Page 28 of Runner 13
‘It’s not safe to be out here!’ Mariam shouts over the wind.
I nod, unable to speak without getting a mouthful of sand. I pull my neck buff over my nose and mouth.
We rush back inside and lower the centre pole, so there’s less fabric for the wind to take hold of, and we close the front flaps to stop sand and rocks from getting inside. It quickly goes dark.
I lie back on the carpet, my hands gripping the straps of my backpack and hugging them tight. Mariam huddles next to me. The wind buffets the tent, howling around us.
All we can do is wait for the storm to pass.
9
Stella
Being a photographer in the desert is a goddamn nightmare. Keeping your gear sand-free? Impossible. Lugging it around in the heat? Unbearable. And the charity’s checklist is a mile long. They want racer profiles, landscape shots, behind-the-scenes life, pain, beauty, relief, elation – the whole spectrum of emotions and scenarios to choose from.
But I could never have anticipated what happened last night. My plan to finally track down my dad thwarted. Dale and I barely made it back to the tent after being blasted by wind loaded with fine granules of sand, scraping against my skin and making it difficult to open my eyes more than a squint. At about one a.m. one side of the tent was ripped up by the storm, heavy metal tent pegs flying everywhere. I managed to grab a handful of the loose fabric and spent the rest of the night weighting it down with my body.
At around three a.m. the wooden pole in the centre collapsed, bringing the black material down on our heads. I kept thinking thatsurelythe storm would die, but it had the energy of a rabid animal, clawing at us, defying us to get any rest at all.
According to my watch, it’s now barely gone five a.m. My other tentmates are still wrapped up in their sleepingbags, trying to rest now that it’s calm, but I can’t. I feel suffocated.
I roll off the tent edges and crawl outside. It’s a fucking mess. Stuff is strewn everywhere. I reach out for a half-filled bottle of water – not sure if it’s even mine – and pour some on to my hands to wash my face. I don’t even dare to look at my camera. What a state.
At least the skies are clear, leaving an eerily still morning. My skin and hair are covered in a layer of sand, gritty to the touch.
As I’m wondering if the winds will return, I notice Camille – the administrator who’d shown me around the day before – running, sprinting, in the direction of the runners’ tents.
Without thinking I spring after her, clutching my camera. I’m still fully dressed – I’d barely been able to move, let alone change, last night.
Camille isn’t the only one heading in that direction. The doctor from yesterday, the Italian one – what was his name, Emilio? – is running over there too, his medical bag in hand. It doesn’t take me long to catch up.
Camille comes to stop outside one of the elite tents, letting out a strangled cry. She spins round, burying her face in her hands.
A man is curled up on the ground outside tent sixteen, the side of his face covered in blood. There’s a deep wound visible above his ear, sand matted into his short close-cropped brown hair. Rupert is crouched at the man’s side, gripping his hand.
‘What happened?’ I ask, unable to tear my eyes away.
‘The storm. It was insane. Things flying everywhere. Wethought the tent was going to rip apart. We all grabbed a side and tried to hold on. I heard a thud but I couldn’t move to check …’ His voice chokes. ‘Fuck, Jason, don’t be dead.’
The doctor kneels by Jason’s head. He places two fingers against his neck, his mouth set in a firm line. He looks up at Camille. ‘Tell Boones we need a heli-evac, asap.’ She nods, backing away, her face white. Then he focuses on me. ‘Help me with this.’ He takes a thick roll of gauze out of his bag.
I drop down beside the doctor. ‘Tell me what you need.’
‘Hold his head still,’ he replies.
I place my palms gently round Jason’s skull, trying not to think about how worryingly cold he feels.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Rupert asks Emilio.
‘I need to wrap this first. We don’t want it getting more contaminated.’ He places a wad of gauze over the wound on the guy’s forehead, the reason he must have bled so profusely. Then he winds a bandage round it to keep it in place. Jason’s face is swollen and bruised, his hands and knuckles scraped too. He looks like he’s been in a war. His bib has been torn off his running top, gaping holes where the safety pins used to be. ‘This is a pretty serious head wound. His pulse is thready. He needs to get to a hospital now. What’s his name?’
‘Jason Lowry,’ says Rupert.
I swallow. The podcast guy. It shouldn’t be my first thought but I wonder how my dad’s going to handle it. Maybe I’ll get my wish and the race will be cancelled.
Two other medics come running to the man’s side, replacing me. They lift Jason on to a stretcher and carry him towards the helipad.
‘Shit, Emilio, look.’ I point to an iron tent spike – bloodied at one end, where it would have hooked into the ground. It looks like the culprit.
