t do it. That part of me is gone.
So what’s left? Who am I now?
The riders swarm around me. Pass me. A bike brakes to my right and nearly clips my tire. I’ve got to skid a bit. The gearhead
turns and glances over his shoulder. It’s the skull-faced motherfucker from before. He’s chasing after me, Death himself ready
for another go.
Did I bring something back with me? Are these my demons?
I glance around at the riders closest to me. On my left, there’s another grim reaper—or maybe it’s the same one, maybe he’s
always been the one and only, I don’t know—riding his bike just next to mine. Only inches away. He turns, nods. I see his
scythe slung over his shoulder. Won’t be long now before he catches up to me again, whisking me away.
I look over to my right, and I swear I see skulls. Nothing but empty-socketed eyes. Dead eyes. Skulls in bike helmets. I’ve
got to blink back to reality. Back to myself.
What the fuck is happening here?
I’m stuck.
All I see are these bikes made of bones. Nothing but human skeletons. Ribs for spokes. Vertebra bike frames. The chains themselves are finger segments, an endless stretch of phalanges, all linked together, cranking away as their rider pedals harder.
I’m doing my damnedest to blink the image out, but it doesn’t work. I can’t stop seeing them now. There are over a hundred
hoodied grim reapers all around me.
I’m riding alongside Death. Death all around. Death everywhere.
Death inside me.
I’m dead. Fucking dead. Have been for months. Just living on borrowed time. Won’t be long before I clock out all over again.
Get dragged back down to hell.
Where I belong.
Just not yet.
Not tonight.
I lose my balance and veer into the neighboring lane. The bikes to my right have to steer clear of me, weaving over the road.
“Watch it,” Dracula shouts.
I can’t stop myself from seeing them. They’re everywhere. All around me. Nothing but the dead, riding these bikes made of
bones.
“Out of the way,” another reaper shouts.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I need to get off. Need to stop. I cut through the crowd. Take the hardest right turn. Who
cares if I clip anyone else. I need to stop, make it all stop.
All the bikes to my right have to skid, cutting their brakes to avoid impact. The shouts coming from the rest of the riders
follows me to the sidewalk.
When I reach the side of the ride, I skid to a halt. My hip brushes against a parked car before I stop. I leap off the bike
and land on my feet, finding solid ground under me.
I buckle over, out of breath. I grip my knees and gasp, but my lungs still won’t unlock. I’m doing everything I can just to
get the air back inside my body. To breathe.
Breathe, goddamn it. Just breathe.
The fleet of wheels rushes past. I’m watching them all zip by, the marathon of midnight riders sweeping over the street, while I’m stationary, gasping for air.
Just trying to survive.
Some heads turn my way, spotting me by the side of the road. I see the Grim Reaper give me a nod as he rides past, as if to
say—Be seeing you again soon, bud . . .
And then the bikes are all gone, lost in the night. Swallowed by the shadows.
I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to stay right here. Feet on the ground.
I hear that shrill squeal of rubber over concrete before I see it, the sound of a bike braking.
The Devil skids before me. He comes to a complete halt only a few feet away. His chest’s heaving, rising and falling, while
he’s got this shit-eating grin plastered all across his face. The sweat pebbling his upper lip is causing his painted mustache
to smear.
He doesn’t say a word.
“I’m good,” I say, assuming he’s here to check up on me. Make sure I’m okay.
But he doesn’t leave.
“I got this,” I say.
He’s just waiting. For what, I don’t have a clue.
“Can I help you with something?”
That only gets him to grin wider.
His neck—it cricks. Tilts to the side so fast, I can hear the bones crack. The hollow pop of his vertebrae rings out into
the night, a lonesome windchime of this man’s spine.
His head, still bent, slowly lifts. His eyes never leave me. That grin never slips.
Until it does.
His lips slip. Crayons melting in the microwave. They droop, bubble and blister, dragging his cheeks down with them. The bags
under his eyes sag before scalloping.
His whole face melts. It’s only a matter of time before it falls to the street.
Then it starts to swirl. Somehow gravity lets go and the whole morass of this man’s face twirls upward, seemingly on its own,
forming a soupy spiral. A vortex of melted flesh.
What the fuck am I looking at?
“See you soon, Jordan,” he slurps—with that, he’s off, lifting his legs and leaning forward with his right, pressing down
on the pedal and riding out. “Take care of yourself.”
I just watch him go, wondering who in the hell that even was.
How did the Devil know my name?