Rachel runs across Whitelake

Her first quick step onto Whitelake held her weight easily. After the first few strides she began to trust the surface and fell into a rhythm. The lake had enough give that it returned some of the energy she expended with her stomping strides. As long as she kept stepping firmly, she should be fine. Because she exerted extra force downward, she did not advance as quickly as when she normally jogged, but she found a good pace, and there was no hint of the liquid tugging at her boots.

She resisted the urge to look back, concentrating all of her energy on getting to the island and maintaining her shin-punishing stride. As she had feared, the farther she proceeded onto the lake, the higher the temperature became. In a short time the air she breathed went from uncomfortably warm to truly hot, and the stench intensified. The rapid increase in temperature alarmed her. How much hotter would it get? The white liquid did not bubble or boil or even stir. No steam arose. The only visual indicator of the heat was the rippling shimmer of objects far ahead, the trembling image of the island, wavering like a mirage.

Rachel’s breathing grew deeper and more ragged much sooner than she had expected. She tilted slightly forward, trying to squeeze more forward motion from each stamping stride. Frustratingly, the island did not appear much closer. She wiped sweat from her brow with her bare forearm, which itself was damp with perspiration.

She fixated on the surface of the lake directly in front of her, ignoring the island. Her deep breathing coated her throat and lungs with the hot sulfuric smell that saturated the air. She could taste the odor. She tried to ignore the sensation, because it made her want to retch.

Soon her shirt was drenched with sweat. The temperature intensified to sweltering. It felt like jogging in a sauna. Scalding air tore at her lungs. Rachel finally looked up. She was notably nearer to her destination, but not close enough. The temperature became hellish. Her exertion coupled with the heat radiating from the lake was overwhelming. Her head began to throb. A painful stitch burned in her side. The overtaxed muscles in her legs began to feel rubbery.

She broke stride and tried hopping in place. It required somewhat less exertion than jogging, and used different muscles. She struggled to choke down the bile in her throat, to ignore the suffocating heat searing her lungs. The island remained several hundred yards away.

The surface of the lake began to feel tacky. With each successive jump she felt increasing stickiness against the soles of her boots. Rachel realized she was getting lazy with her hopping. She was not thrusting her feet down briskly enough, nor lifting them quickly enough. If the sensation progressed beyond stickiness, a boot would get trapped, and she would die.

The thought impelled her forward. No use hopping when she could be making progress, especially once it proved to be less restful than she had hoped. Salty sweat stung her eyes. She wiped them clear. The nausea had diminished while she was hopping, but it returned as she jogged. She took a bad step, almost stumbled, and for a moment the surface felt alarmingly wet. After recovering, she dashed forward faster than ever, eyes on the island. She was getting close.

The coppery taste of blood became more evident in her throat as her breathing became increasingly arduous. She was running inside an oven. Was the air shimmering more here, or was her vision blurring? She felt dizzy. The island was less than a hundred yards away. It looked bigger than it had from the shore. Not a rock pile. A boulder pile.

Anyone can run a hundred yards, she thought blearily. Each breath scorched her tortured lungs. The burning muscles in her legs verged on total exhaustion. She shed sweat with every stride. Her vision became edged in blackness.

The island was so close, but she didn’t know if she could reach it. The human body had limits, even in emergencies. There were certain mechanical impossibilities. Any second now she would pass out, and that would be the end. In a way it would be a relief. Her legs felt clumsy and distant. She shuffled and stumbled instead of running. Against the soles of her boots the lake felt like freshly paved asphalt. The island was only thirty yards away. Anyone can go thirty yards. With a growling burst of exertion Rachel increased her pace to a full sprint. She had to reach the island before she fainted! Her legs refused to cooperate, and she fell.

Her left hand slapped the scalding surface. Then her right. She was going down, so she let herself roll forward, and with desperate effort used her momentum to regain her feet and continue running. Vomit spewed from her lips as she reached the rocky shore of the island and pitched forward onto her hands and knees. As she held her head down, her stomach clenched again, and acidic foulness fauceted from her mouth. She wiped the sickening taste from her parched lips. Her breathing felt ineffectual. Raising her head suddenly, trying to find fresh air above if it did not exist below, she experienced a peculiar rush as the blackness along her peripheral vision swelled inward, swallowing everything.

Chapter 16