Physically Fit (To Be Tied) ©

By William B. Lightfoot

     Harry and Marge were just leaving the house, about to embark on their regular two-mile run. It was six a.m. Yep, that’s the way the Snyders started their day.

     It was a late September morning and the air had a slight chill to it. Not enough to be really cold, but more so refreshing in the way that it embraced you. The cool air came out in little puffs and wisps that hung lazily in place as they moved on.

     Dressed in their matching jogging attire, they looked more like Donnie and Marie at a church picnic than a middle-aged doctor and his psychiatrist wife.

     The sidewalk on Maple Street was all theirs. No one else on the quiet row had risen yet. For the past two years, the Snyders have shared the early mornings with very few. There were the handful of light brown tree squirrels foraging beneath the mighty oaks that lined the established thoroughfare and the rhythmic melody of the songbirds who nested high in their sturdy branches.

     The mornings were peaceful, infused with tranquility. Nothing to disturb or upset the harmony of nature. Harry and Marge had not chosen this particular time of day for their run by accident.

     The opulent couple rounded the corner at Pine and Elem, where the roadway began its exhausting ascent toward Walnut Ridge. The sun was just starting to peek at them when a whirlwind of ominous black clouds overcame the feeble rays, execrating a dark shadow over all.

     Pumping the pedals diligently, on a metallic red Schwinn with a banana seat and ape hanger handle bars, was Johnny Olstein, paperboy for the Osage Tribune. He punctually made his deliveries up the approaching hills.

     Halfway up, Harry and Marge dropped back to a brisk walking pace. It was not uncommon for them to perambulate the rest of the unforgiving hill climb. Both were gasping for air in short gulping spasms as they went. Upon reaching the crest, they would return to their previous canter.  

     Little Johnny Olstein was making his way down the opposite side of Elm Street now, tossing folded newspapers out at an impressive rate and with an amazingly high degree of accuracy.

     The Snyders, across the street, were watching his two-wheeled performance with awe and amazement. Impressed as they were with his athletic prowess, it was nothing compared to the shock they felt when a purple Cadillac fell from the sky and squashed the young boy flat as a pancake. Blood ran out from underneath the convertible, mixing with the early morning dew, painting the sidewalk in a crimson display of portentous malediction.

     Harry and Marge were frozen in place, dumbfounded, completely zombified in an ungodly state of euphoric oblivion. Before they could snap out of their catatonic comas, a red Pontiac station wagon buried itself, nose first up to the driver’s door, in the yard right beside them.

     As like the swift entrance of a hailstorm, cars and trucks alike began pouring out of the murky sky, raining down all around them.

     Marge snapped out of her discerning stupor first and slapped her husband sharply on his cheek, bringing him around. The two looked at each other and began to run. In a chaotic frenzy, they ran. Their strides were swift, acting out purely on impulse and animalistic instinct. It was only a moment, though, before Harry realized the dilemma and wished they had chosen to run away downhill instead of this more unfavorable direction.

     Stopping now to change the course of their escape would surely be suicide.

     A Chevy Vega with a hood scoop landed with a thundering bellow and began to bounce crazily down the sidewalk, smack dab on a collision course with the terrified two-some. Grabbing his wife by the arm, Harry darted suddenly to his immediate left and onto a well groomed lawn with aging hardwoods.

     A blue Ford Expedition landed on all fours in the road before them, the tires exploded with tremendous, ear-ripping concussions.

     Harry held Marge tight against one of the larger trees, shielding her with his body from the flying debris. There was no time to pray in this particular paroxysm, this psychedelic shower was completely instantaneous and ever so unrelenting in its destructive nature.

     The Vega came bounding by, cutting a deep and savage swatch through the manicured lawns, leaving a trail of miscellaneous parts and shattered glass in its wake. The little car mowed down the white picket fence that fronted an English Tudor before wrapping itself wickedly around a large oak.

     Running again, for no other reason than mortal fear, they made the corner of Elm and Pine. The non-stop onslaught of raining death and automotive mayhem continued all around them, as they sprinted for all they were worth. A hail of dirt and sod showered them both as a Lincoln Towne Car dug its own grave in a yard to their right.

     Harry looked back and his jaw went slack, his eyes grew large as he saw the impending curtain of carnage drawing near. Marge went to look back, but stopped short as she saw her husband’s face. The look of sheer terror that played across it was enough to chill her blood and send a spasm of fear down the center of her back.

     Harry motioned for her to go faster and to look straight ahead. Down the sidewalk they ran, as they had never run before. As they turned on to Maple Street, the deafening roar of the sadistic storm ceased all at once, just as quickly as it had begun.

     The frightened couple slowed, hesitantly, until they came to a dead stop. They turned around slowly, looking in all directions, unable to comprehend what was happening. There was nothing but pure, unaltered silence. No cars or trucks falling from the heavens. No little boys being flattened upon the sidewalk. As much in shock as in awe, they looked at each other in disbelief.

     There was no twisted wreckage, no desolate litter, nor plight upon Maple Street. Everything was as they had left it, nothing had mutated, no metamorphosis to bear witness to. The two were only a block from home and could see their abode with ease. All seemed normal.

     As they became more aware of their surroundings, they were overjoyed to hear the melodious recital of the morning songbirds and the familiar bark of a neighbor’s dog. Looking questionably at each other now, checking to be sure that they were really still in one piece, an uncontrollable grin began to spread across their ashen faces.

     Once they were sure that all was well, they desperately need to confirm this enigmatic atrocity. Harry and Marge, cautiously, began retracing their steps, back the way they’d come. Did this just really happen? Could this have really happened?

     They could not believe this to be true . Harry was upstanding surgeon, a pillar in the community, and Marge was a credible doctor in her own right and head of the women’s club locally here in town. People of such caliber do not see UFOs or aliens, much less do they witness a hailstorm of automobiles.

     Harry was sure that when they reached Elm Street they would see that this had all been just a crazy dream, just their imaginations running about with reckless abandon. As they came to the corner of Maple and Pine, a bolt of lightning froze them in their tracks.

     Harry looked at Marge, her eyes riveted on his. The ensuing thunder clap seemed to rattle the teeth in Harry’s mouth and Marge’s face turned white with dread. No words were needed as the couple turned and ran, headlong for home. Never once looking back.